Words&Dirt

In January 2013, I was one of nearly 20,000 runners who participated in the 32nd Annual Ibusuki Nanohana Marathon in Kagoshima Prefecture, Japan. It was my first time running a marathon, and even though I spent months training, I had no idea if I would be able to finish. I was supposed to run with my friend Henry, a dashing British gentleman and fellow JET employee who originally inspired me to try running a marathon. Unfortunately, Henry injured himself just a few weeks before the race, so I ended up running solo.

Up until Henry’s injury, I trained thinking there would be someone with me during the entire race. Henry and I went on a series of long runs together to develop a pace and conversational rapport that would keep us energized and focused in Ibusuki These 20-30 km. runs through the Miyazaki countryside were some of the very best days I spent in my year working for JET. But when I learned I was going to have to run the marathon on my own, I realized it was going to be a very different psychological experience than I’d imagined. Trying something difficult for the first time in a foreign country where I couldn’t speak more than a few sentences of the native language, I would have to provide my own motivation.

The day of the race was cold, wet, and windy. No inclement weather, however, could have marred Ibusuki’s beauty. A peninsular city surrounded by lush countryside, farms, and row upon row of brilliant nanohana flowers (rapeseed), Ibusuki was breathtaking for the entire 42.195 km. Having accepted that I’d likely run the race in absolute solitude, I was pleasantly surprised when a man who looked remarkably like myself (i.e. not Japanese) picked me out of the crowd and kept pace with me for roughly the first 10 km. He turned out to be a friendly Christian pastor named Jeremiah who lived with his family and headed up a small missionary church in Kagoshima City. We spent the first quarter of the marathon swapping stories about our respective upbringings. He was also from California (wonder of wonders!), and had traveled over many continents and through several different religious transformations before returning to the faith he was raised with. A committed surfer and outdoor enthusiast, Jeremiah had already run four marathons before showing up in Ibusuki. Though I appreciated his company, I realized that I was probably going a bit slow for his optimal pace, so I eventually thanked him for introducing himself and gave him an opening to leave me behind.

For the rest of the race, I was on my own. The farther I went, the deeper into myself I seemed to sink. My fellow runners and the gorgeous, stormy greenery melted into multiform flows of ceaseless movement. The sound of spectators shouting “Ganbatte!” (“Do your best!”) into the howling wind became the constant echo of the land. The more my body hurt, the more I wanted to think about finishing, to game out the number of kilometers and bends in the road that still awaited me. Somewhere in the 25-35 km. range, I looked up and saw a huge volcano, shrouded in clouds, looming over the road. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this was Kaimondake, the pride of Ibusuki city. This implacable, exquisitely conical formation dwarfed my personal struggle and that of everyone around me. It was in that moment that I glimpsed my true fate: I would run forever. The race was never going to end. My legs would give out eventually, but the road would continue ceaselessly. Once I gave myself over to this realization, my pain became something vague and inaccessible. My body was flooded with gratitude, vigor, rapture. Entering the last leg of the race, I picked up my pace gradually with each kilometer and crossed the finish line at a dead sprint. For a good few minutes afterward, it was hard to accept that I wasn’t running anymore, that there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

It wasn’t until last week that I came to understand that, since the beginning of June, I’ve been running a different kind of marathon. Building our new garage and house addition seems to have little in common with my marathon experience: it didn’t take place in psychological isolation, it didn’t take months of training to prep for, and it certainly took more than a handful of hours to finish. And yet the process by which I was able to occasionally shed my sense of self and fully embody the activity at hand was marked by the same realization in each case: “the end” is an illusion, a story we tell ourselves to get by. And while it has some practical value, that same story often prevents us from accessing the simplest, most effective and painless ways of being. Obsessing over when something is going to get done throws up walls of anxiety and doubt, cutting off the opportunity to fully take in one’s experience of the moment.

So it was that I subconsciously convinced myself that this project would never reach completion. In a sense this was nothing more than a coping mechanism, but it was also a form of emancipation from the illusion of finality.

