Since then, after several rounds with Rhonda Byrne and The Secret on my iPod, I have adopted a new habit of simply saying, “Thank you,” when I wake in the morning. “Thank you,” as I roll outta bed, “Thank you,” in the bathroom, “Thank you,” as I make my morning tea and so on. Sometimes I break right into singing a sanskrit chant, “Danuvad Ananda,” meaning “blissful gratitude.” I must admit, sometimes I “fake it til I make it.” In the evening, as I crawl into bed (the protective sealed, hand-me-down king-size that lies unsupported on the floor), I often look around my mostly bare, yet comfy space and say aloud, “I am a lucky, lucky girl.” And it’s true. I am a lucky girl. I know that. It is either miracle or luck that has me still in my Home-Sweet-Tree House.
After living here for about 12 months, the burden of too much overhead and not enough income was more than I could juggle. Other properties I owned needed minor repairs (and fiscal attention) or I risked losing the chance to acquire desperately needed tenants. The mortgage to my home was 30 days late and it would be another two weeks before I would see any more money coming in. Terrified and still unfamiliar with what a foreclosure looks like, I called the bank. I thought for sure they would send an officer out within the hour to rip me from my home. Rather, the patient man, with a southern drawl explained that I still had another 30 days before I risked being reported to the credit bureaus. He asked when could I make the next payment and why was I late. The honest answer was not anything I could say out-loud. He wouldn’t understand that I had just sunk $1000 into an investment property to fix a leaky roof and an algae infested pool. Instead I told him the overdue payment would be made in two weeks and two days from the date and that I was between jobs. The gentle man, with a sweet twang in his voice thanked me for keeping the bank updated, said he was making a note on the account and told me to relax and enjoy the rest of my day.
After hanging up the phone, without any thought I broke into sobs of relief and gratitude. Slowly, I walked around the apartment with one hand on my heart and the other touching doors, appliances, furniture, mirrors and cabinets as I repeated the mantra, “Thank you,” over and over again through streaming tears.

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My productive times swing at seasons that my inner clock seems to invent; for blocks of months at a time I’m an early bird and others - a night owl. I was in night owl mode and my early morning, private Pilates clients were becoming few and far between.
It’s not often that I have unexpected visitors coming through the gated community to my door at 6:45 am. So when there was a rapping and pounding at the sleeping-unit-with- a-view, it took a few moments to identify the sound, verify that was indeed my door receiving the notification and to finally find my feet beneath me. Then the pounding stopped. Clumsily, I grabbed something to cover my slumber bareness and investigate. As I made it to my bedroom doorway, there was a terrible, high pitched knock, like someone beating my front door with a rock. Confused and half awake, I opened the door to a 5’ tall, dry faced wrench with long, greying, stringy hair and a rock in her grip. The heaving Napoleon quickly shoved a clip board and a pen into my hands. “Sign this,” was all she said. Before I could scold her with my morning breath, the miserable twat left me with my foreclosure documents for 105 2E. Was the rock REALLY necessary? I mean, really.
That morning; March 20, 2008, I forgot to say, “Thank you,” upon waking.
This morning, almost two years later all I can say is “Thank you, I am a lucky, lucky girl.”
I love you, my lucky, lucky girl...
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