Making Change: A Metaphor

I kept the cabinet above the mantle in my house for eight years, even though I hated it. I stared at it, willing it to change. Cursing the contractor who had such little foresight when he built my house in 2006 and assuming anyone who ever moved into the house at any point in the future would a) have a box TV 42” or smaller, b) have the ability to install such a heavy appliance high above their own head; and c) would then want to keep it hidden with ghastly, cheaply made, white cabinet doors. (Seriously, what is that foresight? That’s a lack of care that could be a whole other blog post.)

We’re just ignoring the quality of these phone pics from 2017.

I hated this empty hole with cabinet doors with all my being, and yet there it sat, smug and unchanging, for eight long years. I didn’t think I could do anything to change it. I thought it was beyond my ability. So I tried distraction, covering it with large framed prints. (They weren’t big enough.) I tried to ignore it, the white doors poking up from behind anything I put in front of it. Mocking me. 

Finally I asked for help from someone who knows about how to change my particular problem (in this case, my dad). He showed me how to get started. How to disconnect the doors hiding the gaping hole, and take out the hardware holding them in place (easier than I thought it would be). How to remove the box that the contractor installed, which was not as easy.

Then he showed me how to cover the actual hole, framing it with a support structure inside so it would last, long term. He installed drywall with screws, put on a coat of joint compound, and left me instructions on how to sand and paint it, using patience between the layers, letting things dry and set so it was done right. 

It only took a few weeks (it could have taken days but I was busy and trying to live my life while I did this work). A few weeks, and eight years of frustration and emotional stress. Eight years of hating something that refused to - that couldn’t - change on its own. A few weeks of actual work, of asking an expert, using the right tools, getting the house dusty with drywall silt, and getting my hands dirty. A few weeks of excited, hopeful patience as I watched the transformation of this place I called home. 

The hole didn’t change because it chose to, but because I finally took the initiative to make a difference. I finally got tired of hating where I lived. Of living with an aspect of daily life that made me uncomfortable and stressed me out. I did something about it. I did what I could, with what I had: the skills I already had, and the advice of someone who had been there before. I made a small change, a tiny improvement, that added zero monetary value to my home, but that gave me immense peace of mind and made me proud of my own work. 

It was a small difference, in the grand scheme of my house. But nonetheless, it was an improvement, and anyone who came in contact with my living room got to experience the change for the better, even though they didn’t do any work. 

The woman who bought my house after I moved out got the biggest benefit - of never even knowing the stress and ugliness the box made in the house before she moved in. That’s a super satisfying feeling. I made her life better and she’ll never even know. She might not have even cared if I told her about it. But that doesn’t make the change any less important.

The final look. Needs a plant.

It goes without saying that I’m using a metaphor to tell you to go do something to make life better for yourself and for those who will come after you. Use the skills you already have, the right tools, and ask for help from those around you.