The House I Hate

I hate my house.

Don’t get me wrong. I love our home and all the life that happens here. We couldn’t live in a more spectacular spot. Mt. Adams looms directly in front of us, offering a staggeringly breathtaking view that is just there for the looking. Our home is a place of hope and healing, a space to grieve and give thanks, and a dwelling where imperfect love, grace, and welcome reside in abundance. This rustic home is a shelter in the storm and a sanctuary in a world that seems to be crumbling before our eyes, threatening to taking us all down with it.

But I still hate my house.

We built it 14 years ago, and it is in need of freshening up. It’s true that most of the furnishings have a fun story behind them. There’s the fantastic $25 couch from the Goodwill Outlet (yes, that’s a thing), a dining room table and chairs from the consignment store next door to Sleepy Monk (our favorite coffee shop in the whole entire world), the matching Woolrich blinds that were still in their original boxes when I found them at another Goodwill, and the coffee table that used to display men’s ties from my days working for Nordstrom. There is a serious lack of floor and table lamps, as those seem to be what little grand boys love to bring crashing to the floor. Nothing goes with anything else, and if I hung sale tags on everything, you would think you’d wandered into a secondhand store with a first-class view. The house is a decorating hodgepodge that has gotten under my skin. And not in a good way.

Given the current economy, this isn’t necessarily the time to invest in a large-scale makeover. Two things are helping me navigate my current aesthetic crisis, and neither one costs me a dime.

The first is a comment from my sister several months ago. She suggested that every time I walk through the house, I should remember something good that happened here. Remember all of the gatherings and conversations and decisions and stories and apologies and connections and celebrations that have happened in this house that I hate that sits under the shadow of that glorious mountain. Recall the tears and hugs and laughter and prayers and meals and toasts and naps that have taken place in front of that beautiful rock fireplace.

So much good has happened here, and it’s had nothing to do with finding the right fabric or purchasing the perfect rug. It’s happened because of the intention with which we built this home, the vision we had for it to be a safe place for all who walk through the door, and our ongoing work to learn how to better love, help, and heal the world that is within our reach. Starting right here. In this house that I hate.

The second source of help came today in the midst of what is always a fruitful monthly conversation with my spiritual director. As he quietly listened to me express my need to get back to writing but not finding my way to my desk to actually write, and my failed commitment to spend regular time in contemplative prayer and meditation, it hit me. I recently took an inventory of the spaces that I actually love in this house that I hate. There are two to be exact. One is my tiny office on the stair landing, the other my meditation space tucked under the eves upstairs. I love everything about these two spaces: their location, the furnishings, the colors, and the way they are arranged. The two places I love the most are also the ones where I need to show up the most.

So many things can get in the way of doing what we most need to do to so that we can be who we most want to be. The fear that stops us in our tracks. The lie that things are so bad that what we each do doesn’t matter. The pain, blame, shame, finger pointing, screaming matches that find their way into our news feeds, email inboxes, and social accounts. The too-muchness of it all can cause us to do too little, and then everyone loses.

Writing is the way I make sense of the world and my place in it. Quiet time in the presence of the Holy grounds me in a world that is spinning out of control. If there are two things that I need to do, these are them. And I haven’t been doing them. And it shows.

My desk and meditation space that I love are waiting for me, right here, in this house that I hate. All I have to do is show up, and the rest will take care of itself.

Who Gets To Do This? And Why?

Fourteen years ago when we first set foot on the five acres we now call home, we were smitten. Mt. Adams, the 12,281’ high volcano sat directly in front of what was to become the site for the house. Pine woods on three sides gave the property a tucked in feel, and would provide protection from the winds that can frequent our valley. Sitting at just under 2000 feet, we were guaranteed all four seasons. Standing together and taking it all in, we began to envision building the home that we had first imagined over a bottle of wine, on the back of a cocktail napkin, the year our youngest daughters went off to college.

It was hard to fathom that we might actually be able to realize our long held dream of building a rustic home, east of the mountains, where we could live and that we could share with family and friends. I mean who gets to do that? And why?

Slowly the house took shape as we split our time between the city where our jobs were, and this piece of ground where our hearts were.

Sitting on the porch with my coffee 13 years ago, I continued to wonder, who gets to do this? And why?

2008

Thirteen years later, sitting on the porch with my coffee, I continue to ponder, who gets to do this? And why?

2021

Living here, having created the place that we hope to call home for years to come, is an unbelievable gift. I’ve never felt that we owned it. It is ours to steward, share, and make use of for the good of many. A safe haven and refuge for all who come here, and a place from which to imagine and work for a more just, loving, and inclusive world.

After this past year, I am starkly aware of the immeasurable, culturally inherent privilege granted to us that has made this dream of ours possible.

