I’m afraid this second-to-last post in 2018 is dismally pedestrian. But necessary.
I spent the day today doing the grunt work I spoke of yesterday, only today was the piece by piece examination, recycling, and, when necessary, shredding. I’m astonished by the volume of paper I’ve purged.
I only have about three short piles left to examine in this fashion, and tomorrow is my deadline.
I’ll confess: the stuff of Karl’s, I’ve saved (euphemistically, at least) for tomorrow. And I’m not going to beat myself up over any of it. If I need to save half a dozen file folders for a couple more years – or thirty – or 100 – so be it.
Purging My Old Hats
Instead, I’ve been engrossed in reliving my work lives at the two institutions prior to devoting the vast majority of my time to my shamanic practice.
It’s amazing to me how much I forget from year to year. It makes me wonder if that’s unique to me or if most people allow vast chunks of detail to float down the river of memory, too. Sometimes I wonder if I deliberately let go of a lot of memories by recording my life contemporaneously in journals.
I don’t know if that’s true – but it does provide me with a modicum of comfort.
So many details seemed so important at the time, and the urgency of a lot of it came back to me as I re-read emails I’d saved and reports I’d written. And now…wow. So many issues we dealt with have become exponentially worse.
I think the biggest surprise, however, is how freely we used our social security numbers on so many documents only 15 years ago. Wow.
My Shredder – My Best Friend
As a result, I’ve been shredding my behind off. Indeed, I literally overheated our shredder twice today. We started smelling burning plastic and then a long band of red light (that I’d never seen before) appeared beside the small green ‘on’ light, and the shredder stopped working completely.
We even used our social security numbers as ID numbers for our health insurance plans! I don’t think we had any inkling of the dangers we’d routinely face around identity theft.
Speaking of identity theft…that was another memory I’d put into the back of my mind and recollected in all its complicated detail today. I’ll definitely have to write about that experience one of these days.
The bottom line, though, which I believe the comments many of you so generously shared on Facebook confirmed, is that this purging is necessary. It’s perfect. It’s an extraordinarily empowering way to begin not only a new year but also a new chapter.
I’ve been fantasizing for a few years about cleaning out what we call our ‘office’ and making it a place where Karl can paint and I – possibly, occasionally (probably never) – might read or write especially when I need some sunshine in the winter.
The reason I’ve been relegated to fantasizing about this for at least the last couple of years is because it entails going through files. And I am nothing if not exceedingly organized, with a file for everything – and occasionally a couple for the same thing. Also called inadvertent redundancy.
Filing Cabinet of Life Events
I started this post out with the intention of reflecting on that razor’s edge upon which I slip and slide (and often cut myself) when going through filing cabinets that seem to hold the history of our life as a family. You see, there is a filing cabinet I’ve moved from law office to law office, with a final resting place in my home office. For many years, it held my active legal files. Then as the kids got into high school and college, it started holding inoculation records, academic awards, test results, and newspaper clippings. Files were created for traffic tickets and leases, contracts and resumés. Some of the legal intermingled with the personal: my parents’ estate files, for instance.
Well, it’s time to move the filing cabinet out of the ‘office’ in order to transform the room into a studio. Studios don’t have filing cabinets. Ok, maybe some do. But not in this house.
And that’s not to say that I don’t have an effective filing system that is shifting to the ‘library annex’ mentioned in one of my previous posts. Nope; given that I’m the one that keeps all the records of all our businesses and family and home life, they’re of course moving with me to said ‘library annex.’ But I’m cleaning out that filing cabinet.
And I’ve been steadfastly refusing to clean that baby out for years now, precisely because of the nature of the files that made their way into it.
Without Proof Does a Life Disappear?
So today, I found myself in tears. Damn it; didn’t want to go there. I’m stuck, feeling the dilemma of deciding what to do with the files documenting Karl’s applications to colleges in 1999. His exchange experience in Norway. His grades at NYU; the details of his management contract in California and NYC. There’s so much history in those files.
