One month from today we expect to arrive back in Michigan. It would be denial to say the mold saga has not given birth to worry, fear, and concern. Is it gone? I am not just questioning the mold, but referencing also the freedom turning ever-so-surely into curiosity that has momentarily replaced the worry.

Putting multiple thousands on my credit card, writing checks for more multiple thousands. Grateful access to what we need. Thoughts, too, of those families helped financially by our plight.

It is said we do not fear death, but we fear dying as the great unknown. Yet, truth-be-told, we have been practicing living with dying since our first breath. We outlived puppies and kitties, and uncles and aunts. Cars and clothes, and friendships. All these no longer are the way they were.

Fragile at best, this bed of impermanence upon which we rest.

Mind goes to the blowing of the wind outside the window. Wondering when it is not blowing, where or what wind is.

Before I was “I,” what was I. And long after, hereafter.

Suddenly the idea! I can spend all of my earthy accumulations to run a full-page ad in the newspaper telling of the inner journey.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, hardly anyone reads newspapers any more. Trees are relieved. So am I.

News is depressing. Of course, the really good stuff gets ignored.

Disaster and doom, debauchery and damage—this is what people read.

All arises from the conditions. When the conditions are present, wind will arise.

Death, too, arises—like the sun—when it is time.

I write an open letter to the tiny house:

To whom it may concern,

The problem was more extensive than we anticipated, but we have done what we can. We are optimistic what we have done is enough.

Love,
Debra

My goodness, that is perhaps the words for the ad in the newspaper: WE ARE OPTIMISTIC WHAT WE HAVE DONE IS ENOUGH….