One point five

I am trying to make my way back towards actually living where I live. I have been reconnecting with people too distant after my weeks away and doing odd jobs around the house, organising and getting things settled in their own way. And there has been what Eeyore calls “the social round and whatnot”—a variety of people coming to our house for lunch or dinner or to make use of the new comfy guest room (which was filled four out of the first seven nights of its life as a guest room). Just for the record, I love that.

Somehow, in living my life here, I’ve neglected to notice that more than a week ago we passed our one-and-a-half-year anniversary of living in New Zealand. I thought about that today on the walk down the hill to the train from a day of seriously interesting meetings. One year ago, we were just barely settled here, our things relatively newly arrived, relationships still in the early days. And now somehow we’re knitted in to life here. In the Board meeting today for the research grant NZCER administers, I actually sounded like I knew what was going on in educational research in New Zealand. And that is, in part, because I do. The Jews talk each Rosh Hashanah about being “inscribed in the book of life” for another year. I’ve realised that I’m inscribed in the book of life here in New Zealand. For now, we’re writing our story here.

There are little newsy bits to say as I watch the moon rise over Wellington harbour in the soft pink of dusk (after watching it set into the sea from my bed this morning). Naomi came in 2^nd in the cross country race at school. Aidan’s team won their soccer game on Saturday 4-0, even though Becky and David weren’t there to help. I met with the chief justice of the entire country (and a whole bunch of other seriously important judges) to help them decide whether or not they want to pursue a very cool leadership development programme with me (the answer, after seven months of meetings and discussions is still maybe).

But the most important news of all is that this week I tiled the wall behind the hob (=cooktop) in the kitchen. This, for a woman with little handy ability and practically no artistic ability at all, was a joy.

I love to tile. At Dad and Jamie’s house, the bathroom is a monument to my love of tiling (and my love for Dad and Jamie). We tiled in Georgia and Massachusetts. I’ve done a little tiling in this current house—the back wall of the shower in the main bathroom. But this wall behind the stove was something else.

The hardest part of tiling is deciding on the pattern and knowing where to lay the first tile. For a floor, you just snap a couple of chalk lines and move the tiles around until you get a pattern you like. For a wall, though, it’s harder—and this wall I wanted to be a little playful. So I made a paper template of the wall and laid tiles out on that. I wasn’t pleased with what I came up with. Michael pushed them around. Rob made changes. Still not perfect. In bed that night, I tossed and turned thinking about how to deal with pesky design issues. And then, at 4am, I came up with the solution to the problem—and I slept like a baby the rest of the night.

We began just before dinner on a day filled with visits from people we love. Melissa came and went. Karen came and went (and came back). The kids wandered in and out, checking progress while getting snacks for their movie. Michael and I fell into the rhythm that has carried us through sixteen years of tiling projects. He cuts, I lay. Then, in not so much more than the time the movie took, the tiles were on the wall, the pattern almost magically successful (my planning mind is decent but not fantastic, and when things turn out well I get a jolt of such delighted surprise that I realise I consider myself mostly incompetent). And now, even in a week with other setbacks, when I pass through the kitchen, I feel a little burst of pride. It’s not the cathedral in Milan. It’s not a concert of 200 voices. It’s not a painting or a necklace or a sculpture. But every time I scrub oily burnt bits or other forms of crud off the walls, I’ll do it with a kind of tenderness and delight. I bet Michelangelo didn’t have that satisfaction.

(Pictures today are obvious. If you’re lucky, I won’t even write a blog about grouting. You think tiling is fun? Ah, how I love to grout…)