At 1AM last night I was startled by the sound of drilling and the beep beep beeping of construction machines. I shouldn’t have been surprised – for the last year, intensive construction has been in progress around my apartment complex. Every morning at 7AM, and some days earlier, I am woken up by these sounds. The construction workers stand on a 7-foot story scaffold, which is just at my eye level. I can see them, they can see me. It’s predictable and yet each time I hear or see the construction I become a combination of startled, annoyed, disgusted, and exhausted.
Yesterday as I made my ritualistic Sunday night phone calls, I started to look closely at the construction. The heaping pile of mess that each day gets turned into something a little more recognizable but the mess still remains. It was hard not to notice, even amid the mess, the startling growth and progress in a short time. Concrete, metal of all shapes and sizes, wood, cascading bricks. I found an awe in the rawness. I started to look more closely at both the imperfections and the perfections of the growing construction site across from me and there was a beauty in the messiness and rawness of it. It reminded me that we are all works in progress, and my continued annoyance and inability to adapt to the nuisance of ongoing construction was in part my resistance to acknowledging myself as exactly that. A perfectly imperfect, beautiful and sometimes exhausted work in progress.