Drawn

It's falling apart. A couple of nails, tacked in as afterthought stand between it and a quick crash to earth. A stiff breeze would blow the thing down. I have to tear the ramada down and re-build it. Better. Getting from here to there is a problem. That problem throws down the glove of challenge. The challenge is to engage with the chaos of not knowing exactly what to do. I can either run away, do it sloppily, or take the hard path of thinking it through, getting the right materials, and making a plan. Not the way I usually operate. So, crossing the grain, going against the grain, I pull out a pen and begin to sketch a possible plan. It's rough, so I scrap that and start over. I draw in the roof-line, the hurricane strips, the stringer that will run the length of the re-build, the joist hangers, the rafters, the perlins, the notched 4x4 s, the piers. The lines are straight, show the perspective, take into account a vanishing point. Mindfulness guides my pen, quiets the fears, the resistance, the avoidance. It pulls me forward is a tug into the unknown, new ways of doing things. The ramada is a place holder, the surface covering an ocean of things loved and lost, things too terribly dear to say out loud for fear of becoming. I don't operate like this because I decided long ago to not achieve out of spite. Those old habits don't want to go quietly, but I comfort them and step forward, drawn to you, my love, what I have lost,  by urgency to shore up all that has been broken, left undone, all that waits for recognition, embrace, a call home. I will not rest until I hold you close, finally, after all these years.