"Do you love it?"* Then keep it. Otherwise practice belonging triage: Keep it, donate or sell it, trash it. Do I really want to drag the 28-year-old bedroom furniture I bought with my ex to my new home, my new life? Maybe not. Do I really want to be responsible for cleaning, dusting, wrapping, packing, storing, moving that item – investing my life energy in it?
“Time is the best editor” is one of my sister-in-law’s favorite quotations. It contains an insight that becomes increasingly poignant as you age and when your child has a life-threatening illness. She and I have a shared understanding of the quotation at the cellular level. Poet Mary Oliver puts it this way: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” How do I wish to spend my time? With whom? Doing what? On what belongings?
For me, moving stripped away the nonessential. Moving revealed my priorities. When everything is gone, what remains? What matters? Who am I without my stuff? Who am I without a home? Does that change? A homeless Realtor, how ironic. Where is my true home? Wherever I am? Am I at home with myself?
Moving from a four-bedroom beach home to a one-bedroom guest cottage to a bedroom in a friend’s condo then to a car during relocation distills life to the essential. I found myself protecting what little terrain remained – a bedroom in a friend’s home. My one request while there was for “inviolable space,” that my room be entered only by request with permission, that my boundaries be respected, because “It’s the only space I have to call my own right now.” I acknowledged it might be unusual to request that a room in someone’s home be off-limits to them, but that was exactly what I was asking. Learning that it meant not coming in just to "plug in the fan” (for my comfort), “adjust the drapes” or “remove objects I wasn’t using anyway” required discussion and clarification. The intrusions felt like such a violation to me at first. It took a day for me to let go, know it’s not who I am, realize I didn’t “need” inviolable space.
What belongings deserve my time - my "one wild and precious life"? Living in a wildfire evacuation warning zone in Santa Barbara’s downtown urban area, after 20,000 people had already been evacuated during the fourth wildfire in as many years, I could have as few as ten minutes to pack up and be gone. What would go with me? Surprisingly little. Having to prepare for that real possibility was very freeing.
It’s challenging to pack when you don’t know how long everything will be in storage. Summer clothes? Fall? Winter? Boots or sandals? What files will you need? Tax returns? Healthcare information? The pink slip to your car? New Mexico requires your original social security card to issue you a driver’s license. “Take your passport with you,” my sister-in-law said. It proved to be a great idea. What’s really precious to me? What’s irreplaceable? The things I love the most, those I don’t want lost or broken, are with me.
The stripping-away process can be welcome and daunting, necessary and challenging, freeing and frightening. The stripping away is like demolishing an old structure, bulldozing it down, hauling it away, scraping the lot, starting over. If I’m not that, who am I? There’s something refreshing, new, exciting about a bare lot of fresh dirt. With every item, with every belief, with every perceived need released, let go, I realized I needed less and less. I had a greater and greater understanding of who I am, a deeper and deeper sense of fulfillment and peace. My trust that whatever I needed would be there for me when I needed it increased. My mantra became “My needs are met. My needs are always met,” and it became so for me.
Now, after four months of renting in Albuquerque, I am almost ready to buy a home. When I returned from a three-week visit to California last week (friends and family...yummm!) my New Mexico real estate license was waiting for me. I joined the local, state and national real estate associations as well as the Multiple Listing Service. Have lockbox key, will travel. In another twenty-four hours, I will have access to online real estate forms. I'll be ready for business - starting with my own! For several months on Sunday afternoons I've looked at Open Houses. Yesterday, this is what I found in the premier "North Valley" neighborhood, my favorite, adjacent to the Rio Grande: A foreclosure property, single-storey, pueblo-style, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, 1990 square feet, built in 2007 with high wood beam ceilings, a kiva fireplace, backing to open space in a gated community. There is an unobstructed view of the Sandia Mountains from the front yard. The price? Oh! Wait for it, you Californians - especially you Santa Barbarians!!! $287,000. Yes. Add a mil for Santa Barbara. So the adventure continues....I'm still shopping and will keep you posted!
