One of the things I love about Vermont, and about the Northeast in general, are all the old homes and buildings. No matter where I travel from my little town of West Pawlet, I drive past homes and buildings that sing to me. Homes. Colonial Era churches. Even the old mills and factories, whether in use or abandoned, call to me, and my imagination flows as I think of the life once in them, and the possibilities of life in them.

The little building in the picture is my absolute favorite building in my corner of Vermont. I pass it every time I drive to Manchester. A tiny barn, or a shed of some sort, I have no idea what it was made for.

I also have no idea how it is still standing. It seems like every wall, beam and board is out of plumb and surely the law of gravity should have won this battle a long time ago.

But it still stands. Faded red paint, cracked windows and catawampus walls and all.

I think I have a special affinity for old buildings like this because sometimes I feel like one. I have been worn and broken and out of kilter. Closer to a ruin than a place to take refuge in. Not very pretty perhaps, but interesting. Kinda like the building in the picture – wondering how I still stood.

Old houses still stand as long as the bones are still good. The beams that hold roofs, floor joists and walls. A lot can rot and come undone, but as long as the bones are good, the house will stand. And, even when a few of the bones give, the house is saveable.

I have seen old buildings that seemed to be long lost to age and neglect rise again. True ruins with broken glass, fallen porches, collapsed ceilings. Recovery projects far beyond anything I would tackle. And yet someone with the vision and patience and determination took on the project and saved them. In the end, people who care are the reason old homes and building survive. And the lack of care is what makes them fall.

I’ve seen the same with people. I’ve been one of the wrecks. And I’m still around because others saw my bones and thought I was worth having patience with, thought I was worth the work of restoration.

My bones were a spirituality I had let slip away, a creativity I had let erode, a lack of a safe place to be the far less than perfect person I was (and am)

We all need different things, but in the end, I think most of us need those things – a place to be emotionally safe, a place to be the person we are, and a sense of spirituality, that there is something beyond us that gives us purpose and strength and a place in the universe that matters.

Mine is not a perfect restoration. I will never be what I was. Life sometimes takes away things from us and we never fully get them back. There are likely those who look at me and are surprised that I am still standing, much less finding joy in my life. They likely look at me the way I look at this twisted barn on the way to Manchester.

But I am alive again. My bones are strong. I can provide shelter to some. I can give back again, flawed as I am. And the journey continues.

I wish I could claim to be the author of my own restoration. Yes, I did some work, a lot of it. But what made the difference was the people who invested in me, who listened to me, who had the patience to let me heal and let me do the rebuilding in a safe place. To say something like “I am grateful” is an exercise in understatement.

At Christmas time, I tend to grow quiet. I don’t write as much, or as well as normal. I am just too full. My prayers are often tearful thanks to a God and people who felt I was worth it, who had patience and let me crawl, then toddle, then walk, who love me despire my catawumpus restoration. To those who help me and my heart feel safe.

I’m just not good at the trite of Christmas any more. At the sweet innocence of it. Something else I lost along the way.

I miss it. I really do. But that’s OK. I have something else. And I’m still standing.

Be well. Travel wisely.

Tom

PS – I will not be blogging here till a few days after Christmas. I need a few days of reflection. I hope you all have a blessed holiday.