Poor Sage – home for the holidays and eager to help me shift the life of the room to a studio… He checked on me at one point and realized I had tears running down my face, ridiculously wondering out loud if I threw stuff away that documented these milestones, would that erase all proof that Karl had existed?
And so I am left with that nagging question of how much to save and how much to feed the shredder.
I’m not inclined to scan this stuff, so that’s not an option. It will either survive as a real-life, tangible document, or it will be gone. <<Poof>> Just like he was. Just like we all are. From documents to artwork to green eyes and dazzling smiles.
Where’s the Edge?
So what is the edge between hoarding the memories in an unhealthy manner and holding on to some aspects of life as evidence for our future ancestors to literally hold and turn over in their hands? And why or for whom do I do either? Or neither?
Sometimes I wish I could just throw it all out with abandon. And then I think about the thousands of people who’ve lost everything in fire, flood, or other disaster, and I’m grateful for the torture these choices represent.
We had several conversations about kitties in our house today. Not only do we have three cats of our own (as well as two Boston Terriers who think they’re cats), but our youngest son and his fiancé have two adolescent purr-pusses as well. And they are visiting for the holidays, so we are a ‘full house,’ so to speak!
One of our cats, Tigger, has a guilty pleasure that we simply can’t abide. Not that it’s gross or disgusting. No. But it poses a danger to him if we’re not careful.
He’s into ribbons. Specifically, the thin, dangly kind that adorn festive holiday gifts and – if he’s really lucky – have little bells attached.
You have to understand. Tigger’s a really laid back cat. He rarely gets bent out of shape about anything. He’s very quiet – unflappable, even. When he first arrived in our home, he was already a grown cat (his paperwork said he was 8 or 9 years old, I believe), and he was entering a household that already had an established pecking order.
Tigger was quite clearly at the bottom of that order. Indeed, he was so far on the bottom of the pecking order that he pretty much retreated under a bed in our son Sage’s room and refused to come out.
We were concerned that he might just waste away. For at least the first week that he lived with us, we only saw his tail as he bolted back under the bed. We’d occasionally hear growling and hissing, and that was a ‘tell’ that White Satan, aka Gandalf the White (the deaf all-white terror), had cornered Tigger under the bed and was teaching him who was alpha-puss. It was hard to break those fracases up, since Gandalf was deaf. So we couldn’t even yell at him to stop.
Call Me By My Name
When I saw Tigger’s adoption paperwork and realized we’d been calling him by the wrong name, everything changed. It was astonishing and immediate. His entire demeanor shifted and it was as if he heaved a huge sigh of relief. “You finally know who I am!” he seemed to be saying.
Overnight, his personality shifted. He started coming out from under the bed. He started purring.
And then I caught him. I heard scrambling noises and the tinkling of a bell somewhere in the kitchen and I didn’t know what it was. I looked under the table and only saw Tigger, blinking up at me, all innocent.
I turned away and heard it again.
His Wild Side Comes Out
And then I saw it. The ribbon dangling from his mouth. The furtive look in his eye.
His guilty pleasure. Perhaps a self-soothing activity? Or maybe a celebratory indulgence.
Whatever it was, he clearly was still in touch with his inner kitten – and it is adorable.
We try to keep all ribbons picked up so he can’t swallow them in over-indulgence. But every now and then, I let him play with them and act all “Tigger Gone Wild.”
Tonight was one of those nights. We all need to indulge in guilty pleasures now and again. Just stay safe. ; )
When I woke up this morning, I was not, shall we say, “rarin’ to go.” I even asked Karl to take my temperature, as I felt like a furnace and thought my bedclothes might spontaneously combust. We’ll never know, since we don’t actually own a regular, old-fashioned thermometer anymore. We only have one of those stupid electronic ones that take a watch battery or something, which of course was clearly not operating correctly, since I’m pretty sure I’m not 94.6 degrees.
I had to rally, though. I had an appointment with a client, from whom I’d sensed some trepidation in the weeks beforehand as we’d exchanged emails setting it up. I could feel that the client was both eager to have the session, yet at the same time was feeling some anxiety as the appointment approached. And I’d sensed, just ‘from afar,’ that she might be second-guessing herself over the past couple of days.
