The spine of Marcus Aurelius’s

Meditations

digs into my desk, a permanent ridge now worn into the veneer. Not from careful reading, mind you, but because for the last four years, it has served as the crucial, immutable prop for my monitor. Four years. A temporary fix, born out of a frantic March in 2020, now defines my daily ergonomic landscape. I promised myself, “Just until things settle,” or “Until I find the right stand.” Yet, here we are, 46 months later, and the stack of philosophical treatises and half-read novels beneath my screen has become as much a fixture of my office as the chair itself. It’s not just a collection of books anymore; it’s an archaeological layer of good intentions buried under the dust of neglect, a monument to the ‘temporary’ that became terrifyingly permanent.

I often catch myself glaring at it, a quiet, simmering resentment that boils up from some deep well of inertia. It feels like a small betrayal, a daily reminder of a promise I made to myself and consistently broke. This isn’t just about a monitor stand; it’s about the pervasive provisionality that has seeped into so many corners of our lives, transforming what should have been transient discomforts into entrenched realities. We talk about the “new normal,” but what if the new normal is simply a state of perpetual, uncomfortable ‘making do’? What if we’ve stopped striving for optimal and simply settled for ‘functional enough,’ a state of grace granted only because the alternative-actually *fixing* it-feels too monumental?

The Subtle Erosion of Efficiency

Just the other day, I mistyped my password for the fifth time. The muscle memory was there, the sequence correct, but my fingers hit the wrong key, consistently, annoyingly off-by-one. It was a minor irritation, but it perfectly captured the low-grade friction that hums beneath the surface of my day. These little glitches, these persistent misalignments, they add up. They drain a subtle but measurable amount of our mental energy, the same way my neck aches ever-so-slightly by the end of a long day staring at a screen propped by Seneca. It’s the cost of unaddressed friction, a hidden tax on our well-being. This isn’t a complaint, not exactly; it’s an observation, perhaps a confession. I, who criticize others for living in this limbo, am a living testament to its insidious grip.

This isn’t a complaint, not exactly; it’s an observation, perhaps a confession. I, who criticize others for living in this limbo, am a living testament to its insidious grip.

The Piano Tuner’s Paradox

This isn’t a unique phenomenon. I think of Finn T.-M., a piano tuner I met a while back. He’s a meticulous man, obsessed with the precise resonance of each string. His hands, calloused and nimble, spoke of decades spent coaxing perfect harmony from aged instruments. But his own workshop? It was a symphony of temporary solutions. He had a workbench made from two sawhorses and an old door, a setup he’d rigged “just until I get the proper one built.” That “until” had stretched past his 66th birthday, past the birth of his first granddaughter. His specialized tools, gleaming chrome and polished rosewood, were housed in battered plastic tubs, stacked precariously against a wall that also served as a leaning post for several half-refinished piano benches. He’d shrug, a familiar weariness in his eyes, and say, “It works, doesn’t it?”

But did it *really* work? Or was it just *functional*? Finn spent precious minutes each day rummaging for the right wrench, or adjusting the wobbly door-bench. He once told me about a grand piano he tuned for a particularly demanding client, a concert pianist with perfect pitch. He charged $676 for that intensive, intricate job, an amount he felt was fair for the level of precision required. Yet, he would spend countless hours in his own provisional space, struggling with simple tasks that a properly organized workshop would have made effortless. He’d criticize a piano owner for neglecting their instrument, for letting the felt harden or the strings rust, but failed to apply that same standard of care to his own working environment. The irony, though unacknowledged by Finn, was palpable to anyone who stepped into his world.

The Weight of Unfinished Business

It’s easy to dismiss these things as trivial, as quirks of character. But the psychological weight of the ‘temporary’ becoming ‘permanent’ is anything but trivial. It’s a constant, low-level hum of unfinished business, a visual and tactile reminder of delayed decisions. We tell ourselves we’ll get to it “when things settle down,” “when we have more time,” or “when we have more money.” But what if “settling down” is an illusion? What if the world keeps shifting, and our ability to adapt with intention, rather than just react with stopgaps, is the true measure of our resilience?

