A second reflection about Houses

Almost two years ago I shared some thoughts on what it was like to come into the beauty and fullness of a place when your own such place was lacking (you can read that post here). Now I have returned again, this time to Koinonia Farm in Americus, GA. And as I knew at the time, it is a lot easier to be here now that my own house, if not built, at least is not totally a dream. As with my return to Brunnenburg in Italy, I can see that I came here for the sake of who I would someday be. My current self in March 2010 should actually have probably taken the spring break trip to the desert in Arizona to volunteer on the border. I even knew at the time that the trip to the desert would be a funner and more rewarding use of my last break in college, but in spite of that I submitted myself to some other logic. I did not live as my present self because I was so devoted to becoming the person who I would someday be, in many ways the person who I am now. All I wanted was my house, my someday, my shelter and place in the world, and I did anything that might get me closer to that point.

So what happens once the house is built?

I have a Jewish community now, one where at least some folks know my name and who I am, and where I can go with my questions and my confusion and my need to learn. I have land: fifteen acres in Pepin County, Wisconsin, plus the use of forty-six more which are still owned by my in-laws. I am married now, and the relationship I felt I had to fight for over the last nine years is now blessedly peaceful and stable. So many of the things I struggled with as I tried to walk my path as a Jew in Plain Dress have now fallen into their place. I have succeeded, by and large, with becoming the person I wanted to be at the time I started this blog. I am still a Jew. I still wear almost the exact same form of plain dress as I did then. I just don't have to explain myself as much any more. I know who I am, and I am who I want to be.

And so, as I return to the beautiful house of my friend, I look at it differently. I am no longer moved to tears from yearning. At the same time, the draw to enter into this beautiful house is less strong than it was those years ago. Because I have a house of my own, even if it is not a complete and lovely house, I am in less need of shelter than I was before. And so this home, this community, is less overwhelmingly beautiful to me because the need it speaks to is less acute. I still find it lovely, but I finally have a bit of context to see it through.

I think I am less of a bridge builder than I was before. I think I have moved too far inland.