Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
No turning back
No turning back
It seems that life’s activities are divided into two categories: the things we can do over and the things we can’t. The trick is, of course, to figure out which is
which and this is connected to what we believe. Why do we accept as true the things we consider to be true beyond a doubt? One reason could be that there are
as many things to contemplate as there are grains of sand on a beach, so it is necessary to clump things into large categories. If we fail to do this there would be
way too many things to sort out all the time. Another reason could be that there are some things we just “know” to be true even in the absence of scientific
evidence.
One irrevocable moment stands out in my mind: My kids’ mom and I had a farm in the little town of Clyde, near Spring Green, 30 or so years ago. We lived
in an old house that sat on top of a little knoll. The house was “modernized” and an oil furnace was installed to replace wood as the source of heat. As was the
case with many post-hippie generation couples we took it upon ourselves to “demodernize” the “modernizations” by doing things like stripping the paint off of
painted-over woodwork and rebuilding the chimney that used to be connected to the old wood stove that was probably dropped off at the town dump long before
we had even heard of Clyde.
The roof of the house had a very steep pitch and I would get dizzy at even the thought of climbing on it which was precisely what I would have to do in
order to rebuild the chimney for the woodstove that we had bought from a friend. It sure wasn’t going to provide any heat sitting in a big box in the living room.
Our neighbor, Norbert, would help me rebuild part of the chimney but the last several feet — the section that would extend through the roof — would be my
responsibility to build. I followed Norbert up into the attic and he pointed to the pile of partially mortared-together bricks that used to be the chimney before it
was knocked down. The opening in the roof, that the chimney used to pass through, had apparently been shingled over. Norbert told me that we could simply use
cement chimney blocks and tile to rebuild the chimney. I measured the height from what was left of the old chimney to the roof then added three feet to allow
for the section that would be outside and above the roof line. I enjoyed the preparations and tried to put out of my mind the fact that I would have to eventually
get up on the roof to build the last several feet of chimney. Fortunately for me the steep-pitched roof ended in a flat square measuring about three feet by three
feet instead of a pointed peak. My only job was to scale the outside of the roof and cut a hole in the appropriate section of the peak. Yeah. My only job.
I got the wood extension ladder out of the shed where we kept the goats. The ladder was very long, very old, unwieldy and weighed a ton. I extended it to the
edge of the west side of the roof. That was the spot from where I would launch my assault on the summit. I stabilized the ladder and climbed the creaky rungs
until my chest was even with the eaves of the roof. I looked around. The view was breathtaking and I felt very safe two stories or about twenty feet off the ground.
It occurred to me that we experience the world in layers. Most of our time is spent at ground-level but that is only one level. Things are different at five, or 10 or
20 feet off of the ground.
I had time to prepare myself. There was no hurry. I was ahead of things for a change. The first snow of the year was probably several weeks away, and snow
set the deadline because scaling a snowy or icy roof was unthinkable — at least to me. I devoted a couple of weeks getting ready to take the big step from the
ladder to the edge of the roof. I walked past the ladder every day, leaning against the roof eaves, tied at the top with a small piece of twine to prevent the wind
from blowing it down. I sometimes climbed to the top of the ladder and envisioned what it would be like on the day I’d take my big and irrevocable step. I knew
that there would be no do-overs. It would not be possible to take a couple of steps, then have second thoughts about the wisdom of my venture, simply turn
around and return to the safety and predictability of the ladder. The entire notion of choice would end with the first step. The roof was too steep to do anything
other than use forward momentum, guts, determination and reliance on God to get to the top. Get to the top or slide awkwardly down to roof grabbing frantically
and futilely at slick shingles before trying to grasp the rain gutter that would snap away from the house leaving me to tumble down more that twenty feet to the
hard, uneven, rocky ground below while staring dumbly at the ladder that was still held in place by a single piece of twine.
I’d dream about the ladder and roof. I’d mentally take the five determined steps from the roof’s edge to the summit. I’d take a deep breath and thank God as I
stood up and looked around in wonder at seeing the hills and valleys and hawks that frequented this stratum of the Universe. The wind was not something that
hawks had to contend with. They were the wind. Indistinguishable parts of it. They’d fly into it to take off and ride its currents once they left the ground. How I
envied them.
Then the day came for me to take that step. I didn’t know that the time had arrived until it was upon me. The day was not marked on a calendar. The time of
day was not prescribed, but its arrival was clear and irrefutable. I walked to the shed and put on my tool belt loaded with the implements I would need to cut a
hole in the roof for the chimney. Hammer, flat bar, chisel, utility knife, tape measure and nail puller. In addition to the hole accommodating the new chimney, it
would also serve as my way to enter the house through the attic. There was no way I was going to attempt to climb back down the roof to the ladder after the hole
was cut.
I climbed to the top of the ladder. Quickly surveyed the glorious panorama that unfolded before me. Breathed in the wind and felt it travel to every atom of
my body. Smelled the sweet scent of the young pine trees on the small hill behind the house. I was reminded that the very breath I was experiencing at that
precise second was the only breath that I was assured. Then I took the step. Then another. Followed by three more and I arrived at the flat top section of the roof
just as I had so many times before in my mind.
