Don’t ever tell me that I cannot do something. It makes my resolve bubble up like saliva around a sweet tart. I love a good dare. It gives me a focus and a purpose and a drive. Dares might just be the only way that I move forward in my life.
But no one dared me to sell my house and move into a townhouse a couple short blocks away. I can practically see the out- of- control 50 foot curly willow tree from my front porch! They haven’t cut it down yet even though I disclosed the snapping branches in the escrow papers. But they did remove the beautiful buttercup blooming Magnolia that Dale planted for me in the front yard three years ago. And the potted flowers on the front porch that I left behind because they were oh so pretty and I wanted the new owners to enjoy them… gone now and nothing to replace them.
“It’s not your house anymore” says my wise middle son.
I know, wise middle son.
I found this “Dare” card as I was decorating my new place and I put it in my downstairs bathroom. The red matches the lovely framed print of the Virgin Mary and Jesus that I purchased at the Uffizi Gallery Museum in Florence, Italy way back in 2000. The picture hung proudly over the toilet of my red powder room in the house that I no longer own. I’m quite sure they have repainted THAT room. Who paints a bathroom red?? Right?
As I read this card I see that it has taken on a meaning that is utterly circumstantial and profound in my current state of mind. Dare to believe in yourself. Dare to trust that you have what it takes to make it happen. Dare to savor all that life has to offer.
Dare to grasp that your Kansas is within you. OK.. ouch!
Some people are nomads. Wherever they can lay their head and set up camp is sufficient.
But some of us are always looking for our Kansas. Our home. We click away at our red sparkly designer flats and tell ourselves that there’s no place like it. There’s no place like home. And then we find ourselves constantly looking.
For that idyllic home. The one we dream about. The one that makes us feel secure and safe.
I ask myself.. where is my home? My parents are deceased. My children are college educated and gainfully employed. I’ve given away the sweatshirts, the camping gear, the tents, whiffle bats and balls, beach umbrellas, boogie boards, shelves of required reading for high school students and the magical closet full of suits that my three sons wore with permutations of ties, socks, shirts and shoes. The paraphernalia of parenthood has been dissolved and distributed. I am no longer the keeper of things.
Where the hell is my Kansas?
Someone, quick, dare me to find it!