My best friend in 8^th grade, had a grandmother who strung a velvet rope (like the ones in movie theatres) across the entrance to her living room in order to protect her stark white carpet and sofa-- from people.  I thought she was nuts.  I bring this up, because there was a time when the tracks the sweeper made in the living room carpet had to be straight and free of footprints or I couldn’t relax.  If little feet dared to trample over it, out came the sweeper and a lecture.  I wonder why it never occurred to me that I was nuts.

In addition, my cereal boxes were aligned by height and my spices were arranged in alphabetical order.  Laundry was done on Mondays, toys were picked up before bed and when I canned jelly in sweet little jars with handmade flowered labels—it bothered me when someone removed one from the shelf to actually use. 

I inherited these things from my father, who often smelled more of Comet and Pine Sol than Old Spice.  Knick-knacks on our dressers were kept to a minimum and you didn’t do anything in the kitchen without first putting a paper down on the counter (it really did provide much easier clean-up).  Although, I always cringed when I heard dad coming up the steps to check on our cleaning progress, I always felt a greater sense of calm when everything was in its place.

I thought about these things the other day when I finally rounded up all of our DVDs, which number well over a hundred and put them in a single cabinet where I arranged them alphabetically-- by category.  I had to say—it felt good. 

Organizing my environment and having it clean and neatly arranged, was how I garnered control in my life.  This, combined with my first-born perfectionism, allowed me to look at Martha Stewart and believe that gold-leafing the ‘powder-room’ trash can was both normal and highly desirable.

Then one day, all of the control I thought I had, flew out the window.  I was put in my place and I quickly realized that alphabetizing your spice drawer was no protection against chaos; it was just a way to find Cream of Tartar in a hurry.  In those days, I was lucky to have had the forethought to purchase cereal—let alone make sure the boxes were in descending order.  For two years in a row, my Christmas trees were up until nearly February—and the scary thing is they were live trees (well, until mid-January anyway).

Four moves in three years did not help either.  Each time I unpack there are fewer and fewer things.  I managed to keep track of ten boxes of books, however, I still have no idea where Grandma’s waffle iron went, but I sure would like to have it back. 

I have absolutely no money to my name and I still sleep at night.  Where once that would have sent me into apoplexy, I find that I have become quite at home living on the edge.  For a while, I thought that the edge was a better place to be—after all, lower expectations saves you from bigger disappointment and sheets wrapped in bundles and tied with ribbon will never be your saving grace. 

But, now, after coming to the conclusion that I have developed deep-seeded commitment issues, I realize that desiring too little control in your life is just as counterproductive as an overabundance of it.  It’s like daring life to catch you, so you continue to run away from what feels good because you know how quickly it can all turn bad. Numbing yourself is not an answer, it’s just a less obvious way to try and grasp some control.

It is a long process, trying to ease yourself off of the edge and tiptoe past the guilt that comes from carrying on.  No one gives you a formula because it is different for everyone.  I am still working things out, but I will confess to you the following:

I have been looking at antique engagement rings and picking out paint colors.  I once again feel much better about life when the house smells of Murphy’s Oil Soap and cranberry candles.  I like the blankets neatly folded and I refuse to believe that it is a character flaw to find contentment in a well thought out DVD cabinet or by the smell a pie baking in the oven.  Unfortunately, this has not yet filtered down to an alphabetized spice drawer or a gold-leafed trash can, but who knows what the future holds.

We are all irrational in some way—it is how we cope with a scary world.  Some of us put ropes around our living room and some of us put ropes around our hearts.  

When we last left off,  it was a stormy night on Mackinaw Island and I was walking on a dark, lonely path with woods on either side.  I should have probably turned back, but for whatever reason, I didn’t.  There were small street lights but they were extremely spread out and in between it was pure darkness.  Occasionally I would come to a fork in the road and have to decide which one was the correct path back to the hotel.  I have to admit, that while I convinced myself that the Island was a very safe place to be, I was extremely frightened and feeling very vulnerable.  

At one point a group of teenage boys on bikes flew over a hill and nearly ran me over—one at a time, because they couldn’t see me until I was right in front of them.  My heart was beating wildly and I found myself nearly frozen in place--but that didn’t seem to be a good answer either.  As I didn’t own a cell phone yet to call and have someone talk me through it, I had to find a way to talk myself through.

I decided that I would take ten steps and then breathe.  Just ten.  So, I walked and I counted.  One…two…thr ee…four…fiv e…six…seven …eight…nine …TEN.  Deep breath.  Ok, now ten more.  For whatever reason, it worked.  My heart stopped racing and I developed a sense of calm.  I had a goal and a plan to achieve it.  I continued in this manner for over a mile and a half—one…two …three—and then I saw them.  The lights to the hotel glowed in the distance and now I was giddy.  When I was nearly there, I heard a horse and carriage coming up behind me—and I marveled at the timing of it all. “Do you want a ride,” the driver asked.  “No.  I’ll walk, thank you.” 

And I finished what I started. 

The following morning was my last day.  When I woke up I realized that I had come to no conclusions and I was filled with a growing sense of frustration and confusion.  I didn’t expect that I would have found all of the answers, but a sense of direction would have been nice.  I took a carriage into town and picked up coffee, a muffin and the paper and walked over to a park-like area and sat down on the grass.  As I was reading the paper, I heard the sound of bagpipes playing a melancholy song and looked up to see a man in full Scottish dress, standing in the early morning fog.

I lay down on the grass, closed my eyes and just listened.  And in that moment, I felt a profound sense of contentment and peace well up inside of me.

A short time later, I began my walk back to the hotel to pack.  Today the path was full of people and in the light of day I almost felt foolish at having been frightened.  Behind me I heard voices speaking in French and I turned to see two young women in maids uniforms.  Like the bagpipe experience earlier, I found myself once again part of something incredibly simple yet memorable and wonderful. And all of a sudden, I burst into tears. 

Not one for public displays and despite all of my efforts, I couldn’t stop crying, all the way back to the hotel. I realized I had found my answer.  Walking along the same path that filled me with such fear the night before, I understood that I had the strength to walk through my fear of the unknown.  I was capable of taking care of myself and that I could survive whatever life threw at me.  At the time, my frame of reference was a divorce; little did I know what else was right around the corner.

When we found out about Ali’s cancer, I remember standing with her at an escalator in the mall that we passed through from the hotel to the clinic.  She was obviously-- and with good reason, panicking from the barrage that had just been thrown at us.  “But, what if…” she kept saying.  “What if I lose my hair?” “What if the chemo doesn’t work…”

Finally I sat her down and re-counted to her my walk through the woods.  “Ten steps at a time, Ali…no more and no less…that is how we are going to get through this.”

For whatever reason, I could tell in her eyes, that this resonated with her and in that moment I saw her will to fight overcome her paralysis from fear. I have told this story before because it changed me.  It was the first step on my path to discovering that I needed to leave fear behind and just be brave.  Sometimes our answers and our strength come from the most unlikely places. When the road is dark and frightening, it is overwhelming to think about how you will get to the other end in one piece. I like to think that Ali counted to ten and jumped into the arms of God.

I am still counting.