(We know the day we were born, but most of us do not know the day we will die. This love letter to my life is written on the day I've designated as my death day: the 17th of every month, and reminds me to be grateful for my joy-filled life. Joyce Wycoff)
I’ve decided to own my life.
To walk through my remaining yearsskipping this way and that.I’ve spent too long renting space,fearing eviction,following the arbitrary rulesof a righteous landlord.And who is this would-becontroller of my world?That’s a bit of a rub —I see him in my mirror,hear his voice in my head,feel the floor boards shutteras he stomps down the hallto demand his due.But, I’m no longer there.I’ve moved out,without notice … just goneto that lovely cliff overlooking the sea,watching waves roll in,listening to the storiesthey bring from lands afar.Free to sit all daycrocheting finger puppetsand dancing to the tuneof the shimmering lights.Join me if you like.***
Seventeen days ago, there was a tremor, probably only a 3 on the Richter scale. Nothing fell off the walls; no new cracks in the sidewalk. But, something shifted. Somewhere near my breast bone, I felt a loosening, a lightness entering, ushering in the words above.
During a small retreat of about forty people, questions appeared, prompting new thoughts. Songs invited misinterpretations that turned into insights. Resistance morphed into wonderings.
Two words followed me home and asked for lodging. I couldn’t say “no” … they were so small and wanted nothing more than a place to rest.
The next day when I awoke, they had rearranged the furniture.