Looking back over what is now a long life, I realize many of those dreams came true, but in their fruition, I experienced an unexpected feeling of loss. I not only missed the longing, realizing the dream brought responsibility. You got it, now make it work.

Like that dream house. For years we drove around looking at other people’s houses, longing big time, imagining the happy lives that were lived in them. One day we found ours, leaky roof, old plumbing, antiquated kitchen and baths, gophers and all.

In college when I discovered Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury gang , I began to dream about seeing Sissinghurst, Vita Sackville-West’s garden in England. It took thirty years, but I got there. It was magical, but when we’d seen it all, I burst into tears. “It’s all over,” I sobbed. “We’ll go through it again,” my husband offered. “But it won’t be the FIRST time,” I cried. “May all your dreams come true,” they toast at weddings. Hopefully not. It’s nice to have something to dream about.
 

Across the net were two women so much better than Jan, my partner, and I, we considered forfeiting the set. After some discussion we decided no, we'll go for it, there are worse things than being humbled on the tennis court.

In a nanosecond they had us two-zero. We were so outclassed, we could only giggle like school girls.

"We're better than this," I tell Jan.

I hunker down, get serious. So does she. We win a game, then another. All of a sudden we're playing on a level we've never been on before. This is the ZONE I'm thinking, that place of complete concentration.

We don't win the set, but they don't win without a fight, a victory for us.

On the way home, I vow I'll get into the zone in the rest of my life. In full concentration I could be Superwoman.

But I missed something. Once I zoned, I didn't smell the freshness of the morning or hear the birds singing. I never saw the poppies blooming beside the court. I never laughed. There was only purpose.

Lighten up insists the wandering mind.
 

When putting it together for the first time, Mimi’s hand gets in my way. “Get off my note!” I want to shout while giving her a forceful shove. Instead I say nothing, nudge gently. We continue. The addition of her part confuses me. I begin making mistakes not made when practiced alone. I up my volume, try to drown her out. The music suffers. Hmm, not about me, I realize, a joint effort.

We play, then talk. What do we want to achieve and how are we going to get there? We give, we take and at times, like a good marriage, we make beautiful music together.
 

I'll admit a certain attachment to my stuff. Gathered over the years, or passed down from the previous generation, it not only holds cherished memories, in a funny, personal way, it's so me. In it's "me-ness", I am deluded to think there is some posterity here. I hold happy thoughts of future moments when my Grandson resets my diamond for an engagement ring, or the cherry corner cupboard happily occupies a corner as the first piece of furniture in the home of my newlywed Granddaughter. In my stuff, I fantasize, I'll still be around, remembered. And yet....

When we dismantled my husband's parent's house, there were many boxes marked SAVE. Some we did. Others we didn't. My Mother had a treasured collection of cruets she wanted to pass on. There were no takers. At that time we were the "passed to" generation. It's important to remember the yes and no of how that felt.

It's also important to remember, it's only stuff.