Remodeling: Inside & Out

by Kayce Stevens Hughlett

“Honor the writing. Honor the silence. Honor your life stories and you will be fine.”

Christina Baldwin

A grain elevator groans as I stroll past. I groan alongside it. A man sleeps on a bench and I marvel at his ability to rest.

It’s been a week of chaos and can’ts for me. I can’t write. I can’t focus. I can’t even tell the time or what day it is. My watch is broken. My house is in shambles. My concentration is nil. Can’t. Broken. Won’t.

Won’t? Yes, that’s the real problem. Who says I can’t write when a contractor is here? Have I really failed to know what time or day it is without my watch? Seriously, I am a mess. Ah… but that’s just another story I’m telling myself.

We are in the midst of a mini-remodel at our house and it’s stirring things up inside me. My schedule is thrown off. My office and bedroom have been dismantled. I believe I have to be dressed before the contractor shows up each morning, because what would he think if I answered the door in my pajamas?

I seem to be caught in that old story of worrying about what other people think. I’m walking on eggshells in my own home trying to look productive. I think my work should look like someone else’s. I should have something to show for my day, like the contractor does. He works for eight hours and voila, new windows are in place. I can see what he’s done with his time. Me? I’ve got nothing. In response, I run away from home. Maybe then he’ll think I’ve been busy.

{A groan escapes my body. The sound is larger than any grain elevator, because I know it’s me doing the judging not my kind contractor.}

This “simple” remodel is hard. It’s stirring up old stories, kicking up dust that’s been buried, and resurrecting tarnished or forgotten dreams. The vestiges of old paint and carpet hold decades of tales and footsteps. There are stories I long to be released from. Some are mine to tell. Others are not. I try. I let go. I wait. I walk. I stroll it out.

I change scenery. I head to Myrtle Edward’s park. I yield to what’s before me. I set my timer to walk for 15 minutes, because even walking is hard this day and I must do something to get me started. I hear the grain elevator groan again. I watch the sunlight glisten on Mt. Rainier. I witness birds flocking together in Elliot Bay. I’m no longer running. 

I am moving. Strolling. Putting one foot in front of the other. Bit by bit, life comes back into focus. For the first time in days, I wish I had my journal with me.

Where do you long for quiet space or order? What shoulds get in your way? How might you yield to what's before you today and honor the stories of your life?