You press your nose right up against the hardwood floor. You can see every too-wide gap between the boards, can see every scuff and scratch. (The woodgrain used to be beautiful but now it’s a wreck.) You have a tiny sack cloth in one hand. You dump out the sack. Tiny boards of bamboo. And then you begin to arrange them, to stack them. You’re building a tiny replica of a Japanese farmhouse. It’s difficult work. Not unlike Buddhist monks making mandalas. Only the bamboo farmhouse keeps falling apart and you need to start from scratch. But you can see it in your mind.