Rainy Days & Tuesdays Always Cheer Me Up

View from the front bedroom window

To be more accurate, rainy days cheer me up any day. But Tuesdays, even bright ones, cheer me up because they're not Mondays. Moving right along...

This morning I woke up to the first steady rain I've experienced in our new home. I've been luxuriating in the sight and, even more so, the sound of it. Been a while since my living space has been so close to the roof that I've been able to hear rain in surround sound. I'd forgotten how, for me, peace that passes understanding emerges with the sound of rainfall.

A mature tree in close proximity to the front of our town-home gives one bedroom the feel of a tree-house  From my office, I can see spires from the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Mary Our Queen whenever I gaze out the window. I gaze out the window a lot in between words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages. Add rain and I'm stirred.

Today's delight is happening on the Feast of the Guardian Angels. Coincidence or correlation? I'm going with the latter.

All Moved In

Here I am, luxuriating in the quiet dark of way-past-midnight, a quiet that includes sounds I've missed for the past two years. Crickets, cicadas, peepers clicking and whirring like a summer's heartbeat.

My tenth floor apartment was next to the elevator banks and its windows faced the building's HVAC system. The daily and nightly aural assault included ambulance sirens, barking dogs, and the ominous thrum of police helicopter blades.

The city soundscape never did become as ambient as I hoped it would. Truth to tell, it was jarring and exhausting. I bought earplugs by the dozen, wore them at night and sometimes during the day.

Now, despite being revved up on unpacking and nesting at warp speed, I can feel myself starting to unwind.  Walking around this neighborhood feels strangely familiar, even though it's new to me. Our townhouse feels strangely familiar, even though we just moved in.

Where am I? What year is this?

Turns out I've been starring in my very own production of Name that Archetypal Experience, wherein I leave home to find home. This isn't the first time I've gone through this sort of quest, but I'm hoping it's the last. Feeling so Jung is really getting old.

By Sunday . . .

We moved on Thursday and our garage looked like this by Sunday because I specialize in unpacking and nesting at warp-speed.

No joke, everything is neatly put away in the kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, and my office. Note how even my trash is organized. More fluoxetine, please. Haven't even been married a year and I've already heard this a few times, "Glad I watched so many years of Monk before marrying you."

Recycling is tomorrow but at least one third of this stuff is getting schlepped to the Episcopal Diocese of Maryland by my eco-conscious husband for the next cleric who happens to be moving.

Moving Day!

Ah, if only it were one box, 

two humans, 

and a cat. 

Alas, it is not.

Moving Day is Coming Up

Closing on Monday, August 27.

Moving on Thursday, August 30.

Image: SpeedBump by Dave Coverly

Back to Moving Right Along . . . Really!

As grace would have it, there was another townhouse on the market across the street from Not Happening House Deal, so we crossed the street. This townhouse is a bit smaller but has a real cook's kitchen with a 5-burner gas stove, upgraded bathrooms, and a new deck.

We put in an offer that was accepted, the inspection showed lots of nothing wrong, another quarter point got shaved off our already disgustingly low mortgage rate, and the appraisal went through without any trauma-drama. Net result: we're scheduled to close on August 27. I've got painters lined up to knock out the bedrooms and my future office on August 28 and 29. We move on August 30.
 
Good thing this deal is going through, because our apartments are already rented out.

Of course I've started packing. Heck, I'm almost finished with the packing because that's . . . me. Having a slight case of (properly medicated) OCD comes in mighty handy at times like this.

The grad students down the hall are grateful recipients of furniture I cannot stomach moving yet again. We've plugged in a pheromone diffuser to chillax the cat. I'm trying to get real about what I can commit to getting done during the next four weeks. Might go on hiatus on this blog. Or not.

Moving Not Right Along: Hitting a Snag

Voice of Doom on the other end of the phone.

It's our fabulous Realtor who is normally very upbeat, but with measured tones and revealing years of Catholic education she announces, "I'm about to fall from grace."

I can and cannot imagine what's coming next. "The deal has fallen through," she says.

Imagining that she's holding her breath, I quickly assure her everything is just fine and I'm fine. Really. I'm fine, as opposed to being F.I.N.E* about this turn of events. I'm even feeling somewhat relieved because the deal was starting to get way too complicated.

