We sat on the second-floor, long balcony looking at a panoramic view of the Florida sunset as we waited for the fireworks to begin. Sipping pina coladas and nibbling on canapes, the five of us watched the sun dip down below the tropical vegetation and the inlets of brackish water headed for the gulf.

Suddenly, dramatic, dark clouds rolled across the sky and shut out the blue.  Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. The time between them lessening as the massive storm crawled overhead. As if a faucet had been turned on, so much water dumped from these clouds that the landscape was obscured from view. The rain lashed the screens and patio doors covering the outside of the lanai.

“Oh, golly,” one of the guests who had just moved to Florida said, “I’ve never seen such rain as there is down here!  I was driving the other day, and a storm came out of nowhere! I couldn’t see a thing in front of me! I was terrified!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” responded a young woman who has been a full-time Florida resident. “No one else can see anything either.”

We all laughed. Lightning flashed with a loud crash at the same time. We screamed. Then, noticing we had not been struck dead, laughed again.

But, like the new resident who had spoken, I, too, have never experienced anything quite like the summer storms of Florida. In fact, I have never seen cloud formations like the ones here. One day, after just arriving, I looked up at the intensely blue sky and gawked at a massive structure–puffy white clouds piled one top of the other to form something like Mount Everest floating gently by. I watched it with wide-eyed awe

The rain outside the balcony passed as suddenly as it had arrived, but the storm clouds lingered high above. The rain comes and goes here so quickly. It can be pouring on one side of the street and the sun shining on the other.  It’s not at all like the kind of rain in Connecticut that I have known. A rainy day there is just that….usually an entire day when the sky is a blanket of flat somber gray with hours or days of rain–dull, dreary weather that some people love, but I find depressing. Oh, yes, we had our summer storms—some pretty impressive, but nothing like the kind I was witnessing at the moment. The random lightning/thunder never seemed to pause, as these behemothic clouds roiled above. Bolt after bolt shot down constantly accompanied by instant loud crashes.

I thought of my beloved dogs who used to tremble, drool, and pant wild-eyed at the slightest distant rumble of thunder. They would have died of fright at this. I was glad I had not moved to Florida while they were alive. Had I been alone now, I would have scurried back into the house. But being with people was comforting. The continuing bolts of lightning elicited yelps and laughter from our small group.

We were in the middle of spectacular, heavenly fireworks. There were so many constant blinding white jagged lines streaking down to the earth, I could not imagine why the world was not on fire.  After a half hour or so of this, we did hear a siren…someone answering some alarm.

The clouds were massive and thick, but varied in density, so that often light showed through the dark shapes. The setting sun turned these lighter areas pink and gold. At one point there was even a hole where we could see clear, blue sky and red-tinged clouds high above.

We all whooped as particularly powerful streaks of lightning shot to the ground.

“Yikes,” the new Florida resident spoke with a hush as the Sky God’s Show went on, “I have never in my life seen anything like this! This is pretty unusual, right?”

“No,” the host said. “This is pretty much what happens in July and August in Florida!”

We yelled in unison as another spectacular display of lightning lit up the sky. The scene looked primeval to me. I felt I was watching the earth eons ago when deserts were covered with water. I would not have been surprised to see dinosaurs rise up from the waters below to roar defiantly at the thunder gods who created them.

Surprisingly, in the middle of all this, the town’s fireworks began to the left. Against the gigantic displays in the sky, they seemed like delicate little sparkly flowers. In our agreed upon estimation, they were no competition against The Sky God’s program. Our eyes were distracted time and again to the bursts of  startlingly bright bolts slashing down from the clouds.

I sipped my drink and quietly congratulated myself for venturing into such a wild, new world.

It certainly isn’t boring.

“Fair game!” the plumber must have said to himself when I opened the door. “She’s older. She doesn’t know crap. I can price high.” 

What is it with some guys? We women know that it’s a good idea to take along a man when shopping for a car because some salesmen seem to have abandoned all sense of shame when dealing with women. This plumber was a doozy.

I showed him the laundry room with the terrible smell and the wet rug. The washing machine hoses were fine. “The wet floor is probably capillary action from a leak under the house,” he said and went outside to inspect the water meter. He came back and told me that the it was slowly spinning, indicating a leak in the underground pipes. Oh, my god, I thought. Underground pipes?! What’s that going to cost?

