The Architecture of Acceptance

 

“On the list of places we’ll never live: a renovated school house.”

Bob nodded in agreement.

It is a kind of game we play when we’re on a road trip. I see a home that I like (or that I don’t like, for that matter), and I add it to the list of the kinds of places we’ll never live. It’s quite a long list, actually.

I’ve always been a bit of an architecture nerd (rank amateur level, so don’t quiz me). I love looking at floorplans. I dream up renovation projects. I am fascinated by exterior design. I pour over books on everything from bungalows to mid-century modern design and devour Architectural Digest magazines. I’m drawn to odd structures like geodesic dome houses, underground dwellings, and tree houses. From log homes to ultra-modern designs, I have love in my heart for all kinds of styles and always imagine what it would be like to actually live there.

My fascination with different types of residences stems somewhat from lots of art and design classes, but at a much simpler level, it comes from actually having lived in a lot of different places and learning how to “make the best of it.”

One apartment I remember was the lower level of a two-story house that the (very creepy) owner had fixed up into a single. And by “fixed up,” I mean did nothing at all except cover over some possibly dangerous structural cracks in a wall with drywall compound smeared on in huge globs. He was very proud of what he considered his best work: the imprint of his fist right in the center of the “feature wall.” When I did the walkthrough, he demonstrated by putting his fist into the dent with a (did I mention creepy?) smile. I could never unsee it—or help but wonder what in the world made him think to do it. But this was an apartment I could afford, and it was available. I was broke, freshly out of college, and I only had a few things to my name. So I ignored the wall as best I could (there was no way to cover it up), put up some art posters, and used the deep windowsills to display some of my little vintage things. At least there was a lot of natural light.

At one point early in our marriage Bob and I agreed to downsize and move to the small town we still live in. Before we began the house hunt, I made it VERY clear: I will not live in an old house with the bathroom in the kitchen. This was an absolute deal breaker. Never gonna happen.

Except it did. Well, the bathroom wasn’t “in” the kitchen, but sort of. You entered the bathroom through the door that was in the kitchen. So you could see directly into the bathroom while you were cooking dinner. There were a lot of things wrong with this house; that was just one of them. There was only “gravity” heat to the second floor. There was an odd closet in the tiny bedroom on the first floor that had an unplumbed toilet in it. The laundry room was also off the kitchen, and while it did have a little utility sink, which was handy, the water heater was also right there in the open. Making the best of this was going to take all my skills.

In the end, we made many happy memories in that house. It was walking distance from the park and the post office, and it was also walking distance to one of our favorite watering holes. We fenced the backyard for the dogs. With a lot of creativity, a little paint, and some love, it was home. It did exactly what we needed it to at exactly that moment in our lives. I still drive by that place and smile.

Learning to make the best of something isn’t what anyone really dreams of. What we dream of is the ideal. A perfect floorplan. A well-built home. Everything in good working order. And then, of course, perfect decor. It might work like that for some people but it never did for me.

The things I learned by “making the best of it” also helped me save a couple of vacations. One year, we booked a little cabin just outside Estes Park. We had our Aussie Riley with us, so it was a pet-friendly cabin. I should have known that was code for “that lived-in look.” It was less than ideal. Even Bob seemed disappointed. It’s very hard to know these things when you’re booking online, so there was no blame. But here we were. I just opened the windows, took a quick scan around, and said, “We’re going to Dollar General.” A quick trip and a few dollars later, I had the few little extras that made the cabin work for us, and it went from semi-disappointing to super-cute. It didn’t hurt that it was right on the river, and everywhere you looked was another beautiful vista.

It is very easy for me to get caught up in wanting everything to be perfect. But what happens, at least for me, is that if I focus on what is not perfect, I end up dissatisfied, defeated, disenchanted, and all the other d-words that mean: disappointed. And that is not what I want to feel like. I would rather adapt and overcome than moan about it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not perfect at this yet by a long shot. But less moaning is the goal. More acceptance is the goal. More detachment is the goal.

I’m reminded of Paul’s words in Philippians 4, “I know indeed how to live in humble circumstances; I know also how to live with abundance. In every circumstance and in all things I have learned the secret of being well fed and of going hungry, of living in abundance and of being in need. I have the strength for everything through him who empowers me.”

When I think about our imperfect homes and the adventures we’ve had, I realize that our life is not about waiting for the ideal moment or situation. It is, and always has been, about finding joy in the perfect and the imperfect, appreciating what we have, and filling our spaces with love.

No, we will never “get” to live in a New York City loft, a mountain lodge, or a yurt. But wherever we live, I can keep “making the best of it” with a little imagination and a lot of gratitude.