I spent a good part of yesterday tending to some of my carving tools and puttering around in the space I’ve created in the garage to serve as my workshop. While the music guaranteed that it wasn’t a particularly quiet afternoon, it was no less a very peaceful one.

This was a welcome respite from the clamor and chaos we experienced here last week as a result of having some work done to our home. What started out as replacing the roof and repairing the front steps quickly grew to include pouring a brand-new patio and widening the sidewalk in front of the house.

The work was superior, the price was extremely affordable, and everything was finished in a reasonable amount of time. We’ve all heard horror stories about botched repairs and ever-extending deadlines from people who’ve survived the process of what could only barely be called “home improvements”, and so to see it recounted here one might think that everything went smoothly. And for the average person – whatever that means – one might be right.

But there’s another side to this experience which I’d like to address at this point, and that is the living through of it as the adult child of an alcoholic and dysfunctional household. I’ve purposely chosen the word “household” here because despite whatever efforts my parents were able to put forth, it was only on rare occasions that the place ever came close to feeling like home. The obvious effects of my father’s incessant battle with alcoholism and emotional instability – coupled with my mother’s codependency – went a long way towards ensuring that the crucible in which I’d found myself as a child could generally be described as pretty much anything but home.

As I look back on those times, and perhaps even more importantly now that my recovery work is actually beginning to take root, to feel back on those times, I’m aware of a nearly constant state of grief. It’s deep, and it’s heavy, and it sits in my bones like fire.

And it is this same somatic expression of grief that was triggered by the banging, clatter, miscommunication, and obligatory upheavals of the tearing apart and putting back together of one’s living space.

While the adult part of myself was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some long-awaited improvements taken care of, there was also that wounded inner child who felt that all of this was just another assault on the one safe place he’d desperately yearned for but because of forces beyond his control, believed he could never have.

I lived in that space for about two days; and in doing so, I came to know a great deal more about that child. And while I can’t say I’d like to repeat the experience, it has brought both of us that much closer to our well-being.

As I write this, the sun begins to slip behind the peak of our new roof, shadows lengthen along the patio, and a restful sense of peace has taken hold. The adult taps the keyboard, turning thoughts into words; while the child occasionally glances out through the sliding doors, watching Plantain stalks sway in the wind…