Can we talk?
I haven’t posted this because I didn’t want to ignite a three alarm fire, but 6 weeks ago I got the call that we might lose the ranch. Again. Only this time, there was nothing I could do about it. No money, no payments, no nothing was going to stop the force of nature.
I sat at my desk, head in hands, and stared at the wall. It's 2009 all over again. How could this happen?
So, that’s the main reason I haven’t blogged. I haven’t had one modicum of energy that wasn’t channeled into coping with the loss of the ranch.
Why? That’s what I need to know. Why does it matter to me? It’s a thing. A possession.
It is also the vessel that holds my memories. It is the soil that grew my family. It is the only thing I have that resembles a home besides my grandmother’s house, which I will never again live in.
This month I’ve really soul searched, trying to unroot the hold this place has on me. I don’t live there: may never live there again. And yet its talons reach into my deepest self, unearthing 48 years of need and loss and pain, turning them over like rocky soil, exposing them to the light of day.
Here’s what I learned: Get a note pad, you’re going to want to post this on your bathroom mirror.
It’s better to let it go willingly than to have it ripped from your bloodied fingernails.
I kept remembering a picture of my granddaughter, at 2, arms loaded with toys. She wanted up on the bed but couldn’t get up there without letting something go. Stubbornness seems to be a family trait, so rather than lay it down, she tried every other way of clambering up, always falling back on her diapered bottom. Frustrated, she stomped her foot and started to cry. My daughter leaned over the edge of the mattress.
You want up here?
Jaiden nodded yes.
Grace picked her up and set her on top of the bed.
A light went on in Jaiden’s eyes. All she had to do was ask.
God, I don’t want to lose the ranch. I know I can’t stop it. So do what you’re going to do. But I want it. I want to keep it. You know why.
I got the call Friday.
Safe for now. One more bullet dodged.
For now, I am a two year old, legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, little toys clutched in my hands, trying to remember why I didn’t just ask in the first place.
