Rabbit Hole Day

A day without intention.

No need to stay on task. There are no tasks on Rabbit Hole Day.

Everything that needs reining in gets free range today.

Tomorrow is for responsible use of the internet. Tomorrow is for headsets, lists and schedules. Tomorrow is for focus on what is important. Tomorrow is for strategies.

Today is for wasting large swaths of time.

Google your symptoms but stop before it gets scary. Google what’s wrong with other people. Diagnose them in your heart and mind but keep it to yourself.

Read what you won’t to admit to reading. Do what you’d like to hide. Watch what nobody would believe you watch.

Mope. When that stops being fun, preferably before the crying starts, go on social media and dick around there for a while.

Read something cool online. Follow all of the links. Follow those links. Follow the rest. And so on.

Clickbait is perfectly fine. Nick Nolte Then And Now. Go ahead.

When the alarm goes off tomorrow it’s will be highbrow responsible time. You’ll be rocking goals. Winning at life. Maybe not winning, but giving it the old college try. Tomorrow will be the bronze medal of life.

But today is Rabbit Hole Day.

Stare off into space as long as you want.

Fantasize. Don’t snap out of it.


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Good plan, well executed

The dry air will greet me on the way inside of the apartment. I will turn on the lights because even though it's midday, it's dark.

The rain boots will come off first. I always go about stocking foot in the house but this time the socks will probably go in the hamper. It's fine. There are plenty more in the drawer.

The coat will hang in the shower. Liberated from this damp garment, I'll move on to my favorite part. I'll place my hat and gloves splayed out on the radiator. Later when it's time to go out again they'll be warm and ready.

I'll open my umbrella and place it, away from the leaky faucet in the tub. I liked leaning it in the hallway outside my apartment until management sent a curt note to everyone that we aren't allowed to do that. Whatever.

From the look of things I will also take stock of my backpack. Water resistant as it is, this has been a major insult. The bag itself will dry effectively near the radiator. Affected contents will be lined up carefully next to the hat and gloves.

They will look like neat casualties but not for long. The radiators here run very hot.

All will be well. The wet chill I feel on the train and walk home is mitigated by the plan. It keeps me contained.

Earlier today, before any of this with the lights, the radiator and the socks, I'll have an appointment. I will arrive a little early and take extra care with my wet things. I'll spy a closet in the waiting room. This one won't be locked and I'll open it to find a sea of hangers and hooks. I will hang my coat and the gloves will go on one hook and the hat on the other. I'll place my wet umbrella in the receptacle provided.

The waiting room will be full of resources to help me manage myself and a nervous system that seems to need some measure of calm protection.

I'll think about leaving the wet boots in the closet, but decide to wear them in. Going about without shoes here will seem both inappropriate and presumptuous.

As I leave the appointment and begin hatching my transition plan, I will see a four year old boy come out of a fancy coffee place with his mom. The mom will be understanding and careful. She'll patiently hold the umbrella perfectly over his head.

The boy will stop upon exiting the shop. He'll look at the rain coming down in torrents, vast bucketfuls sliding off of the high end awning above his head. He will erupt into what could only be called a classic case of screaming and crying. 

I will feel a pang for him. Poor little dude, I'll say to myself as I slosh toward the subway.

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Emotional Support From The Security Guard
Rain

Unflavored

I don't care what your plans are for the election. I wrote this for you.

If you are sitting out the election, this is for you. Not voting may look like doing nothing. By making this choice you are doing something.

If you are voting for Clinton or Trump, this is for you. The more enthusiasm you bring to the table for either of these candidates, the more I want you to listen.

If you're dragging your feet to the polls to vote  for the lesser of the evils because your preferred candidate did not win the nomination in the primary, this is for you.

If you are settling for the lesser of the evils because of the past or present behaviors of either major candidate, then this is for you. 

If you are the undecided voter, keep this in mind as you live your way into a answer. Listening to me might make it easier. 

If you are voting for a third party candidate to make a statement, then this is for you. If you are voting for a third party candidate because you think this person will gather a groundswell of support and win this election, this is for you.

