Whetherized

Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me here!

Let’s talk about insulation. Exciting!! I know, I know. But really, I had no idea just how many steps can go into protecting one’s house from the elements. A staggering number of internet hours have been spent by my husband on the latest and greatest methods for warding off cold, heat, moisture and rot. He is now a self-educated expert, with strong ideas on all techniques. Seriously, ask him about it—you won’t believe how much there is to hear. At any rate, the process of insulating our gutted kitchen and new-build porch addition has taken months and is not finished. It is so boring to describe that I cannot even write about it without wanting to lay my head on the keyboard and slam the laptop upon it repeatedly. David talks about the details, and I glaze over like an icy windshield at 20 below. We have had arguments over the fact that I literally cannot remember anything he has told me about it, probably because I just don’t want to. Here are a few of the terms I can recall: membrane, cellulose, Canada, continuous external insulation, supply chain, spray foam, R-value, furring out, vapor barrier…(**cue Charlie Brown teacher voice). I cannot hear any more. I just want it DONE. At the rate we are going—and going is not entirely accurate as it indicates constant forward motion—this kitchen alone could take three more years! Friend, I am trying to stay married. Friend, I am trying to stay calm. Friend, I. Am. Struggling.

To be fair, as with last fall, things got in the way. As we often say, other fires had to be put out. In Minnesota there are seasons for everything. “Before The Snow Flies” is a big one, and over the past months that season on the farm included having the porch addition’s roof put on, spreading gravel on our long drive and parking area, building the back entry platform and steps, installing a kitchen garden deer fence, and adding a new mailbox with hefty post to withstand snowplow spray. Anything that needed to go into the ground before it froze solid took priority. We had help with all of these tasks, which I thought would free us up to focus on the kitchen. Instead, it entailed site preparation, materials sourcing, drawing up of plans, supervising and actually working alongside. These were all positive tasks and big improvements to the farm overall, but they took up time. Now that it is truly cold and the work has shifted indoors, the Omicron variant has altered our comfort level once again for having strangers come into our space to work. It’s 2020 on repeat. Some contractors here will wear masks if you ask, but most folks show up without. We all have Covid fatigue and people in rural areas like ours are simply not as much on guard from what I have witnessed. And I get it: masks are a pain in the ass. But that doesn’t mean I’m cool with people waltzing into our house unprotected after being on multiple job sites with unknown vaccination and exposure status. However, all of this is kind of a moot point given that fact that it’s almost impossible to find a contractor who A) is available and B) will show up. We’ve wasted weeks waiting for return calls and multiple weekends waiting for no shows. On top of this, we’ve had cancellations due to Covid infections—not surprising considering the mask scarcity. These past few months have felt like a downward spiral into renovation failure. Can you understand why I haven’t written to update you sooner? It's dull *and* depressing. I will sum up our status this way: we might have actual walls before Valentine’s Day. I hope so. 

When an uncomfortable circumstance sticks around too long, I try to ask myself why. Is the delay being caused by a lesson I’m just not getting? Or, if it is something I must simply learn to live with, how can I best do so? Where can I soften a sharp edge in my heart or mind so that I am not constantly rubbing up against the anger and resentment that discomfort makes me feel? Of course, I do not mean that I want to get used to dysfunction—be it in a relationship with another person or a house—but one must find a way to be ok when things are (at least partially) not ok. That is what this house is: chaos I cannot seem to tame. As a person who suffers from anxiety, and therefore has a fundamental need for control, I can say with certainty that living with a child, in a historic money-pit, while renovating, during a pandemic, is in the top three of the hardest things I’ve ever done. The other two involved death and divorce, just to give you some perspective. With those previous hard times, I worked very hard to find some kind of understanding in order to gain perspective and be able to move on. However, as I contemplated this current stalled step in our renovations, I just couldn’t figure out what the heck insulation had to tell me. So, I looked it up.

According to Princeton’s WordNet, insulation is defined as : “the act of protecting something by surrounding it with material that reduces or prevents the transmission of sound or heat or electricity.” Ok, that made sense. Secondly, it is defined as: “the state of being isolated or detached.” Interesting… And, finally, from Wiktionary, insulation can also be defined as: “the state of a body so separated.” Hmmmm. Hold on a sec. Isolation. Detachment. Separation. “A body so separated??” Taken literally, no wonder it has felt awful to be stuck in such a process. I thought insulation would be defined solely in terms of protection. I thought the words I’d find in the dictionary would be cozy, like a great big hug. Instead, by very definition, insulation can be about keeping distance and purposely being alone. In a world still wracked with this bloody Covid virus and its seemingly endless spinoffs, that rang a dreadfully familiar bell. After discovering these varied definitions, I gave the concept of insulation—in all its iterations—a lot of thought. The drawn-out pursuit of making an incredibly important part of our home livable felt cruel and, in seeking an explanation, I was hoping to find some meaning to make it feel less mean. So, here is what the past few months of contemplation uncovered.

