Integration

Standard

Sometimes I feel like human duct tape. Pulled in a thousand dizzying directions. Containing this. Masking that. Doing my best to present as shiny and complete that which is never truly pulled together. That being said, I like duct tape. It’s a solid resource to hold in one’s possession- and I’m a huge fan of the colorful “designer” versions that bind the worn edges of all-things-imaginable with a smile.

Where am I going with this? Since my last post less than two short weeks ago, our home has been illuminated with electricity and baptized with water. Said water sits complacently within our newly born well (patiently awaiting the arrival of plumbing and septic), but still, water is water. As a generator is no longer needed to power our lights and outlets, we now find ourselves struck by sound waves of silence. I still run around with my headlamp on in the dark, having fallen out of the habit of looking for switches to light my way. The shift in orientation is like doing a headstand and all at once having to look up to find the ground.

Back to duct tape. Life can be disorienting. We’re so often stretched this way and that. Wrapped around and around in one instant, only to be torn free in the next. I like to think that I have more will and control than a metallic role of sticky- although some days I feel this sense of will more than others- but in the end, who’s to say for certain?

As the saga of our little cabin unfolds, the story line that ties together the fragmented pieces of each moment has begun to come into view. The drilling of a well feels completely haphazard and destructive in the moment. Here we are, chiseling down from some arbitrary X-marks-the-spot, boring into the very layers of earth upon with we stand, and disrupting a stream or cavernous pool from its familiar state of rhythm. In the moment, this is an assault. A trespassing. An abduction.

But this is not the end of the story. There will be a new flow. Water, once only familiar with earth and stone, will pour over live beings. Nourish gardens. And continue its journey back down into the deep unknown. Or at least this is the story I’ve purchased. Standing here in my role of the being in need of hydration. The water itself may have a different perspective.

Regardless of truth, it is my story that keeps me ok. It brings meaning to an otherwise harsh existence of fragmented connections, formed and then disrupted. The story breeds integration from haphazardly scattered parts. I am grateful for my sense of consciousness, for while I don’t believe I am the author of the novel, with consciousness I am at least literate. I only hope our little cabin can connect the dots. See that we love its pine walls. Its comically pitched roofline. The mountains it opens our eyes to every morning. And the blazing sun it obediently presents to us as the curtains draw closed, signaling the end of the show. I hope that the cabin knows my gratitude. And that she will continue to receive me, in all of my not so obviously cohesive fragments, for years to come.

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