When I read those words “Some Assembly Required” I have no idea what I am getting myself into. Over the years, there has been IKEA furniture or a bicycle on Christmas Eve. But recently, Lisa and I assembled the fireplace pictured above. It will be a nice addition while experiencing the “real” winter in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. A town that sits approximately 120 miles south of the border of British Columbia, Canada. Not sure how you feel about the words “some assembly required” but it makes my palms sweaty. Our assembly process took some twists and turns, but you can see from the picture it worked out.

My definition of “some” assembly required did not match the definition of “some” of the author of the instructions. To add to my consternation, there was a single red piece of paper separate from the 32-page instruction manual written in 42 font that says, “If any one of the pieces (there were hundreds of them) is missing, do not send this back.” It provides a number to call instead. Not that I could repack these behemoth boxes and get them back up the stairs that we slid these heavy boxes down anyway. Worst case we will MacGyver this fireplace assembly. Which we did.

The Beauty of Ambiguity

With our move to Coeur d’Alene, I have been reminded that the ambiguity of “some assembly required” not only applies to things we buy, but also to the process of relocating and many other life experiences. Some assembly required applies to moving to a new location and building community, meeting people, putting yourself out there. It can be intimidating and uncomfortable. There is no instruction manual.

The Ambiguity of Words Like Some and Almost

Years ago, I ran full distance 26-mile marathons. By the time I retired from marathoning, I had completed 14 of them. Mostly the annual event in Houston, but I ran some of the big ones like NYC, Washington, D.C., and Chicago. After 14 marathons, I realized I wanted to be able to walk 18 holes of golf later in life, so I stopped the marathons to preserve the knees.

As I ran these marathons, one of my more cherished memories were the spectators that lined the course to cheer on the runners. They cheered enthusiastically for all the runners for which they knew few if any. It did not matter to them. It is one of the things that kept me running marathons year after year. They would cheer to the runners at mile 15 or 16, “You are almost there.” Remember, a marathon is 26.2 miles. Once again, “almost,” another ambiguous word, means different things to different people. I was grateful for the support, and I smiled and waved to express my appreciation.

Looking back on that experience many years, perhaps the ambiguity of where I was in the 26.2 run would have added to the experience. Just put one foot in front of the other. It will be clear and joyous when you cross the finish line. As they say, enjoy the process, stop obsessing on the results.

You Are “Almost” to the top

Here is another example of the potential positive impact of ambiguity. I have been on many hikes where half the hike was uphill to the peak, and half the hike was down the mountain back to the trailhead. As I passed hikers on my way up as they were on the way down, they would often say, “You are almost to the top.” A mile and a half later, I reached the peak.

In hindsight, not knowing exactly how far I had left to go was the adventure, the freedom of hiking to the peak absent the detailed precision we live in. Off the mountain, your phone is telling you that you are 5.2 miles from your destination, your Uber driver will be here in 4 minutes, your package will be delivered by 3pm tomorrow.

Do not return if any of the parts are missing

As I settle into my new life in Coeur d’Alene, I am working to make friends and become part of the community in this beautiful place of mountains and lakes. It is a challenging process that has forced me out of my comfort zone in ways I would never have imagined at the age of 59. It is difficult but energizing at the same time. Like the fireplace, there is nothing to return if any pieces are missing. Unlike the fireplace, there is no 1 800 number to call. It is an ambiguous process.

In some ways, the process reminds me of running those marathons but doing so as if there were no mile markers. Am I almost there at mile 16 like the spectator says? I would not know.

Hiking to the peak, am I almost there or is half the hike to the top still left?

As I build this new life, I am putting that “fireplace” together. Piece by piece. But there are no instructions.

I only know …

“Some assembly required.”