The Evolving Project

Projects don't end; they evolve and spread from one edge and surface to the next, from wall to door to wall, with new paint next to old and bright surfaces shining on dull. In particular, the bathroom door needs to be stripped and painted because whoever painted it white did not bother to clean it first. I didn't really notice this until I painted the door frames.

Years ago, mom came to see me in my old house. I had just put in a new kitchen counter top, and I can remember that she found something positive to say after I told her my plans to fix up the rest of the kitchen and to then fix up the small dining room that (I can see it now and shudder) had a portion of the ceiling eaten away from moisture damage. The truth was that nothing could be done to salvage that old house in Arkansas--it would benefit only from a bulldozer. Mom always tried to make things brighter.

Though our house now is not beyond repair, work needs to be done in every direction. The walls outside the bathroom are cracked, mostly from the demolition job and my repeated whacks with the sledge hammer. The floors in my office need repair and refinishing. The old attic fan lets daylight into the house (that can't be good). It goes on and on.

But I still linger at the bathroom door and admire the tile--not my tile-laying but the tile itself, at how it shines an emerald green. I'm on break.