Old House Renovation as Metaphor

So.... there's a house.  It's not fancy.  But it's old, has character, and it's mine.  My task now that it IS mine, is to be a good steward of it, to make it reflect who I am in the world, and for it to be - at some point in time- appropriate for sale.  It turns out, though, that doing all that is hard.  And like everything else about my new life, it's reminding me of important things.

It all starts to feel like the rusting, chipping, fraying of my home is a symbol of my un-examined and vaguely terrifying inner life.







Every time (and that's ALL the time) a small problem crops up, it turns out that it's not small.  And even when things are going well, and I undertake some hare-brained home improvement scheme, it turns out that about 5 expensive, and un-fun, things must be done first.  Somehow installing a dishwasher involved getting a new ceiling.  Do not EVEN ask how that happened.  Fixing that old broken-down ceiling, though, allowed the beautiful thing underneath to be revealed.


What's inside/underneath will eventually reveal itself.  A hideous dropped ceiling in the front room hides a formerly-lovely but sadly in need of repair plaster ceiling.  Who thought that popcorn ceiling in the front bedroom was a good idea, and what disasters is it pretending to hide?  And the floor in the basement is uneven.  I just laugh and say that that's where I buried the ex-husband's body.  (As far as I know, his body is still alive and functioning somewhere on the planet.  I wouldn't REALLY do that.)  The point is,  these patch jobs have expiration dates, and I fear those dates are nearing.  Similarly, we all walk around all day every day revealing who we are, even when we are trying to hide it.  We can probably wait to deal with that hidden thing, but it's not going away until we do

Issues rarely heal themselves.  I hear a noise in the basement.  I don't go look because I'm afraid of what I might find.   Could there BE a more obvious metaphor?  What am I avoiding, in both the literal and metaphorical basements?  I'm afraid there are things I can't fix.  I am afraid I will need help, and heaven knows I don't do ask for or accept help well.  Maybe there's a fatal flaw in this place that I want to have as a sanctuary.  You get the idea.

The attic is full of things leftover from a life I no longer lead - or need.  Baby clothes, camping gear for a small group, suitcases from days gone by.  It's not quite Jane Eyre's crazy woman in the attic, inspiring fear and worry - but it's not far off, either. This stuff is literally -and metaphorically- hanging over my head.  I need to confront it.  I will feel clearer when I do.

So, I'm coming to the conclusion that life is all about infrastructure.  It does matter if the roof and the plumbing and the electrical systems are cared for and fully-functioning.  It does matter if the checkbook is balanced and the clothes are clean.  It does matter if I nurture and tend my emotional health.  It's all part of the same big picture.

A triumphant middle

I’m writing with no certainty at all that the end of this story will, in fact,  be triumphant.  What I need right now is a triumphant middle.  At the beginning of this process, I had been cruelly kicked to the curb by a husband of 27 years.  Let’s not lead off with him, though.  Just know that it was a hideous, soul-damaging process.  Everyone said I would heal, but I did not believe them.  I would be the person for whom time did not heal all wounds.

But, of course I have healed.  In many ways I am so VERY much better off now than when I was married.  This truth does not imply that he did the right thing –not for a New York minute.  He abandoned me, leaving me homeless, unemployed, and 800 miles away from the bulk of my support system.   I got from that broken place to here through the strength of my friends and family who helped me up off the mat and by telling myself that I had to do one thing every day to make tomorrow better.  The level of terror in those first few months was not supportable.  I had to do something to make myself safer, every single day.

Indeed, I would very much like never to feel that way again, thank you very much.  But surely I can borrow that trick of moving myself forward one small step at a time.  My over-striving has resulted in wrong steps and being worn out all the time.  And yet, time is short.  I know that, too.  And I still have so very much to do.  But that means, in turn, that I can’t afford to make many more mis-steps. Those damn things can de-rail a girl for a long time.

I also now realize that in my self-talk and my talk with friends who share these issues, we tend to use rather militaristic language.  “Never give up; never surrender” -that kind of thing.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with that -but it’s never really made my heart sing, the whole military thing, in actuality or as metaphor  I would rather be making art with my actions.  Indeed, the picture I get in my head when I use or hear military-type metaphors is the uber-organized home of Captain von Trapp before Maria arrived.  Tidy but loveless, a place where order came before people.  No one means that, I totally see that.  Nonetheless,  I need to find a language that supports what I’m trying to create.

