“As if our resources are still what they were the day before we understood that the roof would no longer hold, as if we are not going to have to pay more than we ever thought we would, for something we hoped we’d never have to replace.”
Thank you thank you for letting me live in the land of sonorous and satisfying metaphor. Jocelyn spoke of bridges in her post this week; I am constructing a footpath through the “ land of one day at a time” using the wise, kind, true words of all my posse’s posts. Your roofs are my bridge.
I am gobsmacked by your fortitude and strength to focus and ability to craft this at this time. So grateful for your a poet heart and simultaneous mile-high/ skeletal vision, your survival skills, and the softness to experience and create in real time for us. As much as I appreciate hearing everyone’s raw truth this week, on a fundamental level, I crave metaphors that sing truth, words that are skeletons for stories of survival—even if they do not end in certainty. I want stories, grim fairy tales, lived, lost, reimagined.
A roof does so much work in life, this essay, but also in story in general— I can’t separate the idea of it from other work we discussed in SCHOOL this week. You have me considering metaphor/ the abstract/ and how they connect in such a powerful and fundamental way. The way when we read something like this it feels TRUE and just meant. Inevitable. The way it resolves an unfinished chord in a cadence we did not know we held in our ears and our breath. That “ a-ha” click we feel in our bones and soul.
In a week when nothing feels like it will ever be resolved and feel that way again, this piece does. So damn satisfying.
We may not see the fifty year life of that new roof, but the decision to pay for it brings its own resolution and satisfaction and the chance to read about it is its own roof for me. Thank you, Rita. For the time and for being here.
Emily, I run to your words in the comments like a child ready for dessert after a delicious supper! 😂 I find another hearty meal; digestifs so rich & layered.
My only mistake is now-I am full.
In sincerity, your responses are so complete & nuanced; so delicious & resonant-
Well- while you read my mind & heart & so often-
write them even better than I believe I could -
I simply can’t keep saying to myself- “Ah well, Emily’s said it all & said it best;”
true or not, allowing this notion to serve as my copout of sorts.
And I’m just talking about the comment section. 🙃
For it occurs to me now, I’ve been doing this more & more after every breathtaking piece I read too- like Rita’s here. (And as you mentioned- like Jocelyn’s piece y-day- which it occurs to me, I may not have commented on.)
(But noticing & admitting this is a Gift this morning so thank you, Emily.)
And Thank You @Rita.
Thank you for taking your Real, lived life & sharing it with us; for creating it in such a way that it became for me- like a treasure hunt of sorts-one with universal riddles with wise insights & resonant, recognizable truths.
Life, loss, strength, sacrifice, survival; the metaphors of roof, rain, rot; mold, marriage-even your children’s specific health struggles -
I, like Rita, am in awe of your ability to craft in real time with such clarity, & poise-to produce this gorgeous, resonant piece.
Colleen, I feel the same way about Emily's reads! I love the way you put it--dessert after a delicious supper. Thank you for being here and for your generous, genuine words.
You are a gift, Colleen! I love reading your comments and feel we vibrate in very similar frequencies! And if I am to be dessert, can I be please be creme brûlée ? And I never want my words to silence anyone else’s, we make a chorus here in the comments, and I have always loved singing in a chorus more than solo.
Oh, Emily. I, too, "crave metaphors that sing truth, words that are skeletons for stories of survival—even if they do not end in certainty. I want stories, grim fairy tales, lived, lost, reimagined." So I guess I made me some. 🙂 To speak a bit to process: For months and months, I have felt largely blocked in my writing. I attributed it to brain injury, but now I wonder if it wasn't more our collective breath-holding. The past week has been so hard in so many ways, but it also feels as if something has come unstuck. When it comes to me and writing, there's never any fortitude or strength or discipline. It comes as it comes (or doesn't). I'm grateful to have it, though, to help me get through what feels partly like exhaling and partly like free-falling and partly like being trapped in a funhouse of mirrors. (Boy, "funhouse" is sure a misnomer, isn't it?)
