The Foundation Beneath Us

There’s a hole in the middle of our house right now.

Not a little crack, not a creaky floorboard, but a real hole, dug deep into the earth, wide open where the concrete slab used to be.

Okay, the hole isn’t enormous, but it’s jarring to see the earth exposed inside your office. It’s the kind of thing that stops you mid-step. One day, you’re walking into your pottery studio, ready to get elbow-deep in the mud. The next, you’re carefully stepping around temporary walls and support beams, looking down at a patch of raw, unsettled earth that hasn’t been seen in decades, trying not to drop your basket of laundry.

It feels unsettling in every sense of the word.

The dirt looks wild and strange inside a space that has always been safe, solid, and domesticated. There’s something about seeing the raw ground beneath your feet that reminds you how fragile it all really is — how much of what we think is stable is, in truth, surprisingly precarious.

And now, we wait.

The dirt has to settle before the new concrete footing can be poured. That could take a week. It could take a month. And even then, once the concrete is poured, it will need another 30 to 60 days to cure, slowly hardening into something strong enough to carry the weight of everything above it.

This process cannot be rushed.

If we skip a step or hurry the work, the foundation will not be strong enough. It’s a humbling reminder that the most important parts of any structure, the parts we rarely see, require time, patience, and careful preparation.

Meanwhile, life moves on around the hole.

We pack up the main floor, sorting through years of accumulated life. We’ve ordered a storage pod and hired movers. Some things will move into the garage, where we’ll set up our temporary living space. Some items will find a new home through donation or sale. Some will wait patiently in storage until we can welcome them back into a new space, shaped with fresh intention.

This is the last of the work we’ll do with our own hands before handing it over to the contractors, entrusting them with the messy, noisy, transformational work of tearing down and rebuilding.
Letting go of control is not easy for me. This feels like a big step – a step into trust, into letting others do their part in helping us build what’s next.

It’s a strange season, living beside exposed earth, waiting for unseen processes to unfold, trusting that the work we cannot rush is the work that matters most.

Living in that unsettled place feels a little…well, unsettling.

It’s too late to turn back, but we haven’t quite stepped into the dreams we are building either. We are simply here, waiting, believing, preparing the foundation.

Do you ever feel like that in your own life? I do.

I find myself standing in this season of transition. Retirement is just a few years away. Our kids will soon stretch their wings and fly into their own adventures. And stepping into my 50s feels like opening a brand new chapter, with all its questions and possibilities.

I am dreaming about what comes next: plans, projects, gatherings, communities. Time with my wife, traveling and gathering people around us.

I am dreaming about tables filled with food and conversation. About people finding a place to belong. About connection being made, one meal at a time.

There’s a podcast I love called The Good Life Project, hosted by Jonathan Fields. Recently, he shared an idea he’s working on: the 2×20 Project — spending two intentional years learning, doing, and building something that sets the course for the next twenty years. A life marked by significance, simplicity, and joy.

That resonates so deeply with me.

I, too, want these next two and a half years, these final ones of this career chapter, to be full of intentional preparation. I want to lay down a foundation of health, vitality, connection, contribution, and creativity. I want to create the life I envision with both hands and heart: a life where nourishment, learning, and belonging are abundant.

It is hard to wait.

It is hard to sit quietly in the “in-between” places, waiting for the dirt to settle and the concrete to cure. But the strong foundation we lay now will make everything else possible later. It will allow us to build higher, wider, and stronger than before.

Standing in our makeshift hallway, glancing down into the raw earth, I can’t help but think about how often life asks the same of us:

To hold steady when things feel unstable.
To trust the slow work of building something real.
To believe that what is being rebuilt will be stronger because of the care and patience invested now.

Sometimes, building something beautiful begins with digging deep, and daring to live in the mess for a little while.

And when we do, we create a foundation sturdy enough to build tables wide enough to welcome everyone who needs a place to belong.