the quiet melancholia of late summer...

Today I will start the last outdoor repair for this season: I must rebuild some of the ancient railings on our deck to keep them safe and replace a support beam on the front porch. As soon as the weather grew warmer, I began the tasks of spring including replacing rotten wood molding around some of windows, tearing out decaying planks and steps on the back deck, chiseling out old wood along the gutter in order to add more weather resistant trim, and patching small holes caused by expanding winter ice. There was withered paint to scrap after a hard winter as well as modest repairs to our raised bed gardens. Then it was on to the garden and clearing the property of fallen tree limbs, turning the soil, and all the rest. By July our mystical arbor was in place along with a bamboo fence in the outdoor chapel. The flowers were exploding in bold red, orange, blue, and yellow as a quiet symmetry settled upon the deck as the herbs ripened. And our shared driveway was fully repaved and ready for the storms to come.

Now, as the wetlands remind me that fall is coming by yielding their greens to various shades of brown and red - and the season's first golden rod has appeared - I know it's time to get round two of the repairs underway. It will take me the better part of two days to accomplish this work but that is exciting - an adventure of sorts - mostly because I know from experience it will be riddled with mistakes and wrong turns. I will measure carefully, to be sure; trace the old templates with all the precision I can muster, and cut the lumber with intentionality. At the same time, however, I know already that I will make a host of as yet unimaginable errors causing me to back track and regroup over and again. Such are the paradoxical blessings/curses of beginner's mind, yes? It is slow going if you wish to learn from your mistakes. What's more, there are often unexpected physical roadblocks that pop up and a variety of rigorous physical complications when taking apart old carpentry that can turn a relatively simple job into an adventure into patience and paying attention.

That's why these projects have become for me a type of embodied

prayer - practice in slowing down - the work of focusing carefully and paying attention. Not rushing towards the finish line nor sacrificing beauty for expedience or functionality. It is the type of spiritual direction I've discovered while baking bread or following a new recipe: the act of being fully present to the present moment in real time. Now I should note that it usually takes me a few days to work up to such sacramental activity. I am, you see, addicted to abstractions which cause me to spend countless hours in procrastinating rather than incarnating. In time, I get off the dime. But as Fr. Ed Hays writes in Pray ALL Ways:

"Procrastination is a love affair with tomorrow, which is that golden day when we will change, pray more, read, fix the back door, play with the children, or take our spouse out to dinner. Procrastination is NOT a virtue; it is a form of being asleep. Patience is vigilant waiting, a waiting that is full, pregnant with dreams, hopes, ideas, and peace. This waiting is not resignation, as when we resign ourselves to the fates. Real patience is loving and dynamic surrender."

For the past two days I've been pondering these repairs. I finished all the measurements last week. I've figured out how much lumber to purchase and even the two saws necessary to getting the job right done right. It is now time to get into the groove but taking the first step is complicated. Once started there's no stopping on such a project. It must be completed lest loved ones are rendered unsafe because of my sloth. 

FOUR HOURS LATER AFTER LUNCH:  The offending rotten wood has been taken down. Now it's on to tracing shapes for the jig saw and making certain my measurements are correct for the purchase of lumber.