Just as I'm grateful for such a reader as you. Every writer should have an Emily, to help them see how a reader sees their work. Your close reads are such a gift, and I appreciate more than I can adequately express the care you take in both reading and writing to me about your reading.
Thank you so much for all of this. I love hearing about your process and that wondering. I am beginning to think those times I feel “ blocked” are just my conscious self trying to force something that is not fully cooked yet to the surface in a way a part of me knows is not the way to tell it yet. Maybe we are just waiting for the right moment and way to tell the stories we want to tell because the big ones
have their own schedule. St I grateful for the arrival of this one today, and for your fortitude in delivering it. I can’t be a reader without words to read. ❤️
The big ones sure do have their own schedule. When the words aren't coming (as they mostly have not in the past year) I've learned to just accept it. I feel fortunate that I have the luxury of doing that. I don't need the words for my livelihood.
I was hesitant to speak to my struggle for I knew, you being empathetic & so “in-tune”-(this musical reference it now occurs to me- especially fitting, for I Adore your proficiency & generosity in the world of music & melody)- might fear exactly this.
As soon as I thought it though- wasn’t it Precisely then I had to write it- so that my silence wouldn’t make it true (even falsely- to me)?🤔😉
Which- it was-of course-a lie. (One of many I use out of fear.)
To use musical language, (of which I am largely illiterate-but for the tiniest segment that overlaps with nervous system care-)
Your words are the opposite of silencing. They are vibratory resonance; an invitation to come in to coherence.
I needed only to remember that each ‘voice’ together here (including even mine😉) (with their subtle or not so subtle varieties of textures, pitch, tempos, octaves)- well- we all come together to make the choir; to offer variety & balance, don’t we?😃 Just as you said!
And while I’m surely wildly 🤪wearing out this mixed up metaphor, I can’t help but also remember how important it can be to melody, to performance, to group chemistry & in fact the Fun! & Joy! of “singing” in the first place-
to do so within a community filled with not just voices, but hearts & souls of humans you both respect & trust!!
This is the very opposite of silencing, Emily. And I, -dare I say We All-Love you for how you inspire us to sing. 🎶 ♥️
Ps-Crème Brûlée indeed!! 😋 In a painted porcelain ramekin with its sugared top torched to crystalline perfection.
Everything Emily says. Rita, this is so satisfying and exactly what I need. I’m listening to the audio on repeat. Also, I keep seeing this published somewhere, like maybe The Sun magazine. Wouldn’t that be nice - the rain and sun coexisting. 🌞
In the app! At least the version for iPhones. There’s a little “play” triangle in the top right corner of every post. (Not Notes though, nor the comments.) It must be AI. Sometimes the voice is male, sometimes female. I can’t figure out how to change it. But it’s nice to listen to when I’m in the kitchen or doing chores! I was making lunch when I listened to your story, Rita.
Ooooh I would love to listen to you read! Also I just watched the video. I know that Pacific Northwest rain! We’ve already had some big atmospheric rivers this year.
I took the little video because it was not how rain usually is here--falling heavier and faster than we are used to. Or than I am used to; in my mind, rain is supposed to be light, slow, steady. The kind that doesn't require an umbrella.
This is a sad tale but told so well and I identify with it all hugely. (Also, there is that old expression that "It never rains but it pours" meaning everything happens at once). Best take-away. line here for me was: *My peace of mind had been breached.* SO good, so true!
My own story has familiar notes. A number of years ago, when my cherished husband of nearly 3 decades left us suddenly, unexpectedly, it was like the house turned against me overnight: the previously dry basement flooded (the cat's litter tray floated by!) three major appliances died in quick, expensive succession, water randomly poured through 3 pot lights in kitchen ceiling when a pipe burst and also I didn't understand about turning the outside tap off and on during a Canadian winter so there were yet more issues with flooding. (Also, tragically, three much loved dogs and our cats became ill almost simultaneously and had to be euthanized). I cannot tell you how I got through those first years (I have an image of my young son with a yachting mop in the basement trying to help me bail out water as I wept at 10 pm). Anyway, not to wallow, honestly, but just to say I GET THIS - and I am so relieved that your mold is now dealt with. Excellent writing - and much to learn and admire here. Thank you.
