Okay. Picture this. A vacant house. An oversized foyer. A sweeping, curved staircase to the second floor.
“This entrance hall is simply majestic,” I squeal to my husband.
My imagination runs wild. I picture a top-to-bottom expanse of contemporary art adorning the staircase walls. Or ceramic sculptures mounted on staggered glass shelves. Or an outrageous riot of wall paper to draw your eye to the majestic stairwell. The dazzling array of choices fills me with continual bursts of creative energy as I eye the space.
We buy the house and move in. My husband and I continue to explore our options for the front foyer.
Weeks later, my parents decide to move to Florida – and because our house sports an additional bedroom and full bathroom that we aren’t using – it only “makes sense” that they move in with us. (They would stay two years and almost cause my husband and I to end up in divorce court, but that’s a whole other column.)
There is one “minor” roadblock to the arrangement: the extra bedroom and bath is not on the first floor, but involves climbing eighteen steps. Eighteen steps my parents are not capable of climbing. So, forget the expansive wall of contemporary art, (that we couldn’t afford anyway). Scrap the wall of contemporary art. Ditto for the sculptures and unconventional wall paper. Instead, we install an institutional looking chair lift hugging the staircase, precluding any adornment that will call even more attention to it.
I try to curb my resentment and “take one for the team.”
When my parents move back to Cincinnati, the stair lift remains. Unused. When they both pass away, my husband and I tinker with the notion of taking the lift out entirely. However, over the years, we had gotten immune to its existence and supposed that maybe someday one of us would actually need it. That day came when I chipped a bone and tore ligaments and tendons in my left foot.
Even though my family characterizes me as a “time obsessed, highly inpatient lunatic,” I prefer to think of myself as a time-efficient, multi-tasking, super woman. Whichever definition applies, I soon realize that in my injured state, even I couldn’t climb the stairs on my own. The remaining option: Use The Lift.
My husband puts new batteries in the remote. I wiggle on the seat. I press the UP button. Slowly the lift climbs to the first landing. And stops.
“Push the reset button,” my husband orders me. I do and the lift begins to round the curve. It stops again.
“Push the reset button,” my husband once again shouts up at me. I do and the lift – in fits and starts – laboriously transverses the second set of steps.
“This will take forever,” I moan. “What a colossal waste of time.”
Over the next few days, I time the lift. Depending on how many times it stops, each ride takes between two to three minutes. OMG! In the course of just one day of normal lift use, I could lose 20-30 minutes of otherwise productive time! I fume.
After I stop incessantly ranting about how horrible this interruption to my routine is, I actually begin to enjoy the few minutes of break-time between tasks.
I scrutinize the vast array of family pictures as the lift chugs up to the first landing. I draw comfort from family photos of grandparents long gone. And I marvel over how much my grandchildren have changed in the span of a few short years. And, sometimes, I even sit back, close my eyes, let my feet dangle loosely, take a few deep breaths and enjoy the lulling motion. It’s a zen-like interlude.
One day, in an attempt to brighten up my house’s curb appeal, I buy buckets of bright red geraniums. I strategically place them on my front porch, marveling at the instant improvement to my house’s curb appeal.
To my surprise, the view from the lift each time I gaze out at my front porch is even better than from the curb. Gazing at the bright red geraniums is a mid-day mood booster.
I installed the slow-moving lift with so much resistance. I bought brightly blooming geraniums only to enhance my home’s curb appeal. Oddly enough, the lift and the flowers are the vehicles that refresh me. Relax me. Revitalize me.
Who knew? Change your perspective; change your life.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris