Home and exile: a Passover accounting

We will be celebrating Passover in less than 2 weeks. Passover is always on the 15th of the Jewish month of Nissan, which is a full moon.  During the Passover Seder, we retell the story of the Israelites’ journey from slavery to freedom. It is also a celebration of spring, symbolizing growth and renewal, and it reminds us of our obligation to pursue justice for ourself, our community, and our world.

Our task in preparing for the days of Passover is to rid our house of any leavened bread.  Sometimes people put a Jewish twist on “spring cleaning” and clean the house top to bottom.  This ritual is meant to symbolize us purifying our heart to be more giving in thought and deed and free of any negative thoughts of others.  Our heart as our home, if you will.

I’ve been sorting through belongings and possessions for a couple of months now and I already know it’s symbolic for me.  I desperately want to lighten my load and release past tendencies and burdens.

That journey from slavery to freedom long ago was not simply “Let’s hop through the Red Sea and boom, we’re on the other side and free to resume our life.” Two generations lived a harsh nomadic life, wandering in the desert with unreliable sources of food and no security or shelter. I often wonder what went through those travelers’ minds, what they hoped for and dreamed about.  Did they miss where they’d come from at all? Did they have a plan for how they’d like to begin anew? Where was “home” for them?

I would never liken my current “homelessness” to 40 years of wandering in a desert after years of oppression, but… well… there are some common themes. I have felt a liminal “in between”-ness for a period of time (20 months now). We left our home in an unplanned rush, lost many of our possessions, and much of my life feels “on hold.” The idea of exile, however voluntary, carries with it a vulnerability and a sense of disorientation.  We are occupying different space, in transition, traveling. We are in neither place… we are in between.  And it is darn uncomfortable!

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My little family of three was sitting at one of our favorite casual restaurants this past Sunday, laughing and talking.  Seemingly out of nowhere, a fierce storm began outside, which we watched with alarm through the restaurant’s large clear front windows.  Loud thunder and flashes of lightening prompted restaurant employees to dash outside to try to secure the tables and umbrellas flapping in the strong wind.  The common-sense thing to do was to stay put and wait for the storm to quiet.  My instinct, however, was to get home asap.  We made a split second decision to leave and my husband dashed through the downpour to get the car.  As my daughter and I waited, arms wrapped around each other, we watched the rain blow sideways from unusually strong gusts of wind.  When there seemed to be a short lull, we made a run for the car, ending up sopping wet in a matter of seconds.

We made it home safely. On the way, we saw street signs laying in the middle of roads.  We were diverted a few blocks from our house because of some down trees.  All the streets were decorated with leaves as if someone sprinkled confetti from above. The park a block away had several trees hit by lightning. We walked over later to watch the crews chop off dangling limbs take down a tree that was split right in half by lightening. Many streets lost power. A friend told me that a tornado went right through her backyard, a tree falling on their house.

Obviously if we had predicted the fierceness of the storm, we would have never gone out in the first place. Lesson: there is little that humanity can do to protect itself from the forces of nature.

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There are lots of rituals that my family and many others have to impart the lesson of the Passover story to the young ones. We go around the table and have each person state what they would take with them if they had to leave their home in a hurry, just like the Israelites left Egypt with a moment’s notice. Most people mention photo albums or important keepsakes, sometimes animals or even matchbox cars. Nothing is as important as family and our own precious life.

In the days leading up to hurricane Harvey, not knowing how the storm would impact us, we took supplies and food up to the room above the garage that we had just finished building. It felt very hypothetical to think that we might need to survive for a period of time on a few boxes of food and possessions. Just in case, we lugged up financial documents, favorite stuffed animals, each bringing our own important things.  I just knew I was going to have to take it all right back down after the storm, but I did it anyway. Honestly, much of it was to ease my daughter’s growing panic. I thought any action was better than sitting and watching the weather channel 24/7.

The moment the water begin entering our home, I had this feeling that I have often fruitlessly tried to put into words. It is elusive, refusing to be pinned down or named.  It is an incomprehensibly familiar feeling to me, and yet I don’t remember ever having to leave somewhere in a hurry and not look back. At one point during the storm, since I was the only one with rain boots on, I attempted to wade through several feet of flood water to go back into the house. I remember being surprised at how much I had left behind, trusting that we would avoid exactly this. In a sweeping glance from a doorway, I could see cookbooks and photo albums, bath towels and boardgames all succumbing to the waters. I felt shocked and calm and accepting all at the same time. I think right then, I instantly let go of the idea of hanging onto anything in that house, even the house itself.

We stayed in that upstairs room for the entire expanse of day and night of the storm and most of the following day.  We could not have descended if we had wanted to because of the several feet of water below. I felt very much like a modern Rapunzel stuck in her tower.  I wonder how Noah and his family felt on the ark during that very first deluge, looking around from their boat at the expanse of water before them, probably feeling very very alone.  Were there any limits to their faith? What did they know of their future?

* * * * *

In the path of the awesome power that is Mother Nature, it seems unavoidable that we will encounter situations when our life and what was contained within it can disappear faster than the blink of an eye. What remains is what we carry with us and within us. Our ideals. Our beliefs. Our faith and hope.  Our matchbox cars.

What was Moses thinking as he led the slaves into the Red Sea and into an unknown future? What was Noah’s wife thinking as she prepared for their limitless journey ahead?

A year ago, assembling tables and dishes and haggadahs and food for Pesach in our rental home felt like a testament to resilience in the face of overwhelming circumstances.  Just like we are to say at the end of the seder that we will be “next year in Jerusalem,” we were certain that we would be in our new home for the following year’s seder.  

This year, overcoming that disappointment that we have many months before that will happen, preparing for the seder takes a little bit more inner work, at least for me. I hold onto the hope that the sentiment will be true for next year’s holiday. As we know, many a Jewish holiday has that resilience theme. We may be unpacking as we observe Sukkot in October, a holiday named for the temporary tents the Israelites carried with them during their exodus.  That will be wholly symbolic in other ways.

The command to celebrate Passover is the command not just to have a Seder and retell the story, but is a command to celebrate the process of getting there. We are to value the means to get to the end, not just the end itself.

And so I am searching for value in my own “exile experience.” What will these 2 years of displacement come to mean for me? Have I fully let go of our lost home? How can I make the most of the liminality of the journey we are on?

I work every day to create and actualize our new home.  In the meantime, I care for my family and tend to the temporary place we are in.  If my home truly is my heart, I must care for my tender self in new ways.  I am learning to let go of guilt and negative habits and to forgive my limitations.

Any kind of exodus entails struggle and hard work. This Passover (and always), I hope that anyone who is hungry, homeless, or enslaved by poverty, violence or oppression will find hope that a better world is possible.