If you've put a decal on your car, a sign on your lawn or shared something on social media about your preferred candidate, then this is for you.

If you've kept your plans steadfastly to yourself, you're not off the hook. You have an inner life. This is for you.

Vote. Or not.

Just don't drink the Kool-Aid. 

Any action you take on Election Day can be done without opening that packet, mixing it with water, adding in ice, pouring a big glass and drinking it. 

The Kool-Aid Man will come to your house, bust through your wall and create a whole lot of havoc with a big smile on his face if you let him. 

Things will be a lot easier for you now if you think about this stuff. Not drinking the Kool-Aid will make those days and weeks after the election better whether your preferred candidate wins or not. 

And lest you think I am talking about somebody else, Kool-Aid comes in all flavors. Hillary Clinton. Donald Trump. Jill Stein. Nobody's Good Enough For Me Flavor is still Kool-Aid if you make it and drink it.

The good news about analogies is that you can do things metaphorically that are difficult to do literally.

If you already drank the Kool-Aid take a few minutes now to un-drink it. 

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No Trophies

Somebody will seem perfect. They achieve something you've tried in vain to pull off. You feel the smack of comparison. You're lacking. And worse, now you have an audience.

The competent individual is not a better person. They've done this dazzling thing because they can. They can, so they do. You would if you could.


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What Now?

What I know, what I don't know

What Now?

You've done this thing. Lots of things, truthfully. The things you've done have morphed and changed over time. But there's been an overarching theme to all of it.

Everything you've done, more or less, has been in collaboration with a small committee. You like these other committee members. They turned from committee members into something else. Something more important than committee members.

Now you're wondering what's going to happen next. That is a natural question.

You study the practice of non-attachment. You live in the moment. You try on having no agenda. It feels pretty good. It's better than trying to control everything.

You're already used to going along to get along. You adapt well to others.

Everything seems to fit in place until you have another thought. Once you have the one thought, other thinking follows.

What if there is self-agency about what happens next?

You won't wait around for someone else to lead. But if they do, you will probably follow. That's what happened before and if it happens again it would be an excellent scenario.

Waiting and waiting for someone else to lead seems risky. It's too much to place that on other people. The weight of that expectation feels massive and heavy even for you.

So you'll try leading. You have some good ideas about that.

You'll suggest, invite, write, reach out, pull back, try one thing then try another.

Every time you do something it will be without prior investment in the results. That is where the non-attachment practice you've been finding resonance with will really be useful.

Other people will let you know what they think. They will have words and they will have actions. Their actions will be like words.

Whatever happens won't be the end of the world. Whatever happens might actually be kind of great.

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30 Minutes a Day: Before and After

History

In spring of 2015, I implemented a tradition of taking a 30-minute walk. I strolled. I meandered. I gave myself a break. I took photographs. You can read more about it here.

The walk morphed a bit in the summer of 2015 and again in the fall. Finally, I fired it.

Before

In December of 2015 I was experiencing holiday stress. I took up my 30-minute walk again. First, I un-fired it. Then I changed it.

The other walks I took earlier that year were slow. I decided that even though I was alternating cardio with yoga and Pilates most days, I needed even more vigorous movement in my day. So I instituted a 15-minute power walk. At the end of the 15 minutes, I'd do a slower walk and take some photographs or just look around.

It turns out that this walk was working out beautifully and the extra pumped up movement paired with slower movement was putting a dent in my anxiety and bad holiday attitude.

I had no reason to stop doing my walks as December 2015 turned into January 2016. Except for one thing. I broke my ankle.

After

I wasn't exercising, power walking or doing anything adventurous when it happened.

I was walking down the street minding my own business. The sidewalk wasn't icy or unusual. It was a run of the mill sidewalk. But my foot got caught in a crack and stayed there when I fell. That's how I ended up with a mild fracture and a bad sprain.

I adjusted to the lack of my usual movement. I took up guided meditation.

After starting PT and healing a lot, I decided to go for a walk outside without my orthopedic boot. I was wearing regular sneakers.