And to whom much is given, much is required.

The Muk

A space is just a space, until you make it something more.

When my sister and brother-in-law bought their last home, they bought it not because it was the place of their dreams, but because it was the only one they could agree on. Determined to make a decision, they invited me to go along as they drove from listing to listing to listing. It was a long day.

At the time, they were moving from the home where they had raised their daughters, and they weren’t exactly sure what the next chapter would bring. He however was sure he wanted a shop, and she was certain she wanted a home with some charm and a garden. Sometimes I rode with him, and sometimes with her. Like I said. It was a long day.

By the end of the afternoon, he had his eye on a so-so house with a shop on a very busy street, and she was starry-eyed about the adorable cottage with a secret garden that overlooked the lanes to the ferry. We’d also looked at a townhome in Mukilteo. It overlooked the Puget Sound, and while it had a killer view of Whidbey Island, It didn’t have a shop, and it didn’t have a secret garden. With no decision in sight and all in need of caffeine, we headed to Starbucks. Breaking the silence, I asked each of them a question. Could she live in the so-so house on the busy street with the shop? No, she could not. Could he live in the adorable cottage with the secret garden that overlooked the ferry lanes? No, he could not. Well then, I asked, could they live in the townhome overlooking the Puget Sound with the killer view of Whidbey Island, but without a shop or a secret garden?

They could, and, as it turned out, they did.

After fourteen years, they are moving out of the The Muk. Even though it wasn’t what they’d imagined, or even hoped for, they moved in and made it work. They made it into a lovely space with lovely furnishings.

As it turns out, it was so much more than that.

A few nights ago their daughters, sons-in-law, and a passel of grandkids showed up to say goodbye to the The Muk. Apparently it wasn’t a place one could simply leave without a proper farewell. Crowded onto a small balcony, stories of times at the Muk began to unfold, painting a picture of a shelter from storms, a place where all who came felt safe, seen, heard, and loved. The Muk was a refuge of healing, hope, and a place where the truth, no matter how hard, was spoken and heard, and freedom was found.

When they moved in it was just a space with a view.

When they moved in they made it into a lovely space with lovely furnishings.

But a space with a view, no matter how beautiful, and a carefully furnished place no matter how lovely, do not a refuge make. Only love and grace and faith and truth and laughter and family and friendship and courage and compassion and tradition and extravagant welcome can do that.

Farewell to the Muk. We are all better for having known you.

Mission Accomplished

Everywhere I look people are going through hard things, and I am as well. These experiences are part of what it means to be human, and choosing to go through them rather than trying to go around them is how we find our way back home to ourselves. To our true self.

In the midst of a conversation the other day about such things, I suddenly recalled a scene from the movie Apollo 13. An explosion mid-flight had damaged the spacecraft which changed the mission from landing on the moon, to finding a way to bring astronauts Jim Lovell, Fred Haise, and Jack Swigert back home.

The heat shield on the Command Module had been damaged in the explosion, and it was not known whether it would be able to withstand the intense heat of reentry. There was no other way home but to ride it out, trusting that the heat shield would hold.

It did, and on April 17, 1970, at 1:07:41PM, the Command Module splashed into the Pacific Ocean, and they were home.

Mission accomplished.

It occurs to me that whenever we are engaged in the dangerous adventure of finding our way back home to ourselves, we too have to trust that there is a heat shield surrounding us. That we are protected by a love that wants us to be whole. A love that wants nothing in the world more than to bring us back home.

Mission accomplished.

https://airandspace.si.edu/collection-objects/command-module-apollo-13

Leave In Peace

One of our daughters and her family are moving into a new home the week before Christmas, and if ever there were something that could be described as the opposite of peaceful, it is moving from one house to another. Chaos reigns supreme as we work to pack up life as we’ve known it, and move it into new digs. It is so daunting that it’s hard to know where to start, much less actually starting. Actually, however, starting is the key to the whole thing. Pick a room and pack it up. Be ruthless about what to keep and what to toss. Label the boxes with what’s inside and where to put them when they arrive at the new location. Keep on keeping on until that room is done, and then move on to the next. 

Today we started with the kitchen, and as the day draws to a close, it’s hard to believe what we’ve accomplished. Our hearts are at rest, not because the job is done, but because it is underway, and room-by-room, come moving day, they will be ready. 

Peace, which by one definition is a state of mental calm, is cultivated in part by taking that first step to address the source of our worry or anxiety. Be it a project, broken relationship, change of course, financial problem, or challenging conversation, once we begin to take action everything gets a little easier.

Peace, as it turns out, isn’t necessarily something we wait for.  It’s just might be something we move toward.