The view out the kitchen window, looking over the roofs of downtown to the Sangre de Cristo Range in the distance.
As I gear up for another weekend of trim carpentry, I’ve been thinking about leaving this home Richard helped design and build for us. After moving ten times (and living in six different states) in our first 17 years together, this was to be our last house, the place where we would live out our days.
We did that. We spent six years building the house, working on it whenever we had money and time and then moved in, never imagining that the “our” part would end so quickly. We had lived here for just three years when Richard saw the legions of birds that were the only indication of his brain tumor and the cancer that would kill him two years later.
The living/dining room on a winter day when the sun pouring in the bank of south-facing windows heats the concrete floor, keeping the house toasty.
In the year-plus since his death, I’ve realized that the house/guest cottage/shop complex that was perfect for the two of us is much too large for the one of me. Being the practical sort, and not having an abundance of money, I decided to “right-size” and build myself a much smaller place that would incorporate this house’s green features–the passive solar design that keeps the house warm in winter and cool in summer (for free), a photovoltaic system to generate clean electricity from the sun, and the feeling of an intimate connection to the out-of-doors.
Of course, to build that new, small house, I have to sell this place. (There’s always a catch.) And before selling it, I have to finish the major projects that my love, who could design and build anything with his natural sculptural aesthetic never got around to. (“Simple” projects like installing trim, baseboard or interior doors were not interesting enough to him.)
The “cliff” Richard designed for our bedroom, a cement-block wall for heat storage with a sandstone shelf like a sheltering overhang. (He built the simple bed platform too.)
Which is why I find myself ripping, milling, sanding, painting, and nailing trim in my spare time. Part-time Queen of the Pneumatic Nailer, that’s me!
As I work, I often find myself smiling, feeling connected to Richard as I learn the machines and tools that he used with such facility that they seemed extensions of his skilled hands and brilliant mind. And sometimes I find myself in tears, wondering what life will be like when I am no longer sheltered within the walls he built for us.
This house is full of his work, from the bathroom sinks he carved out of local boulders to that cliff in the bedroom, with its sandstone ledge-shelves, and the arching doorways, the cabinets with mortise-and-tenon face frames held together with mesquite pegs, the drawers in my office with pulls carved from beach cobbles we collected together….
I’ll take some of his free-standing work with me, but the house–which I realize now is his largest sculpture–will remain as he built it, “with love,” as he used to say.
Richard holding a bathroom sink carved from a pink and black gneiss boulder.
I take comfort from the idea that the beautiful and sustainable house we created together, and all the love that went into it, will be a nurturing and inspiring home for someone else.
It’s deeply satisfying to learn the skills that came so easily to him, and to complete some of the things he started.
It’s also painful, a reminder that our paths have diverged, and the “us” we imagined continuing for years to come is no longer. His death changed me in ways I am still only beginning to understand.
I’m still me, but being me without Richard is different. Sometimes I feel like this little folk art dragon I found at Books and Books last week at YoungArts, looking eagerly at life with ears and head up, stubby wings not quite big enough to fly. I hope by the time I finish this house and pass it on to others, my new wings will have grown enough to carry me onward….
My new mascot
“I hope…my new wings will have grown enough to carry me onward….” …and ohm-ward.
A fistful of years ago, I returned to some of my old Colorado Springs haunts. Although I shoulda known better, I was nonetheless quite shocked by how visceral the memories that came flooding, how tangible. Is it at least similar for you, in Richard’s absence from y’alls home, now that “[y]our paths have diverged”?
I’ll have to pull our my college sophomore English text, and re-read Virginia Woolf’s, “A Room of One’s Own.”
Eduardo, I think remembering the memories of the loss of a place and the times and people you have known there is similar in some ways to the memories of a love and life’s partner, though the latter is a more intense and deeply personal experience (at least my almost 29 years with Richard were). Richard and I were part of each other at so many levels that it’s hard to put the experience of living in those memories into words. In many ways living in this house is a comfort. He is still here through his work and all of those habits and memories and things. In other ways, it’s not so comfortable, as you can imagine.
“A Room of One’s Own” is as much about being female and writing as anything else. The room is, of course, a metaphor for findings ones self and one’s path in life. This particular line from it is particularly appropriate to my life right now: “The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.”
“A Room of One’s Own” is a delight to rediscover–great suggestion, Eduardo.
I love your new mascot, Susan. That’s one dragon that is quite capable of handling whatever comes next, even as a fledgling. Eyes wide open and a curious attitude.
The home you and Richard built is a very special place. Yes, it’s Richard’s largest sculpture. And it’s funny how works of art need to be passed along to make room for their successors, which grow from the spirit of which they have been a partial embodiment.
