Two years ago, upon hearing of my Mother's covid diagnosis, I fervently started pulling up my hallway floor like a seasoned contractor.
Quite frankly, I had no idea what to do with myself.
So I poured myself into a project.
A healthy, productive, project.
I wanted to know if under my ugly hallway tiled foyer, there was something better underneath.
As I peeled through each layer of floor, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, and then, joy as I found at the very bottom of all those layers, I had my nirvana, hardwood.
Over that week, I found myself working my way through the downstairs, ripping up carpet, and hammering away at tile, all with the hopes to reach that wood.
And with the final exception of the kitchen, I discovered with my hard work, that my whole downstairs possessed hardwood.
The news of her passing, found me in the dining room, the last room, the final piece to conclude the puzzle, and my journey.
My distraction appeared to be over.
She was gone.
And all I thought I knew, was that now, I have hardwood floors, under 8 other layers.
But after a year of ripping up floors and rearranging things, I realized, I had opened up a lot more than floors.
I exposed the bones.
The structure.
The extent of the damage was much bigger than I had ever guessed.
And now just polishing it up would be impossible.
I couldn't just put curtains up and hide behind some antiques.
This was major.
I needed serious help.
This was no longer a Cynthia special.
I needed reinforcements.
Professionals.
I had uncovered too many blemishes, ones, that even my best intentions, couldn't do justice fixing properly.
Glaringly so.
It was then that I had realized I wasn't only NOT content with any of it, it would need an entire overhaul.
I was completely unhappy.
I had found my beloved hard wood floors, but in the process, had realized I was miserable with everything else.
Sitting here now, two years later, I still can not believe how much this odyssey has run parallel to my life, as I was living it at the time.
It might as well serve as a parable.
Superficially, seeming OK.
Looking around and saying this is doable, functioning, and seemingly fine.
Yet upon further examination, and excavation, seeing there are so many more problems than the floor.
The entire structure, and space.
Did not work.
The trial and error had ended not in a hung jury, but with 12 angry men.
Being able to see that the complete layout didn't reach its objectives, and finally being honest to yourself, it never really had, but you just looked the other way.
It was, and quite frankly is, easier to do that, than be completely discontent and heartbroken by your surroundings.
So you create a survival mode.
I now realize how often I tend to look the other way to avoid the big picture.
For sure the product of a somewhat more chaotic childhood than most.
Yet, I also own how much I will dive in head first to try and make it better, or even the best.
So upon that realization, I see how it was me that needing saving, a redo, an upgrade.
A house seemingly perfect, knocked to it studs, to reveal, a house wholly imperfect, yet one which I now know, needed to be rebuilt to support me.
To my specs.
So I rose to the challenge.
Without a man.
By myself.
Dealing with men, of all trades.
Standing on my own.
Negotiating.
Undertaking the biggest enterprise of my life.
Solo.
Yet, to my standards.
To my tastes.
To my life.
Not compromising.
So while I thought I had innocently dabbled into another venture into home renovation.
I became to see it wasn't just this about the kitchen.
It was really about my life.
I needed to not just take it back, but build it in the first place.
The right way.
And I did.
It was my bones that were solid.
It was everything else that needed to be rearranged.
Sometimes our lives start with picking at a floor, and somehow we pick so much, we end up seeing the stars.
All great things start small.
Xoxo,
C.
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