For the Love of It
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| wall before chink/pointing |
To reach the front
door of my house in Elika, I must pass through a narrow opening between the
upper corner of the building and the end of a stone wall I raised to demarcate
what has come to feel like a scared precinct on a hill. Late one afternoon some
two years ago now, I had pruned the wild olive tree that grows just above the dwelling.
As night fell, I gathered armloads of cut branches, rounded the corner, and
moved through that passage intent only upon tossing the branches downhill and
calling it a day. But as I stepped through the opening, I heard a menacing hiss
that stopped me in my tracks. A second hiss confirmed my worst fears—a snake alerting
me to its presence. The sound came from the face of the house not an arm’s
length away. But in the dim light of dusk, I was not sure I would be able to
pinpoint its source and do the deed that would prevent the viper from
delivering the bite—then or in the future—that I understood would be venomous.
Nevertheless, I dropped the branches and ran for my broomstick, the only
defense I had on hand.
I had been visited
by a hissing snake on two occasions in the past, so I knew it would be long and
coiled up, head raised cobra-like. Evoking the skill of Artemis, I took aim at
a small ledge in the wall where I thought I could make out the shadow of the
threat. I summoned my courage. I delivered a fatal blow.
I was lucky—this snake
was removed. But the niche–an invitation to future dangers—remained. I vowed then
and there to chink and point that area of my wall at first opportunity.
That opportunity
presented itself recently. I arrived in Elika two weeks ago, settled in, and
set to work. My goal was to repair about one and a half square meters of wall
that had been damaged by years of seasonal downpours. The first day at work, I
dug out loose chink stones and dry mud, hosed down the area, and then collected
and placed new chink stones to fill holes. The next six days, I mixed batches of
mortar from sand, cement, a lime source called asvesti, tint, and water.
Working six to eight hours a day, I filled even the tiniest spaces in the
surface of the wall with mortar while setting the new chink stones.
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| for the love of it |
The effort of
digging out the hard mud mortar. The effort of finding enough stones the right
size and shape to fit gaps in the wall. The effort of mixing the dry
ingredients into a thick consistent paste. The discomfort of laboring under a
scorching late summer sun during the long hours required to complete a job that
cannot be hurried. Why did I bother? Was the possibility of another hissing serpent
reason enough?
Not really. I chink
and point for the pleasure of practicing techniques I have mastered over time;
to experience the communion and quietude of what has become for me a Zen meditation;
to breathe life into something by restoring it to its original beauty, here
creating a tapestry of dancing stones; to honor a forgotten race of builders
and their forgotten way of life, as well as the dying man who, by selling me
the house, entrusted its care to me.
I don’t recommend
this work to others. And although I finished chinking and pointing the interior
walls of the house years ago, before the roof went on, I now know that I will
never complete the restoration of the exterior walls myself. I purchased the
house when I turned 40. I now approach 70. I am no longer willing or able to expose
myself to the treachery of balancing for hours high on a ladder with stones and
mortar and tools in hand in order to complete the work. But I also know that,
as long as I am able, I will not stop engaging and reaching—for the love of it.
