Creeksong

We see Michael and Teresa every few years. Our walls are covered with her paintings. He has been an inspiration and mentor with his woodworking prowess, and dedication to doing his very best job on everything he touches. That's no small accomplishment. His woodwork is his religion. She designs it and he builds it. There was no one there when I dropped by, today, or I would show the inside; the tile and wood and shell tables, the stairway with tile treads that is also a step cabinet, the kitchen with the red and blue tiled Phoenix floor running up the cabinet faces, across the counter tops, and up the back splash, the five layer wood applique kitchen door, everything perfect.
Teresa's paintings depict a perfect and ideal world, where everyone loves everyone and the dog. She writes poetry on the painted canvases. A few years ago at open studios, I wandered through the halls, entranced by the perfection, and broke into tears. I was sobbing as I thanked her for her vision of what things could be, but in my world, weren't.
Behind the wooden fence in front, there is a large coy pond, with fish two to three feet long and a bridge going across the middle. In the back, an adobe kiva with an arched door. Michael's tools are stored in an eight foot shed with a glass door which reveals the precise placement of each tool. They fit into their storage space like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and only can be used by taking them out onto the patio on into the garage, where it looks like Gyro Gearloose's workshop. with paint of all colors covering the floor, from previous projects, and complicated unfinished works lining the walls.
For all the love and perfection Michael puts into his work. he has not learned compassion for his fellow humans yet. The lesson is that no one is perfect. And that is a hard lesson for me, and why we only meet every few years.