I know that feeling well. It almost always precedes a breakthrough or an opportunity to let go of a way of being or thinking that has in many ways defined us for a long period of time. It’s natural – a part of human nature. Of course I’ve witnessed it in clients many times. But I’ve also felt it personally. I’m no stranger to jumping off cliffs myself.
So unless I was literally unable to function, I was determined to get to my office. (I should hasten to assure you that, had I felt I would somehow be contagious or a danger to my client, I definitely would have stayed home). But basically, I just felt crappy. I could see it in my eyes when I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror. They were gray, and a bit dull.
To Cancel or Not to Cancel
Karl suggested maybe I should cancel.
“No,” I countered, popping two Advil and a Sudafed. “I’m going to give it a try.”
Deep down, I was confident I had an ace in the hole. The truth is, I’d experienced the miraculous effects of this secret ally before, but at the same time, I did not want to assume it would happen this time – and make an affirmative statement about it. I’m leery of making assumptions, probably because they feel disrespectful. So I left with an attitude of “I will show up for my client, and hope Spirit shows up for me.”
My secret ally is Sacred Space. It is the nearly indescribable but unquestionably palpable shift in energy that occurs when I call in my allies, guardians, and guides, as well as the archetypal energies associated with the cardinal directions, Mother Earth, and All That Is (Above).
Creating Sacred Space is probably the most amazing thing I ‘do,’ and yet it has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with the unseen, creative, magnificent forces that watch over and guide all of us. It is the healing space where miracles occur spontaneously and easily. It is the safest and most comforting place to simply be. And I knew if I could get myself to the office and create this Sacred Space, not only would I feel better, but my client, too, would discover the peace that comes from simply experiencing and being within it.
Sacred Space Saved the Day
I trusted what I know about Sacred Space. And the only way I know is through experience.
Our session was long. Our work went deep. My client has lived a life of challenges and heartache. But we prevailed.
I forgot about how crappy I’d felt when I awakened this morning. Indeed, when I texted Karl after completing the session, his first question was to ask how I felt. “I’m a little tired, I guess,” was my response.
I’d completely forgotten my morning malaise. Sacred Space had shifted and transmuted everything – for both my client and myself. We’d both broken through.
Regrettably, tonight is a Theraflu night. I’m staving off something; not sure if it’s a cold or a sinus infection or just a culmination of Christmas being yesterday and today being the 360thday of the year and the realization that there are only five days left in 2018. No matter what it is, Theraflu will probably fix it. That and perhaps getting to bed before 1:30 or 2:00 a.m.
I’ve always tended toward being a night person. I think it’s been true since I was little, actually, but it’s definitely been the story of my adult life.
During law school, night was when I would get most of my reading, studying, and writing accomplished. And since I gave birth to son Karl while I was in law school, that pattern pretty much set itself in stone, since he (and the next two, as well) were always great sleepers. Therefore, once all my guys were asleep (and yeah, Karl’s a morning person – big surprise), I was surrounded by my coveted silence. Yep. My evening silence.
Nevertheless, I have to admit that over the past decade or so I’ve only been staying up past midnight sporadically. Midnight literally became my witching hour.
But now I’m dedicated to my 1111 Devotion. My practice. My commitment. And in spite of my best intentions, in spite of my earnest desire to not always be pushing my nose up against a deadline, ‘crushing it at the last minute’ is apparently my default setting. And so, I hit ‘publish’ every night, right around 11:59 or thereabouts. It doesn’t matter when I start writing for the evening, either.
Decisions and the Adrenalin Rush
Because the drive to submit each post by midnight is so intense in those last forty five minutes or so, every single night I’m left with both a sense of accomplishment and a boatload of adrenalin pumping through my veins at 12:01 a.m. or so. And that means I’ve not been getting to bed until 1:30 – 2:00 a.m., consistently, since engaging in this devotional practice. Some days I’ve been able to snag a little extra time snooze time in the morning, but not always. Certainly not enough to make up for this new regime.
