Leonardo da Vinci: Saint Jerome in the Wilderness (c. 1480–1490) Unfinished
"We leave slug trails of surreptitious accomplishments behind us …"

Most HomeMaking happens alone, not precisely in isolation, but certainly in solitude. Attempts to soften the resulting loneliness mostly fail. The Mower's too loud to allow listening to the ball game. So's the sander. Painting might prove too exacting to be done while in any way distracted. My ear buds sit largely unused in the bottom of the right front pocket of my Handyman Dave jeans. Most of my chores seem best done alone. Barn raising's a once in a lifetime situation. Few tasks need cooperation and many seem so mindless that they might threaten sanity if over-engaged in. One must ration efforts lest they steal a dimension from you. Long days doing the same damned thing does not produce anything very interesting to talk about over supper. What's new? Nothing.

All that said, I find HomeMaking's necessary Solituding reassuring. I frequently balk when contemplating another afternoon spent in the isolation booth, but once engaged, I find entertainment there. My inner DJ's usually on station, playing some surprising rendition of some tune I'd forgotten I even remembered. These songs tend to be allegorical, either the words or the music or both pass hidden messages intended to clue me in about something I'm doing. Does that sound like a crazy man's explanation? They operate like an early warning system, part hidden message, part entertainment, and part perhaps intended to drive me insane. About the fiftieth time through Yessir, That's My Baby, I might catch on that I'm creating a legacy and should pay closer attention to my offspring. I was painting at the time.

I conduct lengthy dialogues with myself, posing unanswerable questions and responding with unquestionable brilliance. I relive old failures, making up new explanations. I catch myself muttering nonsense phrases, often repeating them over and over and over again. Nobody's listening, not even me, really. I'm mumbling to myself, often making no noise or sense. I might be engaged in some physical activity, but I'm inhabiting my head, not my body. Much HomeMaking occurs as out-of-body experiences. Nobody's watching. Nobody's paying anybody the slightest attention. I work through ideas sometimes, as if I was writing down every thought, but nobody's transcribing. Probably my very best writing never found a page, but floated away while I was otherwise engaged in HomeMaking, weeding or watering or reorganizing something.

I was watching Curt our painter and wondered what might have been going on in there while he was focused upon preparing painting surfaces. He seems as focused as a monk mumbling his mantra. Curt's a smart guy. He has a private liberal arts college education and can hold forth on pretty much any subject that comes up in any conversation, but he, too, spends most of his days Solituding, just like I do, just like all HomeMakers. Perhaps all those thoughts must remain unmentionable. Perhaps they serve a purpose, but just perhaps. They might serve as reassurances that we're still here, appearances often to the contrary, even to ourselves. We leave slug trails of surreptitious accomplishments behind us, though nobody seems to very much notice our presence, not even us. We go about our work in wilderness, taming where we live.

©2021 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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