Banging on the Wall
I have spent this winter banging on the walls of my basement. I know there is an obvious metaphor here during this time of dull repetitious Covid days, but this wall banging–though repetitive–is cathartic and productive.
I live in a 117 year old house with a stone foundation. Water seeps in, water recedes. I don’t worry about the water. At some point in this house’s history, the stone was covered with plaster and the plaster was discolored a dull and ugly gray from the smoke of a long-gone coal furnace. The plaster has been slowly and steadily crumbling off in places, leaving a sandy mucky mess on the floor when the water seeps in.
My basement depressed me. It was a dungeon.
Looking at the walls more closely revealed several things:
- The plaster is not holding up the house.
- The plaster is holding in mold.
- The plaster has got to go.
So I started banging. Good thing face masks are a household item these days.
One sharp swing of an ordinary hammer shatters old plaster, leaving a satisfying heap on the floor and revealing lovely golden stones beneath.
Another swing, more gold.
This reminds me of the Golden Buddha story that was told to me by Morgan Wider when she spoke on my podcast a few months ago. In 1957, a group of monks were relocating a monastery in Thailand. While moving a giant clay Buddha, one of the monks noticed a large crack. On closer investigation he saw there was a glimmer of gold under the surface. The monk used a hammer and a chisel to chip away at the clay exterior until he revealed that the statue was in fact made of solid gold. Historians believe the Buddha had been covered with clay by Thai monks several hundred years earlier to protect it from an attack by the Burmese army. In the attack, all the monks had been killed and the Buddha’s secret remained hidden for centuries. My golden stones are not precious, except in the sense that they hold up my home. Perhaps that makes them more precious than gold.
We all know the importance of a good foundation. The cosmetics industry will happily sell you a good foundation which will cover up your own beautiful glow. Removing all this old plaster makes my house feel as if it can breathe again. The water is no longer trapped in the dirty diaper of old plaster. The water is free to flow and recede like ocean waves–though less regularly–or tears.
It feels good to swing the hammer. My teenager has now joined me, both of us moving muscles in our arms and shoulders that we haven’t used in several months. We find rhythm in the bang and clatter. We talk and listen to music. The basement will never be “finished” in the sense of housing a TV room or pool table but in the process of this remodel, of sharing time together and a common goal, we are both seeing this formerly dank space in a new light. It currently houses my apothecary of dried herbs, a work bench & tools, a washer and dryer. There are storage shelves and a slop sink. Just descending the stairs feels different now. The feeling of darkness and dread has been replaced with a feeling one gets heading into a cool cave. It’s clean and moist and curious. The dread is gone. Once this project is complete, my kid and I will paint the concrete floor a bright color to reflect the light and complement the gold.
As I said, I don’t sweat the water. The moisture has come and gone through the walls of this house for a century. Water is healing and cleansing. This house has been holding steady for a long time and will continue long after I’m out of it. Houses hold memories and I’m trying my best to infuse this one with joy and hope.