I went around the block twice. I became accustomed to the uneven surfaces, the inclines, the dips and the hit of fresh air.

I stayed inside during a massive snowstorm. The next day I made my way in a careful fashion to Chinatown for my daughter's birthday party.

The next afternoon, I went around and around my block, at a healthy clip for 15 minutes. I confined myself to this area because the sidewalk was clear and dry and safe. I didn't have to negotiate black ice, snow or frozen slush. When I was finished walking fast, I walked slow. I took some photographs.

I did it again today only for 20 quick minutes and 15 slow, creative ones.

I like the predictability as I ease back into cardio. My body is remembering what to do. The novelty happens as I am walking slowly. The scenery changes ever so subtly. The light is different every day. So is the snow. What is covered up one day is revealed the next.

The snow is melting more quickly than I thought it would. Soon, the other sidewalks and the curb cuts will be clear enough for me to go farther afield. At some point in the future my ankle will be fit to sustain a careful run. I'll cut a wide swath through Inwood and beyond. My period of relative confinement will be a memory.

I like to travel sometimes. But I don't need to. Having this injury proved it. When the block is all I have, it's good enough. Better than that, actually.

My slower than usual pace allowed me a moment to notice this scraped wall awaiting plaster - and the nearly bare branches in front of it.

This neatly folded leaf stands in contrast to the crystalline snow.

I'm finding beauty in the withered and ruined.

It wouldn't be post-blizzard if I didn't photograph one car covered in snow.

Nature provided me with pristine perfection to explore.

This tiny piece of foil became the latest addition to my Beautiful Trash Series. The snow melted at a prodigious rate of speed leaving this sooty patch in its wake.

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The Stories I Tell Myself

I tell stories about things that have happened to me. I tell these stories to other people. I have short versions and long versions of my stories.

The stories range from funny to banal to extremely sad. This is the stuff my life is made of.

There are the stories I write. There are the stories I tell. There are the stories I don't write or tell but carry.

All three kinds of stories help me make sense of my life. They give it a narrative. They infuse it with something.

This is true for you too.

I think about the stories. Not the details. Not who survived, who died, who taught me by teaching, who taught me by betrayal, who helped raise me, who might have helped but didn't.

I don't think about the places I've lived, apartments still the same in my mind's eye. I don't think about 1993. I'm not thinking of the words that lifted me up and the words that still smart.

I think about the telling of stories and the story of stories.

These stories belong to me. I take ownership of them. Your stories are yours.

Feeling a deep attachment to the stories we tell ourselves is natural.

But now I think beyond that.

I think about the stories that are in my mind - especially those. There are some old stories.

I step outside of myself. What if the story of what happened is told a different way? What if Joyce Carol Oates told my story instead of me? Annie Dillard, Jane Smiley, Anne Lamott, Mary Karr?

Would they come to different conclusions? Imbue it with different meanings? They could skip over certain parts and turn the focus on others. I'm not saying they'd make stuff up. Their truth would just be different. The truth would be the truth through their lens.

What if Raymond Carver, Frank McCourt or JD Salinger weren't dead? Jodi Picoult would have a field day with some stuff that's happened to me.

Someone else might spend a page and a half describing the art on the walls the day I met Jeremy for the first time. Sure, I noticed the art.  But the way I remember it was that I was wearing a red and white striped double front and back V-neck shirt and this cute tall guy came over to say hi with a really big smile.

I also wonder how non-writers would tell this story or that.

I think about myself in the third person sometimes. Something crappy will happen. But then I'll work with that construct. I'll come up with some other way of looking at it. Social workers call this process re-framing. I'm good at it now.

I help others do that with their stories. Somebody says I screwed up. I say, no you didn't. You did great considering the hurricane, the diagnosis, the divorce. For the love of god. You were 14 years old and no one was minding you.

Sometimes, I'd like to write someone else's story my own way. Let's say you're telling a story. There's pathos. There's tragedy. There's betrayal. There are circumstances that work against you at every turn.

