DECEMBER 20, 2022 – Blogger’s note: I apologize for the length of this post, but the project it describes was itself a long one.
Last summer I embarked on the haphazard design and construction of a “gnome home” for our granddaughter. I had no idea that the project would become a metaphor for life. Over time, I’d collected “building materials” encountered in the woods—birch bark, pine cones, old knot holes, poplar shoots, dead pine saplings, shrub stems, and so on. With this inventory in mind, I used a sketchbook to “experiment” with paper, pencil . . . and eraser.
I soon discovered that the best “design” elements arose randomly in the course of construction, which took several months. Conservatively estimated, well over 100 hours went into “Illiana’s Cabin.” That’s what the gnome home became, as identified by the miniature sign I’d fashioned whimsically and suspended from an extended “log” I’d previously and casually installed on one side of the 10-pound structure that stands a foot wide, a foot deep and over a foot high. In addition to work time, I spent countless hours of “cabin contemplation” while walking, skiing or drifting off to sleep at night, solving structural problems and dreaming up refinements to design features.
The project never seemed to end. Just when I could see the finish line, another idea surfaced. The house became an obsession.
But more than that, Illiana’s Cabin transformed itself into a metaphor for life. At many junctures, the project—just like life—took unexpected turns. Some aspects, such as the roof structure, became major challenges. As often occurs in life, I’d doggedly pursue an approach until reality set in: the idea was a flop. Frustrated, I’d try another angle, then another, and yet another, until . . . I’d achieve a result better than what I’d originally intended.
Sometimes—again as in life—inspiration would come from an improbable source. For example, I’d spent endless time using geometry to calculate the proper placement of a hinge contraption I’d designed for a portion of the removable roof. Lacking a compass, I improvised with a sliding bevel, but that too proved unsatisfactory. Ultimately, I decided to give it a rest and go skiing.
As I was heading out our back door, skis/poles in hand, I happened to glance at the recycling bin. My eye caught a discarded, plastic, half-gallon milk jug. My brain, however, saw something else: plastic hinges that could be stapled to the underside of the roof boards, thus eliminating the need for my complicated contraption and fancy geometry. I shed the ski clothes and experimented. Eureka!
Yet another analogy to life was finding enormous satisfaction in the smallest detail: After spending days on the larger structure, I decided to add a “dormer window” to the upper roof. But what image to put in the “window”? Since it’s “Illiana’s Cabin,” why not a portrait of Illiana?
I found a great photo that Beth had taken after having presented Illiana with a souvenir from Paris—a burgundy beret. I practiced drawing—focusing on negative spaces, getting the right proportions, and capturing our granddaughter’s personality. This little detour took half a day—before I turned to the task of fastening the 2 x 2-inch oval portrait onto the “dormer window.” This embellishment was a small detail, but it gave me great satisfaction.
So it is with life—the biggest treasures often appear in the smallest measure.
This evening I presented “Illiana’s Cabin” to . . . Illiana. Because of my immune-compromised condition, the presentation occurred on our arctic-cold but well-illuminated porch. The “Cabin” was a hit, and she attentively followed as I gave her a little tour of all its features. Ever the creative person, she bedecked her “Cabin” with a long string of beads she’d lifted a few minutes before from her snow-bound playhouse in our backyard. She hung them effortlessly and with wonderful effect. When by chance Illiana saw lying nearby, a large, discarded computer mouse pad in the form of a faux oriental carpet, she asked if she could use it as a rug for the inside of the “Cabin.” The dimensions were perfect. Her attachment to “the place” warmed my heart in the freezing night.
Before exiting the porch, Illiana suggested adding a balcony to her “Cabin.” I like the way she thinks. “I’ll include one on the next house I build,” I said.
I’ve seen precious little of Illiana since my stem cell transplant and miss her terribly. The “metaphor for life” project, it turns out, was much more. It was a way of expressing how much she is loved.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
