New Archive:
January 2001 Issue
Home Is
Where the Tzedakah Box Is
By
Sue Fendrick
The trucks of a major rental company carry the logo "Adventures in Moving."
Now, that is not what I want when I move. That is what I want backpacking
in the Yucatan Peninsula. (Not that I go backpacking. But if I did, I
am pretty sure I would want an adventure.)
What I want is a Non-Adventure: movers with the dexterity and care of heart surgeons, and pastoral skills up the wazoo. (Although I did once read about a mover who considered his work the sacred task of facilitating transitions for people. Unfortunately, he does not appear in my Yellow Pages.)
My needs are simple: I don't want my stuff to break more than is absolutely necessary. And when I go to bed the first night, surprised at feeling teary, I want to be able to imagine that this new place with no window dressings and no history will someday soon be "home."
Before we begin a new relationship, though, it is just basic politeness to say goodbye to the old one.
We mark the end of Shabbat with the Havdalah ceremony, and read the very end of Deuteronomy just before starting over with Genesis as the Torah cycle begins anew each fall. We owe it to ourselves--and to what is about to become the past--to sanctify our leavetakings.
The house I left two weeks ago was not really mine; it was the rented apartment my fiancé and his children had lived in for 3-1/2 years, and where I sojourned between giving up my apartment and moving into The New House--the jagged beginning of our not-quite-yet married life.
Still, I've been with Ben and the girls for more than two years now, and have spent significant chunks of time at their place. While most of my belongings were in storage for a few months, the roof over their heads covered mine as well.
And so we went, the five of us, to The Yellow House, to say goodbye. We came into each room, empty now except for dust bunnies and miscellaneous detritus waiting to be dealt with by our cleaning person the next morning.
Each of us named our memories out loud, room by room: the attic, where presents were hidden; the master bedroom, where our engagement was announced and hugs were available around the clock; the study, where the girls could go listen to music or just be alone; the living room, where we danced and held Passover seders on the floor; the kid's bedroom, where I whispered tender things when they were fast asleep; the bathroom, where we tended to their wounds; and the kitchen, where we worked on homework and developed family in-jokes.
We began with tears, smiled and laughed more than we expected, and rounded things out with kvetchiness--it was time to go, and that was hard. Our five year-old wailed as we carried her down the stairs, "But (sob) I'll (sob) never (sob) live (sob) in (sob) this (sob) house (sob) again." If I was a family therapist (I'm not; I was only raised by one), I would say that she was expressing the raw mourning for all of us.
We now live in a place where our names are on the deed. It is bigger, closer to the girls' mom and to their school and many friends--and it is ours. We are far from settled, though--two weeks after the move, only the kitchen is almost completely unpacked, and bedrooms are mostly set up--you gotta eat and sleep.
As we finally combine households, we notice the few things we still need, but even more, how much extraneous stuff we have. Doubles of non-stick fry pans, milchig and fleishig; multiple partial sets of dishes; vases and serving dishes that are serviceable but one too many.
So we pack them up, and instead of being a burden, one more thing to dispose of as we wade through our belongings, it is a gift: to know that every object we give up will find a home with a family who until recently did not have one.
We will make sure, through a local organization, that our really-don't-need-this's will end up in the hands of people who have scraped together the security deposit to move out of homelessness, now needing to furnish the space between the bare walls.
Clothes we should have given away before we moved (it is easier, I think, to give things up now when we are on the upswing, building a home rather than losing one), will go to Dress for Success and other organizations helping unemployed and poor folks put together the wardrobes they need to apply for (and keep) the jobs they couldn't otherwise get. This small redistribution of wealth pleases us--and helps us let go.
Our real estate agent came by last night with a housewarming gift: a beautiful laser-cut tzedakah box, in the shape of a birdhouse. All five of us put coins in the box. Giving makes us less like refugees: we may feel as if we are still in flight, but we are home.
This is where we do sacred acts of remembering, caring, and action. This is where we remind ourselves daily of our obligations not only to each other but also to the world outside these walls.
Resources:
Check out these websites to find out more about donating items no longer of use, feeding the hungry, and other acts of tzedakah:
http://www.dressforsuccess.org
http://www.mazon.org
http://www.socialaction.com
(Your local social service agency can also help you locate organizations.)
Rabbi Susan Fendrick is getting married in March. She is the editor of
SocialAction.com,
GenJ's sister 'zine. She is donating her fee for this article to the Marriage
Project of the Lambda
Legal Defense Fund, which is spearheading a national coalition working
for the right of same-sex couples to marry.
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