I can't tell you this. But I don't see it the same way.

If he hadn't left, you wouldn't be with this guy. If you weren't fired, shown the door, made to pack your desk in a cardboard box, you would have never started your own business. You can't play basketball anymore but you were accepted to graduate school. You were no Michael Jordan anyway.

The one that got away is the one that got away. This is the house you're supposed to live in. This is the child meant for you. The music business would have eaten you alive.

This isn't the life you planned. I've gone ahead and re-framed it. From where I sit it's looking pretty good.

Maybe you're in the middle of it. Live your way into different treatments of this material that is your life. Know that you don't know precisely where this is going, but try things on for size.

Sometimes things happen to you that are so bad that there's nothing to say except I'm sorry. There's no re-framing. I've got nothing.

There's this other thing that happens.  You tell me a story. The telling is sculptural in that you recount it from different sides. It's complex. It sparkles. Raconteur is the wrong word for what you are. Artist seems right.

You hold me rapt in the perfection of your narrative.  I eat out of the palm of your hand. I wouldn't change a thing. You should write a book, if you haven't already.

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30 Minutes A Day: Re-framed

Late last spring, I embarked on a new tradition. I stumbled over it by accident. I started taking a 30-minute walk every day. I wrote about that experience here.

I felt all kinds of benefits from the walk. I meandered. Except for the 30-minute part, I had no agenda. I took photographs. I invariably felt refreshed. I continued more or less consistently. I wrote another post about it last July.

This kind of stroll might be my version of meditation.

I thought I was going to keep doing this. I imagined the benefits of the 30 minutes a day building upon one another. I imagined writing about my experience in the fall and then the winter.

That is not what happened.

What happened instead was that I'd go out for my walk and enjoy it very much at the time. But sometimes, before and after the walk, I'd feel stressed out. I wasn't stressed out about other things then found later that taking the walk was worth it. The stress was about the walk itself.

The walk was becoming another obligation. The walk was becoming a nag.

One thing I value about myself is my consistency. For that reason, it was difficult initially to switch gears. One of the drawbacks to making blanket proclamations and plans is that it can lead to rigid behaviors. I started to see the writing on the wall.

Oftentimes, we make plans before all of the information is in. Sometimes we don't acknowledge when things have changed. Commitments made during one period of life may not work for another. That is what happened to me.

I gave myself permission not to go for a walk for 30 minutes a day. That was a start.

While out for a run or folding laundry, I thought about the walks I was taking. That is when I do some of my best thinking. More information trickled in.

The 30-minute walks were ideal for some days and not for others. This is not an all or nothing situation. It has nuances.

Going out for a 30 minute walk makes sense when I am doing the type of work that benefits from a break. Certain types of paperwork, organizing and unpacking, research, cleaning house and repetitive tasks done over a long period of time and keep me housebound are obvious things. Days where my schedule is flexible enough and not interrupted by outside forces are also welcoming to this walking experience.

Days where I spend a great deal of time out of my apartment do not make the most sense in terms of the 30 minute walk. Nor do days where interruptions are built in. Days where every moment is accounted for means that the walk may cause more stress than it alleviates.

There are days when my teenagers are around and need a great deal of interface from me. Sometimes the walk is not practical. Other times it's an excellent idea. It gives me a break. It gives them a break.

Finally, there are the kinds of days where creativity and very pleasurable work is the actual order of the day. The walk is not really needed the same way on those days. Those times I set aside for blogging, making collages or photography are examples of this. These activities are already akin to meditative experiences for me.

This change of plans may seem like a small thing. It is in fact a small thing when stacked up against more important stuff. But my being able to switch gears with this has other implications. Making distinctions between good walk days and bad walk days is great practice for sorting out matters of much larger consequence.

Sunday was a good day for a 30-minute walk.

I was doing a lot of scheduling, school paper signing, organizing and filing. There was minutia. There was banality. And while everything was timely, I had a bit of flexibility in terms of my time.

