When life gives lemons

 *Just a couple of quick notes. To anyone who is currently subscribed via email, Feed Burner is discontinuing service for Blogger as of July 2021, which means that you will no longer receive email notification for posts after that time. Unfortunately, I have no control regarding this change, though I am looking into possible solutions (but cannot promise any resolution at this point, unfortunately). However, I thought it important to pass along the information for those who are subscribed and expect to receive emailed updates. Also, as you may have noted, I am back to writing here on Blogger. The Wordpress blog will also continue to be updated with posts for the time being, and at some point I will make a decision as to which platform is the best for my purposes, but until then, you can follow along here on Blogger or over at Wordpress here, if you prefer to get email updates regarding posts. Thank you for continuing to read and for sharing your thoughts.

We are in the midst of a bit of upheaval at the moment, and I tend to start questioning life in general when big changes or problems occur. I start to wonder the whys of things and what it is I am supposed to learn from the situation. Sometimes, there are answers, if I look hard enough, and other times it equates to more of a random sequence of events that is taking place that could happen to anyone. 

One of the unfortunate big happenings recently was discovering that our sewer line was collapsing. We had been having some drainage problems in the tub and sometimes with the toilet, but thought that the problems stemmed from a weeping pipe under the tub and some hair (mine/dogs) that likes to get stuck in the drain. After several attempts to resolve the issue, a plumber was called out at which point we were informed that the 60+ year old clay sewer line was cracked, shifting, collapsing, and likely wouldn't last longer than a few more weeks to perhaps a couple of months, if we were lucky. 

I was working in my studio when Sam came in to tell me the news. "Sixteen to twenty-two," he said would be the cost of replacing the line in the least expensive manner. 

"Well, it could be worse, I suppose," I responded with a slight facial twinge and shoulder shrug.  "That's a lot of money, but I guess we can figure it'll end up at about twenty-five hundred, just in case, and we'll eat lighter for awhile."

Sam looked at me a bit bewildered and then said, "No, THOUSAND, not hundred."

I gulped as my eyes widened. "You have to be kidding me? Why would it cost that much? It's a pipe.... in the ground... that's..." I trailed off for a few seconds. "It's... that's... a car... a down payment on a house... SO many bicycles ... it's..." I was still trying to understand how a single run of pipe could be so much money. "How do we even pay for something like that?" I questioned aloud. "How does anyone cover that sort of cost?"

We talked for awhile about the whys, the hows, and so on. We'd had the sewer scoped when we moved in over six years ago and it was "perfect," as the plumber had told and shown us, but things happen over time. Our temperatures fluctuate day to day a lot in Colorado and we have seasons of drought and then severe wet, which isn't ideal for a clay line, and certainly not one of this vintage. Whether we were prepared to deal with the issue was not a matter of debate. We just had to figure out how to resolve it and how we would financially handle such a huge amount at one time.

Generally, we are do-it-yourself kind of people, and if we are able to do so, we prefer to go that route, but this was not an instance for which we would be able to handle matters on our own, and the costs associated with not being able to perform the repair ourselves was not helping the mental struggle.

I was watching a brief segment on a home fix-it show recently and the individual said in the most blissful tone, "I feel like my life is just the best dream ever!" and it struck me because it's rare to hear someone claim that s/he believes their life is so fantastic that it feels like a dream. I started to think about moments that have felt like a dream in my life, and sadly, most of them seem to lean more toward nightmares than good dreams. Inevitably, this makes me wonder if I did something wrong and that the unfortunate moments are a result of my bad behavior -- that karmicly I have somehow brought about the misfortune. I have no delusions of being a saint, and I've perpetrated many wrongs over my multiple decades of life, but is there really a cause and effect, or is it simply a perception, a means of coping for humans that prompts us to look for a relationship in all things? 

When I look at matters from another angle though, I think about the fact that we are fortunate to be able to do many things for ourselves. So often it feels like life is throwing fire darts and we are weaving and dodging to steer clear; but in reality, if the same obstacles were presented to another person, they could be completely catastrophic. Even though I've dealt with some pretty horrendous moments in life, some of which I thought I'd never survive, I have managed to come through the other side relatively unscathed - or at least better off than some others might have.

