As I've written about many many (too many?) times, we are building a
house on our land while we reside in a "house trailer" adjacent to it.
The new house is almost complete now. Isn't that a nice subjective
statement? To me, it was almost complete when we had it completely
dried-in. It was also almost complete when we had all the internals
(plumbing, electric, water) running through the walls. Now we have all
the drywall in with insulation behind it, and today we are getting our
septic tank. Our kitchen cabinets are in. Our toilet is not yet. A few
walls are painted. Only one is trimmed. Flooring has not been started.
Still, I say we are almost complete because to me, the house is
already livable.
When people ask me, "So when are you moving in?" it makes me pause. I
don't have a good answer for that. Perhaps Livvy and I are already
moved in. We have slept here for two nights in a row because the
trailer is unbearably hot. A humid heat wave poured in a couple days
ago. It was then that I realized the true brilliance of my uncle's
design.
The first time we traipsed the hundred feet from our trailer to the
new house through our knee-high grass (since we've had no time to get
to things like cutting grass during this house project), and we broke
a sweat by the time we reached the new front door, we were overjoyed
to open the door and feel a temperature difference so significant it
was as if we were walking into air conditioning. That was just the top
floor.
Once we hit the basement floor, the effect was tenfold. I grinned and
grinned. I am tired of living in a giant toaster oven in the middle of
a field. I slept that night in the cool basement with Livvy while the
rest of family sweated it out (by choice) in the hotbox trailer. I
needed two layers of covers. It was heavenly.
In the morning, I awoke to the sound of birds and looked outside the
window where treetops greeted me. For the first time I can remember in
months, I wanted to get up. I felt fairly well-rested, but it wasn't
the amount or quality of the sleep that beckoned me awake. It was the
trees. It was morning outside - the birds knew it - and the night
cycle was over. The day cycle had begun. I could almost recognize the
enormity of the gift that is God's creation. How perfect the
design. How lucky I am to be able to experience it today.
There were so many decisions with the house that weren't so much
decisions as practical solutions, such as its orientation to northern
light rather than southern light, its walkout basement, specific
contractors that we hired and loved, found only by chance. One day I
might go into those different experiences because I have learned
things during this project that should be shared. I've learned a great
deal about building a house and I have suggestions about avoiding
different financial pitfalls that I think would be helpful to other
owner-builders.
But I've also learned much about cultivating positive energy, as my
husband would say. From the beginning, the house was sacrosanct to me.
No negative input was allowed. It was to be a place only of positive,
supportive, healing energy. The big picture windows were installed
toward the woods so that we could constantly be grounded by life and
the creator behind it.
Most importantly, perhaps, we found the bright side to any of our
struggles with it. In this way, I created my own reality, and it was
one of positive optimism. I think we all create our own realities
based on what input we allow in and what output we send out.
When we hired the guys to put up the wood on the ceiling, for example,
there were several complaints I could have had about them. Instead, we
reframed the experience as a positive one when we realized that we
never would have met Ben, a contractor from our local Amish community,
and thus we never would have had our beautiful handmade cherry
handrails, nor our heirloom corn seeds, nor my lesson in door hanging
and trim, and much more. When I retell the story of the wood
installation - to myself and to others - I can focus the story on the
deadbeat guys who installed it. Or I can focus the story on the way I
met Ben and his crew. Is it an uplifting story or a depressing one?
Does it leave me fearful or hopeful, anxious or settled? It is up to
me, the storyteller, to create it.
The house certainly feels like a sanctuary, just as I'd always hoped.
It gives me a feeling of special responsibility to keep it that way. I
must not be grouchy about the amount of work involved or upset with
the children for not allowing me the time I need to do it. I must try
to keep it especially clean and beautiful to match the beauty we see
out the big windows.
When I come home down our long driveway, I am opting to go to the new
house over the old most of the time now. I want to be in the
sanctuary. I want to be with the birds and the trees, the cool dry air
and the tall open roof. When are we moving in? Maybe there is no firm
answer there. Maybe it is a longer slower process of moving from
negative to positive, from cynicism to hope. Maybe we already are.