* "Do you love it?" Brilliant sorting question from Don Aslett, author of Clutter's Last Stand: It's Time To De-junk Your Life! and Lose 200 Lbs. This Weekend: It's Time to Declutter Your Life.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
“Rancho Pancho” (The Arts Are Alive in “Duke City”)
Albuquerque is committed to the arts. Not just as in “a-good-idea” committed but as in “put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is” committed. The president of the Newcomers Club revealed in an introductory presentation that a one-percent fee is charged on all new construction projects to support the arts. There is a lot of public art. My first introduction to the city’s art commitment occurred when I flew into Albuquerque’s Sunport. In the rental-car pavilion, soaring, open, wood-beam ceilings of vigas and latillas echo the historic design of southwestern homes. Airport walkways flow around free-standing sculpture. Large-scale, Indian-design clay pots line the main entrance avenue. Travelers are welcomed, surrounded and nurtured with beauty. Appreciation of art lines the freeways where etched retaining walls in earth tones mimic the Sandia Mountains bordering Albuquerque on the east and include the vast New Mexico skies. Turquoise trim accents overpasses. Xeriscaped medians use multicolored stones for designs that meander and flow like the Rio Grande. Undulating rows of desert plants form intricate patterns pleasing to the eye. The intersection of the two interstate freeways, I-40 and I-25, or “the big I,” is flanked by monumental abstract sculptures.
The Roy E. Disney Center for the Performing Arts, part of the National Hispanic Cultural Center, was built in 2004 with his philanthropic support. It houses three theatres and has won architectural awards. It is located in the heart of Albuquerque along the banks of the Rio Grande in the historic neighborhood of Barelas, occupied by Spanish and Mexican families for centuries. Traditionally a farming community, it is crisscrossed by irrigation ditches linked to the Rio Grande. Some of the adobe homes in the area are 400 years old. Originally settled because of its proximity to a natural ford in the Rio Grande and the Camino Real, the 1,000-mile trail south to Mexico City, the neighborhood has undergone a recent energetic revival spurred by downtown revitalization and the arrival of the prestigious National Hispanic Cultural Center.
Built on the scale of L.A.’s Dorothy Chandler Pavilion with high, vaulted ceilings, wide halls and an open courtyard of flowing fountains and planters, it lacks only the traffic congestion, driving time, parking challenges and ticket costs of theater attendance in L.A. Recently I attended “Rancho Pancho” at the center, a play by Gregg Barrios, focused on the turbulent relationship between Tennessee Williams and his lover, Pancho Rodriguez. Creative set design, a “wall” of empty blue, green, and brown alcohol bottles artistically lighted, spoke volumes about their booze-drenched lifestyle while summering on Nantucket Island. It was a high-quality production in an intimate venue (97-seat theatre) - a big play with a small cast of four actors. Synchronistically, I met one of the performers socializing at church after a Realtor friend previously, and unsuccessfully, suggested we see the performance. Mindful of the “coincidence,” I knew I had to go. I’m so glad we did. What a glorious experience. For me, theater doesn’t get much better than that. And the ticket cost? $15.00 – just one of the reasons the arts are alive and well in “Duke City.”
Blurbs from the Burque:
The Roy E. Disney Center for the Performing Arts, part of the National Hispanic Cultural Center, was built in 2004 with his philanthropic support. It houses three theatres and has won architectural awards. It is located in the heart of Albuquerque along the banks of the Rio Grande in the historic neighborhood of Barelas, occupied by Spanish and Mexican families for centuries. Traditionally a farming community, it is crisscrossed by irrigation ditches linked to the Rio Grande. Some of the adobe homes in the area are 400 years old. Originally settled because of its proximity to a natural ford in the Rio Grande and the Camino Real, the 1,000-mile trail south to Mexico City, the neighborhood has undergone a recent energetic revival spurred by downtown revitalization and the arrival of the prestigious National Hispanic Cultural Center.
