Motivation has been short partly because of this recurring physical problem, of course. When I'm not at the office, or incapacitated by nausea (or both), or building another shelving unit for the house, I tend to want to relax and watch a movie rather than work on a blog post. But another motivation killer was revealed late last year, when a lab test showed that I had been operating on about a tenth of the testosterone that a male is supposed to have. This brings with it one benefit, which I had noticed: the sex drive was no longer a distraction. But it also means a dearth of physical energy and strength and general motivation to accomplish much of anything - right when I was trying to finish building a house, move out of my apartment, move into the house, and apply for jobs. If you then throw on top of all this my inability to ingest, short of intravenously (hm, I might have to look into this..), any substance containing caffeine, you can see why I might have let a few responsibilities slide. It's like God was saying, "You're going to do all this with no physical help, and actually with plenty of physical agony." WHY, God? An answer has yet to come, and may not till I ask him face to face, when I will no longer need to. I hope I will be at peace with unknowing before then.
So it's been a rough first year in the house. I have wondered if, in addition to my physical issues, I've been experiencing something like postpartum depression. The comparison between bearing and raising a child and the production of other kinds of work is a familiar one. We often hear of someone's personal project referred to as their "baby," be it a building or novel or even a business. It seems to be an accurate and useful comparison (and in my case strengthened by the fact that this house has been spoiled mightily by his grandmother). First there's the conception - the (yes, I'll say it - orgasmic) flash of insight or revelation or epiphany that gives the basic idea for the project. Then there's the pregnancy, or gestation period - the planning and drawing and other detailed preparations that allow the project to take shape in the real world. Finally there's the birth - the actual building of the house, or publication of the novel, or opening of the business.
Oh, but as any parent will tell you, that's only the beginning. This could be the primary source of my version of postpartum depression, as perhaps it is for some parents. There's a tremendous amount of hopeful excitement during design and construction (pregnancy) leading up to the completion (birth). But when it finally arrives you realize that it's just the beginning of a whole new set of challenges, for which you are woefully unprepared. A lot of this for me is due to the many significant portions of the design that are still either unfinished or flawed, and I focus on these aspects way more than all the (downright miraculous) successes that have occurred over the course of this project. I heard an interview with an actor recently who said he never watches his own movies because he tends to focus on all the wrong things: the five percent of his performance he could have done better instead of the 95 percent that was brilliant. Unfortunately for me, when you're living inside your own work, you don't have the option of averting your eyes from that five percent.
I've imagined having an "open house," or several, where everyone involved in the project would be invited, as well as friends and family. I'd give a little talk and a tour, some Bible readings, there'd be music, food, wine, etc. But after giving lots of less formal tours of the place this year to small groups of friends and family, I realized that it might not be time for that yet - because of all the design features not in place. Lately I've become more aware of how the addition of even a small feature can completely change the experience of a space. I think this would happen dramatically in the Great Room with the addition of the rose window (which I haven't even begun to build). When I've given these tours I've found myself starting every other sentence with "And here I plan to..." or "Here I'd like to..." or "Eventually this will be..." And that's frustrating. Why show the house when the house isn't fully here yet? Give me a few more years and then, maybe, it will be ready. That's okay, right? What's the rush? Maybe that's a source of my psycho-physiological problems - feeling pressured by an assumption that the place has to be "complete" at a certain time. But, I don't want anyone to take this as a discouragement to come visit. Do come! Just know that what you're seeing is not the whole vision.
Despite all these drags on my body and soul, I did actually try to write a post back in May. But the words just didn't come. There have been lots of developments around the house this year that I wanted to share, but I was never quite happy with the way I was presenting them. So that's the lack of inspiration I've experienced: good ideas for writing just didn't come to mind like they have before.
Recently, however, the right words and the right organization have begun to show themselves. A few phrases here, a few sentences there, a flash of insight into an order, and bones start to take on flesh. I hope this little writing is evidence of that, and marks a transition back to writing and sharing my experience of this project with a wider audience. Naturally the focus will be a bit different from here on; it's not about construction anymore, but rather small development and improvement projects, and, perhaps most importantly, the building of a family of people to live, work and worship with me here. To briefly update on the latter: this year has brought me together with one like-minded person who visited for a weekend and subsequently committed to moving in, currently slated for this spring. This is the most significant and exciting development of the year.
More on that as the time gets closer. What I'd like to do in the next series of posts is share the physical developments of the house that have happened since the last post. I'm thinking these will be very short - one project per post - mainly to make it easier for me to complete. It's a daunting task to sum up a year of work, but I think I can handle it if I take it one small project at a time (just as I've had to learn to complete the projects themselves).
I'll open this series (and close this post) with one of these projects, one which curiously reflects my personal experiences lately: the planting of an azalea in the courtyard. This is the first and currently only addition of landscape material so far. The plant was gifted to me by the neighborhood homeowner's association for being a new resident. I had begun to realize the importance of plantings around this house, even within the forest that I kept. Ground covers, flowers, vines, low shrubs, and maybe a small tree here and there, will dramatically enhance the place. The existing forest is mostly devoid of flowering plants and trees that change color in the fall. So I'd like to add color, for one thing.
The landscape surrounding a building is like the setting for a gemstone; the gem is the most important thing, but the setting helps present the gem to our eyes. The setting can ennoble or debase the gem, regardless of the gem's brilliance. A landscape can do the same for a building. The remaining forest here is good (albeit somewhat colorless, as I said), but there are barren spaces all around the house, along the driveway, and especially in the courtyard. I feel that the courtyard ought to be verdant, colorful, bursting with life. It is the heart of the house. So I decided to make this azalea the first step of that goal. It's a "giant azalea" variety, so it will eventually completely fill the north-west corner of the courtyard, closest to the entry. The tag says the blossoms will be magenta, which I will see for the first time this spring.
The baby plant seemed to take to its new home quite well, thanks in large part to my former boss, a "master gardener," who showed me how to set it in the ground using bone meal and then "mud it in":
For the first few weeks, the plant was healthy and full. But one day I came home and noticed a couple of limbs stripped of leaves. Looking closer I saw clusters of small green caterpillars on a few stems. Not wanting to spray poison on the plant, I clipped off the three infested limbs. This cured the worm problem, but in the half a year since, the plant has not regained the fullness it had before. It still looks rather emaciated, and doesn't seem to have grown an inch:
But it is stable, holding on, surviving. I was healthy too, two years ago. Then something infected me, leaving me a bit weaker and thinner. It hasn't gotten worse, or better. I'm in a kind of suspended weakened state. But I am stable - not thriving, but surviving; crippled, but fighting. On bad days I feel that this is an immense achievement.
Here is the meaning I have wrenched from this experience so far. I read that farmers have a practice of causing a certain amount of hardship on their crops, such as delaying watering, because the plants will grow more hardy and productive as a result. The practice of pruning plants follows the same concept, and is one Jesus used to infuse meaning and hope into the hardship his disciples would experience: "every branch that is grape-bearing he prunes back so it will bear even more." (John 15:3) There are fleeting moments (oh, how fleeting!) when I actually get excited about the good that I trust God is birthing out of my weakness. My sickly, stunted, thinned out azalea has a certain destiny written in its name: "giant." And spring is coming. I hope and even expect that health will be restored for me and my azalea. But I also have to be open to God allowing the unexpected, the unhoped for. Sometimes the plant doesn't get better; sometimes the Jesus-following person is not cured. Does this mean God's promise to bring good from everything is not kept? No. It means the good comes with the illness, in the midst of the illness. Even so, I hope for spring. And magenta.