Before I get started, let me apologize to the exactly three people who eagerly await new additions to this blog (and frequently remind me, thank you!) for the long pause in my sequence of posts. Moving has been a bigger adjustment than I had ever thought it would be.
Previous to this move, I had always saw myself as relatively good at adjustments. I had moved so many times that I figured I would always be able to eventually settle in wherever my feet ended up stopping. I had never stayed in one place long enough to make lifelong friends – you know, those types that you met in kindergarten, that you beg to have sleep overs with and twenty years later still call to bitch about relationship problems. The oldest friend that I still talk to, I met five years ago in my first year of university.
Guelph was the first place I ever felt genuinely at home – and I think the years of feeling so incredibly comfortable in my surroundings made me forget how much I hated every time my parents would pick us up from wherever we had made tentative friendships and drag us along on their next grand mission of faith.
But, this move was no one’s choice but my own. There have been days where I have seriously considered moving back to my comfort zone – but whenever I do, there’s that competitive side of me that just won’t let me give up. There is comfort in the thought of being home again – but not enough to make me want to leave the comfort that I have right here in my new home.
And the reality, when I am honest with myself, is that I do not want to go. So, I am glad I didn’t give in to those urges to get the hell outta dodge, because I am so, so happy now.
But, all this soul-searching has made me think about the definition of home.
I mean, when do you stop calling the place you moved from, “home?”
Will you always say, “I’m going home for the holidays.”
And, if not, when does it become, “I’m going to my folk’s place for the holidays.”
When do you grow out of the home you grew up in?
I wrote something a while ago on a trip home for the holidays that seems to resonate more now that I have really been thinking of the definition of home.
“Coming home is like putting on an old coat that doesn’t quite fit any more.
You want it to.
So you suck in,
Don’t stretch out your arms,
Struggle with the zipper,
Watch that you don’t breathe too deeply.
All so that you can still say it is yours.
We all grow out of the home we grew up in.”
That’s the thing about writing. There’s something about the sequence of words splayed across a paper that changes meaning every time you look at. Words are like mood rings. They tend to reflect right back at you the feelings and emotions that you bring with you when you read them. So that every time you do, things seem a little different, and mean a slightly different thing to you.
Maybe that’s how home is. It’s always changing depending on where you are when you look back at it.
Enough of the philosophizing, and on to the meat and potatoes.
My days have been spent building, and…. sitting for hours looking at things that I have been building.
And the ridiculous amount of hours that I have spent looking at my half finished projects has made me realize – I am not very good at this building stuff.
I make mistakes all the time.
I spend hours undoing these mistakes and swearing that I won’t make them again.
And then I make them again.
Take for example – my most recent project – this spice rack:
I built this entirely out of reclaimed wood. The shelves were made from an old cellar door that was kindly rerouted to me on its way to the dumpster.
The first time around, every shelf was skewed upwards. Noticeably. Really, really skewed. SO skewed that I’m sure the spices would have rolled right off the poor thing if I had let it be – so I tore it apart and restarted.
The second time around, the top shelf was the only one not level. So, I suppose I should be thankful that I improved, but really I’m just ridiculously angry that I made the same mistake after I ripped the entire thing apart to rebuild it.
I believe I have learned my lesson to slow down, but I guess we’ll wait until my next project to see for sure. I’m still not entirely sure how it happened, – besides pure carelessness on my part. Or, maybe it was because I thought myself clever in rigging it up like this:
so that I wouldn’t have to hold the piece with one hand and screw with the other. Either way, I have a visible lesson to be more careful that is now hanging on my wall.
In any case, this was a fun project! The girl and I went wood scavengin’ and managed to find several good pieces of wood – so the only money spent was on the finishing work – stain, poly, and sandpaper.
I will admit that the wood needed quite a bit of work in terms of sanding, which was likely the most time intensive part of the project.
The spice rack was also my first experience with the Kreg Jig pocket hole system, which is pretty awesome.
So, the first project for the new place is completed and the spices are safely stashed away on the wall (they don’t even roll off!).
And that’s that. I promise to try my hardest to be more regular in my updates now that things are starting to settle into a bit of a routine here!
It has snowed in Vancouver the past few days. Apparently, from my observations, people can’t drive in the snow in Vancouver. Also, I managed to scrape some snow from the steps to build some snowmen. Unfortunately, I only remembered to take a picture after they were half melted.