I got a new roof this week. I didn’t need one.  The old roof wasn’t old, ten years at most.  You really can’t even see my roof unless you’re sky diving.  Buying a new roof you don’t need and can’t see is enormously unrewarding.   I got new gutters, at least I can see them and have some appreciation for their utility.  It’s possible just because I know they are there I feel better about it.  If I hadn’t climbed a ladder, I wouldn’t have known the new roof was all new, or there at all.

The new roof is a result adding no more than five feet to the front of my bungalow.  Amidst my growing frustration each contractor claimed I was much better off replacing the entire thing and each asking ten grand for the work.   Puking up resentment I kept calling more people trying to find just one who would disagree and simply put a new roof on the new part, doing their best to match the old totally good old roof.

Turns out sometimes when you join new with existing it doesn’t work so well.  At the union of new and old, damage occurs.  It’s slow and undetectable for a while but under the surface it’s happening–  a rot that creeps up and over everything slowly, then quickly.

Even though what was there was totally good, by adding just five feet everything required changing.

This is exactly how it was when I finally tackled my eating disorder and got sober, when I got real, when I tried to change small parts of me.  One thing lead to another.  Over time I began to see that a small change put everything else into the light, and at risk.  And like my roof, much of the work is unnoticeble unless you really dive deep… but the unnoticeble work I’ve done is as vital as the small changes the world can see.  In fact, the five feet added to my house is the only part of the roof you can see….  The five feet is probably not even five percent of the entire roof, yet everything changed in order to support it.

That’s exactly how it goes.  The five percent change needed requires looking at everything.