"For us, there is only the trying" by Esther Lee

              

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—

Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres

Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt 

Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure

One of my favorite collections is “Four Quartets”, by T. S. Eliot. It’s a set of four poems, titled after rock formation a manor house (“Burnt Norton”), a place of his ancestors (“East Coker”), rock formations (“The Dry Salvages”), and an anglican community (“Little Gidding”). There is something powerful about titles that speak about places, geographical or of the social construct. Titles like that are an invitation to readers to go see those places for themselves. They do not explain, as much as they present.

Like Eliot wrote in “East Coker”, I’m still trying to learn to use words. It’s been over twenty years, and I’m still trying. Some attempts have hurt others; some of smoothed over old scars; some have been my hands and my voice across the seas. These days I’m been trying to choose words that I hope can capture some of my experiences here in Israel. There is something powerful about titles that liken to physical places, yes, but perhaps there is more strength to titles that are mental constructs. For me, the mental house I’ve been working on - testing out some of the new scaffolding, trying out a promising shade of paint in the past few months I’ve been living here - is about the idea of home (no surprise). I’m not caught in between two wars. I’m between two (or more) homes, cultures, languages, two lives.

               Because one has only learnt to get the better of words

               For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which

               One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture

               Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate

               With shabby equipment always deteriorating

               In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,

               Undisciplined squads of emotion. 

In this new house construction project, I’m trying to use words to fill the empty rooms and the bare walls. I’m trying to get the better of the familiar words I’ve used before. I borrow words from others; I reflect on my classmates’ experiences and our conversations in the break room and walking to and from class; I wonder at the upperclassmen’s smooth sailing and confidence in their completed “houses”. How did they conquer the “imprecision of feeling, / Undisciplined squads of emotion” that accompanies new building projects? So often I grimace at my lack of desire to settle, let alone build and put some roots down. My head tells me I’m here for four years, it’s the rational thing to make it my home as soon as possible; my heart tells me I’m missing some crucial pieces, like family; and my spirit just squats in the dirt and refuses to try anymore. My equipment is shabby, it’s old and falling to pieces. Perhaps it’s overused.

Maybe I’m thinking too linearly. It’s not about gaining or losing. It’s not about making the perfect house because all other constructions are unfit for living in. It’s not an either/or choice. Not that all constructs are good for us, or honestly reflect where we are in life. A lot of the times we fill our house with fluff, daydreams and apathy (or just dust, as is the reality in Beersheva). Some meaning is changed and some meaning is replaced depending on where we physically are, and that is ok. Perhaps the most important part to this process is the attempts. The social attempts we make at making friends with the grocery cashiers and the neighbors; all the attempts at Hebrew in public; and all the attempts at ignoring the differences between here and the other home, or homes.

               And what there is to conquer

               By strength and submission, has already been discovered

               Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope

               To emulate—but there is no competition—

               There is only the fight to recover what has been lost

               And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions

               That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.

               For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

                                                                                                             - blogger of the month, Esther Lee

I left this home of the last four years, tucked away in western NY, for the desert (photo Andrea Pacheco

A big part of home construction is food: cooking, inviting, and eating.

And of course, trying out some new foods particular to this land.

Another part of home is physical place. I had to explore strange and crowded places (though when I go back to the shuk in Jerusalem I know where to get my fresh baked goodies)

Walking the off-beaten paths helped, too. This is a beautifully, compact country that needs to be explored.

You need trust to make a home.

And importantly, friends you trust to make a home with.