The Gift of Crisis. Bridgitte Jackon Buckley
three times over the next few weeks. Asking for inspiration and then starting to receive it opened me up to a new way of thinking, a new way of perceiving life, and a new approach to living it. I am ready to acknowledge I have orchestrated a mess. I am ready to understand which intentions brought me to the chaos that now encompasses every aspect of my life. From the book, I begin to understand the following:
❍If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at will change.
❍Before any action is taken, decide what it is you really want, and set the intention.
❍Be reflective and stop all judgment of yourself and others.
❍Meditate consistently to reconnect with yourself.
❍Be appreciative. Showing gratitude begins the internal shift that allows you to see love and connection to all things.
Considering these ideas, I realize I haven’t been fully honest with myself, or Dennis, in my decision to stay at home. Of course I wanted to be there for Greyson and Mckenna, but on a deeper level I also wanted to force Dennis to take care of me so I would feel loved. When I pushed so hard for something we couldn’t afford, I didn’t realize there was a subconscious emotional need underlying my decision—that a deeply wounded part of myself played a part in guiding the decision. It is very easy to blame all the problems I experienced on Dennis’ illness, my family, and my situation—all things outside of me. It is, however, extremely difficult to accept that I need to take a deeply thorough look at myself and my role in creating the ugliness.
I quietly begin to devote myself to emotional healing. I read more books related to spiritual growth, and notice a common theme throughout the books: the benefits of quieting the mind through meditation and prayer. If this many authors are saying the exact same thing, it must have merit.
When I first begin to meditate, I am desperate for someone, something, anything to save me from my problems. I actually remember thinking, “Maybe if I meditate for a few weeks, all of my problems will just go away.” Despite the initial difficulty of the mental seesaw between tiny gaps of stillness and stressful thoughts, I continue to meditate. It seems everything that bothers me during the day wants my attention during meditation. I experience brief moments of feeling quiet, safe, and at ease, then I think of something that bothers me. A rotation of duality plays out in my mind: calm/fear, ease/disease, anger/peace. Every emotion I feel, but do not completely express, comes up for review. I don’t know what this duality means, or if I’m “doing it right;” nevertheless I continue. Each night, it becomes a little easier. While simultaneously experiencing brief moments of silence, I also observe the negative patterns in my beliefs which rise up for review. The brief moments of stillness allow space to become aware of the dominant thoughts and beliefs I hold, and to see unhealthy patterns in my thoughts. I continue to meditate late at night, after the kids and Dennis are asleep. I do this for months alongside the impending arrival of the foreclosure. Meditation helps me to feel more relaxed, but it is momentary. I am under a lot of stress, we are under a lot of stress, and meditation consistently provides momentary relief to cope with the situation.
Then, one day, amidst intermittent calm throughout the day, I pull into the driveway after picking the kids up from school and notice something on the front door. There are two white pieces of paper taped to the front door, visible to everyone. We are beyond the period to reinstate the loan and stop the foreclosure process. It is the Notice of Foreclosure Trustee Sale. The house will be sold in thirty days. I am shaken with fear and the thought of having to tell Dennis, and my parents, it is officially over. There are no more delays, no more holding it off, requests for more time. It is done. The date of the sale is set. Two days later, at 7:20 a.m., as I back out of the driveway to take the kids to school, a man runs up to the car, hastily knocks on the car window and ask, “Do you live here?” I roll the window down just enough to hear him clearly. “Yes.” He says, “Great. These are for you. You’ve been served,” and slides the papers through the car window opening. When I return from dropping the kids off, a different man stands in our front yard pounding a “For Sale” sign down into the grass. When he finishes, the sign is tall and white, visible as soon as you make the turn onto the block. In less than thirty days, we have to figure out what to do with our furniture and the new appliances, and where we will go. One month earlier, my parents contacted a realtor to sell the house. For two weekends we had to leave so the realtor could hold “Open House.” There was one offer made on the house, but we are not sure why the bank did not accept the offer.
In July 2010, the day of the sale, the day we tried to delay and prevent for four years has arrived. That morning, there are no neighbors outside to say goodbye to and no visit from a bank official. It is depressingly anti-climactic in a way I never imagined. With no warning, or prior notice in the mail, the power shuts off at 8:00 a.m. In the eerily quiet and empty house, Dennis and I do a final walk-through. We had watched news reports of disgruntled foreclosed homeowners who destroyed the house before moving out; a “screw you” to the bank. We don’t break anything. There was too much love put into the house to destroy anything. The experience has destroyed enough. After a few minutes of silence, Dennis asks, “Are you ready to go?” I’m not, but I answer, “Yes.” Quietly and uneventfully, with no sign of the mental and emotional trauma we went through, we walk out of the house for the last time. He starts the truck engine and slowly pulls forward out of the driveway. It is over. We drive to the end of the block to the stop sign, as we have done many times before, as if nothing is different. But everything is different. We are different. And we have no idea what comes next.
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