As I said, I was originally thinking of insulation only in its first definition: one of sanctuary. This was also when I thought the project would be done more quickly, so that kind of tracks. It was all “safeguarding” and “security” to my mind. Now, at the same time as the insulation project started, I was cast in my first play since Covid began. Yay! During the 8 weeks of rehearsals and performances, I grew close to the cast and crew. I reveled in my long-desired return to work, the place where I always feel most myself. It occurred to me, as David worked on the kitchen and I worked at the theatre, that my job was a form of insulation. When I’m lucky enough to be working, the experience fortifies me for the times in between contracts when I can lose my center. Acting makes the act of living easier for me. If the cup of my soul is filled by my art frequently enough, I am better able to be the person I want to be offstage. So, as David was guarding our walls against cold nights, I was bolstering my heart against closing night. The gifts of the production were bountiful; it was glorious to have new friends, to laugh, and to make audiences laugh. The show was a delight, and through cast Covid testing every-other-day, and masking of the unvaccinated in attendance, we somehow got to perform a full run. It felt miraculous. When we took our final bow at the end of Thanksgiving weekend, I was brimming with gratitude and fulfillment. I felt surrounded by good. It was a wonderful example of the most positive definition of artistic insulation.

In quick order thereafter, December brought our daughter’s birthday and whiplashed my attention toward the holidays. Once I was no longer distracted by working outside our home, I saw how behind I’d gotten on the work inside. It took me some time to transition back to the real world. Once I did, it felt like an avalanche of ignored tasks overcame me. I had done the bare minimum of housework during the show because frankly, I wasn’t around as much. I needed to catch up on cleaning, organization, food shopping, backlogged laundry and quality time with my kid and husband. Also, because the future kitchen and porch addition were construction zones, there was a constant need to clear them out—despite the fact that they also contained our main entry door (with all the increasingly frigid weather gear dropped right inside), and the one sink in which to wash all dishes. I kept planning time to accomplish important tasks, only to find out that such-and-such was happening on the reno front and everything had to be removed from the work site. Please note: that is precisely why it is advisable NOT to live in a house you are working on. You spend at least half of your time shuttling life stuff around to accommodate construction stuff and most of the other half shuttling construction stuff around to accommodate life stuff. Blah, blah, blah. We chose this, I know. Clearly we are somewhat insane. But in our defense, we did not expect the pandemic and its effect on supplies and labor. And we are still learning the seasonal rhythms of construction in a cold climate. December was an intense re-entry for me into our domestic mayhem, coupled with the insanity that is Christmas and New Years when you have a child and two sets of grandparents. Work on the kitchen simply wasn’t the only focus, which added to its delay.

With the start of 2022 and the earnest continuation of the insulation process, those other more unexpected definitions resurfaced in my mind. I looked back on second one: “the state of being isolated or detached.” As Omicron threw us into a new and unexpected hibernation, it was hard to swallow the symbolism there. I can’t believe we have entered a new year and Covid is still with us, can you? I remember a scientist saying back in the early spring of 2020 that theatre as we knew it (with audience members sitting next to each other, unmasked) would likely not come back until 2022. As an actor who works mainly onstage, that was so devastating and unfathomable that I could not fully let it into my conscious brain. But here we are. So many ways of living are still compromised as we enter 2022. And though I was one of the lucky ones who finally got to work late last year, it was not without limitations and trepidations. Since we closed, most theatre is grounded once again. It’s cold out, but we should not gather in warmth. The isolation has returned. We are “insulated”..in the bad way. It is ironic, or not, that the virus feels like it will never end out there, just as our kitchen remodel feels like it will never end in here. You can run, but…

So. On to that last definition I found. “The state of a body so separated.” Talk about left field. Those words brought up an entirely different association for me, and I hope you don’t mind the deviation as I take you back a bit. In that brief time in early fall when the world felt a little safer, I finally went to see a new General Practitioner here in Minnesota. After our cross-country move, it was long overdue. Like so many others, for fear of exposure, I had put off being near a hospital whenever possible. However, I had some concerns that I wanted to check out: namely exhaustion, brain fog and changes in my metabolism. Since arriving here, I attributed these pesky issues to a lack of self-care and the general overwhelm I felt most days under all the circumstances that surrounded moving, parenting, the pandemic, and working on an old house. I did also worry that after giving birth, I had never really felt quite like myself. I had had a healthy pregnancy, but I wondered if my hormones were out of whack. I was curious to find out what was going on once and for all. Well, the new doctor ran labs and found nothing. Nada. Normal. I was…surprised. She said it could just be aging. I was…offended. She said there was no “magic pill.” I was…sad. A body so separated, indeed. 

