Quitclaim

Today, I signed a document "hereby releasing me of all rights of homestead for myself and my family." Reading those words with my name at the beginning of the sentence made it feel like the earth had crumbled around me, leaving just the tiniest foundation for me to stand upon. My life. My home. My security. I didn't want to hereby release anything. I didn't want to be released. So I cried, I swore, and I quivered. Then I got the thing notarized, hereby quitting ownership of my lovely, comfortable home. Although we never married, that language felt like a divorce. And it is--but as A explained in his rational and supportive way, it is me divorcing the bank. It's me saying, "hey, I am no longer accountable." He then went on to remind me that a house is not a life. It's a thing. It's temporary. It's another  place to keep my shoes (in addition to my car). My value--my self worth--has nothing to do with my possessions, and everything to do with my outlook.

I'm good at letting go of things. After all, that's the premise on which I started this blog: less is more. I've spent years parting ways with my old things--some sentimental, some not--so that others can enjoy what no longer serves me at this point in life.

Here we stand at the end of paths taken . . .

I'm transferring my ownership of the house. I'm moving out this weekend. I found a great new place to live. I've got a coworker who's helping me move, a best friend who will be by my side, and a luxurious mattress on its way. And as I stay committed to being open and honest about my feelings, I continue to be humbled by an endless supply of encouragement from all the good people in my life. That's not quitting. That's surviving and thriving.

Soundtrack: "Still Lost" by the Cowboy Junkies

Walking in the Air

Noah Biorkman is a 5-year-old boy from Michigan who was diagnosed with Stage IV neuroblastoma more than two years ago. He passed away on Monday.

When it became clear to Noah's mother Diana that her son would probably not be here to celebrate his favorite holiday on December 25, the family moved up its festivities to November 8. As part of that celebration, Noah's mother posted a request online for folks to send Christmas cards to her little boy. The request quickly circulated the Internet; caught  the attention of local, national, and international media; and tugged at the heartstrings of many. So much so that Noah received more than one million Christmas cards at his home. One of which was from me.

I sent Noah my last Raymond Briggs' Snowman card, which I've been hanging on to for years. For anyone who's not familiar with the story, it's about a young boy who builds a snowman in his front yard and, in the late-night hours, it comes to life. The boy introduces the snowman to his world--shiny ornaments on the tree, the fruit bowl in the kitchen, roller skates, and dress-up clothes--and the snowman introduces the boy to his world which includes a magical, soaring flight over the forest, ocean, and Northern Lights--all the way to the North Pole. It's a dream-come-true sort of event that comes to an end all too soon for the boy. All that's left is a fond memory and a tangible reminder that our time together is not infinite.

It's a beautiful story--perhaps the most somber children's Christmas story I've encountered--but when I read about Noah's mother's plea and her plans to give her son the celebration of a lifetime, I knew that remaining Snowman Christmas card was meant for this very real little boy.

Watch The Snowman--complete with the 1982 David Bowie intro (26:07)

_________________________________________________________________________ © 2009 Good Karma Housekeeping. Making the space--mentally and physically--to live happily ever after. Because what fun is life if you can't dream about fairytale endings?