A couple of Sunday’s ago, my husband said he wanted me to see some of the new sculptures around town.
We drove around a bit and talked, and then he turned towards our land.
Here’s the thing. It turns out that trying to build a house is monumentally stressful and complicated. That, on top of my medical mayhem of the past few years, and my frustrated efforts to get back to metal, have made me a ball of frustration and anxiety. Any time I can go out to our piece of dirt and sit in the wind and watch the light on the mountains, I’m a happy woman. I really had no expectation than to do just that. Sit and sigh and feel peaceful.
Our patch of land is old pasture. It sits alongside the highway and is rather oddly shaped. The dirt access track is long and narrow. There are two layers of barbed wire fence, with scrubby Russian olive trees in between, all running along the highway. Our future house will sit at the back edge of the property where it widens out. There won’t be any houses in front of us, and we will have a clear sight line to the mountains.
I’d been frustrated all summer that I couldn’t go out and sit where we’d pounded stakes to mark the boundaries of the house last fall. Me walking? In heat? No. I’d have passed out and been gnawed on by a coyote. Or ground squirrel. At the very least a spider would have touched me, and THAT IS NOT OKAY! I was disappointed, but safety won out over reckless happiness.
My husband pulled up to the gates and jumped out to unchain and open them. And behold!
My dirt track?
It’s a REAL road! Not just some gravel scattered, but a real honest to goodness professionally made road, with conduit waiting to be buried along side. For what? I’m not sure. I have visions of a guard shack and maybe a force field.
I can be a little antisocial.
We drove out to where the house will be, and joy! No weeds threatening to burst into flame. No bumps and dips. Just smooth, solid road. With a little bit of snow for excitement.
We wandered around, and our presence set off secret alarms that brought a few of our neighbors over. We’ve been having the worst time connecting with a builder, and they had thoughts on that matter. USEFUL ones. They were lovely and welcoming.
I’ve been on the land in full daylight, and at the gates in full dark, but I’ve never been out at dusk. The mountains are to the east, and watching the sun go down is wonderful, but then turning and looking at the mountains as the light shifts and caresses? Perfection.
That is the view my studio space will look out to. I will be able to watch the weather move across the sky. See the mountains change through the seasons. It feels like home. I touched back the feeling I had the first time we walked the property AFTER we had put an offer in. I was worried that I’d get to where the house would be, and feel disappointment. No. I turned around that day, and felt a jolt of pure glee! Home.
I have a road. I can drive out on it whenever I want.
If it takes us 16 years to build a house (sigh…), I may ask for a tent and bug spray and at least visit now and then. On my ROAD.
My husband is…so many trite comments arise. He’s the BEST! I’m so lucky! He’s so good to me! These things are ALL true! Adding in that he’s blazingly smart, and funny in a sharp and sideways fashion that makes conversations with him endlessly interesting. He’s generous, and quiet, and he knows I’ve been struggling…
There have been so many changes in my life over the past few years. Most of the distressing bits have been attached to my health status. I have been experiencing improvements, but there is always this thread of distress running behind it. MS is tricksy. There is no specific prognosis. It pounces according to its own schedule, and yes, I’m writing about it as though it has a mind and intention of its own. There are interesting treatments being tested, but I’m not likely to qualify for those. I just have to wait and see.
I’m not very good at that.
We had a change of insurance in October that messed with my calm. With specialists, specialty drugs, preauthorizations, changes in deductibles, doctor appointments, along with learning to use my cane and the devastating moment when I opened my DMV envelope to find my handicapped parking placard that was categorized as “permanent” and doesn’t expire until 2025? It’s been a lot. I’ve not been able to focus on jewelry for more than half an hour every three weeks (at best). It feels tenuous. I’m afraid to invest, for fear that my body will decide to be punitive, or that I will have to spend another three days untangling a medication situation that is leaving me WITHOUT medication until the byzantine process, that no one fully understands, finally unlocks.
I’ve been angry. And I’ve been frustrated. I’ve been despairing. And I’ve wondered what I’m even doing.
New insurance has redeemed itself in the form of a case management nurse. She told me of a program that I would qualify for that provides eight weeks of once a week, each, therapy and coaching. It’s designed for stressed out sick people. That would be me.
I’ve spoken with both my coach and my therapist now. I’m in the messy and crying stage. Unpacking my feelings and working out better ways to deal with them at the practical level. To regain pieces of my life that have been pushed out.
I’ve been staring at the reading material and charting my mood. Mood sheets. They are hilarious, because they want to know at what time of day I feel which not-so-great emotion, and my emotions chase across my mind the way clouds do across a Nevada sky. Quickly and dramatically.
One of my goals is to touch metal. Just a little bit. For a few minutes here and there. To not worry about a masterpiece. Just to get the feel back. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I don’t fully understand my reluctance.
But I have a road. I have people smoothing the way for me. Encouraging me.