Tag Archives: moving

Lost and Found

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Forgive me readers, for I have sinned, it’s been six long months since my last post. Six months! The word ‘sin’ for me doesn’t adhere to the heavy-handed Christian interpretation. Rather I hold onto the Hebrew or Aramaic etymology, wherein I missed the mark, or was forgetting my Self. And so I was…somewhat.

Although my fingers slowed to a crawl, I didn’t stop writing. I’ve been pecking and poking away at my long-form project, in a steady, sloth sort of way. That is to say, when I have been writing, my thoughts line up as though coated in molasses. I seem to have sticky residue gumming up the pages in my brain.

Sometimes an impending earthquake can rumble through your life long before the earth moves beneath your feet. It causes all sorts of unexpected and unplanned mayhem; furniture gets tossed about, books tumble from the shelves and dishes fly out of the cupboards. Sometimes, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, it picks you up and drops you down in a completely different and unexpected place. The force of nature moving within you.

It was an article in the New Yorker about “the really big one” due to hit the West Coast that got guts churning. It was the report from the structural engineer that got my feet moving. It turns out that the cement foundation poured in 1938 is slowly turning to dust and ruin and no amount of expensive remediation will make her sound. Not to mention what might happen if the bedrock my cottage sits on begins to shake, rattle and roll. Suddenly I’m faced with a complete tear-down and rebuild….or move again.

In January, my spiritual teacher asked, “What image, word or phrase will you carry  through this year?”

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Immediately the image of a big, beautiful tree with wide-spreading branches and deep, long-reaching roots came to mind. No longer do I need a house to put down roots. I am the tree. The roots are deep within me. Wherever I go, here I am. Home.

And so, almost settled into another, smaller-again-by-half house, I am writing once more. The words are flying around inside my head like caged birds looking for an open door. I am oiling the hinges…

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Queen of Sunset By The Sea

1J6A6795I’m soaking in bath oil and Epsom salt and listening to the song my house sings. The way the rain sounds on the roof, the three clicks the furnace makes before it lurches into life, the way it somehow, sometimes, strangely sounds exactly like a garage door opening beneath me. These sounds wrap themselves around me like a well-worn quilt, comforting me with their deep familiarity.

I’m moving in two weeks. To my new-to-me little 1938 cottage above the sea. The one that is half the size of my current home and twice as old. The one that I’ve just spent almost $10,000 to replace old clay pipes. Pipes that were so past the time of replacement, so root-bound, clogged and crumbling that raw sewage backed up into the downstairs tub. Did I mention how gross it was? How unsanitary and unhealthy? How incredibly yucky?

Yuck

Yuck

Tree roots love water and sewage

Tree roots love water and sewage

This impending move has already offered me so many gifts of growth. Opportunities to shed the last vestiges of my Damsel in Distress and to realize more and more of my own power. What used to rock me off my feet no longer even causes me to wobble. I am standing strong as the compassionate and benevolent Queen, boundaries firmly set.

In many ways I’ve been preparing for this transition my entire life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have shivers of trepidation at times. Remember the backed up sewer? I’m about to spend another three thousand dollars, this time correcting electrical deficiencies. Two sudden, large expenses and I can’t help wondering how many more loom in front of me.

I’ve grown solid in my Queendom, my cloak of empowerment is ever-present and rather than feeling anxious and upset at each unexpected discovery, I simply took the steps needed to move forward. Called the plumber. Talked to the previous homeowner. Fixed the problem.

I listen to the music this house makes as I walk through the empty cottage, measuring and taping where my furniture might fit. The creaks in the floorboards with each step I take, the sound of the passing car through the single-pane windows, the rain tap dancing on the bedroom skylight. Soon these unfamiliar sounds will soothe me into a new-felt safety. I’m coming home to my Self.

My new view!

My new view!

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Repotting My Life

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The music in the coffee shop where I’m currently writing is too loud, making it harder to let the words flow through my fingers. The coffee grinder adds to the chaos, the noise swirling around my head and through my being, jangling apart my thoughts. It’s time to move to a quieter spot to make space for the story that is floating just beyond my fingers.   To Summon the Sacred.

There is an older man sitting at the table just in front of me, grey wiry hair sprouting sporadically from the top of his head and growing in a bushy ring like an elderly monk in need of a haircut. He has a beard to match and wire framed glasses perching on the end of his nose. He’s reading a well-marked book, with many curling pink, orange and yellow post-it notes marking the pages. Occasionally he reaches for his black leather journal and makes notations in pencil. I wonder what he’s working on, what story is being written.

Beyond him is a younger man scrolling through his phone, an open laptop on the table in front of him. He’s joined by what could be his mother, who is slowly and deliberately writing on a folded piece of paper. So many stories. We are each living inside the stories of lives that we are creating moment by moment by moment, intersecting and bumping into each other. Physically and energetically. Unspoken connections sharing the experience of this physical existence.

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I’m writing the story of my life, or rather, one thread that weaves through my tapestry.  As I write and explore and examine, something slowly rises to the surface of awareness, the realization that it’s time to move.  This recognition both scares, thrills and saddens me all at the same time.  Emotions can be messy and mixed up like that.  I’ve lived in this house the longest I’ve lived anywhere and my roots grow deep, it’s going to be hard to leave.

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As I clean and declutter I consciously bless and fill my house with loving energy, preparing and polishing it for the new family that is waiting in the wings.

As I wander through my garden, I stop for a while and talk to my favourite trees and plants, thanking them for their presence and telling them that a new family will soon be enjoying them. I notice them with new eyes and a sad/glad heart.

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Caroline Myss says, “The inability to accept the natural cycle of change interferes with the growth and that interferes with health. It is impossible to stop the process of movement and growth. A negative response to change will produce negative growth. A seedling eventually requires transplanting to a larger pot. If this need for change is not acknowledged, though the plant may fight desperately for its life, it will die, never having reached its full maturity – we are no different.”

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I’m getting ready to repot myself.  May the new family that is destined to live here love the land and the plants and trees as much as me.

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