It has been a rough few weeks at our house. The sewer line was replaced, but it came with a hefty price tag. The damage created in the yard was more significant than we anticipated, so of course, that had to be dealt with as well. 

Last week, we were also scheduled to say goodbye to our nearly-fifteen year old Labrador, who has endured so much longer than we ever thought she could, but I just couldn't go through with it. The struggle of determining when she is ready to go, and how much she is suffering can be so difficult because our pups hide so much of what they're really going through. It is the part of pet guardianship that I dread. 

Unfortunately, early this week we had to actually say goodbye to our girl. I remembered from past experience that there is such sadness, but I had forgotten how empty I would feel. I look for her everywhere in the house, reach for her, thinking that she's going to brush by me, looking for a pat on the head or a scratch, and then remember she isn't there. We removed all of her dog beds because I didn't think I could handle seeing them empty without her, but even removing the reminder has been difficult. There is a giant hole in my heart and I can't seem to stop sobbing. I know that time will heal the pain, at least to some extent, but no matter how many fur-kids we lose, I never get used to the agony of their passing. For me, it is like losing a close member of the family.

I am grateful to still have our Golden-girl, and she is doing her very best to comfort us as she feels the loss of her housemate as well. It's during these rough times that I find myself wondering and thinking about the whys of life, my purpose, and the reasons for most everything in day-to-day life. Often, I am unable to come up with any explanations, but I still attempt to make some sort of sense and order of it. I get up each day and try to get through the little moments, knowing that there is ultimately better, good times in the future. Some moments are tougher than others, but if I can fumble my way through, hopefully, I'll come out the other side a better version of myself, with a few more experiences, and better able to understand it all.

Lessons in a Box

Over the past several weeks, we've busied ourselves around the house focusing more on yard than interior improvements needed to our home. As the weather started to warm, I was feeling the need to prepare both front and back yards for summer possibilities. Since neither of the yards are in great shape, it was tough to decide where to start, so there was a bit of moving back and forth from one yard to the next, never really focusing on either.

*Image found here

Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were talking about building a deck in the back. The yard has basically been a mud pit since we moved in so we were trying to figure out the best way to utilize the space to our advantage and also limit the amount of dirt being brought in from the yard.

As we worked on building the deck, my mind started to wander. This happens often with projects as I am definitely an "idea" person. I started to picture an elaborate set up, complete with attached benches, pergola, lights, and planter boxes all accompanying what started out as a simple base. Soon, I wanted to make the deck larger, thinking we could use it both as entertaining space with seating and a place to eat meals with a picnic-type table and benches or chairs. My mind was running wild.

"We can build it all!" I exclaimed, my eyes wide with excitement. And in truth, yes, we could build it all, but time is a precious commodity, particularly in warmer months, and Sam quickly pulled me back to reality. I caved a bit and started to let go of the ideas. No more giant deck. No more overdone possibilities.

Instead of letting it all go though, I decided I would build an attached small seating area off of the front of the deck with a couple of planter boxes on my own. It seemed simple enough and something I could handle during down time.  I went and gathered the wood I thought I wanted and set to work making a plan.

There were sketches. There were measurements. I knew the width/depth/length of every board. I had appropriate tools and equipment ready to go, and I was being entirely logical. So un-G.E.-like. I was very, very proud of myself. I was behaving in a way that appeared rational, sane and intelligent. How could anything go wrong?

I had obtained the wood I'd use prior to starting my plan. Of course, as things were drawn out, I realized I needed more and different pieces. So, back to the store I went, in search of the missing lumber. Still, I thought, not too bad for someone who doesn't behave in the most logical ways at times.

Sam had gone off on a group ride and would be gone for several hours. I had the time to start this project and I was convinced I could be close to completed by the time he returned home. I was sure that he'd be oh-so-proud of me and my very logical actions. I had actually made a plan, I was using leftovers from other projects, and what I needed I had got on my own.

This is the most logical and organized I think I've ever been with a project, I thought to myself. Surely, nothing would go wrong.

The first order of business, the piece of the project I intended to finish before Sam returned, was a simple box-bench. As I went to attach my first screw, I made a fast realization. I couldn't get the screw to go through the wood. Try as I did (for over an hour), that screw was becoming my enemy. I switched spots for the screw, I pushed harder/lighter with the drill, I changed my position and the position of the two pieces of wood, but no matter what I did, the screw just spun pointlessly between the drill bit and the wood.