I think that I saw part of the truth when I knew that for my own sanity I had to do something powerful -however small- to reclaim a life.  What I didn’t see at the time was that I was doing that from a place of love.  I had to take those steps, but I could take those steps because people were standing all around me, doing their best to hold some of my pain.  It felt like I had all of the pain the world could absorb, but with the clarity of vision that comes from distance, I can see now that’s not true.    I was carrying all the pain I could carry, and other people were holding the rest for me.  Love moved me forward every bit as much as strength of will.  I am still loved in all those same ways, but I can’t continue to lay claim to that kind of circle of support.  It’s someone else’s turn to receive it, and well past the point where I should offer it.  

 So, what's the language for moving forward from a gentle loving place?  Weird that it doesn't spring to mind, huh?

Cleaning Up as a Metaphor

The currently-popular metaphor for cleaning is Marie Kondo's "the life-changing magic of tidying up."  Ok, OK.  Whatever.  Once again, the metaphors don't speak to my experience.  I'm sure her book is wonderful.  (Actually, I read it, so I AM sure.)  It's just not the book I need. I don't have too much stuff, so the ever-popular metaphor of de-cluttering isn't what I need, either. I know why I want to tidy up.  I know how to tidy up, for heaven's sake.  I just don't keep up with it all in the way that I would like.

On the one hand, maybe I don't need to over-think every darn thing.  Just vacuum, already.  There's merit to that argument, for sure. There's also the truth that I'm in the middle of a huge remodeling effort, a multi-year remodeling effort- so things are just going to be more chaotic than they might otherwise be.  And it's not as though I am sitting around doing nothing; I am authentically busy with other important things when I am not cleaning.  Yet, none of those truths adequately explains what's happening here. 

This is the home of a person who has yet to make peace with her new circumstances.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not living in squalor, and I have made great strides in coming to terms with my new circumstances.  But, apparently, I'm not done.  This home is not yet the sanctuary I want it to be.  It doesn't welcome me when I open the door.  It doesn't say "here lives a person who takes care of herself and her loved ones.... come on in."  No, it doesn't say that, at all.

It's also true that outward change reflects and sometimes precipitates internal change.  Somehow I sense more emotional healing and change waiting for me in the wings and I sense that making my home a sanctuary - making it MY sanctuary- is the thing I have to do.  And because this is my work, both internal and external, I have to do it myself.  Hiring someone would be cheating the process.

So, now to boring practicalities.  I have to find the minutes and hours to make this happen, to say nothing of the energy.  Sigh.

Jivan-Mukti - Embodiment and the Return to Yoga

Yoga was an everyday meditative and physical practice in my life, for decades.  Then, one day, when I was no more worried about my situation than any other day, I popped up from a yoga practice and discovered that my life wasn't what I thought it was at all.  Ex-husband-related drama ensued, but let's just say that decades of skillful deception became visible with a single email.

I did not in any way connect this with yoga.  What kind of sense would that make?  But whenever I would try to practice after that, there would be panic.  It wasn't a full-blown panic attack, but yoga stopped being pleasant.  Somehow, in some limbic center of my brain, a connection between terrible things and yoga had been made.  I stopped doing yoga.  And here we are.

My body is stiff and ache-y.  The arthritis in my hands is poorly managed, and my knees are just an embarrassment.  I feel scattered and distracted.  If people my age accept these feelings as the normal developments of an aging body and mind, then seriously.... I am super sorry.  But I just can't go there with you.  I know that yoga gets me around at least some of that.

Yesterday, for no particular reason, I accepted the invitation from an acquaintance to check out a new yoga studio in town.  I, who at one time had so many yoga mats that my daughter put me on a mat-diet, had to go buy a mat before class.  That was weird.  I almost left when the teacher revealed herself to be a former student of mine.  Cripes.  But there were only six people in the class, so slipping out was pretty much not an option.

The universe had conspired.  The invitation came at the right time.  I couldn't leave once I got there.  And all went well. The experience had no panic.  There weren't even any idle thoughts of that terrible time.  There was something resembling calm, and it's been a long time since I felt that.

Which is not quite the same thing as saying that my conscious mind was still.  Oh My Heavenly Days.  Apparently my physical and cognitive non-fidgeting skills need a little polish-up.  As my monkey-mind chattered away at me, I realized that this must be what it feels like to be dis-connected from one's body.  I thought of Sir Ken Robinson's amusing claim that academics are profoundly dis-embodied, thinking of their bodies as simply the vehicle for getting their brains to the next meeting.

