The Visitors

Last weekend, we had our Internet and phone and televisions all updated as far as wiring goes. It had been a long time, close to 20 years. So, we thought, this will be great. Two guys showed up, both polite and pleasant, one a young apprentice, the older person someone with a lot of experience in the field. Two hours, I figured, no problem. Five hours later, they were both struggling to wrap up the job. Of course, a visit to our house is like a visit to the Weasleys' house in one of the Harry Potter  movies. Everything is a bit quirky and a bit off. My son cracked me up, when he quipped matter of factly : " This is a weird house. We are weird people. We have stuff everywhere. " I laughed, having realized some time ago, that our house is like a friendly overstuffed curio shop. It is a small house filled with stories in all the stuff that lives there along side us. It was  a challenge for the two guys to work around the stuff. I even apologized, but they both felt it was a comfy house, and that they felt at ease. It is always an interesting experience to have strangers in your house, strangers who are providing a service, like installing a new washer or stove, or putting in new wiring. I am endlessly intrigued by people, so I become an instant journalist, asking people about their work and lives, and pretty soon, it starts feeling like they live at my house, too, or will in the near future somehow, as awkwardness gives way to  friendly conversation and ease. As the carefully crafted order of our home gave way to the inevitable chaos of bare wires and emptied out cupboards and drawers, and our patience began to run thin as the hours dragged on, I mused on the precariousness of order in our lives. I guess that is why robbers are so shocking, or raids by police or a repressive government, or during war brutalities, turning a home upside down, even in a small and benevolent way quickly becomes unnerving and very irritating. In slapstick comedy it is hilarious, in dramas tragic. Like our skin covers our muscles and vulnerable organs, our homes and houses cover our psyches and their elaborate defenses. Our home is a collection of memories, it is where our spirits live, our hearts remember. It is not a fancy place with fancy things. Probably what we have the most of are books and stuffed animals. There is a naivety about the place, and a certain nonchalance and wisdom at the same time. But, because it looks like Merlin's cabin in the woods, it is easily tossed, so to speak. So, when the two technicians finally left, I was very quick to re-establish order, to clean, dust, sweep. I had to put my touch back on things, reclaim my precarious territory. My husband was very understanding about that need, and even the next day , he was helping with the vacuuming and putting things back in order everywhere, as technology these days ends up in every room except the bathroom, it seems. It felt good to have the house back put together, its guts carefully covered up, so to speak. And as that happened, I felt more at ease about my own togetherness too, feeling that I too had reclaimed my space and function among the many things around me.