Oh, Sue. What a flood of hardship and pain, literal and metaphorical! I know you got through those hard years because you just had to. When my twins were babies, I got so many "I don't know how you do it" sorts of comments, and I always wanted to say, "Do I have another choice?" Nope, we so often don't. That is an almost unimaginable storm of losses, though. I'm so sorry you had to live your way through that.
"It can be hard to know the true beginning of something. If I told you that the water leak and all that came with it was the beginning of the end of my previous marriage, it might seem absurd."
This entire essay is a deep ponder. This seeing the larger reality borne out of current circumstance is something I want to think about.
I understand the notion of just wanting the roof / home / life / world to be right. To be able to depend upon it not just for ourselves but for those who come after.
Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and sharing. As I've been coming to terms with where we all are (for what's happening is not just a US problem), I've been pondering deeply about how we got here, and what "here" is going to require of me. I'm so glad to know that my way of expressing the thinking have value for you.
I couldn't help but read it as a metaphor for the state of the state right now, that leaky roof. We'd probably all worried it wouldn't hold up forever, but were so hopeful, naively thinking it might.
Taking a deep breath here. When things go wrong, my youngest daughter goes all Jeopardy and says, "I'll take 'shit show' for 300." That you took these pieces and made such a beautiful essay to share with us, at this moment in our country's history, astonishes me. Thank you.
Roofs! *meh* We've had a few go arounds with roofs and I gotta say it's the most boring use of money ever. And that's before you get to the point of picking the right one that goes with your exterior, you hope. HOWEVER a better roof is better than a lesser one and becomes a resale feature when you sell which eventually you will. Kind of like a President, better to have a better one than a lesser one. Just saying...
This is exactly what I said to the roof guy! There is no dopamine hit from buying a new roof. We're not even changing anything about the appearance--putting on the same style of shingle, in the same color. (We also have a garage and a shed, which don't need the roof replaced, and we don't want the house roof to be different from those roofs.) And, exactly like a President. Get the buckets out...
Rita, I read this while on a work "retreat" (I keep thinking that's a misnomer) and must have formed a comment in my head that I didn't end up having time to share, because I really thought I'd left some feedback already.
First, on a practical note, I'm sorry you're having to contend with this now, and that you had to deal with it once before, only worse, and that there is residual, bone-deep hurt from it all.
Metaphorically, this could not be more perfect, and I love you for seeing that and sharing it with us. Everything from the protection we expect, to the slow, insidious leak, to the upfront and hidden costs, to wanting it to be strong for the next owner. The "illusions of certainty" stayed with me probably because I've been having to come to terms with how little control I've ever had and how easily I slip back into believing otherwise.
After reading this, I dreamed about discovering black mold in our house, how I returned home to find great swaths of wallpaper (which we don't have) torn down but still dangling, and how I understood, then, why it had been so hard to breathe. We manage.
Thank you for this timely and beautifully written piece.
Thank you for taking the time--whenever you can--to let me know how my essays land for you. I struggle with illusions of certainty, too. Although, I think more things were certain at earlier times in my life, and that what is certain now is that more things will be uncertain. Or maybe I can just see more clearly now. May that terrible dream of yours never come true!
“As if our resources are still what they were the day before we understood that the roof would no longer hold, as if we are not going to have to pay more than we ever thought we would, for something we hoped we’d never have to replace.”
Thank you thank you for letting me live in the land of sonorous and satisfying metaphor. Jocelyn spoke of bridges in her post this week; I am constructing a footpath through the “ land of one day at a time” using the wise, kind, true words of all my posse’s posts. Your roofs are my bridge.