This mindset infiltrates deeper than just our physical spaces. How many relationships have we treated as “temporary arrangements” that then solidified into unhappy routines? How many career paths have we stumbled into with the thought, “This is just for now,” only to wake up 16 years later wondering where the time went? The provisional becomes not just permanent, but formative. It shapes our habits, our expectations, even our sense of self. We start to believe that this state of perpetual improvisation is just “how things are.” The danger is in losing the capacity to imagine and build something truly designed for our actual lives, not just the ghost of the lives we once had or the ones we wish were.

Bridging the Chasm

My own desk setup, with its philosophical underpinnings, is a perfect microcosm. I could spend a weekend, perhaps even just a few focused hours, finding and installing a proper monitor arm. It would elevate my screen, clear my desk, and eliminate that nagging physical and mental clutter. Yet, I haven’t. And I know why. It’s not just inertia; it’s a form of protective denial. To invest in a permanent solution feels like admitting this new way of working, this new rhythm of life, is here to stay. And part of me, the part that still yearns for the “before,” resists that admission. It’s a strange, self-sabotaging dance, clinging to the idea of returning to a past that may never fully rematerialize.

The truth is, life has changed. Work-from-home, hybrid models, these aren’t temporary blips; they’re ingrained features of our modern professional landscape. Our homes, once sanctuaries of personal life, are now multi-functional hubs, demanding adaptability and thoughtful design. Yet, we’re still, far too often, trying to fit square pegs into round holes, making do with kitchen counters as offices, or spare bedrooms doubling as gyms and meeting rooms, all with the lingering hope that someday, things will just *go back*. But what if “going back” isn’t the solution, or even an option? What if the real solution lies in building forward, in accepting the new reality and designing for it with purpose?

Consider the implications for our overall well-being. The constant visual reminder of something “not quite right” chips away at our sense of control and contentment. Imagine a space, a part of your home, that is designed not as a concession, but as a celebration of how you *actually* live and work now. Imagine a sunroom, for example, that integrates seamlessly into your existing home, providing a dedicated, light-filled space for productivity, relaxation, or creative pursuit. No more struggling with makeshift setups, no more psychological friction from an environment that perpetually whispers, “this isn’t meant to last.”

Choosing Permanence

It’s about making a choice. A choice to stop accepting the provisional as the permanent. A choice to reclaim our spaces and, by extension, our mental peace. This doesn’t mean a complete overhaul of everything overnight, but it starts with acknowledging the truth of our situation. It starts with recognizing that some ‘temporary’ solutions have lived past their expiry date and are now actively detracting from our lives.

My conversation with Finn, the piano tuner, eventually drifted to his plans for a proper workshop. He had drawings, stacks of them, all detailing intricate cabinetry and soundproofing. “One day,” he’d say, “one day I’ll build it.” He saw the ideal, but the gap between vision and execution seemed insurmountable, a chasm of ‘not enough time’ and ‘too much effort.’ It’s that chasm we need to bridge, not by wishing it away, but by taking decisive, intentional steps. For those ready to transform their provisional existence into something permanent and beautiful, something designed for the life they truly live, solutions like those offered by

Sola Spaces

can bridge that chasm. They represent a commitment to permanence, to quality, to a space that serves your actual needs, rather than merely accommodating them.

The True Cost of ‘Making Do’

Perhaps the greatest lesson from my password dilemma, and Finn’s dusty workshop, and my own perpetually propped-up monitor, is this: the energy we expend *tolerating* inadequacy often outweighs the effort required to *resolve* it. We get stuck in the cycle of adapting to the broken, rather than fixing it, or building something new. And in that adaptation, we slowly diminish our capacity for joy, for ease, for true, unburdened focus. The weight of ‘making do’ is a heavy one, and lifting it begins not with a grand gesture, but with the simple, courageous act of choosing permanence over the perpetually provisional. It’s about building a foundation for the life you have, not waiting for the one you used to have.