Olana

Oh, girl, you are so wanted. She is coming to us in the autumn of our lives, later than we had hoped for, but maybe earlier than we could ever be ready for.  She’s been the twinkle in our eyes for a few years, an unspoken dream we’ve been afraid to pursue. I’ve carefully and quietly turned over her features in my mind, falling hopelessly in love with her imperfect beauty. As I allow this genie to slip out of the bottle inside my head and onto paper, I’ve surprised myself with how cleaved I am to the vision I’ve created, so quick to roar my objections in heated debate when he shares his equally earnest passion. His vision of her size, her shape, her prominent and delicate features doesn’t always match mine.

She is our house, and she’s proving to be as difficult to birth as a child, with the gestation period of an elephant and a due date we can’t quite pinpoint. Fraught with tangled, contradictory emotions and physical challenges, she is a huge leap of faith for us, a cliff we’re jumping off with hands clasped tightly together, a journey on an untraveled path full of unexpected events we can’t plan for, unforeseen conditions we don’t know how to allow for. This new alliance is transforming our lives:  On our worst days we can be awkward and hurtful to each other, on our best days we celebrate our violent agreement and express gratitude for such unfathomable abundance. Most days we are fumbling.

I’m learning that designing and building a home addition does not mean you get everything you want.  There are limitations everywhere; structural, financial, relational. There are code restrictions to meet, lot lines to stay within, and the realization when you stand on top of a tall ladder overlooking your property that the view you’re afforded won’t net an ROI that makes a second floor deck a good idea.

 

We’ve both compromised and sacrificed, behaving badly in the process. I’m not proud, but I’m pausing to consider how I show up differently in these situations. Neither petulant child nor selfless martyr look good on me.

What do you do when the truss factory scheduled to ship your materials on Monday burns to the ground three days before they are due to arrive on site?   You could lash out in panicked fear because it’s December and snow came early this year and you’re already behind the unwritten schedule you’ve set in your head.  Or you could choose to feel extreme empathy for the business that lost so much; you could pray everyone got out safely; you could wait patiently as a new supplier is sourced.

 

I’m not sure where we are in the process, as it all has taken longer and been far more complicated than I anticipated, but if I were a betting woman I’d say we’re starting our middle trimester, that place where morning sickness should be letting up, ushering in the return to more even temperament. We’re beginning to show. 

And we’ve picked out a name. It means “house of treasures,” after a beautiful song by Marc Cohn. We heard it for the first time together, played live in the intimacy of the Wentz Center by the songwriter who treated us to the story behind his lyrics.

She’s the masterpiece of an artist who turned to building when he could no longer hold a brush. He was lost until he found her; she was his north star, his one safe place. And she sheltered his most important treasures, not material possessions, but his family that lived inside. Olana.