The sellers were in near-mortal combat with one another and we were on the verge of becoming collateral damage. First, they were unable to make necessary repairs. Then, the bank's appraisal came in $13k under the price, which submerged them underwater. We'd already gotten into the life boat and were now rowing away. Quickly.

Our Realtor cannot believe I'm not sobbing and/or screaming at her. I am doing neither. Instead, I'm telling her that I believe in a sovereign God and know I'm under the protection of angels. There's no grace to fall from, only grace to be recognized and embraced. "We dodged a bullet," I tell her.

Let's hear it for savoring the ripe and ready fruits of spiritual practice and abiding faith! But, I must confess a wee bit of triumphalism. I knew this deal would tank and got excited about hearing the magic words, "you were right."  Now that is F.I.N.E.


*FYI: F.I.N.E. = Fukt up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.

Moving Right Along: A Photo Essay and Explanation

Here's what you need to know:

On my mother's side, mostly 3rd and possible 4th generation Jews and on one branch of that side, survivors of the Spanish Inquisition. On my father's side, escapees from late 19th century and early 20th century pogroms. Everyone was safely in the United States of America during the Shoah.

Nevertheless, like many Jews raised during the 1950s and 1960s, I was raised to know at the very core of my being that I would always and forever be at risk for extermination or diaspora. Along with this certain knowledge came an essential instruction for living: be ready to flee.

Not that this was ever stated explicitly, but the message came through in the habit of double wrapping leftovers (i.e., waxed paper and then foil) lest we get into another relying-on-manna situation. The message came through in what my mother called Ruthless* Days, during which we'd redefine family treasures and ruthlessly toss or donate non-essential items.

Fast forward and here I am, a 1st century Jew (i.e., a follower of The Way) and married to a pack-rat, who hails from a long line pack-rats. God is such a kidder. Now, with a signed contract for a town-home and an anticipated closing date of August 23rd, the serious push to rethink possessions is on.

Truth to tell, that process has been ongoing in my life for nearly 60 years, so it has been relatively easy for me to take another pass through and toss yet more files, books, and tchotchkes. For Dan? Not so much but he's getting into the swing of debridement with admirable good humor, which is yet another reason I married him.

Only three of many bins packed with memorabilia

A glimpse at the scary sorting process

A glimpse at the sacred recycling process

[create your own caption]

* Dear Ruth: Sorry about this adjective. You know I could never live my life without you!

Maybe Moving Musings (July 6, 2012)

Ah, the human capacity to forget pain. In this instance, the pain is that of house buying and all the stuff that goes along with it. Yesterday's self-inflicted wound can be summed up in two words: property inspection.

We've both been through this before as buyers and sellers. As a seller, I once had to plow $5k into radon remediation and those were mid-1980s dollar$. Ouch.

Now the proverbial shoe is on the other foot. Results of yesterday's inspection reveal that repairs will need to be done before we can move forward with this purchase. Should come as absolutely no surprise to any readers that I'm in absolutely no mood for brinkmanship games with the sellers.

The cat, meanwhile, seems to be good to go.

Are we there yet?

One Home Closes, Another One Opens

Many years ago, someone wise in the way of prayer explained to me how praying for "patience" is just plain stupid. Why petition the Almighty for opportunities to practice what is already in short supply?

Made sense, so I switched to simply praying for God's will and have, over the years, been fairly faithful to this approach.

In re: selling my suburban hermitage, I finally got back to basics after messing around with St. Joseph. Clearly, burying him under a clump of day lilies wasn't working. What had I been thinking? I kissed off that technique and kissed the house sale up to God.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and by 11:00 this morning I no longer owned property in New Jersey.

So, did God send me the buyer with cash? The buyer who didn't bother getting a formal property inspection, loved the garden and wanted to close the deal quickly? The buyer who, according to my realtor, showed up at today's closing wearing a ginormous cross and mentioned how she "felt something" the moment she walked into the hermitage? Did God send this buyer?

How much do I want to spiritualize the kiss-it-up-to-God thing? I wish I could say not much, but that would be a lie.

Your will, God, not mine.

Okay, now what?

Through My Most Grievous Fault

I'm taking stock of my thoughts, words and deeds today and not just because it's erev Yom Kippur. The fact I've had to lower the asking price of my home yet again has prompted me to take stock of the situation.