Then, he noticed that a large plastic container of water on the floor had sprung a leak which  had  caused the water to spread on the floor. No capillary-action-leaky-pipes under there.

“But, the meter is still spinning,” he said. “There’s has to be a leak down below the house somewhere.”  

“What?!  How can that be? This place was built in 2008! Take me outside and show me this meter.”

I got on my hands and knees and peered way down into the hole in the ground. After watching the tiny dial for a long time, I could see that, yes, indeed, it was turning very, very slowly.

We went back inside and sat at my kitchen table. He said, “You’ll have to hire an outside company. They will find the leak underground within a foot. We will then come back and…” He went on to outline how he would tear up the floors and walls and replace all the pipes to the tune of $6,988.00 which would not include restoration.  

“What?!” My heart sped up way faster than the water meter’s.

“With a lifetime guarantee, though.”

“Wait a minute. Hold on. That dial is spinning so very slowly. Maybe there’s a leak in the toilet in the guest room. Someone said that it was making a little noise when they stayed here. Could that be it?”

We went to that bathroom and looked. He said if he replaced the filler valve and the flapper that maybe, just maybe that would solve the problem. “That’ll be $264.”

Are you kidding me?  For just that? “No thanks,” I said. “I’ll look over everything and think about it.”

He left.

I went back to the bathroom, turned off the water supply to the toilet, and went out to see if that would stop the spinning meter dial.

It did.  

Then, I went to the hardware store, bought a Fluidmaster fill valve and a flapper, came home, and watched a Youtube video on how to put it in the toilet. It was instructive, but hilarious in its lack of production values. The picture was so dark, I could hardly see it. Children cried in the background and dogs nosed around the plumber for attention. His phone rang, so he had to reach in his pocked to turn it off. At one point his body blocked the camera, so I couldn’t see a crucial step. But, between that and the printed instructions, I was able to  do it myself. 

Cost: under $18. 

Can someone explain why my plumber didn’t just turn off the water to the toilet and check the meter again as I did? Such a simple way to test it, eh?  He couldn’t have been that dumb, but he must have thought I was.

A “Snow Bird” is a person who flies to Florida from the cold northern winter and then goes back home in the spring.  A “Snowflake” is my term for someone like me who comes to Florida permanently and melts in an adopted new community.

I’ve met a lot of Snowflakes here who started off as Snow Birds. They tell me that after a few years, traveling back and forth and maintaining two homes, it  became too much of a pain in the ass, so they moved here permanently and brave the summers instead of the winters. I’ve heard several times, “You don’t have to shovel heat.” In fact, thanks to very efficient air conditioning, you don’t have to suffer from it either.

So, here I am. My little snowflake self is melting in pretty fast, I think. Actually, this blog is to reassure the people who expressed such loving concern over my last one. Yes, the realization that this was to be my permanent home was a shock. Yes, I felt very alone in those first days here. Yes, my brown recluse spider bite wound got scary worse, but thanks to my Connecticut dermatologist who phoned in some heavy meds for me, it is healing. And, yes, melting, as a metaphor, is uncomfortable. It reminds me of Hilda, a spiritual teacher, who once said, “Kids, you’re all salt dolls afraid of walking into the ocean.” (Now that’s expansion.)

Even in those difficult first days, I took my fear with me and went exploring and jumped into a mix of culture:  a screening of the Met’s Tristan and Isolde, three fabulous performances at the Ringling Museum’s Arts Festival, a dance class at the Player’s Theater, an all-day Sarasota Ted X event, screenings of  Don Giovanni and The Bolshoi Ballet, another line dance class at the White Buffalo Saloon, four short plays at The Starlight Theater, and last night, a screening of Frankenstein. I’ve been to two churches—meeting people—going out to lunch with a group afterwards. I have met women around my pool, gone to my small community’s board meeting, and got volunteered to steer a committee to have the first group get together. All in about three weeks. So, I am definitely in the process of melting, as you can see.

