On Saturday Phil and I went over to Paul and Kimberly's to help them demolish their kitchen. We got to wield large sharp tools, and pound holes in things, and listen to the sound of splintering boards as we ripped them from the studs. Phil got ahold of their battle axe--which is every bit as gnarly as it sounds--and went to town on the ceiling, which was soon all over the floor in a huge jumble of lath and plaster. The cleaning up post-destruction was not nearly as fun as the destruction itself, but we got it bagged and out into the dump truck with remarkable speed.
It's impressive how much stuff it takes to make a wall. You don't realize the sheer volume of material surrounding you until you rearrange it. Busting things apart can feel good, peeling back the layers, seeing what's underneath. It's an obvious metaphor for what we must do to ourselves from time to time. You have to be careful not to rip away too much; you have to watch for live wires and make sure you don't weaken a supporting beam. Then you have to get rid of the mess, figure out what might be reusable, and throw the rest away.
Then you are left standing in an empty room. You are down to the bare bones and you must start again, all the time asking yourself, what do I really need? What would make this space more useful, more beautiful, more like home? Hopefully, we paid attention during the demolition and we know what works and what doesn't. We start out with intention, and we pound each nail slowly.
