Thursday, December 17, 2015


"There is a voice inside of you that whispers all day long,
 ‘I feel this is right for me, I know that this is wrong.’ 
No teacher, preacher, parent, friend or wise man can decide what’s right for you
 — just listen to the voice that speaks inside."
~  Shel Silverstein

"SMO?" "Hey, SMO?"  I stepped out from behind the garage where I'd been clearing out debris:  weeds, overgrown branches, etc., and see Boomer sticking his head out the back door.   Donning garden gloves, straw hat, sunglasses, drenched in insect repellent and sweat, and a few hours into my daily escape from booze, isolation, despair and chaos, I answered, "Yeah?"  I often spent up to six hours at a time outside, in the yard,  taking out my frustration and sadness over what was going on inside.  "I was thinking...," he said, as I walked closer to the door to hear him, "...since you're not wearing the sapphire ring I gave you, we can sell it.  Probably get $1,000 for it."  "What?" dumbfounded by what I heard and the seemingly come-from-nowhereness of it, "ABSOLUTELY NOT."  "Well, you never wear it anymore...," 

Something happened several months ago.  There was a shift. Something was oddly different -- awkward -- about this shift.   Every time, every single time, I was outside, in the back of the house, near the yard and garage, for whatever reason:  taking out the trash, watering plants, coming and going from the car, you name it.  This miserable vignette between Boomer and I replayed, word-for-word, emotion-for-emotion.  It was on continuous loop, like the scary nightmare you have in your sleep;  you wake up, shake it off, close your eyes and it picks up right where you left off.  Over and over and over, I felt like I was being haunted, posthumously reliving it with him.  Why?  I detested the very arrogance of his sarcastic idea; angry and hurt -- again-- by another distorted, exaggerated, false accusation.  Proof once again, how sick he was and was progressing.  Never mind, his Rolex watch, notably more valuable than the petite ring he spoke of;  the watch which he never wore any more, always complained about the poor time it kept, and beloved so much that he opted to leave it laying on the floor in the corner of a closet.  Oh, yes, sure, but let's sell my ring.  What's going on?  Why was this memory front and center, relentlessly waiting for me in the back of the house, nearly 4 years after it happened.  Was it another one of those progress, healing, moving-forward kind of energy shifts I'd so often been told about and personally have experienced throughout the time since Boomer died, masqueraded this time, in a less-than-pleasant memory?   I kept asking, but was getting no answers to the questions.  

"Denise, that's a beautiful necklace,"  I said to my friend, of the artisan design around her neck, with it's hearty diamond centered in the custom pendant.  "Thank you.  It was a parting gift," she whimsically replied with a wink. "Parting gift?  Oh, I see."  Following a divorce, Denise redesigned her wedding ring.  There it was, an answer.  Well, the beginning of an answer.  

What Boomer fabricated in thought 4 years ago was now reality.  I wasn't wearing the ring anymore, neither of them, the sapphire ring nor the engagement ring and wedding band.  They had migrated from left hand, to right hand to a drawer of my jewelry case.   Doing my own redesign, as Denise did,  was one idea, and a regular suggestion from others.  As I conducted value due diligence, I laughed at Boomer's grandiose valuation;  the sapphire ring wasn't nearly as valuable as he presumed.  Then the whispers of action, reminiscent of Boomer's words (read:  3 Little Words), clarity of intention and purpose but with an expanded depth of understanding evolved over a three-month period.    

I was parting.  I was healing.  I was letting go.  I was changing.  I was moving on.  I was ready.  It was time, and Boomer -- through the memory of that horrible, pain-filled exchange that afternoon in the backyard -- was encouraging me to do so.  First, I parted with his chair (read: Leopard Chair ), selling it to a lovely couple who live on Sanibel Island.  I wasn't sitting on its edge like I use to, and I didn't "need" it anymore.  Now it was just taking up space, it was time to part with it.      

Next came the jewelry.  I struggled with what to do. What I garnered from alot of soul-searching, faith-seeking, logic-reasoning, value-quoting, and design-estimating was that I had changed.  The jewelry didn't represent me anymore -- who I've become, what my values are today (read:  Life on E).  So I chose to sell it all.  It wasn't easy, nor was it a rush to judgement.  I am still a sentimentalist and I feared that selling the most monetarily expensive items Boomer gave me was somehow a rejection of the love he had for me and the material ways in which he tried to express it. Which is precisely what he eluded to that day in backyard.  Honestly, there was also a little part of that little girl in me who thinks I'll never have another diamond ring or earrings again -- ever.   But it was Boomer, who was helping me make this decision to sell.  He sees I don't need them, and selling them is another step toward freedom of emotional bondage brought about from disease and death and the lingering legal bill, 2 1/2 years later, I still needed needed to pay as a result.  

As the selling day got closer, I started having second-thoughts, afraid I was a making a mistake.  I needed an extra umph of courage and strength. So I put on all the jewelry two days before I was scheduled to drive across the state to meet the dealer buying it.  A last hurrah, final farewell wearing if you will.  It all felt different, weird different.  The diamond earrings I'd worn every day, since he gave them to me on my 40th birthday, now hurt in my ears.  The rings were uncomfortable on my fingers -- left and right hand.  It was creepy, yet affirming at the same time that I was doing the right thing, for the right reasons, in the right way, at the right time. It was time to part and yes, I was ready.   

The protective healing gods were with me that Tuesday morning, like Moses parting the sea:  clearing the roads of traffic during rush hour, providing all green lights, even no waiting in the drive-thu for road coffee. All systems were go for parting.  It was, believe it or not, an unsettling quiet, easy, peaceful experience and as I drove across I-75 to the east coast of Florida, known as alligator alley, I cried -- tears of both good-bye and hello -- so completely awake to the fact I was doing exactly the right thing.  By the end of the week, I had the legal bill paid and had parted ways with the attorney (read:  P.T.S.D).  I closed doors to the past.  I parted ways with an old way of thinking, believing and behaving.

A month later, Boomer resurfaced, "Do it,"  I started hearing, "I always said, 'I wish they were bigger.' Go ahead, do it.  You deserve it."  So I did it.  I bought myself a parting gift -- for my birthday --  a new pair of diamond earrings.  They're double the size of the pair Boomer gave me; I wear them all the time.  

The partings continue, including a fresh round of all the embodiment... I'm selling my house.

And I thought selling the jewelry was tough...


  1. You finally see the light at the end of your serpentine tunnel. Focus on it, and don't look back.