To Build A Home:

Home. Nest. Sanctuary.

Over the past few years of building the cabin, I’ve gone through many stages. Some denial. Some acceptance. Some restlessness.

069       My favorite stages by far have been in points of building. I get a high from feeling like I’m the only person in the world sometimes. It’s empowering. The feeling of doing whatever the hell one wants because all that matters is you. I am happy in those moments. Loud music in the truck, rain/snow on my face, tools in hand. Things to be built. The process: measure, mark, cut, nail. The process: design, count, stitch. A happy dog playing contentedly to himself nearby. Cup of coffee. Hot chocolate. Cold beer. Another time that I feel that full is when my arms aren’t filled with tools, or materials, but with people. Nothing comes close to the sound of voices in the cabin other than my own, music. Music in the cabin. When people are there to remind me that I’m building a home. Not a house that nobody lives in.

037Arms. Arms full. Arms entangled in mine. Laughter. Arms, left empty.

Hands. Hands to hold, to create, the most valuable appendage, holding memories of creating. Remembering stitches and kneading dough. Hands, left empty.

577Ears. To listen. To hear fears, to hear kindness. To hear a string of words that melt the heart. To hear music, to hear wildlife. silence.

Legs. To take me places. Adventures. Legs, to dance. Legs to walk the driveway to the chicken coop. Legs. Tired. Bruised.

053

Eyes. To see, observe. To see beauty, to take in pain. Eyes to see progress and things coming together. Eyes. The same walls. The same empty walls. Darkness.

Heart…

Heart. To feel. To reach out. To hold, care and sing.

Claw-foot bathtubs, Pianos, Yarn, Clothes, another dog, kittens, ingredients.

(yet, I hate cats..)

Things to fill the place where the heart was.

My jobs are winding down. I’ll be finished in the middle of December. I picture the cabin at night: Lit by the glow of the fire, me sitting in a claw-foot bath tub placed directly in front of the wood stove (strategic) smoking pipe tobacco (Something to pick up). In the day, playing piano. I used to play as a child, I’d like the sound to fill the cabin. Things. I want to fill the cabin with all the things.

028      Last night tucked into bed watching the glow from the stove reflect on the plastic stapled to the roof, I thought, this is bliss. I’m so comfortable. The wood stove is so soothing. The walls of the cabin, so embracing. I realized I created her. I might not have stood the walls or screwed the sheets of tin down, but I have loved her. Not in an easy kind of love but an unconditional love. Her too. In the summer I put everything before the cabin. I wanted to be surrounded by people. Friends. I didn’t want to be there. Constantly running. Now that it’s fall, she’s still here. Walls waiting.

I wait for the life that will one day fill these four walls. It is non-existent. I might get to try a taste of it once in a blue moon, but it is not for me. It seems as if the cabin and I are destined for one another.

102

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s