At the risk of immediate self-contradiction, I have an announcement: the house is done. Here’s how it happened.

Shelf brackets and hooks for the bedroom closet

Shelf and closet rod

This closet design is simple and convenient. As Sean pointed out to me, the wrap-around shelf and hanging rod ensure that we’ll have hanging space wherever we need it.

Other side

Simple shelves for hallway linen closet

For the linen closet, we decided on three shelves, two of which are quite shallow to provide more storage space on the floor and top shelf.

The biggest project this week was putting in the floor trim. Sean showed Matt and me how to make sure we nailed the trim into studs, and also how to cut the corners properly. The trick is to cut them at 46 degrees so the ends will form a nice clean corner. Any small gaps from imperfect cuts can then be caulked. Matt prepainted the trim so we’d only have to touch it up after installation. He also cut all of the corners very carefully. I followed him with the pin nailer and helped cut pieces for interior corners. After getting everything nailed, we caulked all joints and the top gap between the trim and wall.

Getting started

Trim around storage cubby

Stair landing trim

Breakfast nook

Bedroom and closet

The trim isn’t flashy, but it matches the windows and provides a clean, uncomplicated look that we are very happy with.

We also buttoned up the gutters. This one needed a custom piece that Sean melted partially to fit into the drainpipe.

Gutter

Sean also put in the exterior lights for the walkway between the garage and side doors. He and Ma unwittingly picked out the same lights online, so we figured they were the right way to go. They look great and weren’t too expensive.

Exterior light

Lit walkway

We spent the rest of the week doing touch-up painting and other odds and ends. Sean and Matt did a great job picking up the slack for me so I could do an extra day at Tule Fog Farm when Shail was sick in bed for a few days.

Spongy flooring for storage room

Carbonneau tiler came to finish the sink and bar

Front door painted

On Saturday, Bobby the plumber came by to do the last few plumbing jobs. Ma and Sean and I cleaned out the garage, hauled the rest of the trash to the dump, and did the final clean-up in the new house.

Garage cleaned out

Ma and Jessie pulling in for the first time

Sean and Matt with the finished product

Having turned 27 and finished building my own house in the same week, I have more to be thankful for than most. When I first met Dan and Sean, I’d never have guessed that, for me, the project would become so much more than just a job. It became a way of growing, a cultivation of friendships, a lesson in perseverance––a marathon. When Dan stepped down and Matt came on board, the personnel changed but the feelings of camaraderie and responsibility were the same. My deep gratitude also goes out to our designer Joann and architect Bonnie; without these two clever and resourceful women, this project could never have got off the ground.

Two of the less obvious participants in this process also merit acknowledgement: my grandmother Elaine and my late grandfather Vern. My mother and her parents haven’t always seen eye to eye, but over the years we’ve been the lucky recipients of enough inheritance to make this project financially feasible. Jessie and I don’t make much money, and there’s simply no way this could have happened for us without Grandma and Gramps. I won’t get the opportunity to show Vern the final result, but I like to think he’d recognize it as a job well done.

Everything I have I owe to my family and friends. They’ve supported me in this process every step of the way, celebrated on the good days and stuck it out on the bad ones. Ma and Jessie have been particularly compassionate in their handling a sometimes querulous and truculent partner/son. My father Terry and sister Michaela have also provided comfort and encouragement.

My last big thank you goes out to all of you––anyone reading this now or anyone who followed these journals over the last six months. Documenting this process has taken a lot of time and effort, and I couldn’t have kept it up without encouragement from you all. I hope my work has been entertaining, informative, and thoughtful enough for you to feel like reading it was not a waste of your time. Thanks for sticking with me, and I promise to do my best to ensure that everything I do on words&dirt will continue to deserve whatever attention you are generous enough to offer.

This journey has come to an end, but many more are just over the horizon. The finish line is not a line at all––it’s a circle.