Leaving Pooh Corner.

My late husband, Klink, named our beautiful home Pooh Corner many moon’s ago and long before we met. He had a wife and son before me and the Loggin’s and Messina song “Return To Pooh Corner”, I always believed, was his song to his (estranged) son. Klink was a music man. Not with the talent of an instrument or voice, but with the words and meaning of the song. He found himself in music. And if he loved you—he would show you by singing the words to you. Never on key, but always, always, with his heart on his sleeve, a sparkle in his eyes and the biggest grin you could imagine. Anyone who was receiving of this experience—I know for certain—felt like they were the most important person in his life at that moment in time.

And it was true.

I moved out of Pooh Corner this week. I was here with Klink for 25 years; three of his cancers, three of our companies, our wedding, his funeral, millions of moments of happiness, friendship, anger, loss, grief, and joy. So many years of construction, illness, discord, and chaos. But through it all…lot’s of love, laughter and music.

My friend Jennifer called me a week before the move and said “I just want you to know I am holding space for you and what you are about to experience. If you need me, I am here for you.” I cried when we hung up from each other. Not only did I appreciate the love and support, but her words, “holding space for you”, stayed with me. I knew it was going to be difficult to leave my home and I knew I needed to make sure I was allowing myself the room to process it all. The words “holding space” wrapped it all up for me and became my mantra during the packing and moving.

Putch and Jackie — life long friends of Klink and I — were gracious enough to let me stay at their house while they were away (on their own RV adventure no less!) and this gave me a space to land while I moved out of the house. (And for several weeks after.) Lucky for me they only lived two blocks away and so I moved several truckloads of the items I would need to bring for my future life on the road; clothes, cooking supplies, books, tools, etc. I was so grateful to have this “space” for me to regroup and catch my breath. It would allow me to sift and sort through my belongings and pack up my trailer with ease when the time came. Their house was familiar, comfortable and when I arrived after dark each night—soaked to my bones and fatigued from the day— there was always a light on for me.

One friend was holding space while another was giving it.

What I needed to remember, most importantly, was to hold space for myself throughout all of this chaos. Allow myself to grieve and let go of this home that is so connected to the man who used to sing to me. Allow myself to be okay with it all; not push myself through it or push it away. Not dismiss it because he’s been gone for two and a half years and I should be “over it” by now. I needed to be with it. Be in the space of it. Take this time for myself; not answer the phone if I didn’t feel up to it, set my boundaries, honor what was happening and not feeling guilty or judge myself about any of it. This was a big deal and I needed to respect it.

This was for me.

It may seem silly to some that a person could be so connected to a house, but I had spent most of my adult life here. I moved in with him when I was 27 and I became the person I am today because I was here. With him. I grew into a happy, brave, and confident woman in this house and that’s why I am able to pack up and go live on the road now. Because I am unafraid. I trust the Universe and that everything is always working out for me. I learned that being here. I learned how to love unconditionally, to respect and honor so many things, to be an entrepreneur, to make mistakes and grow from them, to forgive myself, forgive my past, forgive him, and forgive others who had hurt me. There are so many layers to my life, but this place, with this man, gave me an opportunity unlike any I ever had.

It was safe. It was home. It was where I felt I had truly become me.

As the movers were working, I went into the garage to assemble a portable grill I was taking with me and looked around to make sure I didn’t miss anything that I would need for my trip. And then it was like I wanted to take every single piece of everything with me. A dirty bucket with a scrubber Klink used for the floors, a small wooden brush and dustpan he used to clean up small messes with. The Sawzall. (Wtf? When would I ever need this?) His tools were an easy connection—and in my truck they all went.

Even the ball bungees. Especially the ball bungees. Those I’ll really need.

After the movers had gone, I noticed a picture lying on my now bare office floor. It was my favorite picture of Klink and I—circa 1997 before cancer #1—when he was healthy and well. It must have been stuck behind my desk and fell to the floor when the guys moved it. None the less, I take these things as a sign of his presence and his way of saying “Hey Lj. I’m here. Right now.”

And, of course, that’s when he showed up.