Day seventy-three, with clock running

The clock is running. As it always is.

There is a deadline. Things to do. Lots of items on this list.

The biggest obstacle, perhaps is letting go. Losing the attachment.

Assigning value, ruthlessly separating the treasures from the trash, the trophies from the trivial.

This yard sale is metaphor. I seek the uncluttered, the clean, the simple.

In thirty years I have amassed an incredible amount of, well, stuff. Things I still don't understand as precious. What was I thinking when…

Today starts another process. The clean up. I have made a mess. My art project, thirty years in the making, doesn't meet the one criteria from page one, line one, sentence one, of my carpenters manual.

When we build let us think that we build forever.

I think somewhere, and I will find it soon, the Audel's manuals, the study textbooks we used for entry into the united brotherhood of carpenters and joiners way back in the mid seventies, will remind me again how badly I failed.

Today this is OK. Yesterday was hard. I took an earnest money check to escrow, moderating a wild eleventh-hour bidding contest and finally handing the file folder to the agent. Ten minutes later I was out on the street walking very slow. My chest was filled with a strange air and my field of vision was narrow as a key hole. I had to stop mid-step and grab a hand rail.

What is this feeling? Am I heading into another A-Fib episode with brain fog like pea soup? Am I going to pass out here on the street? How embarrassing.

I recognized the feeling as is was coming on. I took a shallow breath and BAM...

It was a cry. Thirty years of emotion erupting like Mt St Helens, OMG, dude, you are supposed to be tough, get a grip. It only lasted a few seconds. Then, amazingly it was over. Reality back and screaming for attention. I was able to let it go. And regain the flow. I looked at my watch.

The clock is running.