I am gobsmacked by your fortitude and strength to focus and ability to craft this at this time. So grateful for your a poet heart and simultaneous mile-high/ skeletal vision, your survival skills, and the softness to experience and create in real time for us. As much as I appreciate hearing everyone’s raw truth this week, on a fundamental level, I crave metaphors that sing truth, words that are skeletons for stories of survival—even if they do not end in certainty. I want stories, grim fairy tales, lived, lost, reimagined.
A roof does so much work in life, this essay, but also in story in general— I can’t separate the idea of it from other work we discussed in SCHOOL this week. You have me considering metaphor/ the abstract/ and how they connect in such a powerful and fundamental way. The way when we read something like this it feels TRUE and just meant. Inevitable. The way it resolves an unfinished chord in a cadence we did not know we held in our ears and our breath. That “ a-ha” click we feel in our bones and soul.
In a week when nothing feels like it will ever be resolved and feel that way again, this piece does. So damn satisfying.
We may not see the fifty year life of that new roof, but the decision to pay for it brings its own resolution and satisfaction and the chance to read about it is its own roof for me. Thank you, Rita. For the time and for being here.
Yes yes yes. 🙌
Emily, I run to your words in the comments like a child ready for dessert after a delicious supper! 😂 I find another hearty meal; digestifs so rich & layered.
My only mistake is now-I am full.
In sincerity, your responses are so complete & nuanced; so delicious & resonant-
Well- while you read my mind & heart & so often-
write them even better than I believe I could -
I simply can’t keep saying to myself- “Ah well, Emily’s said it all & said it best;”
true or not, allowing this notion to serve as my copout of sorts.
And I’m just talking about the comment section. 🙃
For it occurs to me now, I’ve been doing this more & more after every breathtaking piece I read too- like Rita’s here. (And as you mentioned- like Jocelyn’s piece y-day- which it occurs to me, I may not have commented on.)
(But noticing & admitting this is a Gift this morning so thank you, Emily.)
And Thank You @Rita.
Thank you for taking your Real, lived life & sharing it with us; for creating it in such a way that it became for me- like a treasure hunt of sorts-one with universal riddles with wise insights & resonant, recognizable truths.
Life, loss, strength, sacrifice, survival; the metaphors of roof, rain, rot; mold, marriage-even your children’s specific health struggles -
I, like Rita, am in awe of your ability to craft in real time with such clarity, & poise-to produce this gorgeous, resonant piece.
Thank You.
Colleen, I feel the same way about Emily's reads! I love the way you put it--dessert after a delicious supper. Thank you for being here and for your generous, genuine words.
Thank You for feeding me♥️🥰
You are a gift, Colleen! I love reading your comments and feel we vibrate in very similar frequencies! And if I am to be dessert, can I be please be creme brûlée ? And I never want my words to silence anyone else’s, we make a chorus here in the comments, and I have always loved singing in a chorus more than solo.
Oh, Emily. I, too, "crave metaphors that sing truth, words that are skeletons for stories of survival—even if they do not end in certainty. I want stories, grim fairy tales, lived, lost, reimagined." So I guess I made me some. 🙂 To speak a bit to process: For months and months, I have felt largely blocked in my writing. I attributed it to brain injury, but now I wonder if it wasn't more our collective breath-holding. The past week has been so hard in so many ways, but it also feels as if something has come unstuck. When it comes to me and writing, there's never any fortitude or strength or discipline. It comes as it comes (or doesn't). I'm grateful to have it, though, to help me get through what feels partly like exhaling and partly like free-falling and partly like being trapped in a funhouse of mirrors. (Boy, "funhouse" is sure a misnomer, isn't it?)
Just as I'm grateful for such a reader as you. Every writer should have an Emily, to help them see how a reader sees their work. Your close reads are such a gift, and I appreciate more than I can adequately express the care you take in both reading and writing to me about your reading.
