We’re always under construction — and we never get it done! Abraham-Hicks
The sun was pouring in through our home’s east-facing windows on this particular morning a week ago, and the temperature had risen to above freezing and I could almost hear the bright-colored walls singing a springtime tune. After running the vacuum for room to room and swishing clean the entry-way tile and swiping the dust cloth over winter-weary furniture, I was singing a springtime tune as well, admiring this house with its carefully-placed and well-loved objects. I was in the midst of this delicious revelry, this my-life-and-my-home-are-in-perfect-order-moment, when Cam walked in after a morning at work. I practically sang my greeting to him and he, with a smile on his face, seemed as uplifted as me — for a moment, that is. Until he walked over to the fireplace. “Shit!” I was pretty sure that’s what I heard him mumble. “Shit!” for certain, I heard him exclaim. That lovely sensation of melting, that delicious release of winter, that sound of dripping water, it was dripping right into my perfectly-clean and perfectly-ordered moment. And horror of horrors, it had even stained our perfectly-painted living room’s cathedral ceiling.
That’s what happens in this forward-focused ever-expanding universe. Things are always dripping and morphing and melting into something new. Our beloved friend and miracle-worker Paul came over later in the day, shoveled the snow and icy build-up from our roof, cleaned the gutters and will paint the spot on our ceiling once the snow has completed its melting for the season. And then, there might be another moment when I sigh and breathe deeply and feel the perfect order of things . . . before the next moment when the grass needs mowing and the walls that shined so brightly for a while cry out for a fresh coat of paint.
Earlier on that ceiling-stained morning, I had been watching a live stream seminar sent over the airwaves from a spa and conference center in Sedona, Arizona. The facilitator of this seminar had carefully planned ahead, chosen this particular spot because of its primo location nestled among the sacred red rocks of the area and because of the attention to beauty in its design. So it jarred her usual sense of grounding when she arrived the day before the conference began to discover that the facility was in the midst of a renovation, in the hammer-pounding, tear-down and build-up bedlam of construction. She regained her stability before addressing the participants the next day, and throughout the two-day event, she and the others involved used the construction as a metaphor. We are all under construction. And we never get it done. And it is good thing, this forever being under construction, this way that we are always transforming and expanding. Even we snow lovers, even we people who choose to live in the far north where winter drags on for five months, we who skate-ski and winter-bike our hearts out daily, even we rejoice at the first sight of a robin and that trout lily that springs up through the carpet of last autumn’s dead leaves. We are all under construction and new desires are springing up for us daily and it is up to us to find our stability in this ever-expanding life we’re living, up to us to catch-up with these springing-up desires. And sometimes, when the snow is melting and the roof is leaking, sometimes the world can feel wobbly as we search for our stability.
This past Saturday, a blue-sky sunny Saturday, in which the temperatures rose into the forties and the woods were still fresh-snow white and the trails groomed with mid-winter care, I set forth on a long afternoon ski. And in celebration of the balmy day and the blue sky and the foot of fresh snow, I wore a skirt over my usual black ski pants, a new little skirt made of wool and silk that I had bought that morning at the indoor farmer’s market from Libby, a skirt that was spring-fresh-green and wood-sprite-perfect for this glorious sunny day. And as I skate-skied in confident strides, my skirt swishing this way and that along with the motion, I passed a group of six young guys and gals, standing in their rental skis on the side of the trail, their faces basking in the sun. After a jovial hello, I skied on and on, feeling alive and vibrant and filled up with this blue-sky day, skied on and on and around again on another lap where I met these young people for a second hello, and, this time, I stopped for a minute as they asked me about my skies. They, who were new to the sport, admired my finesse, told me that I sure was fast, and with a “thank you” and a “have fun” and a “see you later!”, I pushed off again, my back to this group, pushed off again into snow that was half-icy half-melty, pushed off again and strided a stride, pushed off again and was all arms and legs and skis sprawling forward. I wiped out, skirt catching the wind. And that’s okay. Sometimes we just lose our footing. Sometimes the world feels wobbly and melty. Sometimes we haven’t quite caught up with the new season. And it’s a no-brainer. We just pick ourselves back up, brush the melting snow off our springtime skirt and push off again into the next moment, into the next adventure.