It’s been wonderful. Happily, all the Snowflakes I have met are open, intelligent, and friendly probably because they are all transplants like me. Mixing metaphors badly there, because tulips and hyacinths don’t transplant to hot climes.  Of course, I will not lose the essential me, but hopefully, the Snowflake part will melt and feed some new exotic plant in my life’s garden that will nurture others.

“What have I done? What am I doing here?” I thought horrified as I sat collapsed on my couch in my new home in Nokomis, Florida. I had just arrived, utterly exhausted and totally depleted. Not a good time for self-examination. My life force seemed drained from the long drive and the last two months. First, a bad, lingering flu, then, an unexpected, sudden trip Miami to advocate for my nephew who had ended up in a medical coma in the hospital.  During those three nightmarish weeks as I fought for his care, my house sold. After terrible medical mishaps, John finally made it to a rehab. The negotiations for the house sale were done. I rushed back to Connecticut and had three weeks to get rid everything except what I could stuff in my car. In the middle of that, my nephew died suddenly of cardiac arrest. Loss piled on loss.

I managed to get through it all and make the long drive alone to Florida. Somehow, I even unpacked all the stuff from my bulging car before I got to the couch. But I reeled in shock as I looked around. The house was quiet and utterly calm. I had furnished this place last year. I think it is beautiful and spiritual. In the peaceful stillness, however, the realization that this is my permanent domicile smacked me in my worn-out face, and I was swept away with terror.

The knowledge that I have no family here, and the few snow bird friends I knew were still up north and would be for weeks, left me feeling utterly lost and alone. Everything that I had not processed in the last stressful months came crashing on top of me. I felt overwhelmed by death, loss, and emptiness. “Oh god,” I thought. “It’s one thing to furnish a house. It’s another to furnish a life!”

I lit a candle and tried to meditate. Awful buzzing feelings hummed through my body. My mind was a black hole of negativity. But I knew enough to do my best to just hang out with the terror and not listen to any decisions or conclusions that came from it. Still, fear about an infection from a spider bite on my leg fed the swirling black thoughts. I was sure I was dying.

In the next few days I functioned, albeit on about two cylinders, as I moved through a kind of numb fear organizing the things I had brought. My body and mind ached for rest, so I took deep, long naps.

Awake, I would occasionally stop, light a candle, and sit with the terror. One day, as I surrendered to the scary feelings, I heard the same message I had on one of the last days in Connecticut: that this move is about expansion. Not loss. Not downgrading. Expansion. That’s the deepest fear. Death is expansion. That’s why expansion feels like death. I found that comparison fascinating, and it made sense to me. My fear ebbed.

I realized that my home in Wilton had been a kind of ashram for me and for the people who had done the Creative Explosion workshops there. Now it is gone. I am here in this lovely little villa, but it is not a sanctuary as that home was. Instead, this is a kind of sacred nest from which to fly and explore.

Rest helped, and in a few days, I was ready to get out of isolation. So when I got a notice on my phone about an all-day Sarasota Ted X event, I bought a ticket. It was to be held the very next day nearby at the Venice Theater.  The timing was perfect and just what the doctor ordered: stimulating and inspiring and fun. I met and talked with intelligent and actively involved people.

A couple of days later a friend phoned. She was here because she and her sister-in-law were escaping Hurricane Matthew in St. Augustine where they lived. We went to lunch and I arranged to go to a screening of the Met’s Tristan and Isolde with one of the women the next day. It was five hours of brilliant singing and music. Then I saw an email about a line dance class. I talked myself into going, even though I was sure it would be too hard. It wasn’t. It was great exercise and fun. Another email prompted me to go to see three brilliant performances at an arts festival at the Ringling Museum. All of these things were definitely “expanding.”

With each passing day, I feel better and better. I once more have faith that this move is right for me, and will turn out Better Even Than I Can Imagine.

Yesterday, I went to Pelican Alley to order some of their delicious dynamite shrimp to go. While I waited, I got a glass of wine, stepped outside onto the pier next to the water, and sat on the bench. The sunset was gorgeous.  Pelicans streaked across the pink and purple clouds. Clusters of small birds swooped in formation, under the bridge, and back over the top in a circle in front of me in a kind of dance in the sky.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier than at that moment.

