... Yesterday, Jack and I went back to the scene of the crime - Dad's house; home that was no longer home. The neighborhood just happened to be holding a joint garage sale this weekend which proved to be good timing for us. That is, if there is good timing for such a thing. I've never really been much into garage sales - going through other people's trash looking for treasures. I've always just given stuff to goodwill to get whatever parting needs to be done get over quickly.
We got to the house by 7am. Another something that is far from my comfort zone. Jack, who unlike me is a garage sale veteran, soon had tables lined with books, cds, and video tapes set up in an orderly fashion. He had household items in one area, bikes in another, garage tools along the edge of the driveway. My sister set up her shell crafts. I wandered from place to place trying to get a feel for what price went with what item.
Like a new day filled with expectation and promise we priced, on the high side, parts of our lives that have filled rooms with meaning. With the goal of scaling down to bare bones minimum we dropped our prices as the morning wore on. Jack had kept a wad of bills in his pocket, I kept my eye on the clock.
When was the sun going to rise high enough in the sky to warm us up? Was Dad up yet? Did he need breakfast?For years now my life has been dictated by Dad's daily schedule. I'm not sure what to do with myself when not living on Dad's time.
The hours passed in slow motion; my mind continued to move as if stuck on fast forward. I tried to greet potential buyers with a welcoming smile. Jack's sales pitch - make me an offer - had a more positive ring to it than my, how about a quarter. By noon we were not sold out but had cleared out quite a bit. We were both tired. Jack's hips hurt. We called it a day and piled the remains back in boxes. Thinking back over my life, I can't even count the number of times I've packed all my belongings into boxes. Even when I looked forward to new horizons, knowing my life could be reduced to a roomful of cardboard boxes was depressing. The flip side of that, I know, is that when the movers deposit the same compliment of cardboard and newsprint in the middle of your new living room it can be a little like Christmas morning. Right now I can't quite work up that kind of excitement.
I did spend some time with my father. He reiterated that he still loves me. He is sure that there is Divine purpose in this whole mess. I want to believe the same thing. But I can't conjure up a divine being who, in the name of love, can disrupt lives of perfectly good people. So I change the idea around a little. I don't think God caused the grief. Instead I have faith that He/She/Spirit/Love is here in the midst to bless each of the shell-shocked members of my family ,which like it or not includes Jack, with peace in the middle of it all.
Faith ... which is where I was going when I started this post. In some of my posts last year I talked about God winks. Those times when you get a "sign" or a feeling that the higher power you believe in sends you a message in a way you'd least expect but cannot deny.
This morning I awoke in a panic. My insides quivered. I would have stayed in the bed and covered my head except that I'd been there way too long already. I tried something different. I got up, showered and dressed, then picked up my camera and went for a walk. The first picture I took was of the Homestead sign at the entrance of our temporary domicile. I saw a robin, one of my animal totems, and tried to get close enough for a photo. The bird was much quicker than me. I continued to walk, not long or far but moving. I began to hear all the birds, not just the robins. Ducks on the pond, mockingbirds and even a
**http://divinecaroline.com/22198.29441-godwinks First published, May 2007