Option 3

There is movement on the house front. We have been stuck about which direction to take and the architects have been blowing us off—which didn’t even matter so much because we didn’t know what guidance to offer. We have been dealing with what looked like an imperfect choice: to go upstairs or not. Option 1: Do we go up and put all the bedrooms upstairs and change the roofline and pour heaps of money in the house? This has the advantage of getting us all the rooms we need (plus some, actually) and the double disadvantage of being totally expensive and, quite possibly, being quite ugly to look at from the outside (because the roof would have to get very lumpy with dormers and altered rooflines to make space). Option 2: Do we keep all the bedrooms downstairs and not change the roofline? Advantages are that we keep the line of the house and we save the bucks—and it’s way way faster because we don’t need any permissions from neighbors or others to deal with the sunlight encroachment issues. Disadvantages are that we don't have enough space and maybe I go back to having dreams of extra rooms each night as I used to in Cambridge. Michael and I have been frustrated and stuck, with no help from the architects, who keep insisting the ugly roof line is fine once you get used to it.

It took a third party, mulling it over, to think of option 3. Last week K had an idea: we could take the best parts of Option 1 and 2. We could up into the roof for only part of the way, drop the ceilings over the kitchen and bathroom (to get the height we’d need for the second floor without bumping out the roofline) and build an upstairs room over the back of the house. That biggish attic room will have views to the sea from the skylights, lovely views to the hills out the back, and a small bathroom. The roofline stays untouched, the plan is way less expensive, and we get everything we want from the house (including the room we call “Rob’s room” to answer the question one or another of us always asks: “Where will Rob stay when he comes back?”). Once I understood it, I loved the plan. Michael loved the plan. Even the kids loved the plan. The question was: could we get the architects (who say “No, because…” to everything we come up with) to understand and draw us the plan?

Yesterday, on a day when I mostly stayed in bed recovering from this flu thing, we had the fateful afternoon meeting. We met at the house, and, because I was supposed to be at work, Michael asked K to be there for back up (and because it is his idea and he could explain it more clearly than anyone). The architects began with “no, because…” and explained that the ugly roofline was fine. After firm clarity from Michael and gentle questions from K, the architects finally understood what Option 3 was all about. And they even got the "option-3-ness" about it. "This will be HEAPS cheaper than the other plan!" one said. "This gives you all the room you need!" said the other. Bingo.

There was a shift in the emotional feel of the room that was so palpable I bet everyone in the village could feel it. We began to all work on this new plan together, the architect saying (about the loft idea I had for the kids’ rooms) “Yeah—I did one of these last year in Parametta,” and the draftsman telling us about his ill father, who goes for surgery today. So they’re off drawing and Michael and I are feeling totally thrilled to have things moving again. We could be celebrating the new year there after all and have all of summer at the new house. I didn't know how much tension Michael and I were carrying about this until it began to drain away. We've been more cheerful ever since K came up with the idea, but once we met with the architects we were positively giddy about the whole thing. It's possible, it's possible, it's possible! we sang to each other.

Today I'm less giddy and more anxious. I'm writing on a packed early morning train on my way to a workshop—the first real (ie., paid) workshop of Kenning Associates in New Zealand. I’m anxious about it for any number of reasons—because it’s the first, because I’m flying solo which I sometimes but not often do at Kenning, because I’m an American out of context and I worry about the cultural differences. And this is a quirky group that has already had some resistors to the idea of the workshop. So there’s lots to be nervous about. But perhaps this day will be the beginning of a new world for me in the same way that the house meeting yesterday could be the beginning of a new era in the house plans. Funny how many new beginnings there are in beginning a thing. Haven't I begun enough? But no, beginnings cycle around. There's the getting to the new place, the settling in, the beginning new pieces inside the new context. I guess that's seasonal everywhere, isn't it? There are winter winds and then, each year, the sun warms the earth. Yesterday in my new backyard, I saw that my apple tree is covered with pink buds. It’s a time for new ideas and new beginnings. September spring.

PS Home now and buggered. The workshop day went really well, the fruit trees are blooming in the botanical gardens, and the tulips are in full flower. New beginnings, in addition to being exhausting, can be amazingly beautiful.