Built on the scale of L.A.’s Dorothy Chandler Pavilion with high, vaulted ceilings, wide halls and an open courtyard of flowing fountains and planters, it lacks only the traffic congestion, driving time, parking challenges and ticket costs of theater attendance in L.A. Recently I attended “Rancho Pancho” at the center, a play by Gregg Barrios, focused on the turbulent relationship between Tennessee Williams and his lover, Pancho Rodriguez. Creative set design, a “wall” of empty blue, green, and brown alcohol bottles artistically lighted, spoke volumes about their booze-drenched lifestyle while summering on Nantucket Island. It was a high-quality production in an intimate venue (97-seat theatre) - a big play with a small cast of four actors. Synchronistically, I met one of the performers socializing at church after a Realtor friend previously, and unsuccessfully, suggested we see the performance. Mindful of the “coincidence,” I knew I had to go. I’m so glad we did. What a glorious experience. For me, theater doesn’t get much better than that. And the ticket cost? $15.00 – just one of the reasons the arts are alive and well in “Duke City.”
Blurbs from the Burque:
- McDonald's featured item: McChicken Bueno - green chile
- Drive-thru service: Starbucks, Baskin Robbins 31 Flavors, Panda Express (yes!)
Monday, October 3, 2011
Freeway Inn
Ahhh.…aroma de car exhaust, the residue of pulverized tires as dust on furniture….all at no extra charge for the endless supply at the aptly-named Freeway Inn in eastern Albuquerque with the I-40 as its back yard. Local color. A fitting representative of the underbelly of the city, the monthly-rental motel would have been a great setting for a seedy detective novel, but maybe not the best place for me to live. Eyes opening wide, my first clue was seeing “bullet-proof” (maybe not, but probably so!) glass partitions in the lobby separating guests from staff. Hmmmm…….
Why was I there in the first place? Just the former teacher doing her homework – looking at all options. I had scoured the Albuquerque Journal and online resources thoroughly to prepare for my three-day visit to the city to find a place to live. I was open to all possibilities – or so I thought – until I saw the Freeway Inn. My list ranged from apartment complexes, condos, mobile homes, motels and houses for rent to homes for sale. I wanted to see the full range of possibilities and develop a sense of pricing in a market new to me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was approaching my selection the same way I’ve prepared market evaluations as a Realtor for thirty-three years. What’s the most it could be worth? (current, aspirational, listing prices). The least? (distressed short-sale or bank-owned sale prices). Okay….there’s my range, now, let’s narrow in. The Freeway Inn was a “limit setter.” How could I find a more economical rental than this – a $500/month shabby, furnished motel room.
The young man on the other side of the glass partition was pleasant and responsive to my disarming question: “How often do the police come here?” Pause. “Not very often.” “What does that mean? One, two times a week. A couple of times a month?” Hesitation. I discovered the hesitation was not a deliberate concealment when I asked, “How long have you worked here?”
A couple of months. Hmmmm….high staff turnover too. As I joked with him about the “bullet-proof glass,” the words “transient” and “saving up enough to stay” slipped from his lips. Ohhh….. Cars and trucks matching occupants littered the lot as we crossed the asphalt to see a dimly-lit sample room. Two double beds. Worn, dismal spreads. Frayed drapes, formica counters, vinyl bathroom flooring, carpet that looked like it would be sticky – nothing you’d want to touch. No freshly-laundered and pressed white duvet covers or Pottery Barn pillow collections here. Like dog-smelling homes I’d toured as a Realtor, in which I couldn’t breathe, the room compelled me to exit quickly in search of fresh air. Needless to say, it wasn’t a match. I decided I didn’t need to see the other monthly-rental motels or the $395/month furnished studio either. Remarkably, for $105 more, not much in the world, unless you don’t have it, and for the same amount as the Freeway Inn room, I could live in a leafy suburban neighborhood in a single-storey, pueblo-style, adobe home surrounded by resplendent gardens. Worlds apart. It truly was like changing TV channels and tuning in to another reality.
