But Night Two has been way more fun--me in my temporary digs, fourth floor, freedom to do anything I want and freedom from the mess of my house with sticky and sawdusty floors. I'm having a whale of a good time making a gift or two, reading The Untethered Soul alternately with the first of the Louise Penny mysteries, Still Life, dozing, waking up.
My little house is being productively battered this week from the roof to floors, and I'm camping out in a most deliciously dark and quiet room, no news of the world.
The roof I'd recently hired novices to repair--and they botched (more tuition)--needs re-doing, and the casita requires an entirely new roof. The mold man used his mold machine to test for mold--the results of which will be back from the lab in a week.
I was listening yesterday to an On Being podcast, an interview with Alain de Botton. One of the things that struck me was his comment that what we listen to--especially now in an environment of so many lies and so much unkindness--has an impact on us that is more damaging than we realize. So I've opted to close the window into that world, not even turn on the TV during my solitary camping trip.
This room is clean and boring in its decor--and there is no view worth opening the window for. I'm absorbed in reading and reflecting and decoupage, and none of that matters; in fact, the anonymity (plainness bordering on ugliness) of this room is a perfect little studio for making things and letting my mind roam. Annie Dillard described this dynamic better than I can:
No comments:
Post a Comment