“This is what we’ve been dreaming about for six years”, I said turning to Gary.
We did it, Octobr 2022. We were finally in “Casa Milagro,” enjoying our first cup of coffee on the expansive second floor balcony outside our bedroom, still in our PJs. For years, we talked about – dreamed about - this simple morning ritual out on this deck. “Casa Milagro”, is the name we gave this dream before purchasing even a single tool. Little did we know how prophetic naming our home, “The Miracle House” would be as we navigated a journey fraught with skullduggery, drudgery and danger.
Imagining this small moment kept us going through the arduous and many times terrifying years of planning and building our home ourselves. Just as Tom Hanks character in Cast Away dreams of his girl back home to keep from losing all hope on that desert island, so too did I dream of this balcony moment to hang onto my hope through this long, uncertain quest.
This morning, I woke up thinking about my snake dream. Sure, I could go all Freudian and figure it had something to do with the toe-curling sex I had last night. Or reason it was the result of a rather “toxin” passive aggressive text I received from a friend yesterday. The fact that there were several snakes could also represent the recent multiple health issues I’ve unexpectedly come up against (the staff with a snake entwined is a century old symbol of medicine). But I think it’s more symbolic of transformation as I shed my "Building my own house" dream – and move onto something else. I've changed and transformed.
I followed my dream and fulfilled it.
An odyssey of six years.
Now where do I go from here?
For years, I flitted from pride and excitement to hopelessness and despair while building the house. I questioned the sanity of what we were doing. On Facebook, I’d see my Boomer classmates enjoying grandchildren, celebrating decades of marital bliss, travelling, retiring or selling “the family home” and moving into a downsized house overlooking a pretty lake. And here Gary and I were, slogging through another weekend of construction, throwing piles of debris into the huge “roll off”, sealing an endless amount of wood, putting up walls or digging sprinkler trenches while avoiding the stench from the porta potty in the hot Texas sun.
My fears, regrets, anger and despair were thoughts and feelings Gary would refuse to entertain. “There’s only going forward, we can't go back,” he’d say. “Plan our work and work our plan,” was his mantra. And my favorite, "We don't cry on the construction site!!" was sometimes shouted at me when I was doing just that. I knew he was right, but it didn’t make me feel any less lonely or afraid.
At night my mind raced. Fear took hold in the dark and wrapped itself around me (like a snake?), cutting off my ability to sleep and perchance dream (one of those pleasant ones I used to have). I no longer found solace in my design books, salivating over beautiful light fixtures I wanted, but couldn’t afford. This once beloved activity morphed into a gripping dose of reality – we were running out of money and time. Finishing the house was never guaranteed.
Too anxious to read, listen to music or watch TV, I made up a game. My antidote to insomnia was to conjure up one place in the house – finished and then decorate it.
In the dark, I'd think about all my stuff stowed away in boxes and imagine which one I'd hang on a beautifully painted wall: Milton Glaser’s psychedelic, iconic ‘60s Dylan poster? The ceramic candle holder molded from the artist’s real hand? The framed Wayang leather puppet purchased in Malaysia? The African intrically beaded lizard tapestry? My collection of found birds nests? The hand carved musicians I nabbed in Singapore? The Santos I found in Puerto Rico? The piglet carved from a gourd discovered in a Guatemalan market? The wood carvings done for me by a street vendor in The Bahamas? Or perhaps the conical hat the women of the Iban Indian tribe gave me when I stayed in their Longhouse in Borneo?
This nightly mental design puzzle would distract me enough to put fear aside and get some sleep. I played this game with myself in the dark every night for six years.
Our landlord of three years sent me a text giving us two weeks to move out so he could sell his townhouse. A chicken shit way to get rid of us, but reflective of this weasel of a man and his inconsiderate wife. We told him 30 days and then like Tasmanian devils, made sure we had one working bathtub, electricity, water and a couple of toilets ready for our unexpected move into Casa Milagro.
It was an obscene two weeks moving lights, toilets, fixtures, sinks, tile and tools out of the townhouse and into our one car so we could schlep (in over 2 dozen trips) it all over to the still-under-contruction house. We had to make room in the townhouse to pack up the kitchen, bathrooms and bedrooms before the “real” movers arrived in less than a week.
When they got to Casa Milagro, they refused to move anything upstairs as we didn’t yet have the money or time to put in any railing. So, they piled our beds, mattresses, dressers, nightstands, lamps, desks, clothes, toiletries and furniture into the already crowded open living area. One-by-one Gary, Tucker and I moved it all to the second floor ourselves.
Our first night in the house Gary and Tucker and I slept on mattresses on the floor. My spirit was depleted and I guess since we were finally "moved in", my body shut down. The adrenaline left and in its place was aching bones as I’d never felt before (and this coming from someone working contruction for years).
I closed my eyes to conjure up my mental design game to get some sleep and silence the constant nervous vibration of my body that wouldn't stop.
But Nothing. Nada. Nichts.
Like a drunk guy giving it his best, I couldn’t get it up. The door was locked. The spigot off. The flame gone. I was shut out. I could no longer imagine.
I was taken completely by surprise at how my creative mind just up and left me.
I’d lost the one thing that got me through years of anxiety-filled sleepless nights. This little game had been my friend, my solace in the darkest of times. My mind no longer needed to conjure up of a wall, where one day a piece of art would hang. I could see the real wall from my vantage point on the mattress. And after five years, I could actually unbox my stuff and hang things up.
The game was over and I guess I had won. I didn’t need to dream or imagine anymore. But I didn’t feel like a winner. I still felt scared and alone. What could I do at night to take my mind off all the work we still had to do? Why was I suddenly so fucking tired? Will my body forgive me for the physical and mental stress I’d put it through for so many years? Do I still have the energy and desire to keep pushing?
When we started this journey, Tucker was in middle school. Now, he's in college. Did we do the right thing by him?
People are excited that we finally moved into the house (and so are we), but nagging thoughts still plague me: Can we earn the money to not just finish the house, but break free of our new credit card debt? And do Gary and I have the energy and stamina to do it? We hadn’t yet built closets and bookshelves or finish painting, tiling the bathrooms and kitchen or tend to any landscaping. We still don’t have a stove. And there's the matter of those pesky handrails for the staircase and the long bridge traversing the second floor, which we still can’t afford to purchase and install.
Despite being in the house, sleepless nights still haunt me. But my Jedi mind trick no longer works. My mind has nowhere to go. The trick I used to get myself here…the dream fulfilled…has played out.
Sometimes, I enjoy my coffee downstairs on the patio. I survey this wonderful home we’ve built. I now know what it takes to erect brick walls, weld steel posts, design a kitchen, map out a lighting plan, build cabinets, tile floors and seal hundreds of hard wood planks and cabinets.
I now understand dreaming big is not all that matters, you have to work really, really hard to fulfill your dream. And despite my objections, planning your work and working your plan really can see you through to the end.
I understand that a partner in crime, but mostly in grime, can make any treacherous journey feel less treacherous. And in the blink of six years, the fulfillment of a dream is much better shared than celebrating the feat alone.
I now see that Casa Milagro is not just a miracle that a house was built, but the journey itself. And my transformation is miraculous, too.
I don't know what's next or the direction I'm heading.
But what I'm certain of now is that if I can dream it, I can make it happen.