Pulling weeds. A life lesson?

Yard work. It's been in the back of my mind, the front of my mind, and generally nagging me for about three days now. Each day I thought about and planned on getting out there. Each day I found something else to do. One day I did nothing but "veg" out. It was 92 degrees and HOT! So this morning I wake up to a brisk nippy morning. Perfect for yard work.

Unsure of what the resistance is of late. Perhaps it's because we are selling this house and now the yard work occurs as a have to versus a want to. Anyone who owns a home knows that you have to do yard work. It's a given. If you're averse to yard work you do not buy a home with a yard or you plan on paying someone to do it. The notion of yard work then transforms, either into a want to or a non-concern.

As a homeowner, the have to transforms when you dream about what new perennial to add to the garden or how to outline the garden path with something interesting and low maintenance -- the chore dissolves into creation. Visualizing the outcome. Designing a little patch of organic heaven right in your own backyard. Merging a deck into the landscape seamlessly.

Now, I will not be here to watch the daffodils and tulips emerge, the peonies blossom, the cherry tree sprout it's small white fragrant flowers. No future to live into with this yard anymore.

What there is however, is a sense of pride. Presenting this house to it's best advantage. Honoring the love that went into this yard. Bringing all the thoughtful additions to the foreground -- a fluid lawn that ebbs and weaves around river rock. The split rail fence that was placed strategically to stop cars from driving across the lawn. Low water bushes to soften the expanse of rock and add visual effect. Creating a sense of lushness without using precious water.

Now the lawn is mowed and the weeds are gone. I am filled with a sense of fulfillment and pride. This lovely little house expresses love. Funny how weeding provides such mental solace. Each one plucked with a sense of purpose.

Where have all the poppies gone?

It's Memorial Weekend. Everyone is making plans to go camping, have friends over for BBQ, go to the lake, or just plain relax. It's not evident to me, at least not on the surface, that people really honor what Memorial Weekend is for.

It is to honor those who have fallen in service of this country. Fallen is a nice word for died. As in gave their life.

We've drifted away from the importance of the weekend. Yes getting Monday off makes for a perfect three day weekend. Yet, I wonder if any of those people who are so anxious to get away, stop for one minute to acknowledge those men and women who sacrificed so much.

I am patriotic. I was born into a patriotic family. My Dad was in the Army for 22 years. He fought in World War II and the Korean War. He co-founded a VFW post in El Paso Texas and an American Legion Post here in Colorado.

My first job was selling flags for the VFW. I sold alot of flags that Summer. It was a fund-raiser for the VFW post but it was also about honoring our soldiers and exhibiting national pride. We also sold poppies on Memorial Weekend. Poppies were started to wear as a reminder of the fallen. Proceeds of poppy sales were used to support the families of the dead. When I went to England on a vacation, we visited Westminster Abbey. It coincided with the date they honor their dead. The entire yard of the Abbey was covered in poppies. Each military unit had a section of the yard and had carpeted the lawn with poppies. I was moved to tears that the concept of the poppies was global. That soldiers everywhere fought a common enemy so that we are free.

With progress and time comes so many wonderous things. There is a busyness to the world now that didn't exist before. With all that progress we have taken our freedom for granted. Pearl Harbor made the war personal. The attack on 9-11 was personal -- for a few months. What happened? Did we get lulled into a false sense of security? Did we forget what it took to get here? World War II was painful lesson in global peace. The War Against Terrorism has been long yet there is a sense that someone else will take care of it. Who is that someone? That someone is an American! One of us, not some stranger.

History teaches us not to forget.

Don't forget! There are men and women dying every day in the Middle East to uphold something we take for granted. Honor our fallen and our country. Fly the flag. Wear a poppy.

Say a quiet thank you.

I fly a flag every day. It has a light on it so I keep it flying at night too. Nothing fancy but a reminder of the great country I live in, a structural reminder of the men and women who got us here, and the ones who serve now to keep me save. It's also a reminder of my Dad who loved this country so much.

Back-up plans

Back up plans, contingency plans -- call them whatever you want! Right now they occur as the defeaters of possibility. Like the slow leak of life. You start out with a bright dream, one that inspires you and pulls you forward. Then over time, when the plans don't pan out quite the way you created, doubt starts to chip away at the foundation of your dream.

Now I have always been known as a dreamer, an optimist. I like that label. I encourage that opinion of me.

I have made miracles occur.