Blurbs from the Burque:
This week's most-read stories in The Albuquerque Journal:
Why was I there in the first place? Just the former teacher doing her homework – looking at all options. I had scoured the Albuquerque Journal and online resources thoroughly to prepare for my three-day visit to the city to find a place to live. I was open to all possibilities – or so I thought – until I saw the Freeway Inn. My list ranged from apartment complexes, condos, mobile homes, motels and houses for rent to homes for sale. I wanted to see the full range of possibilities and develop a sense of pricing in a market new to me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was approaching my selection the same way I’ve prepared market evaluations as a Realtor for thirty-three years. What’s the most it could be worth? (current, aspirational, listing prices). The least? (distressed short-sale or bank-owned sale prices). Okay….there’s my range, now, let’s narrow in. The Freeway Inn was a “limit setter.” How could I find a more economical rental than this – a $500/month shabby, furnished motel room.
The young man on the other side of the glass partition was pleasant and responsive to my disarming question: “How often do the police come here?” Pause. “Not very often.” “What does that mean? One, two times a week. A couple of times a month?” Hesitation. I discovered the hesitation was not a deliberate concealment when I asked, “How long have you worked here?”
A couple of months. Hmmmm….high staff turnover too. As I joked with him about the “bullet-proof glass,” the words “transient” and “saving up enough to stay” slipped from his lips. Ohhh….. Cars and trucks matching occupants littered the lot as we crossed the asphalt to see a dimly-lit sample room. Two double beds. Worn, dismal spreads. Frayed drapes, formica counters, vinyl bathroom flooring, carpet that looked like it would be sticky – nothing you’d want to touch. No freshly-laundered and pressed white duvet covers or Pottery Barn pillow collections here. Like dog-smelling homes I’d toured as a Realtor, in which I couldn’t breathe, the room compelled me to exit quickly in search of fresh air. Needless to say, it wasn’t a match. I decided I didn’t need to see the other monthly-rental motels or the $395/month furnished studio either. Remarkably, for $105 more, not much in the world, unless you don’t have it, and for the same amount as the Freeway Inn room, I could live in a leafy suburban neighborhood in a single-storey, pueblo-style, adobe home surrounded by resplendent gardens. Worlds apart. It truly was like changing TV channels and tuning in to another reality.
Blurbs from the Burque:
This week's most-read stories in The Albuquerque Journal:
- Al Unser Jr. Arrested in Albuquerque on DWI, Reckless Driving Charges
- New-Mexico-born Al-Qaida Cleric Killed Anwar al-Awlaki, the Islamic militant cleric killed this week in Yemen, was born in Las Cruces, NM in 1971 when his father was studying at the University of New Mexico.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Moving Into a House I’ve Never Seen with a Person I’ve Never Met
“You’re what?”
“I’m moving into a house I’ve never seen with a person I’ve never met.”
“How did that happen?”
Synchronicity. That’s the one-word answer. Synchronicity and faith – that’s the three-word answer. Or maybe they’re the same. Migrating from Santa Barbara to Albuquerque, I haven’t always known what would come next, where I would land, how I would get there. But, like Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ “Wild Geese,” I knew when it was time to go.
How do geese know
when to fly to the sun?
Who tells them the seasons?
How do we humans know
when it is time
to move on?
“I’m moving into a house I’ve never seen with a person I’ve never met.”
“How did that happen?”
Synchronicity. That’s the one-word answer. Synchronicity and faith – that’s the three-word answer. Or maybe they’re the same. Migrating from Santa Barbara to Albuquerque, I haven’t always known what would come next, where I would land, how I would get there. But, like Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ “Wild Geese,” I knew when it was time to go.
How do geese know
when to fly to the sun?
Who tells them the seasons?
How do we humans know
when it is time
to move on?
As with the migrant birds,
so surely with us,
there is a voice within,
if only we would listen to it,
that tells us certainly
when to go forth
into the unknown.
I began packing the last week of December 2010, and moved from Santa Barbara to Tustin February 1, 2011, to stay with a friend for an agreed-upon four months. There, I rested, recovered, studied for the New Mexico broker’s exam. At first, I wasn’t aware of how much I needed the rest and recovery. But I did. My son and I had just spent sixteen months traveling back and forth to the ICU at UCLA’s medical center for his melanoma treatment. He’s fine now – in the 15% of the population who respond to Interleukin2. Only near the end of my stay did I understand my deep need to read, sleep, nap, watch TV. I realized I was recovering from PTSD, post-traumatic stress. When I passed the New Mexico broker’s exam, and the four months were up, it was clearly time to move on. Where? East. That’s all I knew.