It turned out that the old roof opening had not been shingled over at all. Instead, a hatch had been built. All I had to do was lift it up and crawl through to the
safety of the attic. I wonder how many irrevocable steps are like that. Not as formidable as we imagine them to be. Maybe that’s what wisdom is: shrinking the list
of intensely difficult or apparently impossible things with a primary requirement being the courage to face fears one at a time and the knowledge that the wind is
your friend because God is the wind.
which and this is connected to what we believe. Why do we accept as true the things we consider to be true beyond a doubt? One reason could be that there are
as many things to contemplate as there are grains of sand on a beach, so it is necessary to clump things into large categories. If we fail to do this there would be
way too many things to sort out all the time. Another reason could be that there are some things we just “know” to be true even in the absence of scientific
evidence.
One irrevocable moment stands out in my mind: My kids’ mom and I had a farm in the little town of Clyde, near Spring Green, 30 or so years ago. We lived
in an old house that sat on top of a little knoll. The house was “modernized” and an oil furnace was installed to replace wood as the source of heat. As was the
case with many post-hippie generation couples we took it upon ourselves to “demodernize” the “modernizations” by doing things like stripping the paint off of
painted-over woodwork and rebuilding the chimney that used to be connected to the old wood stove that was probably dropped off at the town dump long before
we had even heard of Clyde.
The roof of the house had a very steep pitch and I would get dizzy at even the thought of climbing on it which was precisely what I would have to do in
order to rebuild the chimney for the woodstove that we had bought from a friend. It sure wasn’t going to provide any heat sitting in a big box in the living room.
Our neighbor, Norbert, would help me rebuild part of the chimney but the last several feet — the section that would extend through the roof — would be my
responsibility to build. I followed Norbert up into the attic and he pointed to the pile of partially mortared-together bricks that used to be the chimney before it
was knocked down. The opening in the roof, that the chimney used to pass through, had apparently been shingled over. Norbert told me that we could simply use
cement chimney blocks and tile to rebuild the chimney. I measured the height from what was left of the old chimney to the roof then added three feet to allow
for the section that would be outside and above the roof line. I enjoyed the preparations and tried to put out of my mind the fact that I would have to eventually
get up on the roof to build the last several feet of chimney. Fortunately for me the steep-pitched roof ended in a flat square measuring about three feet by three
feet instead of a pointed peak. My only job was to scale the outside of the roof and cut a hole in the appropriate section of the peak. Yeah. My only job.
I got the wood extension ladder out of the shed where we kept the goats. The ladder was very long, very old, unwieldy and weighed a ton. I extended it to the
edge of the west side of the roof. That was the spot from where I would launch my assault on the summit. I stabilized the ladder and climbed the creaky rungs
until my chest was even with the eaves of the roof. I looked around. The view was breathtaking and I felt very safe two stories or about twenty feet off the ground.
It occurred to me that we experience the world in layers. Most of our time is spent at ground-level but that is only one level. Things are different at five, or 10 or
20 feet off of the ground.
I had time to prepare myself. There was no hurry. I was ahead of things for a change. The first snow of the year was probably several weeks away, and snow
set the deadline because scaling a snowy or icy roof was unthinkable — at least to me. I devoted a couple of weeks getting ready to take the big step from the
ladder to the edge of the roof. I walked past the ladder every day, leaning against the roof eaves, tied at the top with a small piece of twine to prevent the wind
from blowing it down. I sometimes climbed to the top of the ladder and envisioned what it would be like on the day I’d take my big and irrevocable step. I knew
that there would be no do-overs. It would not be possible to take a couple of steps, then have second thoughts about the wisdom of my venture, simply turn
around and return to the safety and predictability of the ladder. The entire notion of choice would end with the first step. The roof was too steep to do anything
other than use forward momentum, guts, determination and reliance on God to get to the top. Get to the top or slide awkwardly down to roof grabbing frantically
and futilely at slick shingles before trying to grasp the rain gutter that would snap away from the house leaving me to tumble down more that twenty feet to the
hard, uneven, rocky ground below while staring dumbly at the ladder that was still held in place by a single piece of twine.
I’d dream about the ladder and roof. I’d mentally take the five determined steps from the roof’s edge to the summit. I’d take a deep breath and thank God as I
stood up and looked around in wonder at seeing the hills and valleys and hawks that frequented this stratum of the Universe. The wind was not something that
hawks had to contend with. They were the wind. Indistinguishable parts of it. They’d fly into it to take off and ride its currents once they left the ground. How I
envied them.
Then the day came for me to take that step. I didn’t know that the time had arrived until it was upon me. The day was not marked on a calendar. The time of
day was not prescribed, but its arrival was clear and irrefutable. I walked to the shed and put on my tool belt loaded with the implements I would need to cut a
hole in the roof for the chimney. Hammer, flat bar, chisel, utility knife, tape measure and nail puller. In addition to the hole accommodating the new chimney, it
would also serve as my way to enter the house through the attic. There was no way I was going to attempt to climb back down the roof to the ladder after the hole
was cut.
I climbed to the top of the ladder. Quickly surveyed the glorious panorama that unfolded before me. Breathed in the wind and felt it travel to every atom of
my body. Smelled the sweet scent of the young pine trees on the small hill behind the house. I was reminded that the very breath I was experiencing at that
precise second was the only breath that I was assured. Then I took the step. Then another. Followed by three more and I arrived at the flat top section of the roof
just as I had so many times before in my mind.
It turned out that the old roof opening had not been shingled over at all. Instead, a hatch had been built. All I had to do was lift it up and crawl through to the
safety of the attic. I wonder how many irrevocable steps are like that. Not as formidable as we imagine them to be. Maybe that’s what wisdom is: shrinking the list
of intensely difficult or apparently impossible things with a primary requirement being the courage to face fears one at a time and the knowledge that the wind is
your friend because God is the wind.