I used the 30-minute walk as both a break and a reward. I set out at the designated time. I made sure to pack an umbrella because the sky was getting dark and it was windy. Rain seemed imminent.

Barring a thunderstorm, I planned to stay the course.

This might not seem like a good time for a walk. For me it was ideal.

For one thing, I've noticed that people are very adverse to rain. They will go right inside once it starts looking dark and foreboding. I found the streets to be nearly empty. Not only did this make my walk more peaceful, but also I had fewer folks to worry about when taking some of the weirder photographs I do.

Once it started to sprinkle people started running in a frantic attempt to go inside before more water hit them. There was screaming and flailing. There was wrestling with umbrellas.

The rain began while I was in a lush garden. I positioned myself under some trees and saw some interesting stuff to photograph. Sometimes I used my umbrella propped up on some branches or the ground to keep my iPhone dry so I wouldn't have to worry about it.

I took a video of raindrops hitting a marble bench and making an interesting dot pattern, but it was a little too boring for anyone but me, so I deleted it.

It never became torrential and it reduced to a steady, misty drizzle. I dispensed with the umbrella and walked out on the sidewalk. The flowerbeds were very interesting.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret about rain. It can be good for photography.

I'm not referring to stormy situations. I am not talking about high winds. I am not talking about weather-advisory thunder and lightning.

I am talking about a lazy drizzle.

When there's a lazy drizzle it is highly uncomfortable for most people. But it is fine for me. It might be okay for you too. If I were putting out a singles ad, I could honestly that I enjoy long walks in the rain. I have already mentioned that this alone is a good thing for photography. Less people mean fewer headaches.

Cloudy skies almost always accompany rain. This gives you a nice, even light. This isn't the time to get all experimental with shadows. There won't be many. But you can explore a softer look.

The wetness has a lacquer like effect when it lands on things. That shine, plus the soft even light makes colors pop. It's like the palette is on steroids.

While rain gives a nice jolt to colors that are already intense, it does something equally interesting to more muted hues. Mauve, silver - grey, olive green, terra cotta and taupe look decidedly richer.

Things become dotted and splattered in a way that I like. The video I took may have been boring. But I loved what the rain did to this leaf.

When it's raining, the differences between what is light and what is dark can be intensified. Case in point: the dirt in this flowerbed became darker and blacker when wet, while the dead stems remained light in color. This is a lovely edition to an ongoing series called Past Their Prime. It also reminds me of a scratchboard.

I worked to capture an image that is the essence of wet. After several attempts, the rain and I came up with this.

Moving forward, I anticipate taking more 30 minute walks - some of the time. I'll move through the crisp autumn days a half hour here and there and slog through snow the same way. There are times to be disciplined about something. There are times not to be. Today I'll be talking about a walk outdoors. Tomorrow it will be something bigger.

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30 Minutes A Day: The Summer Edition

This past spring I stumbled onto a new resource for stress reduction. I take a leisurely 30-minute walk every day. I go out each day, regardless of weather.

I've skipped a walk here and there due to tightly scheduled time or unexpected circumstances. On those days I clearly missed the walk. So I'm prioritizing it.

The walk is no less or more than 30 minutes. It's not meant to be exercise. Errands don't count. I can stop whenever I like to take photographs with my iPhone. Sometimes that means I don't make it very far from my apartment. That's fine. Distance isn't the point.

You can read about how I got started here.

When I wrote my first post about this topic last spring I was just beginning to take this walk each day. I liked what was happening and decided to continue. I wanted to see if it kept on helping me with stress. I wanted to see what would happen.

Here's what happened.

Spring turned into summer. Daffodils and tulips made way for roses. Many of those have drooped then died. Lilies are everywhere. Lilies are having their moment.

There was something of the miracle in spring. The flowers did their delicate dance, poking through like it was the first time ever.  There was something pure and primary about it.

I'm a city dweller but the natural world has a way of jostling through the concrete. And so it is with summer. This summer is good and settled in now.

Where spring was young and gay, summer is languid and a bit sexy. The flowerbeds are a jumble of just bloomed, slightly sour and gloriously cloying. It's like too much perfume only good.

