The Long and Winding Road
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Some people see their paths clearly. Everything is laid out in front of them, their compasses point north, and they’re off and running. Other people—like myself—seem to have less direction or clarity or a path that is at least partially covered in vines or fog. Maybe it all feels right sometimes. Things fall into place, and people show up exactly at the time they’re needed. One contact or project or tidbit pushes you along in the Universal Flow. I’ve been there.
However, the last few years I’ve groped in the fog and hacked away with a machete. While I knew Ohio was the “right” choice I could not seem to make much headway. I felt isolated most of the time for many reasons.
Finally, though, I tuned out the desire to “make it work” and tuned into more subtle messages. I evaluated my experiences and reviewed the paths I’d taken. I went back to an old exercise of mine that asks, “What would you do if it could be anything?” and eliminated limitations, gradually putting thoughts out There about what would be ideal for me.
I’ve learned the following: 1. what you think you want and what you’re supposed to have are not always the same things; 2. meditation is an excellent tool for filtering and calming; 3. having patience is very important; 4. focusing on lack creates lack, and focusing on abundance and blessings creates abundance and blessings; 5. it can all be frustrating and grueling, but you have to be patient; 6. and trust in a benevolent Universe/God/Spirit; 7. your gut feelings are your instincts, and if you can tune into those—as crazy as they may seem—they won’t steer you wrong; 8. patience, grasshopper, patience.
My “work” is still evolving, but my house-hunting exploits are the stuff of legends. Plan A was to purchase a house for cash and not have a mortgage payment. As soon as this was possible the market skyrocketed, greatly diminishing my choices of homes and neighborhoods. There was a cute little place near the corner on Jewel St. at Norton, however, that caught my eye in spite of there being only one exterior photo of the property. The neighborhood was marginal with a church directly across the street, but a suspicious looking multi-family across Norton that seemed to have cars generally pulling up and leaving.
When realtor Tim opened the door, I fell in love with the house. It was everything I’d imagined: old style tiles, hardwoods, a sunroom, glass front kitchen cabinets, an attached garage, charm, reasonably priced. But would I feel safe in the neighborhood? Could I take Zsa Zsa for a walk? Did I want to zip my car in the garage and live inside looking out? There had been a shooting down the street. I decided to make an offer anyway because it was such a nice house in good condition. Ahh, but no-go. The man told Tim that he was taking it off the market to rent to a friend of his. I wasn’t happy, but “wasn’t meant to be” kept going through my head.
Subsequent houses went from bad to worse, including a house that was imploding because it had been built on a spring (or cave or something) and a mobile home 20 miles from the city with a ceiling that was buckling. I’d tried to wrap my head around a possible deal for a house on the water, but couldn’t get it to feel comfortable. A talk with one of my friends finally convinced me to rent instead by reminding me of the freedom I had as a tenant in Oregon and reiterating that repairs on these houses were imminent, as were Rochester’s notoriously high taxes. Oh, yes. It was coming back to me from owning my house years ago.
My friends and I switched gears to find suitable rental properties: at least off-street parking, two bedrooms if possible, and, of course, Zsa Zsa friendly. We cruised by a few possibilities; I visited a couple of city lofts. I was making appointments and staying in my friends’ camper next to their house with my belongings in storage.
One Sunday I simply drove around thinking, “There has to be SOMEthing. What am I missing?” which took me along the bay. I spotted one “For Rent” sign in front of a two-car garage and took down the number. When I called the next day, the landlord and I seemed to connect right away. The house was a funky, artsy-craftsy two-bedroom with the garage. And it was right on the water. In fact, it had everything I’d asked for from the Universe at the beginning of this whole process. BAM, Emeril style.
I imagine myself as the princess kissing frogs to get to the prince, (need I mention the trust and patience involved?) but am excited to be in a place that feels kind of like home even with my furniture in storage. I couldn’t have gotten here without help from my friends Diane & Bill, Rich, Jodi, Carol and Larry—sages, cheerleaders, voices of reason, sounding boards. I am so, so grateful for the advice, suggestions and patience as I toddled through this particular stretch.
I’ve spent the entire day here at the house just reading, unpacking, cleaning, putting a slipcover on a chair, looking at paint swatches. Neighbor Dave mowed my little back yard. The path continues, and so will I. The fog has cleared. Tonight the moon is shining on the still water.