Truth to tell, my simmering disappointment in St. Joseph is starting to roil to a boiling resentment. And since reciting the entire Serenity Prayer doesn't seem to be working, I'm hauling out another tool ─ looking at my part in the matter.

After making a "fearless and searching moral inventory," I confess:

• deciding to bury St. Joseph in my yard was, but only in part, motivated by the prospect of getting a coolio photo shoot out of the event;

• although I was fairly reverential at the time, I did not offer a novena ─ unless 9 minutes of chanting, "St. Joe, do your thing" counts; and that
  

• referring to the entire ritual as GCS* was probably not a smart move.

And so:

I am sorry for these sins with all my heart. In choosing to be goofy and snarky, I'm pretty sure I may have sinned against You Whom I should love and respect above all things. Mea maxima culpa. Create in me a clean heart and renew in me an upright spirit. Amen.

There, that should make things right. The lack of a buyer couldn't possibly be due to the atrocious economy, could it?


* Leaving it to you, dear reader, to figure out what that acronym means.

A Trip to the Library

About a month before moving, I was charmed by a little girl who was hopping from foot-to-foot while singing, "Happy Birthday to me!"

We were at the local library and instead of shushing the child, I considered chiming in. The reason for the kid's exuberance? It was her eighth birthday which, in that family, meant it was time to receive a library card of one's own.

"Wow," I said, "happy birthday to you! What a special day!" No, she didn't dismiss me as an addlepated weirdo. Instead, she received my congratulations with joyful gravitas. I thought about her today when I went to the Roland Park branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library for my new library card.

This is the 12th book borrowing card I've been blessed to have in the past 50 years of library membership. Blessed? Absolutely! Libraries have always felt like sacred space to me and all the high tech stuff doesn't sully that feeling one jot or tittle.

At this point in the moving process . . .

I'm pretty sure doing this:

would generate this:

Moved (Narrative Back 'n Fill)

By this time in the afternoon last week, I had waved goodbye to my stuff and finished tidying up in the hermitage that had been my home for nearly a decade, in the neighborhood I lived in for nearly 15 years, in the town I moved to in 1979 from New York City. And writing that run-on sentence helps me understand why I'm feeling both exhausted and elated.

My trip was not without adventure. Not even four miles out of Princeton I had to pull over to because water from the betta's bowl had sloshed onto Mr. Oatmeal. I stopped to mop him off and relocate the betta who was pitching a fish fit.

But the real fun began when I blew out a rear tire on I-95 near the Philadelphia airport. A real blow out with tire guts popping out. During rush hour. Great support from friends following my color commentary on Twitter and Facebook. Fascinating collection of tatts on the AAA guy who showed up a half hour later and told me to forget driving on the spare donut.

Ruth navigated me to the nearest Pep Boys where I received stellar service. I was back on the road within an hour and arrived at my new home without further mishap ─ until I had to deal with Verizon, the details of which are easily imagined and cannot be captured in a blog post.

We've Moved (Photo Essay)

Moving Right Along . . .

Not only progress,
but a glimpse at stacking perfection!

Sending Me Packing

The Magi prayerfully consider a shortcut.

Creating My Own Identity Crisis

For years, I've been indulgently self-soothing by going on about being stuck in Suburban Captivity. That's about to change because next week I'll be moving back (forward?) to a city.

Okay, so it's not The Center of the Universe City (aka New York) but it's a terrific city* and not in New Jersey. A few comments about New Jersey: it really is a lovely state and I've been fortunate to live in one of the more lovely areas for...too damn long.

Where am I going?

Baltimore. Yes, you may now call me "hon."

While there are many great reasons for this move at this point in this life of mine, I have caught myself wondering if this isn't the most exquisitely elaborate work avoidance maneuver I've yet to concoct on the way to writing another book.

And when I'm not wondering about that, I'm wondering if I've just created my own identity crisis. How on earth will I characterize myself next? I'm counting on more being revealed in the fullness of God's time and timing.

*Food, art, street music, gazillion churches, public transportation, tall buildings, colleges, crime.

Image: © Cynthia DiBlaisi

Organizing & Moving Tip!

Label stuff with precision and clarity. . .

Praying for Back-Up

Because St. Joseph
seems to have been a bit preoccupied
with Father's Day...