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Posted: May 29th, 2007 at 2:11am By: Janet Conner
As I write about The Goodbye Season, I hear many stories about saying goodbye to people, but there are other goodbyes of equal import. Saying goodbye to a house can be particularly wrenching. After my divorce, I had to say goodbye to a house I loved. But my goodbye was nothing compared to my son's.
I sold my home on March 13, 1998. I loved that house. The building itself was nothing special, just a typical three-bedroom 1960s ranch. It was the location on a quiet inlet that made it special. From our first day, 14 years before, we were entranced by the waterfowl. Oscar, the neighborhood great blue heron, fished for dinner in the shallows behind our home, barking at anything encroaching on his precious 10 feet of seawall. Egrets and other herons who thought they'd stumbled onto paradise quickly learned who owned our yard. Pelicans darkened the dock with long Jurassic shadows. My favorites were the ospreys. Nothing is more spectacular than an osprey in full dive, swooshing down in a perfect arc, thrusting talons at exactly the right moment and rising through a fountain of spray with a writhing fish. Such power. Such beauty. Such focus.
I thought I would be in that house forever. Not only was it a lovely place to live, it was also a good investment. I made a small additional payment every month in order to pay it off by the time our son was 18. I figured that house was my ace in the hole for financing college.
Over time the house began to deteriorate. My husband was great at starting projects, not so good at finishing them. He thought it would be helpful if we had a skylight in our dark kitchen. It was. But 10 years later the drywall still wasn't taped. Sometimes the kitchen fan worked; sometimes it didn't. The front door was wired for light, but a fixture never got installed. Cracks under the bedroom window grew from pencil lines to something you could wedge with pennies. The house really showed its decline when it rained. Water appeared miraculously on the bathroom floor, pans had to be placed in five strategic spots in the kitchen, and the front porch had to be monitored carefully or the rising water would creep over the doorsill into the living room. The house's oddest habit was funneling rainwater into the garage — 3 inches in a good storm. I selected my shoes carefully based on the forecast.
The house was more than I could handle alone, but I was determined to stay there for our son's sake. When my husband and I first spoke about separating, we agreed that nothing else should change in our son's life: same home, same school, same schedule. But maintaining his life quickly ate through my savings. Seven months after the divorce I had to face the facts. The house had to be sold.
I explained the process of selling the house to my son and kept him informed of what was happening. Despite its raggedy condition, the house sold quickly. (Someone else was entranced by the denizens of the back yard.) My son and I talked about our future, where we would live and what kind of home we would buy when I had saved enough money. We planned a giant garage sale. I told him he could keep the proceeds from the things in his room. Suddenly he saw his bookshelves, lamps, toys and books in a whole new light. He enthusiastically selected the items for the sale, marking the prices in black marker on big red dots. And when he counted his results — $254 — well, he could barely contain himself.
So I was not prepared for his reaction when the buyer came for his bed. It was a heavy youth bed in the shape of a race car - adorable when he was 3, but at 8 he was banging his head at night. I was sure he'd grown out of it; but even if he hadn't, I couldn't afford to move it.
We waited at the front window for the buyer. Together we helped him maneuver the bed out of the room and down the hall. I followed the bed outside and waited until it was safely on its way to a new home. When I came back in, I didn't hear my son. I called his name. As I walked down the hall, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was face down in the years of dust that had accumulated under his car bed. He didn't move. "Sweetie?" He didn't respond. "Sweetie," I said. "Sweetie, it's OK. It's going to be OK." He didn't move. I sat down on the floor beside him. "Sweetie, talk to me. Please." Nothing. I lay down beside him. He turned away. I put my hand on his back. He didn't move. "Baby," I said, "it's going to be all right." But it wasn't. And I knew it. At that moment it most certainly wasn't all right. At that moment, one frightened child knew it was never going to be the same again.
Damn, I thought. Damn this divorce. Damn this pain. Damn taking things away from a child. When does this end? We've lost our home, our things, our lives. When do things stop going out of our lives and something good start coming in? When?
Then it was my turn. When my ex-husband requested our wedding crystal, I hesitated for a moment, but said yes. When he requested the table linens, I thought it odd, but said yes. When he requested the Eskimo sculpture, it hurt, but I said yes. Yes, you can have this. If it means a lot to you, take it. I thought I had this letting go thing down pat. It's just stuff, I told myself — nice stuff, but stuff. I'll get new stuff. If he wants it, he can have it. But then he asked for the Arts and Crafts copper candlesticks. Uh-oh. I couldn't give them away. I just couldn't let them go. "I'm sorry," I told him, "I can't."
My reaction surprised me. Why was it fairly easy to say goodbye to so many things that once seemed so important, but impossible to let go of other things that, on the surface, seemed unimportant? "Why?" I wondered. What is this experience of letting go all about?
I started a conversation with God in my journal about letting go. I told God everything I was saying goodbye to, no matter how inconsequential. I told God how it felt. I described each item and told God why it mattered to me.
As we talked about each item, I asked God to clear away the chaff and help me see the important things. I realized I was not emptying a house; I was cleaning my life. With God's guidance, I was clearing away the debris that stood in my way. It was hard work, clearing away the old and creating an empty shell for a new life. It was hard practicing the art of saying goodbye. But I said it: "Goodbye old life, goodbye."