Normally, when something becomes challenging, I just move on to another area until my head clears, but this was my first screw of the project and I was fixated. If I couldn't get the base together, how could I move on to anything else? Quickly, my thoughts turned as I fussed and fumed about this screw. I felt incapable, powerless, and inept. My mind went to very dark places, doubting everything about myself - even areas entirely irrelevant to the task at hand. I had reached a point that I was not going to recover or continue on with any sort of sanity.

When Sam returned from his ride, I was not in the best of moods. I truly wanted to be left alone. I had desired so desperately to complete this project on my own and one screw had put an end to that.

An hour or so later, Sam volunteered to be the official screw-attachment-specialist, and together, we started again. He assured me that the wood I was using was particularly difficult to get through and that had I drilled a pilot hole first, I wouldn't have run into problems. Coincidentally enough, this thought had crossed my mind during my solo attempt, but I'd become so frustrated that reasonable thoughts were not being acknowledged by my, at that moment, irrational brain.

As we moved along in the project I inquired of Sam, "Is this how you would've built the box?" He was quiet for a few seconds and then replied, "That's a tough question to answer." I couldn't help but believe he was trying to think of a way to spare my feelings, but ultimately needed to tell me that this was not going to be a stable or usable project. Instead, he said, "It's just not the way I would've gone about building it. Your methods are simply different from mine."

I was still a little confused. It's a box. How different can a box be built after all? He went on to expound upon the matter, explaining that I simply go about things in a different way. The way I see something or envision it is merely different than the way he does. It gets to the end and is completely functional, but my process of getting there is generally not linear. I tend to jump from spot to spot and while it seems chaotic at times to those watching (or, assisting in this instance), I do get to the end - just in a manner that tends to zig-zag a bit.

To be honest, most of my life, I never realized that the way I do things is weird or different from some others. My processes don't feel illogical or odd. In my mind, I am extremely sensible and follow order, but it is when I am around someone who truly thinks and does things linearly that I realize there are differences. I can drive Sam crazy with the way I go about tasks, but he's also learned that I just have my own methods. They aren't good or bad, right or wrong, they just are.

As we neared the end of building the box together, I took a step back and said to Sam, "I don't think I can stick to plans, even when I try. I am pretty sure all the planning did was stress me out. I think I just need to be who I am, go with the flow - or lack of - and figure things out as I work." He smiled a bit and agreed, assuring me that this was something of which he was already well aware, but was glad to see that I had reached this conclusion. "Why are you trying to fight who you are?" he said. "Just do it the way that seems right to you." And with that, he hopped up on the box we'd just built and jumped up and down a few times. "Seems sturdy to me," he exclaimed.

I have had a lot of these experiences in life. I try so hard to do something in a way that I think is appropriate to others, only to end up frustrated in the end because it feels wrong. I liken it very much to moments when I returned to riding a bike as an adult. When something was bothering me, I would seek advice, trying to figure out the way in which others would go about addressing the issue at hand.  Instead of finding solutions, I often became more frustrated as suggestions sometimes resulted in new problems or didn't resolve what I was experiencing at all.

Sometimes, it was due to my lack of ability to accurately describe what was taking place. In other instances, I knew that the suggestion wasn't right for me, but I would carry through with what I'd been told, believing that I couldn't trust my own senses or experience because they were limited.

A box is a box. Except that boxes are made for different purposes. They come in squares and rectangles, they range from those that hold jewelry to massive crates to transport machinery. A box can be pretty or dainty. A box can be rough or sturdy. And similar truths extend to bicycles and their riders as well.

I am reminded today that in all aspects of life, it is important to be true to ourselves, to follow our instincts, to learn from mistakes, to seek help when it's needed, and to learn how to filter through information to find what is true for our own bodies. Every day that I ride, even years after returning to the bicycle, I learn a little more about myself, my abilities, and my weaknesses. I begin to understand the ways in which I fit entirely into the understood and accepted forms of practice, and I also concede that sometimes my truth is quite far outside the parameters of what is commonly accepted. That's perfectly okay with me though... I am equipped to build my own boxes in whatever form they take, even if I need a little guidance or assistance along the way.