Some have faded into distant memory like having bought my own house. To many in my generation that was a huge accomplishment for a single mother. I raised over $100,000 for a bone marrow transplant for my nephew. Had no clue how to really do it, but forged ahead. Wasn't as popular in the 80s as it is now to have those kinds of fundraisers or get that kind of publicity -- especially from the Washington Post.

Some miracles are more recent... Buying mountain property. Made my lifelong dream of owning mountain property come true. Camping on that particular piece of dirt reminds me of how strong I am and that I can do anything! Building a cabin on the land is next. Right after our debt is paid off!

Getting married. Hey at fifty to have that deepest part of me fulfilled by the perfect man (thank you God for sending him to me) is a miracle. Words escape me when I get present to the miracle of this man who loves me to distraction. Reading all those romance novels doesn't even compare to the reality of being with my honey. I am a living romance novel. I created that.

So here we are selling the house. Last Fall, I created that the house would be listed in April, under contract in May, and closed by the end of June. As time elapses, my confidence seems to as well. It was listed in April (albeit the middle of April). Depressing news regarding the economy and a general lack of showings has shaken my confidence. An electronically generated comp report indicates that the value of the home is increasing. My confidence went on an up-swing. That combined with having a hard time letting go (even though it's my choice) is playing havoc with my mind. The mind is a dangerous place to go alone.

Reaching out to a friend, I am reminded that there are still 5 days left in May! It only takes a moment to be under contract. This is a lovely home waiting for the right family. That family will fall under it's spell and have to have the house, this weekend! A contract will be waiting on my fax before Memorial Weekend is over.

Family to be find this home and make it your own.

A perfect place to live and grow.

You will give Renee what she is owed.

Come with speed upon the wind and land at the door so both may win!

Then the back-up plan can go away and be what it was all along -- a safety net. Nothing wrong with a safety net. Thinking things through does not diminish the original creation. It's the way we are designed. Go with it. It's all made up anyway. Only I get to say how it goes for me!

Keeping my head above water

Ever have one of those days? Where you want to either sleep or eat your way through it? Today was one of those days.

Did I sleep through it? No! I got up early, got dressed and made it to work on time. Actually a relatively productive day. Quiet but productive.

Did I eat my way through it? No! I wanted to. I must have gone to the refrigerator at least 20 times. I did eat everything I brought. Devoured every morsel with relish. Scoured the cabinets for food that I could snarf. Fortunately there wasn't much to choose from. Thank God for healthy eating co-workers. Thank God for self-control. Thank God for divine intervention.

Sometimes there is divine intervention! An empty cabinet or boring food can be considered divine intervention. At least in my interpretation. Anything that intervenes with me over eating that isn't a conscious choice on my part is divine intervention. We don't know how it all works, so if by some chance there isn't any food to choose from and that is what stops me from over-eating -- I'll take it.

Now I did stop myself. Many times. I am proud of stopping myself.

What I am not proud of is that I still have this ongoing desire to binge and hide behind my weight. It's been a shield since high school. A layer of protection from getting hurt. From getting rejected.

Well all those reasons don't have power anymore. I am married to a fabulous younger man who thinks the sun rises and sets on me. I've come to a point in my life where not much really scares me anymore. I've got some mileage on me. I've had enough experiences to know that I can handle just about anything. I know that my word is powerful.

So I've come to the conclusion that my reactions to stress, sadness, and even happiness is to eat. Eat anything and eat alot of it. That's some realization. Years of habitual eating.

Years of habit to intervene with.

AND

This is what I do know -- that if anyone can intervene with anything, it's me!

Here's to building that dream.

The Art of Letting Go

Letting go. Why is it so hard sometimes? I've been thinking about letting this house go. Alot! It is clearly the choice I am making. It is clearly a good move.

Then why today when the sun was filtering through the leaves and the deck was looking like it belonged in Good Housekeeping was I second guessing the choice to sell?

So many memories have been born in this house. I remember dreaming of, drawing, measuring, and planning that deck for instance. Attending a deck building class at a local lumber yard. Going through pages of graph paper, pencils, and erasers. Measuring the width of potential furniture. Preparing a timeline. Allocating $50 a paycheck to purchase the needed lumber, nails, brackets, cement until I had all the supplies. Tearing down the small 6x3 landing the builders called a deck. Thinking about the consequences of damaging the house when I screwed the first lag bolt into the siding.

The blisters digging the post holes, drilling 8 holes per board, screwing in hundreds of screws, lovingly sanding and staining each 2x6. How smooth the wood was. How I watched the $20 tree grow into the 40 foot behemoth it is today. It's strong branches and leaves provide privacy and shade to that deck now.

