Buckets, debris, fasteners, building scrap, empty stain cans, the construction chaos seems perpetual - irony really.
Building - be it a sanctuary or a self - rips your throat out and leaves you for dead. Demands your best, even at your worst. My own house is in its final stage of completion but the to-do list remains heavy with detailed finish work: forty five dummy drawer fronts, one door, one threshold, two kitchen cabinets, forty two tongue and groove interior wall coverings custom cut ten feet in the air between the very top of the exposed rafters, two hundred feet of custom made trim for every rafter and ceiling side rake, the pergola joists and roofing installation. Other tasks float through the psyche, shelved but not forgotten.
Art, writing, blog posts, reading, researching, studying, yoga, hours long meditations and reflections have always been the true construction. Having avoiding my calling over the years to my own detriment, I find myself vehemently protecting my sacred time to contiue my "build." Hours, days, and often weeks are dedicated to writing and editing a paragraph or fleshing out one leaf in painting - my livelihood - without it I die.
Another request for construction help came today - a noose gently laid around my neck - must turn it down or risk hanging myself. I serve no purpose dead. Six twenty seven where did the day go. I remove the noose, and pick up the yoga mat. Save yourself Karen. Save yourself.
