We are currently living between two places and have done the best we can to be comfortable in the new home.  With the “big” stuff moved, we’ve managed a month or so eating off paper plates with plastic utensils.

Last week, I decided that I wanted chili dogs.  Something I hadn’t eaten for several months.  So,  I marched off to our tiny kitchen to begin preparations.

As I reached up into the cabinet for the can of chili, it hit me.  I don’t have a can opener. Damn!  I was talking to my husband on the phone at the time and he says, “I guess you’ll have to do without.”

HELL NO.

This girl will NOT eat plain hot dogs.  (Bad childhood memories.)  So what’s a girl to do?

Improvise.

So with a steak knife and a wrench, serving as a hammer, I “cut” away at the top of the can until, minutes later, I could extract the chili.  My daughter thought I was crazy and I laughed at my determination and resourcefulness.

As I shared the incident with my mastermind group, it hit me how committed I was to having chili dogs and the fact that just because I didn’t have all the “right” tools, I was going to find a way to get what I wanted.

It’s true.  When you want something bad enough, you’ll figure out a way to make it happen.  No matter how hard it seems, your commitment to it will help you access the resources you need. 

It isn’t always a pretty or perfect solution.  But there is one.

You CAN have what you want.

So, how bad do you want it?

Eight years ago this morning, one of my best friends, my mother, moved on to another dimension.  I was present at her bedside, watching the heart monitor countdown to zero, like a new year’s eve event.  When the clock struck “12″, if you will, there was a celebration, just not in that hospital room.  “Mom” had returned to the non-physical world and her spirit friends were throwing one hell of a party.

In honor of my mother, Vera Miles, I return to my blog with a love letter.

Lou,

I know that time has no meaning where you are.  But for us, eight difficult years have passed.   I must admit that it doesn’t seem that long most times.  Your sickness was so much a part of my life that the events of your last 6 months remain quite vivid.

I find it funny that even from the other side, you have no patience for my tears.  “Tears don’t bring back the dead and they don’t move me,” rings loud and clear in my ears every time I’ve wanted to (as T would say), “boo-hoo bubble-snot cry.”  How the hell do you have less patience as a spirit??  Silly woman.

But that was one of your many gifts.  You taught me from an early age that one day I’d have to get along without you.  I never wanted to face the probability that I might outlive you or Daddy.  But you always found a way to make me laugh while thinking about your death.   Even at your bedside and during the funeral preparations, you were pointing out things that were funny to you, trying to get me to look beyond my own pain and see that even in death, there is something beautiful and even funny to behold.

Thank you, Mom, for helping me remember to laugh at myself.  For pushing me out of the nest and believing that I would remember I could fly.  Thank you for the memories of snowball fights and driving lessons.  For always asking if I wanted to lick the bowl of cake mix and for never asking why the frozen peaches and cherries had mysterious holes in them.  Most of all Mom, thanks for picking me to be your daughter.  I was and stiill am humbled and ever so grateful to be Vera’s youngest.

G’night.

Love, Sue