Now it is time for another family to treasure the cool breezes that blow through the leaves, to barbeque their hamburgers, have friends and family over for celebrations. Time for another couple to sit in the quiet of the night watching the stars.

May the next family make memories they treasure for years to come, for I am ready to build my next dream.

And so it begins

I've been a work in progress since birth. Today is another day in the evolution of self. A conscious work of human art. What an interesting way to look at my life. Each brush stroke creating a subtle and sometimes not so subtle impact on my life.

Each thought, choice, action has created this path I am on. So here I am. Looking at my life and being aware of the wonder of it all. How blessed I am. No -- I am not (as yet) independently wealthy, nor am I a paragon of physical beauty. I am a incomparable human being living her way through this particular life.

That is something! That is something no one else has quite like me. The same goes for you!

Later on I will provide you with a synopsis of my life thus far. Feed it to you in little bites or who knows -- sometimes I may regurgitate volumes. For now, I am aware of how my life is changing. Almost with each breathe there is a tangible alteration.

Yesterday I spread the remainder of my Father's ashes. I can't remember the exact day he died. September 27th, 2002. His ashes have quietly resided in either the hallway closet or my bedroom closet. On the top shelf. His recent sojourn in my closet had me greeting him each morning. "Hi Dad." The oblong black plastic box sat directly facing the closet entrance. Put there hastily when readying the house for sale.

Half of his ashes are spread up at our mountain property. It was the last place he went camping. Oh how hard he worked to get to that camping trip. His truck broke down and over-heated at least twice that weekend. At 79 he would still take off and head to the hills alone. On this particular trip he was joining me for our first and subsequently last camping trip at the land.

I remember hearing a car driving up the road to the property and stopping at the top of the hill. A voice booming out -- "Hello. This is Officer Brown, I am looking for ..." My heart sunk, I thought he was coming to find me and tell me my Dad was dead. But no -- he was delivering my Father to me. Dad had befriended him and this gracious policeman had driven 22 miles through back roads to deliver my Father to me. That was my Dad!

He made friends everywhere he went. There was a family joke that Dad would be in a town for less than an hour and know where every bar was and would know more people than you who had lived there for years. I have many stories to validate the "joke".

Dad loved the outdoors. Camping, fishing, hunting (which I affectionately called camping with guns)! I used to bet that the gun never came out of the case. It was just an excuse to go away with the guys and enjoy nature. He made friends easily. Enemies too! He was the kind of man you either liked or disliked immediately.

Yesterday, it was a quiet journey. Dad, Peggy, and I. Peggy is the widow of Dad's best friend, Jim. Jim is also spread at this particular spot overlooking the Rocky Mountains. Peggy was the only person who knew exactly where "their" spot was. Would have never found it without her. Although now it is engraved on my brain.

Those two old coots had an Adventure finding this particular location. Finding beauty in the midst of scrub pine and dirt. Rifle is a small town west of Denver (3.5 hours west). Past Vail, Glenwood Springs, past Silt, Dotsero, and then there is Rifle. With a Walmart at the interstate exchange, a big bank, small town, with a nice golf course. Drive through town, bear right to the bowling alley, turn right at the Correctional Center sign, go 5 miles and look for a closed gate indicating a State Wildlife Area. How did they even think to go back there?

It's not really a road, more a path that four-wheelers had made over time. Washed out from rain, with deep ruts. Dropped into low and began the ascent, jiggling back and forth. We get to the top and cannot see anymore road. Peggy says "there really is a road". I drove over the edge and felt exhilaration. The giggles exploded and Peggy and I shared a knowing that the men had definitely had an adventure finding this place. The road then climbed up a steep hill and twisted between gnarly pines flattening out at the top into a dusty field.

We turned left and I drove a couple hundred yards until it was clear that there was no where else to go. "This is it." The edge of field dropped sharply down into a ravine. One lone scraggly pine holding onto the edge for dear life. Wind blew us about. My eyes scoured the field and the ravine, nothing overly beautiful. Far off the edge of the field across the ridge was the Correctional Facility. Then I looked straight ahead past the ravine and saw the reservior. Turquoise water the sight of which I only ever expected at a beach in Bahamas.

I imagined Jim and Dad, in their camp chairs, spending a leisurely afternoon sharing stories looking at the view, watching the deer meander up the ravine, and having a drink or three. Friends sharing time and space. It was then that I saw the true beauty of this place. Why this was the place that both HAD to have their ashes spread here together. A shared experience memorable to both.

Tears fell as I walked to the car, opened the ashes and carried Dad to edge of the ravine.