My eldest, very talented daughter made me a thermos that says, “My heart sleeps by the sea”. I would spend all my days by the water given a chance. I love the color of the sea, the sound of waves and moving water. I would indeed sleep by the sea. The danger is, I don’t swim. I don’t like the feel of water over my face. It feels heavy, stronger than me. And while I thoroughly enjoy being on the water, walking a beach or soaking my feet off a dock, I do not want to be in the water. Water over my head. Deep water.

When suddenly cast adrift last year, we left Illinois for Georgia in a matter of weeks. It had always been the plan, talked about endlessly for years (a five-year plan with a 10 year horizon). Leave the soul crushing grey coldness of the north and come south. Not Florida south, but to the south that still had that kiss of changing seasons without the prolonged agony of winters that bleed into spring and make Memorial Day too cold without a coat. Where it doesn’t snow on Easter, no matter how early it comes, but the leaves still change color and fall is a season more glorious than summer.

We executed the plan. House for sale, take up a spare room at my youngest daughter’s house and hunt for that perfect home. What a deceptively simple plan. The challenge? You cannot buy the perfect home if you cannot agree on what is perfect. Basement or a flat back yard? Deck, screened in porch or full finished basement? Master on main? Double ovens? “We’re downsizing” we lied to ourselves. But what the hell does that really mean? In our heart of hearts, we still wanted the house we left, just make it seem smaller and cheaper. We waded into the home buying market like kids who ignore the “Beware of Riptide” sign at the beach. In the name of expediency, we started making compromises that neither of us really wanted, being pulled further and further from our dream home. Our agent was useless. Instead every morning we’d get up early. Between phones and tablets we were on the listing sites by 6 am, needing to be the first to see the houses, desperate not miss out, giving up more and more. I could feel the water on my face. We had lost the shore. Deep water.

Then we bought a home. Flat backyard and a basement. But smaller. Way, way smaller. Like trying to fit into a pair of Spanx you didn’t want to wear to an event you didn’t want to be at. And since we had both compromised and not spoken out, we both loathed it to varying degrees. An ill fit. A listing ship for the long haul.

How do two people who have loved each other for more than 30 years come to this?  Because we loved each for more than 30 years. We didn’t want to add to each other’s pain from all that had happened. Each other’s hurts from what we were leaving behind. But inside we blamed each other for not be the stronger or more insightful of the two. Blame is an anchor. Deep water. Unable to swim. We were drowning.

So, we moved. And threw things away (this is how you right the ship in rough seas – toss things overboard. Or each other). The laws of physics tell you that matter can be neither created nor destroyed; therefore you have to pitch shit out. Why? Because a life-time of crap you stored in a 7000 square ft house is not going to fit in your 3800 square ft retirement home. Pitch that shit. Fake flowers missing leaves? Candles you haven’t burned since you bought them? Things you said you would fix and use but never did? Out, out, out. Our one mistake, and my advice to you, is to do this raging purge nonsense before you pay someone several thousand dollars to store it and haul it cross country for you. Honestly. Because you are still going to have to throw it out, no matter what you wish or how you think you can bend the laws of mass – it will have to go. Make a day of it. Drink tequila.  

In the end we lighted our load significantly, creating some buoyancy. We managed to tread water through a kitchen remodel and a backyard improvement. And while we both suspect that like the infamous icebergs there are still more issues to this house than we can see, nonetheless it seems to be becoming a home. And the shore is beneath us.  

People tell me a swim in deep water is restorative. I think making it back to dry land is restorative, with a better sense of certainty. I know you cannot be a pirate without braving the waters far from shore, otherwise you are just a guy in a skip with a bad eye patch. I have taken my first adventurous sailing. And I am grateful for calm, walk-able shallows, even though I still turn hopefully to the distant deep-water horizon knowing the risk. We are stronger for the swim. Wiser for the ordeal. So I face tomorrow with dark sunglasses, a depth detector, rare jewels for the treasure chest and a very large umbrella. To keep the water off my face. Braver now.

The bone crushing, soul sucking moments before it all changes.

I had started this blog with the idea of looking back first. A brief review of what came before to better understand who I am and where I am going. But while the perfect clarity of hindsight could indeed identify those moments of lost opportunity or lessons learned, in the end they were simply the past. And because time in linear (except on Dr. Who), there is no going back. The past cannot be changed, lesson learned or not. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have humorous anecdotes highlighting the juvenile nature of corporate life and it’s so called leadership, or how the world of acquisitions turns perfectly normal adults into ranting 13-year olds screaming “Pick me! Pick me” for what can only be called a demeaning game of dodge ball led by the cackling buyers. But who hasn’t been there? Who hasn’t played that game to keep a job, then looked in the mirror asking, “Who the hell ARE you?”. And came up empty for an answer. For what? The hoarding of people, places and memories to hate? Hate is such a strong word (say this with a southern drawl, you must practically spit to get it out). Here is some advice honed from years of hoarding – do not hold hate in your heart because it makes your heart heavy. It is hard enough in this life to lose weight without carrying around bitter rocks of animosity in your chest. Let that shit go.

It is important to remember how the last month felt. Moored with false security to a job I had dedicated years to, a job I thought I loved.  But up from the dark had crept the tentacles of foreboding. Work was incessant, the atmosphere oppressive.  I started hating Monday on Sunday, because the job had already consumed Saturday. There was no down time. The small office without windows was a trap. I kept the door closed because of noise and foot traffic in order to think. And then thought too much. Something was squeezing the air out. Every other week a new set of acronyms, a new leadership team and self-inflicted perpetual chaos. Chaos begets chaos. And chaos begets meanness, fear and loathing.  I could not see it but the mooring chain to my anchor was corroding, being pried apart by the dark thing sucking all the passion out of the job I once loved. Blinded. Or so it seemed. But even in that What the Fuck moment of being handed a severance package and the offer of a car to “anywhere you want to go” the snarky bitch in the back of my head screamed “I knew it!”. And just like that it’s done. Where once you belonged, you don’t. Time to go. The tide does not wait. This ship is sailing, and you are definitely on it, like it or not.

Now Sunday’s come and there is no desperation. Because Monday’s are like Sundays, except you can buy liquor before noon. I greet the day with a Red Bull in one hand and close the evening with a glass of wine in the other. And should I choose to reverse that order, no matter because Japan in not waiting on the other end of the phone at 6am. At least, they are not waiting for me. In their place I listen instead for the wind to rise. And mermaids. And I never look back.