I never thought that applied to me.  Yet, I clearly have not been living a life of yogic balance - not by a long shot.  I think I've been using my body subconsciously/on purpose to distance myself from people and things that frighten me.

The thing about yoga is that it invites me to be kinder to my body, to celebrate what it can do -whatever that is.  My body is neither my adversary nor my protection from scary things.  It's me, just as much as my brain is.  I need to stop seeing myself as separate parts and remain in conversation with ALL of me.  So, I'll go back to yoga.

Does that make ANY sense?

Fitness by Finn -Eliminating Excuses

We've probably all seen the viral video of the middle-aged overweight guy who adopted a middle-aged overweight dog, and watched as they became fit together.  This story of mutual rescue is inspiring.  Watch it here: Mutual rescue .  In general, though, research suggests that people who neglect their own health neglect their pets in the same way and vice-versa.  When you care about yourself, you care about your pets.

As usual, the truisms on this topic make me nuts.  They just don't seem to match my experience.  Naturally, I have to go about this in a bass-ackwards way.  I care mightily about my dog.  I cook his food.  I arrange for training and exercise.  I don't think I do enough for him, (doing more to control his environment springs to mind) but I have the groundwork in place.  I am trustworthy on this point of caring for him.  Caring for myself, that's a different matter.  Finn eats better than I do.  He plays more. 

Finn, of course, does many things for me.  He's companionship.  He's fun.  He's smart and intuitive.  He's not a great conversationalist, but he's a brilliant listener.  Because of him, I've met new friends.  And he is one way that I am eliminating excuses for myself.

Who wouldn't take that sweet face for a walk?  Really.

I am a master at coming up with true and reasonable excuses as to why I can't do the thing I ought to do.  I'm sick of doing it, but I don't stop.  So, Finn is one of the ways that I get out of my own way on this point.  I ought to walk.  I ought to run.  But it's raining.  Or it's super-cold.  Or it's a more important use of my time to do some writing, or house-cleaning, or something.  But I won't fail to take Finn out, and no short little walk is going to wear this man out.

So, there it is.  I'll get fit, in part, because I love Finn rather than because I love myself.  (I don't hate myself.  Don't go there.  It's just that my motivation for this project is coming from the one place rather than the other.)

Do Sweat the Small Stuff

I think we've already established that I sweat all the stuff.  But really, the little stuff matters.  Here's one way that I know.

Finnegan is my dog.  He's a two year old yellow Lab, and he's wonderful.   He's loving and smart and devoted to me.  He's also strong and a little ill-mannered sometimes.  I wanted a high-energy dog to do things with - a companion to get me outside and moving and doing things that I say I love but don't otherwise get to: hiking, camping, kayaking....  I envisioned a life of gentle adventure with my sweet, beautifully-trained dog by my side.

And we were on our way when weirdness struck, as it occasionally does.  In late October, I traveled more than I usually do, which meant that he was boarded for a long-ish stretch.  He loves his boarding place; I'm absolutely confident about that.  He was happy to see me when we re-united.

But when it was time on the next Monday to go to daycare, he didn't want to go. I thought nothing of it. Maybe he was tired.  Maybe he was just enjoying being in his own house.  No worries.  He can stay home.  Days stretched into weeks.  Weeks stretched into months.  I tried to get him into the car for daycare, but ended up with 80 pounds of highly motivated Lab fighting against me.  On work mornings, I don't have time for a lot of that.  It's get in the car now, or stay home.  He stayed home.

In fact, he wouldn't get in the car for any reason.  We couldn't go to the park, kayak, hike... any of the things I imagined doing with my dog.  We were constrained to walks on a leash around the neighborhood.  I was certainly bored, and I imagine he was too.  At its worst, we were walking the long way around the house to get to the door so that he didn't have to walk down the driveway near the car.

We worked and worked on this, for 5 long months.  And of course in that time, I had no idea if the training and the baby steps would work at all.  I found myself contemplating Shakespeare and "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."  I was deeply disappointed that we did not have the life I had imagined, but I also was still besotted with him and needed to find a way to lead a happy life together.

As you can see from the picture, he gets in the car now - weirdly, as though there had never been a problem.  Who even knows what was going on in that little mind of his.