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the author of the Spiritual Geography heart-healing series and is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Tell Janet about your Goodbye Season and your experiences with divine dialogue at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
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As I write about The Goodbye Season, I hear many stories about saying goodbye to people, but there are other goodbyes of equal import. Saying goodbye to a house can be particularly wrenching. After my divorce, I had to say goodbye to a house I loved. But my goodbye was nothing compared to my son's.
I sold my home on March 13, 1998. I loved that house. The building itself was nothing special, just a typical three-bedroom 1960s ranch. It was the location on a quiet inlet that made it special. From our first day, 14 years before, we were entranced by the waterfowl. Oscar, the neighborhood great blue heron, fished for dinner in the shallows behind our home, barking at anything encroaching on his precious 10 feet of seawall. Egrets and other herons who thought they'd stumbled onto paradise quickly learned who owned our yard. Pelicans darkened the dock with long Jurassic shadows. My favorites were the ospreys. Nothing is more spectacular than an osprey in full dive, swooshing down in a perfect arc, thrusting talons at exactly the right moment and rising through a fountain of spray with a writhing fish. Such power. Such beauty. Such focus.
I thought I would be in that house forever. Not only was it a lovely place to live, it was also a good investment. I made a small additional payment every month in order to pay it off by the time our son was 18. I figured that house was my ace in the hole for financing college.
Over time the house began to deteriorate. My husband was great at starting projects, not so good at finishing them. He thought it would be helpful if we had a skylight in our dark kitchen. It was. But 10 years later the drywall still wasn't taped. Sometimes the kitchen fan worked; sometimes it didn't. The front door was wired for light, but a fixture never got installed. Cracks under the bedroom window grew from pencil lines to something you could wedge with pennies. The house really showed its decline when it rained. Water appeared miraculously on the bathroom floor, pans had to be placed in five strategic spots in the kitchen, and the front porch had to be monitored carefully or the rising water would creep over the doorsill into the living room. The house's oddest habit was funneling rainwater into the garage — 3 inches in a good storm. I selected my shoes carefully based on the forecast.
The house was more than I could handle alone, but I was determined to stay there for our son's sake. When my husband and I first spoke about separating, we agreed that nothing else should change in our son's life: same home, same school, same schedule. But maintaining his life quickly ate through my savings. Seven months after the divorce I had to face the facts. The house had to be sold.
I explained the process of selling the house to my son and kept him informed of what was happening. Despite its raggedy condition, the house sold quickly. (Someone else was entranced by the denizens of the back yard.) My son and I talked about our future, where we would live and what kind of home we would buy when I had saved enough money. We planned a giant garage sale. I told him he could keep the proceeds from the things in his room. Suddenly he saw his bookshelves, lamps, toys and books in a whole new light. He enthusiastically selected the items for the sale, marking the prices in black marker on big red dots. And when he counted his results — $254 — well, he could barely contain himself.
So I was not prepared for his reaction when the buyer came for his bed. It was a heavy youth bed in the shape of a race car - adorable when he was 3, but at 8 he was banging his head at night. I was sure he'd grown out of it; but even if he hadn't, I couldn't afford to move it.
We waited at the front window for the buyer. Together we helped him maneuver the bed out of the room and down the hall. I followed the bed outside and waited until it was safely on its way to a new home. When I came back in, I didn't hear my son. I called his name. As I walked down the hall, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was face down in the years of dust that had accumulated under his car bed. He didn't move. "Sweetie?" He didn't respond. "Sweetie," I said. "Sweetie, it's OK. It's going to be OK." He didn't move. I sat down on the floor beside him. "Sweetie, talk to me. Please." Nothing. I lay down beside him. He turned away. I put my hand on his back. He didn't move. "Baby," I said, "it's going to be all right." But it wasn't. And I knew it. At that moment it most certainly wasn't all right. At that moment, one frightened child knew it was never going to be the same again.
Damn, I thought. Damn this divorce. Damn this pain. Damn taking things away from a child. When does this end? We've lost our home, our things, our lives. When do things stop going out of our lives and something good start coming in? When?
Then it was my turn. When my ex-husband requested our wedding crystal, I hesitated for a moment, but said yes. When he requested the table linens, I thought it odd, but said yes. When he requested the Eskimo sculpture, it hurt, but I said yes. Yes, you can have this. If it means a lot to you, take it. I thought I had this letting go thing down pat. It's just stuff, I told myself — nice stuff, but stuff. I'll get new stuff. If he wants it, he can have it. But then he asked for the Arts and Crafts copper candlesticks. Uh-oh. I couldn't give them away. I just couldn't let them go. "I'm sorry," I told him, "I can't."
My reaction surprised me. Why was it fairly easy to say goodbye to so many things that once seemed so important, but impossible to let go of other things that, on the surface, seemed unimportant? "Why?" I wondered. What is this experience of letting go all about?
I started a conversation with God in my journal about letting go. I told God everything I was saying goodbye to, no matter how inconsequential. I told God how it felt. I described each item and told God why it mattered to me.
As we talked about each item, I asked God to clear away the chaff and help me see the important things. I realized I was not emptying a house; I was cleaning my life. With God's guidance, I was clearing away the debris that stood in my way. It was hard work, clearing away the old and creating an empty shell for a new life. It was hard practicing the art of saying goodbye. But I said it: "Goodbye old life, goodbye."
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the author of the Spiritual Geography heart-healing series and is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Tell Janet about your Goodbye Season and your experiences with divine dialogue at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}.© copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
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