Soon after, David told me about a woman he’d heard of in our adopted small town who works with groups and companies to connect members with their physical bodies as a way to improve their productivity, teamwork and lives. He didn’t know her name, just a vague reference to her business moniker. I spontaneously tracked her down a few days later through a rambling internet search and filled out a contact form on her website. It was kind of a shot in the dark. I had no idea if she worked with individuals, nor if her approach would help me. I just got brave for a second and pressed send. She answered the next day and offered to meet and chat. I was…excited! We sat in her screened-in gazebo and talked and talked. Her name was Karen, and she has now become a friend. At that first meeting, she listened generously to my confusion and concerns about my health. She believed my intuition that something was actually wrong and assured me that there were things I could do. She referred me to a Functional Medicine doctor in the Twin Cities and encouraged me to call immediately. I did. I waited six weeks for a zoom appointment, and when it came, I found another amazing listener. After considering the whole picture I presented, the new doc sent me in for some targeted labs. And there it was!! I was low in Vitamin D, Magnesium, Zinc and severely, or “lab low,” in B12. On top of this, my cortisol was very high. Guess what that combination can lead to? Uh-huh. Low energy, brain fog, low metabolism, plus a host of other nasties including increased anxiety and depression. IT WASN’T IN MY HEAD. I was given careful instructions to supplement these nutritional deficiencies and, especially with the introduction of pretty high doses of B12, the change came quickly. I remember a few days into the new regimen, I was driving to pick up my daughter after school, and I looked up at the sharply blue sky and the labyrinth of trees set against it and thought, “Is this how other people feel all the time?” I was alert. Not wired, but clear. It was like the difference between biting into a Honeycrisp and a Cortland. No comparison. I was awake until I went to sleep. What a change! The state of a body so separated…How interesting that during our period of home insulating, through continually seeking connection and *not* isolation, I found a way to heal that separation of body.

So, that’s kind of a mishmash of thoughts.I think what’s most striking to me as I mull over all of the above is the disparity between what I thought the definition of insulation was and all it turned out to be. I thought it was only going to be about comfort and instead, it was also about isolation. I envisioned being held close, safe in the arms of a peaceful protector, but by definition those arms can be there to hold everything else at bay. That’s two very different ways of approaching life, you know? Do you protect something by encircling it to keep it warm and safe, or do you protect something by blocking its foes? Defense versus offense. That feels pretty relevant right now as we come up to the second year this pandemic in a politically divided country. For much of time during these two years, we have been so alone. We have protected one another by staying apart. Even though it is the generous thing to do for others, it literally pushes them away. That is not the definition we knew. It turns out that there is more than one way to demonstrate caring, too. Whether you sheltered in place and masked, or refused to do either, we can probably agree that Covid and all its ramifications have been deeply uncomfortable. Our own extended process of adding insulation to the kitchen and porch, along with all the other challenges of renovation, has also felt endless and frustrating. It has been our personal long haul struggle, and it has paralleled our much larger, collective struggle. We are grappling with the same stuff as everyone else. Our battle for sanity is just happening on an extra front—though somehow it feels like the same war. I wonder how many of you have found places in your lives where such skirmishes have erupted alongside the main Covid fight?

I remembered something yesterday when thinking about all of this. I was switching back and forth between those different definitions and how fundamentally opposed they feel to me. In my head, I was building a case for the one I prefer, as if I had to chose. But then I heard a whisper: b o t h . When faced with two apparently opposite, yet equally valid points of view, sometimes you have to say AND, not OR. We are complex creatures, and we can embrace complex ideas. Life is messy as hell. It is rare, actually, that anything is all one way or all the other. Nothing is black and white, just shades of gray. Here’s what I know: we can safeguard each other by staying away from each other right now. We can be angry with our partners and still love them unequivocally. We can fully understand why things are the way they are and also want to stand on a rooftop screaming, “Whyyyyyyyy?!” to the universe. We can be so sick of having to stay home (again) and yet find moments of otherwise unattainable bliss in our own living rooms. The very hardest and bravest thing is to give oneself equal permission to be mad as hell right now and to also grab ANY AND ALL hints of joy, or peace, or even neutrality, and roll around in them like a clean horse in dirt. I am not good at any of this. It can be really scary to give into happiness. It would be so much easier to stay in a rotten mood. As silly as it may sound, I’m thinking our insulation has taken this long so that I’d be forced to look at all of its interpretations and be humbled. I do not want to chose between offense and defense, as if one makes me a better protector of what matters to me. I want to remember that the act of making things safe is different for all of us and may change along the way. To truly attain protection, there are times it will look like closeness and there are times it will look like distance. By definition, it is both. I ask myself to hold space for both. And what if “the state of a body so separated” actually means living inside of a body and mind in which two seemingly conflicting realities can stand side by side, given equal regard. Equal, but separate. Not or, but and. 

When our kitchen is finally done, I know it will be host to many new memories. Wrapped in its hard won walls, I hope I will remember the lesson they provided. Even when I want to push the world away, there is something calling for embrace. Even when I want to hold on tight, there is something that must go free. Even walls have to breathe, or they will rot. Isn’t that something?

I guess I was listening after all.