From Gear Shed to Sacred Space: A Metaphor for Living

Discovering what emerges when we clear what no longer serves us

Weeks and days are blurred, and time is losing perspective and meaning even as light grows five minutes every day in its march, springing forward towards growth, greenery, and guests arriving to the lodge in a few short months.

This year, I'm under construction—literally—and practicing "The Way" every day, now exploring hindrances.

Earlier today I penned, How can I be a better person?
Take your time.
Don't procrastinate.
Be true.
Be truthful.
Open the present.

Since mid-January when construction and demolition began at my River Raven Sanctuary lodge and home, I too have been experiencing a clearing of rot from my life—investigating squishy spots in the floor and decking, clearing debris, old patterns, and unstable foundations.

With assistance, outside decks are being reenvisioned, rebuilt, and renewed. Foundations are becoming solid now. The demo is ongoing, and structural progress with new work is underway.

My home is a public space—a lodge on the Kenai River in Soldotna, Alaska. Last fall while putting fishing gear, yard art, and patio furniture away for the winter season, I discovered a squishy floor spot in the unheated gear shed. Repairs were necessary, and I'm grateful my favorite trusted contractor had a job delay in January and messaged me only hours after I made a mental note that I needed to contact him about his availability for work this spring. With little to no snowfall this winter—allowing for outdoor work in January, February, and March when there is often several feet of snow and below zero temperatures—less than 48 hours after acknowledging my need to hire someone in a 2025 must-do list, we started a simple project that expanded by necessity. As the demo and construction is literally happening before my eyes, it is symbolic and metaphoric for my life too. With the gift of clear vision following cataract surgery in late February, I am examining the inner foundations and exterior expressions of this one life given to me to live. I am open to new learnings, choosing longevity and purpose, receptivity, and the ability to reply and respond with discernment and action.

The lodge metal roof repairs happened last summer in between guests and rainy days. Finally, the roof isn't springing leaks from ice dams and poor construction in some roof transitions. On snowy days in February, previous leak spots from the past several winters were patched and dry-walled. New insulation was added. I've been painting and replaced carpet in the Eagle guest room. The spot in the commercial kitchen where I once repeatedly stabbed a screwdriver into the sagging ceiling to poke a hole to drain water is now brand new, and the trusses and joists above are sturdy and strong. The Fireweed guest room sports new tongue and groove wood encasing the unused two-story garage door hardware in the room corner.

Each of these little and enormous projects are underway in this expansive home and business of mine that my brother once called "the mothership." With the deck railings currently removed from the prow front facing the river, it does feel a bit like a ship. Shortly before he died, my dad said to me, "Pegge, stop listening to everyone who tells you what's wrong and fix it. There's nowhere else like your place. Don't listen to the naysayers."

And did I mention the dock has been leaning into the river for years?

Last month I did my due diligence and confirmed I have the proper permitting to repair and maintain the existing covered dock structure. Over the years, I've consulted with five people to determine the best action plan for repair. The past few weeks I've met with two people and prayed for assistance and the best solution. Friday afternoon, Trevor, my tree guy, called to check in. He's finishing another job and asked if any more trees succumbed to the ongoing Spruce Beetle infestation on the Kenai Peninsula (they didn't). In the conversation, I shared progress on the other projects, including the dock fix needed. We've talked in the past about cleaning up the dead alders in the marshy land between the lodge and river, so the undergrowth can receive more light, allowing ferns, moss, grasses and fireweed to grow. He's a problem solver and wants to look at the dock! He has skills, time, and connections for what might need to happen to get it straightened and upright. Fingers crossed, he's coming on Wednesday and wants to take this on.

The grand and most significant emergence is transpiring from the squishy gear shed floor.

In February, as the project began in earnest, I read a Substack note that paused me. Dorena Kohr asked: “Serious Question... If opportunity or money were to walk into your front door, would they have a clear path to the back left corner of your home? Or Would they stumble or get lost along the way? In feng shui, …”

Simultaneously, as we emptied the 11' by 14' shed located on the left front corner of my property in the middle of an Alaska winter, I discovered we did need to tear out cupboards and counters, after discovering the squishy floor spot revealed rotten floor joists, no vapor barrier between wood and the damp frozen earth, and sloggy flooring.

Now with a new floor properly constructed in the empty shed with a view, unexpectedly, my imagining began.

I'd always loved its one small window view above a non-functional sink facing the river and birch trees. I wondered, did it really need to be the catch-all anymore, or could it become something more?

Dozens of old rubber boots for guests, some cracked and leaky, plus others left behind. Rain gear in all sizes for 15 to 20 guests. A baker’s dozen of kids-sized life jackets, three dozen fishing poles, a case of Styrofoam cups from maybe 2006, waders, nets, lures, scales, gardening and yard supplies, 20 coolers, lunch buckets and waterproof bags, old plastic flowers I'll never use as decor, screens for drying eggs to make caviar (I may do this someday again). A shop vac, brooms, mops, and, and, and.