Why Albuquerque? I felt a “calling” or spiritual “pull” to go there. The original catalyst was a real estate client with plans to build there. He offered me the listings if I would relocate. I visited twice to look at property and attend a writer’s conference. Life’s complications have made his plans uncertain, but I left Santa Barbara knowing I was to go whether he did or not. Faith. Major faith. I have not lived outside California for 64 years and have never lived so far from my 36-year-old son.
East. Head east – toward the light. About two weeks before leaving Tustin, I learned where I was going. While talking with a friend in Arizona, she said, “Why don’t you stay here? I have an extra room, a freezer full of food, and we’re about 300 miles from Albuquerque. You can use this as a base to find a place to live.” It was such a comfort to have a place to land, a friendly welcome waiting. A Bible verse I learned as a child captures my experience: “Your word is a lamp unto my feet, a light unto my path.” The small, Aladdin-like oil lamps of history cast only enough light to reveal the next step on the path. But that’s all we need when we have faith. We take the step revealed. Then the light shows the next step.
The next step was a trip to Albuquerque to find a place to live. Since going there was a major investment, (a 600-mile round-trip, 10 hours of driving, a hotel stay), I prepared by researching online – everything from monthly motel rentals to apartments for lease and real estate for sale.
Real estate for sale. I met Donna with RE/MAX when I made an appointment to see three of her listings. I prescreened them by driving by the day before. I liked the style, but not the location, of one property which backed to a busy street. I drove around the small neighborhood and wrote down the address of another home in a better location. Donna also had keys to the home of a friend who wanted to rent it. After we looked at the house for sale, she drove directly to her friend’s rental. It was the same house whose address I’d written down the day before! This began a cascade of synchronicities. We sat down to talk at her Open House. We discovered shared metaphysical beliefs. We had both completed the same personal growth programs. We had similar goals. When she asked what brought me to New Mexico, I described the spiritual pull in greater detail, “Some kind of healing work, perhaps connected with Dying Consciously, possibly taking a course on the energy medicine of the shaman of the Americas with Alberto Villoldo - ‘Healing the Light Body.’ ” “I’ve done that,” Donna said.
A week later, Donna called to say she woke up that morning with an idea about where I could live. A friend who owned a single-storey, Pueblo-style, adobe home with a secret garden sometimes rented out a room. She described the home I want to own. Would I consider that? Yes. Then she would talk with her at dinner that night and let me know the next day. Donna thought it would be a good match since we were the same age, both “interesting,” both metaphysical thinkers. The owner was from England, where I had visited several times, an artist who made jewelry. The intention I set for my New Mexico life, while still in California, was that it would be filled with culture – art, music, theater, writing. The owner didn’t hesitate. Neither did I. We both trusted Donna’s intuition enough to move forward. “There’s one thing I didn’t tell you,” Donna said. “She bought the house with an inheritance from her aunt.” I will be buying a home with an inheritance from my aunt. I met Claire (“Light”) when I moved in and have now been here three months, eating breakfast on the garden patio beneath towering ash trees, watching hummingbirds and bees buzz the sunflowers, hollyhocks, and wisteria-draped gate next to the coyote fencing. When I lie in bed, I look up at open, wood-beam ceilings (vigas and latillas), imagining myself in my own pueblo-style New Mexico home. Head east. Toward the light.
so surely with us,
there is a voice within,
if only we would listen to it,
that tells us certainly
when to go forth
into the unknown.