There is the hint of the exotic in this summer. Everything I see has been around the block and back.

The heat and humidity slow me down. I don't complain. This walk is only 30 minutes long and there's no need to exert myself or hurry. Given a choice I walk on the shady side of the street. I'm a shade-seeking individual. So is my camera.

I take photographs every time I'm out. I keep some, delete others. One of the reasons I find these walks relaxing and rejuvenating is there is no real agenda except to stay out for 30 minutes. There's something meditative about it. Walking slowly and looking around, taking photos, some good, some bad.  This might really be my version of meditating.

In practical terms, my walks serve as a much-needed break or incentive when I am working on things that are demanding and require discipline. It seems to help with stress. It's free. It's available.

I keep doing it because I enjoy it. I keep doing it because it's working.  I keep doing it because it's something I can count on.

Most of the time I go out for my walk at a predetermined time, based on what else is happening that day. I don't choose my 30-minute block when it's "nice" out, because it's sunrise or because it's cooled down. It's more of a process of elimination. I can't go when I have a meeting. I can't go while I'm cooking. I can't go when I'm taking care of my children. I can't be in two places at once.

So from 9:00 - 9:30 or 2:30 - 3:00 or 7:40 - 8:10 it is. It doesn't matter. Whatever is out there is out there. Morning rain shower, late afternoon sun with long, inky shadows, hazy miasma, warm, forgiving dusk light. It's all good.

My thirty minutes are up. I walk into my apartment after my tiny journey. My air conditioner and iced coffee with soy vanilla greet me. I left the meandering outside and I snap to, smart, sharp and ready to take on whatever it is.

I took the photographs below during two thirty-minute walks on July 7^th and July 8^th.

I was attracted to the rare coloration of this saturated and fragile bloom.

I don’t know what kind of plant this is. It sure is orange.

It’s unusual for me to go inside during my strolls. I’ve been eyeing this lobby for a long time and saw an opportunity. This is the latest addition to a series I am working on called Mid-Century Modern. I love the clean lines, optimistic looking palette and whimsical tiles paired with the poignant wear and tear.

This might be one of the last Hydrangeas to bloom. This is but a section of the giant white orb, drooping ever so slightly in the heat.

Mid-day light and shade on the weathered wall of Park Terrace Gardens.

I almost never see anything representational in my abstractions. This time, I saw an eye in the knot of this tree bark.

The same sun and rain that nourishes the cultivated flowers also supports the weeds. My latest in the series I call Hardscrabble Plants.

Another view of the elegant and mysterious plant bearing exotic red flowers.

These lilies are heavy with their own loveliness.

A mess of daisies.

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Percolating

It's morning. I drag myself out the door. I don't particularly want to go jogging but I don't hate it either. Once I get moving with a slow run mixed in with some sprinting I'll want to keep going. Once I'm stretched and showered I'll feel like a million bucks. That and sheer willpower carry me my first few steps.

Running is repetitive. So is cleaning. Laundry, waiting rooms, commuting here and there. Food prep with its chopping, mincing, rinsing and sautéing. I know Target like the back of my hand and I shop systematically. Folding, filing, putting away. There is comfort in the familiar.

I could be bored but I'm not. Some of the time I entertain myself with podcasts. Other people's voices fill my head, elevating the dish soap, the dryer sheets, the file cabinet and the vinegar and water mixed with peppermint oil.

Other times, I have company. My daughter's voice laughing or touchy depending on the day. Split second pauses in my activity to advise, exclaim, or gaze at her. I smooth down the rainbow of tee shirts. I'll be right back, I tell her. I say I'm a lousy multitasker, but I do myself a disservice.

Then there are the other times. I'm not listening to anything. I'm not conversing with anyone. I'm doing mundane stuff without a soundtrack.

I don't like to be listening to anything while I'm running. It's better to remain alert. Sometimes I'm waiting for a delivery and don't want to listen to a podcast because I might miss the doorbell. Other times, I'm not actually talking or listening but want to seem available and welcoming. I know how I feel when I interrupt someone listening to a book or podcast. I don't want Jeremy or the kids to feel this way.

