For two years, I have lived in a fishbowl. Strangers have walked through every room in my house, poked around in my cabinets and closets. I’ve lost my privacy, I’ve had my hopes raised and dashed more times than I can count. I’ve had to keep my house looking as if I don’t live in it, as if it never rains mud on my porch, as if birds never poop on my deck, as if my grass never grows, weeds never pop up in my flower beds, and as if twenty pine trees don’t throw needles all over everything every time the wind blows. This is what it’s been like since I put my house up for sale.
This morning seemed to top it all off. It was cold, damp, and gloomy. Spring had just…disappeared. I’d found out the day before that somebody I love may be very sick. And then, my real estate agent called to say that I’d be getting an offer on my house at 1:00 p.m.
You’d think that last bit of news would lift me out of the doldrums, but it didn’t. I actually felt worse, because I expected to be disappointed. Again. So I did something I don’t usually do. I forgot something very important, and began to play out a scenario in my head: The offer will probably be so low I won’t be able to accept it. The market is so depressed here, more than the state at large, more than the country at large. Maybe I’ll never get to Sedona. I can’t imagine another winter here. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Now, I am a person of faith in the Universe. I know that I am where I am supposed to be. I know the person who is facing surgery and an uncertain prognosis is surrounded by love. I know the sun will come out. Eventually. I even know that I am supposed to live in Sedona. I am called there. (That’s another story.) I know all of this. But I forgot. I forgot that there is a Divine Order to things. I forgot that, as my daughter Michaela says, God’s got this. I forgot until I remembered.
And there it was. The miracle I talk about all the time, the miracle of help that comes exactly when I need it: I remembered to meditate. In the middle of my tortuous and frantic interference in the process, I remembered to meditate.
I often use the Prayer of Saint Francis when I meditate: Lord, make me a channel of Thy peace...When I opened my eyes some thirty minutes later, all was well. I only asked to be a channel, but what I received was peace, as if I had been wise enough to ask for it for myself. That’s how it works with me. I always get something better than the thing I ask for, even if I don’t recognize it as such. But today, I did. I felt the peace and knew what it was. I went about my business and forgot about the rain, the cold, and the offer.
At 2:30 p.m., my real estate agent called. For one split second, I faltered. “Just tell me what the number is,” I said to her, “so I can decide whether or not to come into the office.” But I felt the peace again, even before she could answer. She gave me a figure. It was too low, but in the ball park. I went into the office, and made a counter offer. A small reduction in my asking price. My agent looked uncomfortable, but I felt fine. We finished the paperwork, and I went grocery shopping. Half way down the cat food aisle, my cell phone rang. “Are you sitting down?” my real estate agent said. “She accepted it, right?” I said. To make a long story short, I will be going to settlement on the 19th of June. All is contingent on a home inspection, of course. But it’s okay. I’m no longer in charge. I’ve got to remember that when I start to look for a house in Sedona. And tomorrow? I am not going to make my bed.
Update on The Messenger: The cover is finished, and it is gorgeous. I will receive a final proof copy in a couple of days. A few more short steps to publication, and I’ll be able to announce its release.