Guest Room

“Would you prefer to be a guest or a host?”

It’s a question. For conversation. Class.

Would you prefer to be a guest or a host?

It’s a question. For myself. Every year I buy a ticket.

“Neither.”

“Why?”

I don’t like to answer this question out loud. I never answer this question out loud.

When I’m a host, I don’t believe I can create the ideal experience, despite having all my tools at my disposal. The entire house. My house.

When I’m a guest, I’m still doing everything wrong, but I’m in the constraints designed outside of my control. One room. The guest room.

“Would you prefer to be a guest or a host?”

It’s my turn to choose.

“Guest.”

I’m about to be a guest, because it makes everything easier, for everyone else.

“I’m cleaning it”, my niece said.

Just two weeks ago, I learned the Hebrew word for Egypt translates to narrow place. I can see the room. Dirt is the least of its worries. The room is small, but that’s not the reason it’s narrow. As a guest, I move around their life. A desk piled with electronics. A shelf full of mementos. A closet stuffed with clothes.

The guest room. What does it give me room to do?

Room to be angry. Room to be alone. Room to reflect. Room to do better.

Except, I’ve always moved around other people’s lives. The guest room is only a physical representation of my narrow place. We all have our own narrow place, our personal mitzrayim. How do we escape it? How do we decide that we want to?

I tug the zipper around dusty, green cloth. I start to do what I always do instead of choosing, filled the spaces with everything, everyone else wants.

“Just ask for what you want,” my sister-in-law instructed in visits past. “If I can give it to you, I will.”

That is my narrow place. It measures the dimensions of my suitcase, my airplane seat, of the guest room and apparently my imagination.

Lirshom, to sketch and to list are the same verb. Because it’s an idea? Just an idea, to get started. This year, my niece makes the list. Something new everyday. Is it constricting or empowering, the narrow space between her pencil marks?

I stare at the pockets that remain in my suitcase and the items on my bed. A new phrase echoes in my head. Instead of “I hope I have everything”, I repeat, “If I don’t have it, I’ll just buy it.” Even in a narrow space there are actions I can take.

“Would you prefer to be a guest or a host?”

My turn to answer. For conversation. Class.