The cabin is in motion. A well has been drilled. A septic system is being installed. Our bathroom is continuing to take shape. I am surrounded by water, but aside from that hauled in from the faucets of neighbors on the back of my husband, there is not yet a drop to drink.
But water is here nonetheless. Construction- like any change- comes in waves. I expect, anticipate, linearity. Constant. I try to thrust the calm moments forward. It’s as much an impossibility as drawing a rope around a wave and pulling it into shore. But still, I tug. And then the wave, on its own pulse, arcs. Crashes in upon the earth. And what do I do? I run. Sometimes I try to press it back into the sea. In either case, I am ultimately enveloped. And even though I know how to swim, I fight the current, the ebb and flow of the tide.
I am not good at change.
But then there are moments of surrender. I’d like to take credit for these, but they are typically born of my exhaustion. I find myself surrounded, and realize that swimming is not so bad after all. The crashing and retreating of each wave loses its intensity as I allow myself to bob with the surf. And somewhere along the way I connect with the beauty of the calm, the power of the rising wave. And I recognize that water is water. Rushing, retreating, or still. I drink it in.
But this requires climbing in. Letting go of my separateness. Committing completely and surrendering my capacity to turn away.
My own moments of resist and surrender mirror the pattern of the tides. The arching flow of construction as it crashes against a cabin, that until our recent presence, had sat with static sureness on its little hillside.
It’s beautiful to be in the surf together. Terrifying to loosen my grip and let go. Freeing to open to the new as it rushes in.
Excavation equipment at rest in what used to be our front yard
Our new septic tank!
Shingles, overlooking the excavator and the view before finding their home on the outside of the cabin.