So it appears as though I have a decision to make, and the week between Christmas and New Year’s seems to be as appropriate a time as any to ponder my options. How do I make this new relationship sustainable? How do I keep from wearing myself out and sabotaging my practice?
I’ll keep you posted. (Ha. That pun was not intended.)
In the meantime, I’m taking a Theraflu tonight, and as soon as I hit ‘publish,’ I’m going to bed.
Overall, this Christmas was a grand experiment in shifting from one way of being to another. It felt like we were embarking upon a true transition from ‘the way we’ve always done things’ to ‘a new way.’ Just like any transition, it had its rough patches.
I’d say most of that evolution centered around the family ‘meal,’ which is probably where the vast majority of ‘tradition’ resides in many households.
Most of us in the family eat meat, but rarely. Others of us, however, eat meat never. And then there are those of us who not only don’t eat meat at all, but also do not eat anything even remotely associated with animals. No butter. No milk. No cheese. No eggs. Yes, there’s now a vegan in our midst.
Turkey Sandwiches Remain a Priority
We checked in before the holiday, and determined that turkey was still a hoped-for agenda item with those of us who still appreciate the sacrifices of our feathered brethren. Truth be told, it’s the turkey sandwiches on the horizon that are the real lure here. Piled high with stuffing savory and juicy from cooking in the bird, the turkey slices will nestle between a layer of cranberry sauce and mayonnaise, all held together with a multi-grain, seeded bread. Oooh yeah.
It’s hard not to feel sorry for those who no longer (or never did) enjoy the unparalleled goodness of leftover turkey sandwiches. But alas, that means there’s more for us who pander to our inner Neanderthal. (Which, parenthetically, 23andme tells me is part of my genetic makeup.) (Yeah, it explains a LOT.)
I have to admit, though, in preparing the mashed potatoes both the ‘old’ way and the ‘new,’ the difference would be something I could evolve toward. I’d miss the buttermilk and butter. But it could work.
The green bean casserole without the mushroom soup? Satisfied my vegan but not my vegetarian. I don’t know if I can make that leap yet either.
At Least My Stuffing Is Vegetarian-Approved
My stuffing is vegetarian-approved even when prepared as history dictates. It’s just the portion that cooks inside the bird that’s taboo. So that’s an easy compromise: that especially juicy stuffing can go on my turkey sandwich; thanks.
All, in all, though, I probably could have stepped up my game as far as the ‘protein’ I prepared for my ‘Vs.’ I thought sautéing some vegan sausages with onions and red peppers would make a nice addition to the stuffing, mashed potatoes and green beans, but the expressions on their faces said, “Meh.”
I’ll work on that for next year.
And who knows? As our lives evolve and we witness the cataclysmic results of accelerating climate change day in and day out, it would not be outside the realm of possibility to imagine us going at least totally vegetarian by next year. Probably not vegan; not yet.
Although, I suppose, stranger things have happened.
As a family, we’re game to honor and appreciate our traditions while also exploring ways we can evolve and expand the way we walk forward into the future.
All that really matters is that we do it together.
I hate being faced with my glaring deficiencies; resistance being one of them.
Sometimes they just walk up and stand in front of me, though, and no matter what I do, I can’t get around them.
One of those that’s staring me down at the moment is a resistance to marketing. Marketing myself in any way, for anything, primarily. But marketing in general is always a persistently vexing subtext.
I might as well speak substance, since I don’t have a big window tonight: I’ve been invited to participate in the I AM Winter Solstice Symposium, arranged and produced by my friend, Renee Baribeau. Renee is the author of Winds of Spirit, which was published by Hay House this past spring.
Renee did our interview ahead of time. Mine airs tomorrow. The entire program began on Thursday evening, with an opening Fire Ceremony in honor and celebration of the Solstice. I dropped the ball by not sending out an announcement about the Symposium to my Hoot List several days ago, a lapse which I really must rectify tonight, if possible.
