old growth

Last fall I bought my first house. It's old for Portland (built in 1926) and a lot of work for me. It's the cliche first-time homebuyer line, but I had no idea when I signed that stack of legal-size pages just how much work it would be.

My best friend lives in Colorado. She and her husband bought a brand new place, built just for them in 2004. I called her this weekend in between filling the huge hole under my porch that was dug during a sewer repair a few years ago and sanding and painting quarter-round in hopes that I might finish the trim on my kitchen floor before my parents arrive this week. I sat in the front yard in my painting pants (the ones I have found myself wearing all weekend, every weekend) eating a lunchtime spinach salad with avocado. I talked in between chews--my trademark multi-task move. On the other end, she was on her sewing machine--which is her move. Like most things since we were 15, we go through stuff together; not always at the same time or in the same way, but together. In my mind that's kind of the hallmark of our best friendship. The house thing is like that. I told her about my day and she replied, "Yeah, our house is great. I mean, it's great that things are just done already. But, it doesn't have a lot of character, you know. There's no old growth, or anything." I snorted and hastily licked the dribbles of sunflower seeds and salad dressing off the fork. "Well, my house is all old growth!" I said. Old growth--like the defunct knob and tube wiring that dangles from the basement ceiling right beside the new electrical box; like the 800 layers of paint on everything; like all the chipping, bowing, cracking, shifting, molding, worn-ness that is my home. And I love it, in fact, it was the main reason I chose the house. But it torments me. We kept talking and I had finished my salad, so my multi-tasking took a new focus--pinching the dead blooms off the pansies in the hanging pot on my front porch. While I was away in Alaska my housemates (who perhaps don't even notice them hanging there) neglected to water them. When I came home the plant was covered in ghostly, dead blooms and wilting. With some care the green came back, but I knew the only way to get it to really flower again was to pinch off the dead ones--old growth, I thought.

It all reminded me of people, how I'm not much different than a house or a plant, really. I have old growth--the layers underneath, old wounds, blooms that withered. Sometimes I have found myself wanting to pinch off the old stuff, determined to grow even more beautiful and strong. The dead flowers only drain the plants energy, afterall. And other times I feel more like my old bungalow--the cracks and flaws, and evidence of life's rough side are reminders and treasures. I've found some of the most brilliant moments amidst pain and struggle and some of the world's greatest beauty in a dry December field. I feel blessed to live in a world that provides a chance to celebrate and experience both. And I think I just may let that wiring dangle in the basement to remind myself of that.