Redemption

I’m so psyched about my deck. I have finished refurbishing the front portion and, before I move on to the other 200+ square feet of stairs and back deck, I thought I would take a moment to reflect and celebrate before the thrill wears off. I made a bet with my son about how long the new deck could keep me happy, he estimated until Friday (last Friday) and I am pleased to announce that when I walked across it this Monday morning I still got a little shiver of satisfaction and accomplishment.

What is it about refurbishing my deck that makes me so happy? I will let you in on a little secret. I am a sucker for a redemption story: from Les Miserables to A Tale of Two Cities to Crime and Punishment ( the list goes endlessly), I love when somebody spins a yarn about a character who has been deemed useless, rotten or broken and somehow that bread-stealing, vain and selfish, murderer finds a way to be made useful, changed, whole again.

My love of this theme has translated into the everyday corners of my life. I compost, not because I am a tree-hugging environmental-case. Although I do have hippie hair, drive a Eurovan and make my own jewelry, I really compost because I love the idea of taking what is widely viewed as garbage: eggshells, coffee grinds, orange rinds, horse-manure, rescuing these items from their uselessness and helping them make a new life. As I turn the compost heap I witness this garbage mature and transform into something life-giving, full of purpose and rich in nutrients...in my own backyard. Fabulous. In my little world this chore had been upgraded from composting to The Redemption Of The Kitchen Scraps. Love.

I also like to rescue treasure on garbage day or from the dark dusty corners of the Salvation Army Store to repurpose someone’s discards into something new and fabulous. For example, I am already plotting a mosaic for another face of the huge cement cubes that are the footings that hold up my deck. Over the years I collected enough broken shards of pottery, thank you children and minor earthquakes, to cover three of the twelve footings beneath my newly refurbished deck. I learned early, as a young mother of a six, four, two and zero year old that crying over broken pottery is useless. I learned to ask myself the question, “What can I do with this ruined item instead of scolding my children for their cruelly destructive tendencies?” (in the earlier years instead of was almost always after) Once I changed my perspective, my creative outlets have benefitted enormously from my kids’ flailing arms and legs and the occasional projectile let loose in the ongoing casual warfare of siblings. Sigh, the kids have really slowed their production as they’ve grown and with the dearth of earthquakes I’ve had to branch out to the thrift stores. I grumble not, smashing second hand pottery is extremely satisfying and the redemptive process continues.

How does the thrill of refurbishing the deck figure into this story? I would think it obvious but if not, let me spell it out. I wish I had a “before” picture of the deck to help you understand. My father told me this morning that Napoleon Bonaparte was the initiator of the phrase “A picture is worth a thousand words”. Sorry, Mon Petit Général, I have no picture so my words will have to suffice. Because it is less than a thousand words you won’t be getting your money’s worth though. It looked like crap. After power washing it, sanding it down, power washing it again, sanding it down some more....it looked less crappy. Then I ripped out some rotting pieces, cut them down to size and replaced them with good redwood. I stained the whole with a mahogany stain to hide some of the unevenness and then applied a rosewood oil to it (this stuff is magic and I highly recommend it) The deck looks rich and, with its chocolate sheen, kind of delicious. I find it deeply satisfying, not only on a physical level but in that place where redemption took up its dwelling in me, that I was able to participate to redeem that ugly old deck and turn it into something beautiful.

I suppose it could be argued that I lend these simple tasks a certain grandeur to make the dreadful monotony of the mundane seem more exciting. I am willing to accept that if it’s true. Somehow that does not steal any of the thunder of walking across my lovely new deck, laying black compost on my new bed of ornamental grasses, admiring the beautiful deck footing that was once an ugly block of concrete. Furthermore the thrill is not reduced but multiplied by the fact that many of the ingredients that mixed together to create this excitement were destined to doom if they had not been rescued and used for a new purpose. The kitchen scraps, the broken pottery, the rotting wood reflect the parts of me that seemed ruined, ugly and destined for failure and were changed into something useful, healthy, life-giving and destined for good-purpose. Bowled over by the redemptive process, I am grateful to participate in it, on even the smallest level.

So maybe I’m crazy. I’ll accept that too. My particular brand of crazy allows me to walk with sheer joy across my front porch to the door of my house. I’ll take that crazy every day of the week, especially Monday.