At summer's end, it also stored two patio tables, 12 deck chairs, a barbecue, a fish smoker, 10 anti-gravity loungers, two large rocking chairs, a dozen plastic Adirondack chairs, garden pots, two café tables, doormats, sand cigarette pots, camping gear, and a whole lot more.

We moved it all out in January, on a rainy day, and I kid you not, a double rainbow emerged as we finished. The foundation was replaced. Then when I'd read that feng shui question, the space began to speak to me in my dreams, asking to become more.

I visited home improvement and specialty shops, recycled building supplies to upcycle or repurpose, and ultimately salvaged and scavenged windows and French doors, knocked out a wall, sanded and pickle-washed a lot of unused 20-year-old warped tongue and groove wood for the unfinished ceiling and three walls, eliminated the fluorescents hanging from chains, ordered pendant glass light fixtures, scoured marketplace for cupboards and finds, imagining what it might become.

It's shifting from "the gear shed" to a "boujie gear shed," to an indoor-outdoor summer deck entertainment space, with new names along the way. Each iteration reveals something new.

And its little p and big P purpose is shapeshifting again.

Yesterday, with an on-sale space heater bringing it to room temperature, I completed an hour of floor Pilates with my teacher who meets with me a few times a month, as I've let go of old injuries, restrictions, and contractions in my body. From the new 8-foot by 5-foot window facing the river, bright green moss dangling in the birch tree distracted me. The fresh Sherwin Williams "Sea Salt" painted wall mirroring the blue sky and the river hues revealed in the picture window caused me to smile. Eagles soaring by, carrying branches offered an, “Oh, look!” The glass orb lights suggested jellies swimming in the sea as I lay on my back and stared at them, in a bridge pose, and final stretch to unwind. Breathing, breathing, I shared with Candace that everywhere I've been on a retreat, there's a dedicated space, be it named a chapel, peace pavilion, yoga studio, meditation room, or….

As impractical as it seems, given this is a lodge on the river, with many special spots, the squishy floor is guiding the way for something new—a sanctuary for meditation, contemplation, creativity, and connection—a space that I need. And maybe my guests and visitors need too.

It's exciting to listen to what it wants to become, married with what is yet invisible, and only intuited. In this permission, I will now need to find and repurpose other places for the necessary fishing and outdoor equipment to live. I don’t need to keep it all.

The working name for the former gear shed is the "Blue J". When my son was alive, I affectionately, and privately nicknamed him Blue Bird.

He would roll his eyes at me, and say, “never call me this in public.” In February, the day before my cataract surgeries, I admitted my fear to myself, would I go blind? What if something happens to me? There are no guarantees for the time we are given to love and live. On that morning, as I breathed, a Stellar Blue Jay visited in the tree outside my window, and several continued to stick around. Their sharp calls cut through the winter silence, their brilliant flash of feathered blues against the white snow or clouded sky are a striking reminder of presence and possibility. I shared the story with my housemate, and when I said Blue Jay, for the first time, I made the connection between my son Justin's name and blue birds. It captured my imagination that Blue "J's" are catching my attention, making themselves visible.

I smile as I write, aware I am participating in something bigger than me that's revealing itself day by day, step by step, as I open to imagining possibility and potential.

This invitation isn't only for the land and physical space. This too is occurring in my life and in my body, as I clear out rot, unstable and unhealthy relationships, and build a firm foundation for longevity and vitality for the years I’m gifted to live. As I've torn out the rotten joists and beams beneath the shed floor and decks to build something new and beautiful, I'm examining what no longer supports me internally—what beliefs, what habits, what relationships need reinforcing or replacing entirely.

In this under-construction time, I especially appreciate my Substack subscribers' patience as I've struggled to clarify what I can say, want to say, and what would be meaningful and helpful for you to hear. Several times a week I do share shorter thoughts and photos in the "notes" or “activity” section on Substack that don't arrive in your inbox like a longer post like this. I'm also imagining who it is that wants to read what I write, what would be beneficial, and what types of things and ideas I haven't shared in the past, that I could. Kindly join me to seek and listen. Engage and flow.

Daily, I snuggle with the Labrador Retrievers, lean into meditation practice and movement, and the myriad of construction decisions that need to be made. In this season of winter, and now spring, while Alaska gains five minutes of light a day, I continue to recover from complicated grief, explore new eyesight, envision a vital future, on an genuine path of love, while continuing to discover what emerges when I clear what no longer serves, and lean into possibility and delight.

I love you. I love being here. I'm so very grateful for you, and for being alive.

Be blessed, my friends. I'd love to hear from you and will share again about the renovation in another month!

Love, Pegge

Under construction!