But back to sweating the little stuff.  Other people's dogs stay home and lead contented dog lives.  MY life, though, goes remarkably better when Finn goes to daycare twice a week.  When that didn't happen, the house got messier.  In part, this is because he was home messing it up, but also more of my time had to be devoted to keeping him occupied and stimulated.  We weren't going to training classes, so he got a little less well-mannered.  It isn't possible to exhaust a young Labrador Retriever with three walks a day.  It's just not.  So he was bored and acting out.  I routinely came home to the kitchen trash strewn across the kitchen floor, and had to return to crating him while I was away.  And we weren't doing the things that are good for me, either - like cross-country skiing and hiking and watching the eagles.  So my fitness suffered.  And most fundamentally, our relationship suffered.  He learned that he could get what he wanted if he just argued with me about it long enough.  He had me trained, and that's for sure.

And all of that happened because one little thing came unhinged.  Maybe life is just a series of little things, and managing those little things makes the big things manageable.  And they're just little things -not hard to do in the moment, at all.  I need to remember that and gently tend the infrastructure of my life.  It matters.

The Thing that Scares you

Do one thing every day that scares you. (1997) —Mary Schmich

This is undoubtedly good advice - when you lead a safe and comfortable life and the temptation is to relax into it.  Who leads that life??  I get it (as much as any over-educated white woman can) about privilege and how it protects me.  But no one, NO ONE, is protected from scary shit.

And right now, everything scares me.

This blog scares me, for heaven's sake.  Putting this content "out there" - sorting it all out in public- that's terrifying.  Letting people, even strangers, see me is a paralyzing thought.  I think it might have merit to have done this thing, but I wish it were already done.  The doing of it is exhausting.

I have to do my taxes today.  That scares me.

Watching people I love suffer is enough to bring me to my knees.  And when that's the task in front of you, you have to seem to be strong because other people need you more than you need to feel your feelings.

My house and how it works -or doesn't- scares me.

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Making professional changes scares me.  Staying put also scares me.  Feeling mutually exclusive things scares me.  Yes, this one is a bit of a mess.

 The thought of relocating for those professional changes scares me.  I don't know how to sell a house.  I barely know how to buy one.  And I don't even want to think of all the stuff that's in my attic - relics of a by-gone life that will fell me, I'm pretty sure.






 And the list goes on.  And my list is pretty tame, when you get right down to it.  Everyone has a list; if you're not afraid, you're not paying attention.  It's a wonder anyone gets up in the morning.

The thing I can not do - will not do- is sit around hoping for someone to rescue me.  Even if such a person were banging on the door, I would not let that happen.  I can't afford to turn over that much power; I have to rescue myself, or I haven't been rescued at all.



Here's what I'm learning to do when things get scary.  First, I must properly name the thing that's scaring me.  If you'll notice, I haven't correctly named a single one of the fears I mention above.  Properly named, it looks more like this:  I am afraid that I am inadequate.

I'm afraid I will reveal myself to be unworthy of the respect of people I respect.  I'm afraid I've made some financial blunder that will cause me to owe a bunch of money to the IRS, revealing myself to be inadequate for this task of adulting.  I'm afraid that I won't know what to say, or do, or be, to help my suffering family and friends.  Their pain makes me feel inadequate.  You get the idea.

And it all might be true, and really bad things might happen.  That is the nature of being the hero in my own story.  It's hard to be a hero when there's no risk, after all.

So, once I've named the thing I'm truly afraid of, I set out to prevent the worst from happening.  I take really small steps to prevent the catastrophic.  Tiny things.  Start the blog, and tell the truth, but make it only modestly public.  When that feels less terrifying, I'll take the next step.  Fill out the tax forms.  I have a month before I have to submit them, after all.   SMALL things.

The thing that could happen after I've done those small things isn't the worst thing, by definition.  It could still be awful, but it's not the worst possible thing.   And when I do make mistakes, on these topics and a thousand others, the question is simply how to keep that from happening again.  The dog turns the deadbolt and locks me out of the house without my keys?  Get a keypad lock on the door.  Always have a little cash in your wallet.  Always have gas in the car.  TINY things that make me feel slightly more competent.

There's plenty of scary stuff I can't control.  Loved ones can become ill.  Donald Trump might become President.  The polar bears are dying because of global warming.  I don't have to be encouraged to try scary things.  Scary, unspeakable things come at us all, from all sides.  In the meantime, I'll control what I can.