The problem is, beyond (or perhaps in tandem with) my resistance to marketing is my reluctance to get knee deep into technological endeavors, such as trying to figure out how to insert into a Hoot Alert the graphics Renee so generously provides me.
Seriously, I should have this stuff figured out by now.
Join the Wind Clan on Facebook
So let me just say this now: My presentation is airing tomorrow (Christmas Eve) at 1:00 p.m. EST. In order to access it, you need to join the Wind Clan on FB at this link. (And if I haven’t figured out how to add that link before I have to hit <publish> on this post, please check out my Hoot Alert, which I intend to write and get sent out before I go to bed tonight!)
Above and beyond my presentation, though (the subject of which will not surprise you if you’ve been reading these 1111 Devotion posts), are the presentations of 17 amazing women with unique and inspiring messages and suggestions for making your life a little bit richer, creative, and sacred.
Join us! And help me push past this resistance to marketing by enjoying my offering. Who knows what inspiration awaits!
We just finished watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
I remember watching it at a movie theater when it came out. As we watched it tonight, I was transported back to the days when I was in college, and then first married.
Watching that movie in 2018 yet remembering what it was like to live in 1977, I was shocked. Yes, our computers are light-years beyond what we had at our fingertips back then. And yes, today there would probably be just as many women as men scientists involved in such a rendezvous (let’s hope).
But I was stunned to consider just how precious little we seem to have succeeded in exploring more deeply into space on a personal level in the past 41 years.
Think of it – forty one years! Shouldn’t we be at least communicating and establishing relationships with other civilizations by now? Or have a base on Mars or Venus or both?
We landed a human on the moon in 1969. I was ten years old.
When my mother was ten years old, in 1927, Lindbergh flew across the ocean.
Forty Two Years
There were only 42 years between having the technology to fly across the ocean and having the technology to not only fly to the moon, but also successfully land on it, and return to tell about it!
So, really – it makes me question just what the heck we’ve been doing these past 42 years. It seems we’ve lost our way. Our curiosity as a country appears to have lost its focus on great scientific innovation and exploration of the natural world, in particular the universe (and multiverse), and turned instead to navel gazing and wondering how we can exploit the Earth most effectively to earn a small amount of people more money than they could ever imagine spending.
I know innovative research is still taking place. But I also know that there seems to be a lack of communal vision of working toward new horizons. Not to conquer, but to discover. Not to exploit, but to explore.
Is it just me, or were you hoping we’d be way further along the road to astonishing new discoveries, vistas, and opportunities by now?
Then again, I have my experiences of living my now to compare to the ‘reality’ depicted of every day life in the U.S. in 1977 (based upon the movie). They made fun of parapsychology in the movie. I have my degree in Psychology and made the mistake of mentioning parapsychology to the grad student I was a research assistant for as an undergrad. She ripped my head off when I even mentioned the word ‘parapsychology’ (and my interest in it).
And yet…look at me now. What I do. My education level. How I am of service to others.
Are the shamanic journeys I’ve learned to take the actual mode of exploration that’s going to shift the evolution of our world? Not what I would have thought, but think of the possibilities of uniting science and shamanism.
I had quite an unexpected and emotionally fraught ‘moment’ in a grocery store parking lot today. Nothing like celebrating the Winter Solstice with intensity, I say.
I was checking my text messages and emails before running in for a few items, when all of a sudden a grocery cart rammed into my car door. The loud whomp, which physically jarred me and felt like it surely had dented the entire side of my car, scared the heck out of me. Then, in an eye-blink, that fear turned to rage.
I jumped out of my car (there were two empty handicapped spaces to my left, and beyond those, the driving lanes and then the market itself) furiously looking for the culprit who’d carelessly sent the cart careening into my vehicle. Let me note here: I’m expressing how I felt, which might generously be called…hyperbolic?
Anyway, as I say, I jumped out of my car looking for my transgressor. The only person I saw anywhere near me was an older man who had parked his car facing mine, but one space to my left. His car was pulled up to a handicapped-only parking sign which was affixed to a substantial metal pole about 4” in diameter and 4’ high. I glimpsed him as he was folding himself into his driver’s seat.
