I Could Rob a Bank

I am verbally noodling on an impossible dream. A secession of ‘what if’s’, floating further and further away from any practical reality. I might as well have been planning on how I would spend a million dollars from owning a winning lottery ticket.

It seems that my old property is back on the market. The condensed history of this, the fortuitous purchase way back in 1985, the subsequent thirty years of building, the expansion, the good times and bad, all ending with a tearful forced fire-sale due to my failure to adequately protect myself and major assets from a catastrophic medical condition. In other words I lost my home because I didn’t have health insurance enough to cover the astronomical cost of a diagnosis of a condition known as chronic atrial fibrillation. At the time it appeared as if this was the only way out of the nightmare. In retrospect I can see now, five years later, that I made a horrible choice.

There were other options that, for reasons difficult to accept at the time, I rejected as inadequate. With a single signature I could pay down my debt, remove a major source of stress, focus on health and recovery, support my brother in a business venture, and walk away with a couple large in the front pocket of my Levis.

I chose the easy way out. And have regretted the decision every day since. Specifically I recall the foggy morning upon completion of the deal, walking away from thirty years of devotion to a dream. The impact landed on my soul like ten tons of bricks and suddenly, as much as I tried to be tough and objectively face the reality of the situation, I wept uncontrollably.

I had lost my home. I walked with shaky knees and an empty heart towards an unknown destination facing the fact that I was now, officially homeless.

I tried to shift my emotional, internal anguish into a positive by responding with a practice famous in Zen circles as ‘letting go’. But the past tense of my perceived failure shaded my present moment discipline through the lens of relentless gloom. To be accurate there were many times when the individual responsibilities of ownership seemed outrageous as I wrote check after check to rent someone else’s additional dwelling unit, no longer concerned about a leaky roof, fallen trees or maintenance of a well. I was amazed at how much this actually cost me as I chuckled about no longer paying a tax tied to the current market value of my cabin in the woods.

Five years later, we laughed about the guy I sold it to actually increasing the value of the property by tearing down the cabin, cutting my prized cedar trees and leveling the dirt into a ‘build your dream home here’ lot. I can laugh at my lack of craftsmanship and architectural design skills, but I will forever remember with warmth and love the cold winters spent huddled around the wood burning stove listening to Louie Prima while sipping Chianti.

My old neighbor is in my spin class. I watched him build his home twenty-five years ago and fixed bikes for his kids. He knows that it is difficult for me to drive by the old place as the pain, even after five years, isn’t with it. Yesterday after our class I mentioned that I was finally emotionally fit enough to call the realtor and see about the asking price. Straight faced he asked if I wanted to know.

You know?

Sure I called six weeks ago when they first posted the for sale sign.

350?

185.

I could rob a bank.