Expansion.  Maybe it just means letting go on a really deep level and trusting what shows up.

This blog is about The Four Principles: Being Present, Commitment, Relaxation, and Communication.  

“I feel great!” I said to Gabi, as I sat in her lovely living room in the morning sun drinking a cup of tea. I was stunned that I felt so good.

Yesterday, I felt like last week’s garbage as I arrived at her house in the afternoon. I smelled a bit like it, too. Emptying out my house in three weeks had been a monumental task, but the last three days hit a new level I would call Extreme Packing.  I had not showered in the last 24 hours because I had mistakenly packed away all my towels. I did manage to sleep on an air mattress for about five hours in the same clothes. I was rank, but my house, as I turned it over to the new owners, was not. It was better than I could have imagined it would be when it sold three weeks ago. I had even swept out the shed and washed off the garbage cans. They were a lot cleaner than I was.

Earlier that day I had a moment in which I suddenly felt scared.  I had just dropped a bottle of clear nail polish on the bathroom floor and was cleaning up the shattered bits when I realized that I was “off.” I knew I should stop for a moment, even if the time for the “walk through” was rapidly approaching.  So, I lit the candles on my fireplace/alter, sat in a chair and focused on my fear. It was strange. I expected sadness at leaving my beloved home of 35 years, but not fear.

Then my inner wise voice said, “It’s about expansion. You are leaving this sanctuary. It has been a kind of ashram. You have healed so much of your childhood pain here. So many other people have also transformed through the Creative Explosion workshops and acting classes in this house. Now it is time for you to leave and go out into the world. The place in Nokomis is special, too, but think of that home as a sacred nest from which you will fly.”

That felt true even though I’m not sure I know how to fly. Maybe I won’t, but that’s what’s next—even if I don’t think I’m up to it. I felt better understanding why I had felt “off” and got up and finished my work as consciously as I could.

The morning progressed wildly and miraculously.  Marilyn Dugan* and her friend arrived to pick up the fourth and fifth truckload of my things to give away to people in need. I had one other painting I wanted to keep that had not been packed. I intended to take it to the UPS for them to package and mail, but it was too big to get in my car. Happily, Marilyn drove it over in her truck, so I got that done.

The crunch was on. Marilyn said she probably wouldn’t be able to take everything before the walk through at 12:45, but amazingly, at noon she was done! Meanwhile, I swept out the house, packed the rest of my stuff in my car, which, to my astonishment, all fit, emptied the last bit of trash and even managed to blow the leaves off the deck with the little leaf blower. Just as the lovely young buyers arrived and walked up the stairs, I finished placing red and white roses, a congratulatory card, and a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider (in consideration of the pregnant wife) on the counter in time to turn and say, “Hello. Welcome. Don’t come too close. I stink.”

Wonder of wonders, it was all done!

I blessed the house, blew it as kiss, and drove away. Bleary-eyed, I arrived at Gabi’s. She had graciously offered to put me up for a few days to rest before I make the drive down to Florida. She greeted me, fed me some cheese and crackers since I had not eaten in a day, and went off to an appointment. I took a shower, did some laundry, and went to get a foot reflexology treatment. I thought I would fall into bed after all that, but, to my surprise, I felt refreshed enough to go out with Gabi and my friend, Sarah, for Margaritas and laughter.

I slept well, and this morning, I could not get over how good I felt. Not exhausted. Not sad. Really happy.

“I know why you feel so good,” Gabi said smiling as she sipped her tea.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t just sell your house, you turned it into a gift and gave it with love.”I

t’s wonderful to have friends who are not only smart and funny, but wise.

*If you have anything to want to give to Marilyn Dugan’s foundation: 762 3574

I am moving out of my house that I have lived in for 35 years. And I’m doing it without the use of a dumpster or a moving van. I think that’s pretty amazing. Of course, there have been many trips to GoodwilI and thrift stores over the last two years. And some women have driven away (so far) three truckloads of stuff for charity.

It has been hard to let go of this home that I so love, but it has been great fun to give away things in it to people—like a favorite red, down-filled coat that is like wearing a cloud of warmth in the bitter cold days of winter. One of my good friends accepted it, and best of all, thinks of me when she puts it on to walk the dog. Of course, I have no need for it in Florida. In fact, I have no use there for most of my things.

