I wake up.
Devastated, destroyed, yet somehow reborn.
I hate when good books die.
It is a puzzlement, this devastation. A frustrating window into my lack of control, and a lesson that things are sometimes beyond my capabilities.
A week away from work. A week of working on the house. A week of being forced to think on my feet, to do on my feet, to provide solutions to problems that are beyond the scope of what I imagined.
Loss of control. Or the loss of the illusion of control. Delays, perhaps not inevitable, but humbling in their intensity. And the realization that the limits are artificial, self imposed.
A lesson then.
The analogy between the house and myself needing repair is not lost to me.
I have been asked by several friends why I bother fixing up the house. Why I don't just sell it as-is and put the effort into building a new house.
It's a good question.
Given the right time and tools, I believe that there really isn't anything I can't do. And I believe that this house is structurally sound (other than the whole front porch foundation thing).
But more than that, it's a challenge of responsibility.
I understand the mechanics. I'm in a mode where I have to take control of my life, and take responsibility for what I have made (or allowed to) come into my life.
And apparently I have to also learn that control is an entirely relative thing.
Hubris is a bitch.