Thank you so much for all of this. I love hearing about your process and that wondering. I am beginning to think those times I feel “ blocked” are just my conscious self trying to force something that is not fully cooked yet to the surface in a way a part of me knows is not the way to tell it yet. Maybe we are just waiting for the right moment and way to tell the stories we want to tell because the big ones
have their own schedule. St I grateful for the arrival of this one today, and for your fortitude in delivering it. I can’t be a reader without words to read. ❤️
The big ones sure do have their own schedule. When the words aren't coming (as they mostly have not in the past year) I've learned to just accept it. I feel fortunate that I have the luxury of doing that. I don't need the words for my livelihood.
🥰 Awe, Thank You Emily.
I was hesitant to speak to my struggle for I knew, you being empathetic & so “in-tune”-(this musical reference it now occurs to me- especially fitting, for I Adore your proficiency & generosity in the world of music & melody)- might fear exactly this.
As soon as I thought it though- wasn’t it Precisely then I had to write it- so that my silence wouldn’t make it true (even falsely- to me)?🤔😉
Which- it was-of course-a lie. (One of many I use out of fear.)
To use musical language, (of which I am largely illiterate-but for the tiniest segment that overlaps with nervous system care-)
Your words are the opposite of silencing. They are vibratory resonance; an invitation to come in to coherence.
I needed only to remember that each ‘voice’ together here (including even mine😉) (with their subtle or not so subtle varieties of textures, pitch, tempos, octaves)- well- we all come together to make the choir; to offer variety & balance, don’t we?😃 Just as you said!
And while I’m surely wildly 🤪wearing out this mixed up metaphor, I can’t help but also remember how important it can be to melody, to performance, to group chemistry & in fact the Fun! & Joy! of “singing” in the first place-
to do so within a community filled with not just voices, but hearts & souls of humans you both respect & trust!!
This is the very opposite of silencing, Emily. And I, -dare I say We All-Love you for how you inspire us to sing. 🎶 ♥️
Ps-Crème Brûlée indeed!! 😋 In a painted porcelain ramekin with its sugared top torched to crystalline perfection.
😍🥰❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Everything Emily says. Rita, this is so satisfying and exactly what I need. I’m listening to the audio on repeat. Also, I keep seeing this published somewhere, like maybe The Sun magazine. Wouldn’t that be nice - the rain and sun coexisting. 🌞
Yes yes yes! I am hoping you submit it! And how did I not see the audio option??!!
I can't see an audio option--learn something new all the time 🙂
In the app! At least the version for iPhones. There’s a little “play” triangle in the top right corner of every post. (Not Notes though, nor the comments.) It must be AI. Sometimes the voice is male, sometimes female. I can’t figure out how to change it. But it’s nice to listen to when I’m in the kitchen or doing chores! I was making lunch when I listened to your story, Rita.
I didn't know that was there! Thank you for the info. I don't really like that AI voice. Might have to try recording the next one 🙂
Ooooh I would love to listen to you read! Also I just watched the video. I know that Pacific Northwest rain! We’ve already had some big atmospheric rivers this year.
I took the little video because it was not how rain usually is here--falling heavier and faster than we are used to. Or than I am used to; in my mind, rain is supposed to be light, slow, steady. The kind that doesn't require an umbrella.
What a compliment--thank you! Also, how do you listen to it?
This is a sad tale but told so well and I identify with it all hugely. (Also, there is that old expression that "It never rains but it pours" meaning everything happens at once). Best take-away. line here for me was: *My peace of mind had been breached.* SO good, so true!