Today I think I’m through the sadness and am now feeling very happy because of what happened yesterday morning. When the house sold a few weeks ago, I asked the buyer’s realtor if they might like to have anything in my house. She said, “No. They won’t want anything of yours. They have their own things.”

That turned out not to be true. A few days ago, I gave this realtor permission for the buyers to bring their parents to see the house. To my surprise, a group of about 9 to 11 people showed up—including their contractor. They were part of a baby shower gathering for the pretty wife who is soon to give birth. A bit put off that the realtor had not forewarned me about the crowd, I was, nevertheless, happy to get to meet this handsome, young couple.

While the crowd wandered everywhere, the mother-in-law and I chatted out on the deck. She asked if I was taking everything with me.

“Nothing but my pictures, files and clothes,” I said.

“Not the deck furniture?”

“No. Why? Would your kids want them?”

“Oh, I’m sure they would. They’re living in an apartment. They don’t have any outdoor stuff.”

“Well, of course!” I said. “I’m happy to give it to them.” The wood lounge chairs with comfy cushions, umbrellas, table, and chairs are perfect for this deck. I got up, went into the living room, passed their realtor, and went up to Greg, the young husband. “Your mother says you might like the deck furniture.”

“Sure!” he said.

“Why don’t you take my cell phone number, call me, and come back to look at anything else you might like.”

He did.

In the meantime, unfortunately, my washing machine broke and the sink in my bathroom started leaking from the trap below. “Oh, god!” I growled at the house. “Couldn’t you have waited til the closing in 10 days to start breaking down?”  I started scrolling Craig’s List for a washing machine and asking around for a good plumber.

Greg, his wife, and parents to came to the house after breakfast the next day.  To my delight, they wanted a lot more than I expected.  The artificial trees in the far corners of the big living room with twinkling lights will stay, along with three bureaus, and a small stool-sized carpeted cat house that the wife loved for her two cats. “I’ve never seen one this sturdy!”

He said, “Are you taking the white hammock in the living room?” (They had spotted, hanging almost unnoticed against the wall with its delicate lacey fringe.)

“No. I’m not. Want it?”

“Yes!” They said enthusiastically, which delighted me. I have loved my hammock in the living room—so unusual but so relaxing and fun.

I told them about the sink and the washing machine, Greg said, “Don’t worry about it. We were going to get new ones anyway. And my dad and I can fix the sink. Or, I’ll have the contractor look at it.”

I discovered that they are upgrading the house exactly as I would were I to stay and had the money. I liked them more and more as I showed them light switches, how some things worked, and gave them the names of all the people who serviced the house and lawn.

Downstairs, I offered them my 4 ft long cow horns that I bought years ago and had wired to the front of my used Cadillac. It caused a lot of comment as I drove around conventional Connecticut. The couple laughed and said they would pass on the cow horns.

With every minute, I became happier that they were the ones who were going to move into my beloved house.  As they were getting ready to leave, I said, “Let’s go into the living room for a minute.” They followed me. The parents stayed behind in the hall. I held out my hands. They took mine and each other’s. It was impulsive but it is something I do at the end of my acting classes. I closed my eyes and said a kind of prayer to the house, “Okay. I get that you may be sad or upset with me about leaving, breaking the washer and springing a tearful leak in my sink, but I want you to embrace this lovely couple who are going to bring new, energetic life into you. They are going to make you even better with their upgrades. So, I want you to love them as you have loved and sheltered me for so many years. I know they will love you as I have loved you, too.”

I opened my eyes and the wife had tears rolling down her face. I crossed to the desk and handed her Kleenex. The husband reached for a couple for himself. “Oh,” she said, “I love this house so much. We’re going to be so happy here!” I hugged her. Then, I hugged him.

We were all smiling as they left. I felt so happy and finally okay about leaving. I don’t know what impelled me to do that little ritual, but it was just what I needed to be able to transfer this sanctuary from my hands to theirs with joy.

P.S. Greg texted me last night saying, “We’d like the cow horns after all. We’ll put them up somewhere because it’s just such a great story.”