Regrowth

To pose a question from an old standard: How do you measure a year? Two years ago, almost to the day, we bought an old, run-down house up-state. It’s three hours north—if we don’t hit traffic in the Bronx—but it’s on twenty-eight secluded acres. I have dreams to build out a studio, and Neal has space to garden. But first, there is so much to do.

The first winter we painted almost every surface we could. Spring gave us a chance to start on plantings, to see what previous caretakers left behind—we were so surprised to find huge lilac bushes, emerging from the frost into bright purple and magenta blooms. (They reminded me of the lilacs at the end of my block growing up. I’m sure that house has been demolished by now, replaced with something newer, fancier.) In the summer I bought an inflatable kiddie pool and sat and sunbathed while reading my kindle in the meadow. In the fall, I started sanding down the original pine floor boards, one plank at a time with my orbital sander. Fall gave winter, and then to another spring and summer. More sanding. The roof still needs to be replaced. The stone foundation could use some attention...

I watch time pass in fits and stops. Life gets busy and a few weeks go by between visits—the rhododendron has already bloomed; or the sugar maple, once red and vibrant, has since lost its leaves. To think of all that happens in a year, I can’t help but think of that which hasn’t happened, or has even regressed. Our parents are getting older, our friends are having kids. Life isn’t so much a circle as a spiral. I just can’t tell if things are going up or down.