Assessment of the Situation Made
I immediately surmised that he’d shoved his cart into the space in front of his car (and beside mine), perhaps thinking it might get hung up or wedged in place by the parking sign pole, obviously not thinking twice about the consequences. I assumed the worst.
I knew he’d heard the cart smack into my door. It created a very loud bang. And the way he was getting into his car, he just looked guilty to me. Like he was avoiding making eye contact.
With barely a thought, other than a consuming wave of indignation and the sense that I was not going to just pretend it hadn’t happened, I grabbed the cart and looking directly at that man, who by this time was sitting in the driver’s seat and looking at me through his windshield, shouted how ignorant that was. “What the hell? What is wrong with you that you think it’s OK to do that?” I yelled, not really looking for an answer. I slammed the cart into the parking sign post in front of him. While I was tempted in my fury to smack it into his car, I didn’t. Obviously.
I could see him yelling – or at least mouthing – something back at me, but his angry face made me not want to get into this any further. So I sat back in my car and tried to decide whether I just wanted to leave or whether I would fulfill my marketing mission. I decided to go in.
Moving On
Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I deliberately took the cart from where it still stood ‘parked’ against the post and walked across the lanes of the parking lot and into the store. I noticed he was still sitting in his car, looking down, perhaps texting someone himself? I didn’t trust him…
Entering the store, I snagged my hot peppers (which in retrospect I probably didn’t need!) and onions and returned to my car. A quick trip.
Nevertheless, I thought it odd that he was still in the parking lot. Was he going to confront me? Ugh.
I left the offending cart up with the other carts beside the entrance to the market and returned to my car. Feeling a little stalked, I glanced toward the man with a dirty look, warding off any bullshit. No luck. He opened his door and started yelling at me.
Confrontation
I’d already started getting into my car when he started yelling, so I tossed my veggies into the passenger seat and stood up, turning toward him. All I heard was, “…your fucking car…”
“Excuse me?” I said, dripping snark and attitude, but trying to be the calm one (now).
“Did you think I pushed that cart into your car?” he demanded.
I turned to look at him square in the eyes and said quietly, “Well, yes, I did.”
He looked a little surprised, perhaps that I answered quietly? I don’t know. But he responded, still defensively and a bit aggressively himself, “Well, I didn’t. I heard it hit your door and – ”
“I am really sorry,” I said, interrupting him. There was something about the way he said what he said or the look on his face or something, but I immediately believed him. And I immediately and unequivocally felt ashamed. I felt awful.
A Total Shift in Energy and Attitude
Absolutely everything about this man’s energy shifted right before my eyes. I could tell he believed me, too, and trusted my sincerity.
“Yes,” I continued, “I assumed you’d done it because you were the only person anywhere around when I jumped out to grab the cart.”
By this time, I’d walked over to his car, where he had the door slightly open and his window down, his left hand resting on the bottom of the window frame.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I returned my little cart over there,” gesturing to the cart return coral in the row across from and behind his car, “and was just getting into my car when I heard that one slam into your door.”
“I am so terribly sorry,” I repeated, touching his hand. “I was a jerk. I really was. I think the bang of it startled me so much that I over-reacted, and then I just assumed you hadn’t cared because my car is old…”
“No, I didn’t do it,” he repeated, probably just confirming out loud one more time what he’d been saying to himself the whole time I was in the market. “But thank you for speaking to me.”
“Thank you, too,” I said. “Again, I’m really sorry.” I looked him in the eyes and smiled. “I hope you have a really nice holiday and I’m glad we cleared this up.”
“Me too,” he said, smiling back.
Reflection – and Gratitude
As I drove away from that incident I contemplated how the entire situation had completely transformed in a way I never would have expected.
I’m so grateful it did. I have no idea what that man was thinking or experiencing. Perhaps he is lonely, or grieving. Perhaps he is facing a dire diagnosis – or someone he loves was just taken from him.
