… Much have I (we) traveled in the realms of wood
And many generous heaps and dominions seen; …
But seriously: WOOD. Every kind of it, it seems, has its place. This tiny house is, quite literally, the tree house that wood could. Just to list a few:
Fir:
Barn wood: desk, bench, porch, loft space, skylights interior trim
TG wainscoting: sleeping loft, closet, cabinets and bench space floor
Pine:
Blue beetle kill: Interior wall treatments
Cedar:
Shingles, planks used for window and door trim
Closet lining to smell pretty (and for three dollars!)
Raked board planed down for various uses (closet, window trim)
Oak:
Bed frame found in my attic will serve as a shelf on each side of the main living space
Unknown:
Wood from attic: bench, desk, interior window trim
Old cabinet doors used for built-ins
Old sign for kitchen shelves
Old homemade jig for back of main space shelves
Old Quarter Round to trim out various spaces
Old door header
… and so many little fragments besides. Honestly, the most enjoyable part of the last week has been first knowing what needs to be built and then searching through scraps, piecing it together. Wonderful, quirky details happen. Example: We trimmed the small, long window with an old plank covered in 50 year old newspaper that I found a few months ago. We had no idea what to use the plank for until we didn’t have enough wood to finish the window trim. A little mod podge over the fragile paper, and I have myself the perfect reading window- framed by faded jello adverts and cedar closet lining. Odd and beautiful.
Every scrap and scrape of the tiny house is laden with stories. Where it has been, how it came to be in St. Johns, its transformation here and where it sits now. Stories layered like rings on wood, knots forgiving only the impatient. Rings are stories with wholeness. Wood with all its years, like stories, remind us of our impermanence and our strength. And at once, it becomes clear – our stories, aiming to capture the fleeting, are the very thing that sustain us beyond time.
At this moment, I am most excited to sit on my bench, quieted in stories, and turn out to look through that news-ed and pictured window. Silent, upon a tiny peak in Oregon.
and reflect on how truly awe-full this storied life is.
Here are some photos of the insides spaces… look for rings!
… and, in case how poor my knock off was went unnoticed, the Real Deal:
On Looking into Chapman’s Homer, John Keats
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
aatinyhouse 