She changed three times.

[2-5-21]

I was going through old vision books for the work we are doing in Magic Making Circle. One of them was called, "Waiting to tell you she Changed Three Times." This particular book was bursting at the seams with pages filled with my becoming, my dreams, my desires. It is worn and the glue is starting to release little bits of paper with time.

One of the dreams of my now that I am inside of is working on an inexpensive, re-use as much as we can, kitchen make-over. I could live my life making things over, it is in my blood, I can sit and stare at a space for hours visioning the possibilities and then slowly (well sometimes) working to make the changes happen.

I move furniture. The kids used to say they would go to bed in one house and then wake up in a different one. They never knew where something would be because I might have moved it while they slept. Mostly, they liked the changing. (They didn't like the silverware changing spots.)

Even now I like to make little changes when they are away and see if they notice.

Back to the kitchen. This is a dream come true experience. I've never picked out tile or knobs or counters. It feels perfectly grown up and being 46, seems time to feel a bit grown. Dave and I are doing the work and being in the process/the practice seems to suit our relationship. He loves supporting things I'm excited (obsessed) about and we tend to have fun even through the frustrating bits.

So here I am, in the dream. I picked four paint colors to try. We unanimously, all seven of us, agreed on which color. Little black dress. Implies it is black, right? It looks black. Then I buy a gallon of it and we begin to paint. It is not black, it is blue. Quite blue.

I find a million ways to talk myself into it, to pretend it is kinda black. I already bought the paint. It is fine. I can live with it.

Whooooosh. A million tiny little memories of all the ways that I have told myself I can live with it rush through me. I can feel tears, some of the memories are deep wounds. It's fine, I can live with it. I'll make it work. I'll stay. I can figure out how to be happy. I don't have to be happy. It's fine, I can live with it.

It is a can of paint. Just a can of paint. My step-daughter loves it and wants her room that color. It won't go to waste. Beyond, beyond, beyond that. I'm allowed to change my mind. I'm allowed to say, "I bought this paint and it isn't what I wanted. I won't live with this because it isn't the color I've been dreaming of."

I ran up to Dave's office (our bedroom) and explained to him my process and how it was about the paint but not about the paint at all. It was how easily I'll settle, I won't go that next bit deeper to make the dream mine.

His reaction was to tell me that was great, choose a different color, that I should love it. He wasn't upset or disappointed. And even if he was (he never would be, that is old stuff) I am still allowed to change my mind!!!!

Waiting to tell you she changed three times.

After my moment, moments, I changed my mind about the knobs I had chosen. I changed my mind about the tile too. I kept changing my mind. Over and over and over. I felt free and supported.

I circled back to what I knew I wanted, the original vision of the dream. Black lower cabinets, white paint, white weathered tile, open shelving, a wall filled with cutting boards, brass accents and marble countertops. I haven't sold Dave on the marble, I may not, but I'll find something I love. Love.

We are doing the renovation in phases. Saving up to get each part of it, doing the work ourselves. The kids are getting used to not having a table to sit at to eat because our projects take up all the space.

The make-over will be gorgeous, no doubt. While I wait for tile and countertop I'm attending to small details that create a strong sacred aesthetic, details like cutting boards and stone planters and more blank space than I've ever had before. This weekend I'll paint more walls white, joining the house together.

Each time I find myself overwhelmed I remember two things. There is no rush, just be in the process. And. And. And. I don't have to say, "It's fine. I can live with it," ever again, feeling the lump in my gut that makes my voice fade away.

I don't live there anymore. I live in a life of my choosing, deeply supported. I live in the knowing of just how blessed it can feel.

You get to change your mind. Three times or ten. It can be big, or tiny. It is about the paint, but it isn't about the paint.

Sending blessings and chantings of change....xo