Like many floodÂ victims in Oakland County, we’ll soon have a dumpster in our driveway and a construction crew in the basement. Watching our contractor haul rolls of soggy carpeting to the curb this morning, I recalled theÂ following column, which I wrote in 2003. The full version is reprinted inÂ Writing Home.
Zen and Remodeling
We are always in transition. If you can just relax with that, youâ€™ll have no problem. â€“ Pema Chodron, Buddhist nun
The construction crew hasnâ€™t even started yet, but Iâ€™m already bracing myself for several weeks of chaos and plaster dust.Â Half of our clothes and most of our toiletries have been temporarily stashed in other regions of the house. With the exception of our master bedroom, in fact, everything upstairs is in a state of minor upheaval. I hate living like this.
Itâ€™s all in preparation for our next remodeling project, which includes new plumbing, tile, and fixtures for our circa 1926 bathroom, plus expanded closet space and a paint job for the spare bedroom. The crew is scheduled to begin this week, but thatâ€™s just what they tell me. Until I see trucks in the driveway, I know better than to count on anything. Being married to an architect and having survived several remodeling projects, I now have a grasp of what I call â€œbuilding trade ethics.â€
Even in the most professional situations, building trade ethics bear little resemblance to the Protestant work ethic. For starters, people in the building trades do not follow a nine-to-five schedule. These guys have their own system, and itâ€™s up to you to figure out what that is.
They also speak a different language. For example, if the plumber whoâ€™s installing your new toilet says heâ€™ll be back to finish at noon on Friday, itâ€™s possible that he really means maybe sometime on a Friday next month.
With few exceptions, though, the results are worth it. If you love your old house as much as we love ours, you realize that a disrupted schedule is a small price to pay for the lifestyle improvements youâ€™ll get eventually.
And if you really want to feel smug, you can tell yourself that your renovation project is also for posterity. Fixing up an old house is a gift to the community â€“ which is why I cringe every time someone tears down a perfectly decent old home, only to replace it with a brand-new Big Foot palace. But thatâ€™s a topic for another time.
Right now, Iâ€™m trying to focus on the positive. Compared to one of our last projects â€“ a kitchen makeover and a sun room that took nine months to complete — this next effort should be â€¦ less of an effort.
Still, every time our walls give way to a sledge hammer, Iâ€™m reminded that change is messy. More often than not, you must tear something apart and disrupt your routine to make things better. You canâ€™t install a new shower, for instance, without uprooting the old one. You canâ€™t hang new wallpaper over old wallpaper and expect to end up with a smooth, bubble-free finish. And you must never varnish a hardwood floor before sanding away its stained or splintered imperfections.
Likewise, you canâ€™t sugarcoat the rigors of self-improvement.
Come January, everyone wants to be thinner, healthier, wiser, smoke-free, and less wrinkly. And weâ€™d like to achieve these goals as quickly as possible, preferably with a single-dose pill that works while weâ€™re asleep.
But self-improvement takes time and willpower, which is why some of us give up before weâ€™ve hit the target. As every dieter knows, the â€œin between sizesâ€ stage â€“ the first plateau — is the trickiest. The process is ongoing, arduous, and more than an act of faith.
My dear old house is also a work in progress. It has taught me how to be patient and how to make sense of the chaos that precedes any kind of transformation. With a little luck, I think we can survive another month of plaster dust together.
So, bring on the building crew. Whenever.