I began packing the last week of December 2010, and moved from Santa Barbara to Tustin February 1, 2011, to stay with a friend for an agreed-upon four months. There, I rested, recovered, studied for the New Mexico broker’s exam. At first, I wasn’t aware of how much I needed the rest and recovery. But I did. My son and I had just spent sixteen months traveling back and forth to the ICU at UCLA’s medical center for his melanoma treatment. He’s fine now – in the 15% of the population who respond to Interleukin2. Only near the end of my stay did I understand my deep need to read, sleep, nap, watch TV. I realized I was recovering from PTSD, post-traumatic stress. When I passed the New Mexico broker’s exam, and the four months were up, it was clearly time to move on. Where? East. That’s all I knew.
Why Albuquerque? I felt a “calling” or spiritual “pull” to go there. The original catalyst was a real estate client with plans to build there. He offered me the listings if I would relocate. I visited twice to look at property and attend a writer’s conference. Life’s complications have made his plans uncertain, but I left Santa Barbara knowing I was to go whether he did or not. Faith. Major faith. I have not lived outside California for 64 years and have never lived so far from my 36-year-old son.
East. Head east – toward the light. About two weeks before leaving Tustin, I learned where I was going. While talking with a friend in Arizona, she said, “Why don’t you stay here? I have an extra room, a freezer full of food, and we’re about 300 miles from Albuquerque. You can use this as a base to find a place to live.” It was such a comfort to have a place to land, a friendly welcome waiting. A Bible verse I learned as a child captures my experience: “Your word is a lamp unto my feet, a light unto my path.” The small, Aladdin-like oil lamps of history cast only enough light to reveal the next step on the path. But that’s all we need when we have faith. We take the step revealed. Then the light shows the next step.
The next step was a trip to Albuquerque to find a place to live. Since going there was a major investment, (a 600-mile round-trip, 10 hours of driving, a hotel stay), I prepared by researching online – everything from monthly motel rentals to apartments for lease and real estate for sale.
Real estate for sale. I met Donna with RE/MAX when I made an appointment to see three of her listings. I prescreened them by driving by the day before. I liked the style, but not the location, of one property which backed to a busy street. I drove around the small neighborhood and wrote down the address of another home in a better location. Donna also had keys to the home of a friend who wanted to rent it. After we looked at the house for sale, she drove directly to her friend’s rental. It was the same house whose address I’d written down the day before! This began a cascade of synchronicities. We sat down to talk at her Open House. We discovered shared metaphysical beliefs. We had both completed the same personal growth programs. We had similar goals. When she asked what brought me to New Mexico, I described the spiritual pull in greater detail, “Some kind of healing work, perhaps connected with Dying Consciously, possibly taking a course on the energy medicine of the shaman of the Americas with Alberto Villoldo - ‘Healing the Light Body.’ ” “I’ve done that,” Donna said.
A week later, Donna called to say she woke up that morning with an idea about where I could live. A friend who owned a single-storey, Pueblo-style, adobe home with a secret garden sometimes rented out a room. She described the home I want to own. Would I consider that? Yes. Then she would talk with her at dinner that night and let me know the next day. Donna thought it would be a good match since we were the same age, both “interesting,” both metaphysical thinkers. The owner was from England, where I had visited several times, an artist who made jewelry. The intention I set for my New Mexico life, while still in California, was that it would be filled with culture – art, music, theater, writing. The owner didn’t hesitate. Neither did I. We both trusted Donna’s intuition enough to move forward. “There’s one thing I didn’t tell you,” Donna said. “She bought the house with an inheritance from her aunt.” I will be buying a home with an inheritance from my aunt. I met Claire (“Light”) when I moved in and have now been here three months, eating breakfast on the garden patio beneath towering ash trees, watching hummingbirds and bees buzz the sunflowers, hollyhocks, and wisteria-draped gate next to the coyote fencing. When I lie in bed, I look up at open, wood-beam ceilings (vigas and latillas), imagining myself in my own pueblo-style New Mexico home. Head east. Toward the light.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Wassup! (Real Estate Instructor from East L.A.)
