BUILDING 4.17.2013

by Shannon Herrick

House of Sticks

One at a time, I lay them in place.

I thought it would be fine, so long as I stacked them neatly and carefully. 

One for mother, one for daughter, one for lover, friend, cousin, artist, etc...a tidy new brick for each tidy new role that comes my way. The mortar recipe is a specialty of mine...hope with not a small pinch of unrealistic expectations. 

It really shouldn't be a surprise when the wrecking ball comes.

The Wolf has sophisticated equipment these days.

It was long ago I tried the straw thing, and I hadn't yet learned to weave when she blew down my house of sticks. After all that, bricks seemed a logical choice, but we adapt...she adapts. 

The problem was that I tried to make them all the same size and shape, force them into a grid, all the pieces of myself. Where was my foundation? Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter Where were my studs? Friend, Lover, Mother My joists? Observer, Teacher, Artist

Rubble, all of it, when I realized that I had made no frame, and unrealistic expectations spoil the mortar. 

So now I build my house of sticks. I choose each carefully, supple and green, weaving them in and out of each other. Daughter-Friend-Teacher inextricably linked. Mother-Lover-Artist a strong web ensnaring round objects and confounding The Wolf. She doesn't like tricks. It was easier for her when I thought I could be everything all of the time, in equal parts. When I thought I could spread the mortar thinner to make it go farther. When I thought I could remove one brick entirely without disturbing the integrity of my house. 

Now that I know I cannot be any one thing without the others, that sometimes I must be one much more than all the rest, but always still the rest, the house around me grows in strange shapes as I weave in all the little things, the quiet things. Baker, Knitter, Listener There must be hundreds of sticks now Nurse, Farmer, Runner and I continue to weave them tightly Giver, Receiver, Secret-Keeper and it grows and grows, every piece strengthening my web of protection from the wrecking ball, from her. She's the one I'm not weaving in, the stick I set aside for kindling.

With this construction method, my mortar is patience with not a small pinch of love. It will never be finished, and that's okay. I say goodbye to The Wolf, watching her slink away into the woods.