I thought about the compassion of yesterday and how quick I was to anger today. (Which, I have to say, was really weird in and of itself. I am not one to usually react like that.) It made me realize just how little we know about how anyone, at any given moment, is perceiving something that we, too, are experiencing. And how easily it is to misunderstand – or be misunderstood.
I’m so grateful this gentleman and I were able to transmute that moment of darkness and turn it into light.
An intense solstice experience indeed – probably exacerbated by the full moon!
My favorite place to buy eclectic, eye-catching, and beautiful clothes is a shop called Alchemy, in Frenchtown, New Jersey. I’ve been shopping at this local treasure for quite some time – around 15 years, if I’m not mistaken. The owner, Cleo Sharplin, and her husband, Barry, bring artistry and visionary appreciation for color and unique cuts and fabrics to the Delaware River Valley, where I live.
In early November, I introduced my daughter-in-law to the treasures at Alchemy. I was sure Cleo would be able to find something amazing for her to wear to an event that was on the horizon. Based on my rave reviews, Tiffany was eager to meet Cleo and experience her ‘eye’ and perspective and the way she could ‘put things together.’
We were devastated to discover that Cleo had recently taken a serious fall down some steps in her home and was hospitalized with some dislocations and broken bones – including some vertebrae in her neck. Her recovery was looking scary and extended, and we could see the extreme concern and worry in Barry’s eyes as he described her condition.
Keeping It Together
For his part, in an effort to maintain normalcy, Barry was taking time from his own job to keep the store open, while visiting and staying by Cleo’s bedside when not at the store.
After making our purchases, we assured him that we would keep both of them in our hearts and hope for the best in her recovery.
Since that visit, I have thought of them often. Every time I’d go to New Jersey to put gas in my car, I would drive by Alchemy, wishing I’d gone at a time when the store was open.
Over the past week or so, both Cleo and Barry started popping into my thoughts on a much more frequent basis. I felt a twinge that I didn’t want to admit. And I kept thinking I needed to physically stop in and bring them something, some token to remind them that they really were in my thoughts – that I hadn’t just mouthed the words while at the store to shop.
The urge grew insistent this week. Indeed, yesterday I became a bit aggravated with the way my life became dictated by others’ demands, because I’d really thought I was going to get over to check in with Barry that day.
Finally, today, in spite of the pouring rain and dismal, 37 degree chill in the air, I made a point of getting myself to Frenchtown. With a few small gifts (I figured some delectable chocolate from Pierre’s in New Hope could bring a smile) and a card, I entered the store. I saw Barry in the back of the store, and went directly to him. I re-introduced myself, assuming he wouldn’t necessarily remember me from a few weeks earlier. But I also immediately launched into asking after Cleo’s condition.
Unexpected Diagnosis
His face said it all. I gasped, and whispered, “She didn’t pass away, did she?” No, she hadn’t, admitted Barry. But just last night he’d received word of a devastating – and completely unexpected – diagnosis.
All I could do was hug him. And hug him some more.
The whole time I’ve known Cleo and Barry, they’ve been a unit. Best friends. The love and chemistry has always been palpable.
Barry and Cleo will know more of what to expect in the days to come. I promised I would check in on them next week. In the meantime, Barry is faced with some profound and life-altering decisions regarding many things, not least being the fate of Cleo’s beloved Alchemy.
Facing the Future – How You Can Help
My point in writing this post today is this: If you have the need for an amazing outfit, ranging from something for the most elegant soiree to an evening at home (think New Year’s Eve!), please stop by Alchemy. He needs to move their inventory. I believe there is a 30% storewide discount, as well.
This is a win-win situation: you will find something cool that no one else will be wearing (and everyone will enviously notice and comment upon) and you will be helping out a wonderful pair of lovely human beings who are facing huge and terrifying transformation in every area of their lives.
There are many items there that would also make great gifts.
If you have the means, I urge you: Show a little love to this sweet, creative couple. Let them know we are a village – and connected in perhaps the most miraculous ways.