“Wassup!” the real estate instructor from East L. A. greeted our Albuquerque, NM class of thirty would-be broker/owners. We were his for four days, 8-5, if we wanted a certificate of completion for the 30-unit “Brokerage Office Administration” course required for licensing. Jack’s “Wassup!” accompanied his exaggerated ghetto swagger right down the classroom’s center aisle. He was the only one dressed in a suit, tie and dazzling white shirt in the summer heat. On day three, he revealed his attire was out of respect for us. On day four, he wore a sport shirt – we became equals.
Marking his territory right away, the former Army Ranger laid down the rules. “You will be on time. Every morning. After every break. You play as a team. That means each one of you. You will have one-and-a-half hours for lunch to start with. For each person who’s late, I subtract fifteen minutes. When you’re not on time, you’re saying, F ___ Jack. Am I right?” Jack even fired his own brother, until his mother later intervened and asked him to reconsider.
In its recent “2011 Survival Guide,” Albuquerque’s free weekly newspaper, the Alibi, stated: “Albuquerque is a tough little piñon. Mastering Albuquerque takes street smarts. If you want to thrive, first you have to survive.” Jack was the perfect person to teach us how to survive as broker/owners of our own offices. He has real estate “street smarts.” Not only did he survive East L. A. and make it out of the ‘hood, he has also thrived.
Jack is an amazing amalgamation of contradictions. He could quote the entire 83-page New Mexico Real Estate Commission’s Rules and Regulations manual and real estate law by code number, paragraph and sub-paragraph (61.29-17.2), yet tell us how to watch the bottom line so agents working for us wouldn’t abuse the Pitney Bowes (postage machine) after hours. One culprit received a printout of guilt, plus an invoice, from Jack. Were his comments on “Clandestine Drug Labs” grounded in reality? Kaplan Professional Schools offers an entire class on the topic. I plan to take it. Thanks to Jack, I now know the town of Chimayó, just north of Santa Fe, is the heroin capital of New Mexico. It is better known internationally as the “Lourdes of America,” attracting close to 300,000 visitors a year. Believers claim dirt from the chapel in El Santuario de Chimayó can heal physical and spiritual ills.
Jack not only had us review current cases before the New Mexico Real Estate Commission for homework each night to identify the regulation violations and penalties, he also had a member of the commission come speak to the class in person. He made sure we knew the potential consequences for violating real estate law. On several occasions he mentioned what keeping company in jail with “Bubba” and “Bubbette” (a former Bubba) could do for us.
In some respects, practicing real estate in New Mexico is like working in the wild Wild West. Unlike California, where, in most transactions, the Realtor has an agency, or fiduciary, relationship of highest financial trust with clients, in New Mexico, the default relationship between 95% of clients and agents is “transaction broker” with the agent acting as facilitator only. In 1991, the New Mexico legislature passed the Real Estate (Non-?) Disclosure Act stating there is no duty to disclose the site of a natural death, the site of a homicide, suicide, assault, sexual assault, any other felony or if the owner/occupant had HIV/AIDS.
All the practical details of setting up a real estate office were covered. New Mexico has a gross receipts tax. Not only are goods taxed on sale in New Mexico, services, like real estate transactions, are also. You better know when, where, how to sign up for the program and comply with requirements. Jack saved us $3,000 by explaining the ins and outs of Errors and Omissions insurance. That tip alone was worth more than the cost of the course - $219. Street smarts.
Jack eased up on us as we approached the finish line, revealing his inner marshmallow by modifying the final exam to a student-generated discussion of what we learned, not demanding we show him our Policies and Procedures manual homework (he was happy to review it and provide feedback if submitted online) and giving us time off for good behavior. When it was time to fill out the course evaluation form, Jack reminded us the Realtors’ Code of Ethics contains a provision that we are not “to dis’ another Realtor.” I’d take a class taught by Jack any time. You don’t know Jack until you know Jack.
Marking his territory right away, the former Army Ranger laid down the rules. “You will be on time. Every morning. After every break. You play as a team. That means each one of you. You will have one-and-a-half hours for lunch to start with. For each person who’s late, I subtract fifteen minutes. When you’re not on time, you’re saying, F ___ Jack. Am I right?” Jack even fired his own brother, until his mother later intervened and asked him to reconsider.
