These Days

As I settle into the semester, life begins to seem more surmountable. The ketchup on my Friday was an early gift from Dominique. She helped immensely with a plane ticket home for Rosh haShanah. Now, I'm in better spirits. However, the future of my relationship, not surprisingly, is as foggy as ever.

Yeah, I'm still asking the same questions about me and Daniel. We met almost this time last year, during the High Holy Days. In many ways, I thought of him as "the answer to my prayers," in as much as I actually believe that God "answers" prayers. It was clear that we were both looking for the same thing.

For many, going home for the holidays, as in Daniel's case, may be more of a chore than a pleasure. It happens to be just what I need. My family and friends in Austin serve as a reminder of my roots and why I am where I am today. I can't help but think of this because, some months ago, Daniel and I recognized that it is our families that shape the way in which we engage in our respective relationships. Our miscommunications are often a result of what we have at home.

Thinking of relationships, I believe that most people would do well to consider the model our parents and siblings have provided for us. Home may seem as distant as another coast or country, but we are also creating a home for ourselves wherever we dwell. Much of the time, that "new" home, with all its complications and comforts, will look a lot like the abode of old. Unlocking the mystery of current connections often comes with remembering the people in our past lives, whether they be parents, pals, or sibs.

Maybe this weekend will be good for us. Maybe we'll see ourselves in our childhood homes. Daniel hasn't been home for the chaggim since he was in high school. Last year was my first year away from home. It is my hope that we will see and learn about ourselves in the people and places we will visit. A new year never hurt anyone, right?

Since I bought my ticket, I have spent the days daydreaming of sunny Texas and my sister's loud, five-year-old voice which makes otherwise ordinary utterances into easily heard, brash statements. The smell of rice and the sight of bright days on which my sister is the first to awaken are memories of home.

In New York, it seems that I am adding to these memories. The ability to concentrate on any thoughts amidst the sound of angry vehicles and smelly sidewalks has now become a "taste" of home. Broken elevators, like this difficult relationship, are among the daily hurdles that I face if I want to make it to the place where I can slip off my shoes and pant off the walk up the to the sixth floor. That place, easy or not, is also home. And, if I'm lucky, I won't be alone when I get to the top of the stairs.