Often after I've listened to a few podcasts, I'll take a break to process what I've heard.

In other words, sometimes it’s just the dishes and me.

The kind of work I am talking about can be done without much thought. There are few surprises.  Before I know it, my thinking goes off the grid.

The washing, sweeping or pounding of the pavement inspire reflection. The sheer banality serves a dual purpose. I'm getting in my cardio. I'm putting clean sheets on the beds. I'm cleaning up after lunch.

If someone were to observe me they'd think that was all I was doing. But there’s a simulcast happening.

I might be thinking about strategies for helping one of my kids. I might get an idea for a new photography series. Quick, uncensored home-based business plans come, then go. One or two stick and get put in the hopper.

I've had epiphanies when previously I've been stuck in a behavior or habit. I've re-grouped, re-thought and pivoted as a result of vacuuming the rug or stretching. These seemingly ordinary activities are compost for my brain.

All of this happens automatically and has for as long as I can remember. If it isn't happening for you, I'll bet you could cultivate it.

Maybe you don't exercise. Maybe you don't clean your own house. In that case, I say roll up your sleeves. Some high- minded thinking can happen once you get off the high horse.  You could try some other repetitive things I haven't mentioned. Paint the second bedroom. Garden.

I set aside some time just for blogging.  My iPad in hand, I wrote this piece. After all the cleaning, working out and unpacking I did, it practically wrote itself.

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The Beauty of the In-Between

There are before pictures of renovated spaces. There are after pictures. There are people who document the process of renovation on TV. They always find something bad in the walls or ceiling that they didn't anticipate.

There's always a big reveal. It's like Cinderella, only it's a house.

This is my version of a renovation piece. It's the quiet part of the story.

This is not the big reveal. I will do my version of that some other time. At a later date I will show you my IKEA hack, my fetchingly arranged binders and my pretty bed. I might even show you the inside of my closets once they are finished. I will definitely photograph details of the placemats. Of that you can be sure.

I already posted The Beauty of The Before. You might want to have a look.

I keep thinking about the day I took these photographs. This is what it was like.

The painters had already finished their jobs. Some of the custom shelving was installed. I was waiting for the mattress and the carpet to be delivered. I was waiting for my nephew and his friend to come over and assemble IKEA. I was waiting for the guys to come and finish installing the shelves.

In an hour my apartment would be buzzing with activity. But for now, there was a monastery like silence punctuated by the sound of people walking. My apartment was so empty that I could hear every little thing in the building.

My apartment looked sort of like it did before and sort of like what it would eventually look like. In this state it also looked like neither of these things. Over the next days and weeks it would transition to being ours again.  But when I took these pictures, it was in a nether land.

Later that evening, when I was alone again, I called a friend to come over. I needed some company in there. I needed her presence to remind me that yes, this was indeed my apartment. I also wanted to show her our new things.

I sat on these pictures until I felt motivated to share them. At this point, I'm grateful I took some photographs. I think I would be starting to forget if I hadn't.

A beautiful mallet sits upon our unfinished shelves

This leftover rope caught the even morning light with calm elegance. I shot a close up of a closet hinge. The closet was painted White Wisp while the wall flanking it was transformed by Horizon. The near empty space highlighted the graceful lines of our art deco bannister.

The backside of a small shelving unit. These shelves have been in my husband’s family since his childhood. They are now enjoying a third act in our nephew’s apartment. We decided that we liked our floors the way they are. No re-finishing, no polyurethane.

Jeremy’s parents bought a lot of their furniture in the 1950’s. We took apart this gorgeous end table and stacked it out the way. It was one of the first items moved into place once our bed was set up.

Loads of cleaning going on in our dusty residence. Here is a detail of our flat rolling cart. It has proven indispensable for several moves.

Jeremy had to box up these liquor bottles during the paint job. They’re waiting for a good dusting before the transfer back to their swanky home.

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