Deborah Robson, You’d be interested in the wool my dragon is made of too, I think. It’s rough as if woven of rug yarn. I’ll be interested to have you look at her/him one of these days. Thanks for the wisdom about passing along this particular work of art. I don’t think of my tiny house as a successor to this one, but certainly a relative of some sort!
The home will be an oasis for a family… I hope it stands for a hundred years more.
Vivian, That’s a lovely hope, and thank you! Me too.
A book. Surely.
Yup. After the one I’m working on now. You’ll be pleased to know I was talking to my contractor for the tiny house the day before yesterday as we went over his questions on the plans and I told him that I’m intending to do the trim work in the new place. I think I’ll probably hang the interior doors too, and build the shelves in the kitchen and my office. I’m not sure I’m up for building the cabinets in the kitchen and the dining island, but the idea intrigues….
Dearest Susan, I am intrigued by your new mascot, a young, folk art dragon “not quite big enough to fly.” From my perspective I see you soaring over the challenges of life’s twists and turns, a very mature, she-dragon, often breathing the fire of inspiration and determination.
Bobbe, Thank you. The thing is, I see myself from within, and you see me from without. You know how different those perspectives can be.
What a beautiful post. Even though you and Richard did not get to live out the life you planned together, you certainly lived a life full of love. The next people who live in the house that love built will surely be able to feel that. I hope your new, smaller home feels just as full of love.
Kathy, As Robert Burns wrote a couple of centuries ago, the best-laid plans “gang oft agley.” In our case, very agley. But we did our best to live the path we were given in a way that spread the ocean of light and love in the world and allowed us to savor and delight in the time we had. (Otherwise, what’s the point?) Thanks for that lovely wish for my tiny house. I think it will be a nurturing space, and I look forward to helping it take shape!
Oh, Susan (aka Part-Time Queen of the Pneumatic Drill)…I love seeing the photos of your gorgeous home, the colors and natural textures reflect yours and Richard’s spirit with such vibrance. And the cliff in your bedroom! Stunning. This particularly touched me, “His death changed me in ways I am still only beginning to understand.” Sending you light and energy on this journey. And you wrote, “I hope by the time I finish this house and pass it on to others, my new wings will have grown enough to carry me onward…” And there are so very, very many people who love you, blowing energy and strength into the growth of your wings. Much love to you.
Dawn, Photos don’t really do this house justice because the colors shift with the changing light, but I’m glad you can see the beauty in it. I think you and Noe would love this place, and I hope you get to see it while I still have it. I’m so fortunate to have found you two! Thanks for the love and for helping my wings grow…..
it brought tears to my eyes. sorry for your loss.
Candace, Thank you. Writing it brought tears to my eyes too.
Blessings.
You, my dear, are beyond amaaaaaazing!
And you are a dear to say that, Janet! I am feeling much less than amazing today. I may write a blog post about embracing overwhelm tonight, depending on writing, meetings, and trim work….
Hi Susan, thinking of you. I’m finally over a month of flu/pneumonia which left me totally uninspired to do or think proper so I have not been writing much. I went back and read this post again and wanted to tell you how beautiful it is. I loved everything about your special place from the moment I landed in Salida as Terraphilia artist. All your finish work is amazing. I am in awe of you! Dave and I still have a lot of work in our home to make it ‘ours’ but we value what has been. It was built on love and hard work by his aunt and uncle, the original and only owners of this home for over 50 yrs. Tacked under the basement stairway they left a picture of their new home as a young couple. We shall do the same. I feel that love will remain in a home forever, especially one that began with a beautiful beginning. You and Richard created a warm, loving and happy environment which will be felt for years to come. Much strength in the days and months ahead for you dear Susan.
Hugs, Robin
Robin, I am sorry to hear you had a month of being sick. Yuck! I hope you’re on the mend now and that the lengthening days help. Sounds like you’re in the Deep Freeze there, which I know does not help, but I imagine that will pass too. I love the story about your house, and Dave’s aunt and uncle leaving a photo of themselves with the new house tacked under the basement stairway. That’s a story worth a blog post, I think. What a heritage to build on….
then there’s this, the cliff, and the flying.
Christopher LOGUE
English poet (1926- )
“Apollinaire said”
Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It’s too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
and he pushed,
and they flew.
which I used in http://elephantseyegarden.blogspot.com/2010/10/pink-ribbon-1-winter-chill.html#more
Diana, What a great poem! “and he pushed,/ and they flew.” Oh, for that faith at two am! It makes me think of Mary Oliver’s challenge in “The Summer Day”:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?