It’s a cold and clear day as I sit on the porch soaking up my daily requirement of vitamin D from the sun as I contemplate the small house taking shape in the corner of the yard.
To call it a house is ambitious. It’s a shed really, the floor space a mere six by six feet and clad modestly in plywood siding. As I gaze at the unfinished, rough framed building I see a reflection of my own life. Jobless, broke, half done -I’m nearly 50- and alone. An insubstantial little house constructed as time, energy and funds allow. A niche waiting for refuge from the harsh realities of life. A place of quiet meditation, inspiration and nurturing for the soul.
Instead of enjoying the process of how the tea house grows, the low doorway that requires humility to go through it, the choice of having the garden face away from the house and distraction, I fuss over endless details to complete the task.
Again I see the strange parallel to my life.
Like every morning while I sit and drink tea, and figure out how to get through another day. Instead of quiet stillness there is noisy inner chatter. Like myself, the tea house yearns to be an original creation to share with others and embrace it’s purpose. But for now neither knows when that will happen.