Somehow the days have slipped into weeks and the weeks into months, and I have yet to make any real progress toward rebuilding the interior. I've thought about it many times, and though thought ought to precede action, the action part isn't always guaranteed, the exigencies of life too often diverting my attention. So there she sits, waiting for me to continue the work. And now with winter rapidly approaching, the falling mercury forces me to acknowledge that it's unlikely I'll be able to get anything done until the spring. And so, another year has come and gone, and I have little to show for it.
Despite the lack of progress, I am not dispirited. In a sort of backward postmodern way (is that redundant?), I undertook the Alberg 30 project as a kind of Thoreauvian exercise: I wanted to live deliberately and so - here's where it gets really backwards - I complicated my life with the dream of restoring a classic sailboat so that I wouldn't come to the end of my life only to discover that I had never truly lived. Does that make sense? (In keeping with the postmodern attitude: It doesn't matter if it makes sense because it does to me.) Restoring the boat is a genuine living experience. There's a clarity and peacefulness that comes from spending a few hours working with my hands while my mind is free to wander.
So, rather than dragging my barn behind me, I've found a more modern and romantic way of doing penance. Of course I'd like to make progress, but I am not at all inclined to flagellate myself for my slow progress. It's a process, and I intend to enjoy every day of my stay in the woods.