My own story has familiar notes. A number of years ago, when my cherished husband of nearly 3 decades left us suddenly, unexpectedly, it was like the house turned against me overnight: the previously dry basement flooded (the cat's litter tray floated by!) three major appliances died in quick, expensive succession, water randomly poured through 3 pot lights in kitchen ceiling when a pipe burst and also I didn't understand about turning the outside tap off and on during a Canadian winter so there were yet more issues with flooding. (Also, tragically, three much loved dogs and our cats became ill almost simultaneously and had to be euthanized). I cannot tell you how I got through those first years (I have an image of my young son with a yachting mop in the basement trying to help me bail out water as I wept at 10 pm). Anyway, not to wallow, honestly, but just to say I GET THIS - and I am so relieved that your mold is now dealt with. Excellent writing - and much to learn and admire here. Thank you.
Oh, Sue. What a flood of hardship and pain, literal and metaphorical! I know you got through those hard years because you just had to. When my twins were babies, I got so many "I don't know how you do it" sorts of comments, and I always wanted to say, "Do I have another choice?" Nope, we so often don't. That is an almost unimaginable storm of losses, though. I'm so sorry you had to live your way through that.
"It can be hard to know the true beginning of something. If I told you that the water leak and all that came with it was the beginning of the end of my previous marriage, it might seem absurd."
This entire essay is a deep ponder. This seeing the larger reality borne out of current circumstance is something I want to think about.
I understand the notion of just wanting the roof / home / life / world to be right. To be able to depend upon it not just for ourselves but for those who come after.
I'm so touched by your writing. Thank you.
Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and sharing. As I've been coming to terms with where we all are (for what's happening is not just a US problem), I've been pondering deeply about how we got here, and what "here" is going to require of me. I'm so glad to know that my way of expressing the thinking have value for you.
I couldn't help but read it as a metaphor for the state of the state right now, that leaky roof. We'd probably all worried it wouldn't hold up forever, but were so hopeful, naively thinking it might.
I know I sure did. 💜
Taking a deep breath here. When things go wrong, my youngest daughter goes all Jeopardy and says, "I'll take 'shit show' for 300." That you took these pieces and made such a beautiful essay to share with us, at this moment in our country's history, astonishes me. Thank you.
I'd probably enjoy deconstructing the current situation with your daughter. 🙂 Thank you for the kind words.
I used to feel sad about not being here in 50 years. Now, it feels hopeful—and that makes me feel sad.
Oh, Kari. Can you hear my big, deep sigh? I know.
Roofs! *meh* We've had a few go arounds with roofs and I gotta say it's the most boring use of money ever. And that's before you get to the point of picking the right one that goes with your exterior, you hope. HOWEVER a better roof is better than a lesser one and becomes a resale feature when you sell which eventually you will. Kind of like a President, better to have a better one than a lesser one. Just saying...
This is exactly what I said to the roof guy! There is no dopamine hit from buying a new roof. We're not even changing anything about the appearance--putting on the same style of shingle, in the same color. (We also have a garage and a shed, which don't need the roof replaced, and we don't want the house roof to be different from those roofs.) And, exactly like a President. Get the buckets out...
Rita, I read this while on a work "retreat" (I keep thinking that's a misnomer) and must have formed a comment in my head that I didn't end up having time to share, because I really thought I'd left some feedback already.
First, on a practical note, I'm sorry you're having to contend with this now, and that you had to deal with it once before, only worse, and that there is residual, bone-deep hurt from it all.
Metaphorically, this could not be more perfect, and I love you for seeing that and sharing it with us. Everything from the protection we expect, to the slow, insidious leak, to the upfront and hidden costs, to wanting it to be strong for the next owner. The "illusions of certainty" stayed with me probably because I've been having to come to terms with how little control I've ever had and how easily I slip back into believing otherwise.
After reading this, I dreamed about discovering black mold in our house, how I returned home to find great swaths of wallpaper (which we don't have) torn down but still dangling, and how I understood, then, why it had been so hard to breathe. We manage.
Thank you for this timely and beautifully written piece.
Thank you for taking the time--whenever you can--to let me know how my essays land for you. I struggle with illusions of certainty, too. Although, I think more things were certain at earlier times in my life, and that what is certain now is that more things will be uncertain. Or maybe I can just see more clearly now. May that terrible dream of yours never come true!