In its recent “2011 Survival Guide,” Albuquerque’s free weekly newspaper, the Alibi, stated: “Albuquerque is a tough little piñon. Mastering Albuquerque takes street smarts. If you want to thrive, first you have to survive.” Jack was the perfect person to teach us how to survive as broker/owners of our own offices. He has real estate “street smarts.” Not only did he survive East L. A. and make it out of the ‘hood, he has also thrived.
Jack is an amazing amalgamation of contradictions. He could quote the entire 83-page New Mexico Real Estate Commission’s Rules and Regulations manual and real estate law by code number, paragraph and sub-paragraph (61.29-17.2), yet tell us how to watch the bottom line so agents working for us wouldn’t abuse the Pitney Bowes (postage machine) after hours. One culprit received a printout of guilt, plus an invoice, from Jack. Were his comments on “Clandestine Drug Labs” grounded in reality? Kaplan Professional Schools offers an entire class on the topic. I plan to take it. Thanks to Jack, I now know the town of Chimayó, just north of Santa Fe, is the heroin capital of New Mexico. It is better known internationally as the “Lourdes of America,” attracting close to 300,000 visitors a year. Believers claim dirt from the chapel in El Santuario de Chimayó can heal physical and spiritual ills.
Jack not only had us review current cases before the New Mexico Real Estate Commission for homework each night to identify the regulation violations and penalties, he also had a member of the commission come speak to the class in person. He made sure we knew the potential consequences for violating real estate law. On several occasions he mentioned what keeping company in jail with “Bubba” and “Bubbette” (a former Bubba) could do for us.
In some respects, practicing real estate in New Mexico is like working in the wild Wild West. Unlike California, where, in most transactions, the Realtor has an agency, or fiduciary, relationship of highest financial trust with clients, in New Mexico, the default relationship between 95% of clients and agents is “transaction broker” with the agent acting as facilitator only. In 1991, the New Mexico legislature passed the Real Estate (Non-?) Disclosure Act stating there is no duty to disclose the site of a natural death, the site of a homicide, suicide, assault, sexual assault, any other felony or if the owner/occupant had HIV/AIDS.
All the practical details of setting up a real estate office were covered. New Mexico has a gross receipts tax. Not only are goods taxed on sale in New Mexico, services, like real estate transactions, are also. You better know when, where, how to sign up for the program and comply with requirements. Jack saved us $3,000 by explaining the ins and outs of Errors and Omissions insurance. That tip alone was worth more than the cost of the course - $219. Street smarts.
Jack eased up on us as we approached the finish line, revealing his inner marshmallow by modifying the final exam to a student-generated discussion of what we learned, not demanding we show him our Policies and Procedures manual homework (he was happy to review it and provide feedback if submitted online) and giving us time off for good behavior. When it was time to fill out the course evaluation form, Jack reminded us the Realtors’ Code of Ethics contains a provision that we are not “to dis’ another Realtor.” I’d take a class taught by Jack any time. You don’t know Jack until you know Jack.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Four Addresses in Six Months: A Crash Course in Relationships
It takes time to turn an aircraft carrier around when it’s been steaming straight ahead. It’s taken a long time, six months, for me to migrate from Santa Barbara, CA to Albuquerque, NM, and I’m still not in a home of my own. Steaming ahead for 64 years in California, I’ve never lived this far away from my 36-year-old son. Changing direction takes time.
I’ve stayed with six different friends along the way – with some a few days or weeks; with others, one to four months. I’m really grateful for their generosity, love and support. I’m really grateful to have six friends who would take me in! I feel like I’ve had a crash course in relationships. Tom Hopkins, real estate trainer extraordinaire, says, “There are only two times you ever really know someone - when you marry them, or you rent to them.” Although I’ve known some of the friends for 25-30 years, I was shocked to learn how little I really knew about them. Only when I lived with them did I really experience what it was like to be in their world. Only when I lived with them could I look into the mirror they held up for me to see new things about myself.
For many years, as a real estate broker, I would preview new properties on the market mid-week when Realtors promote their listings to other Realtors. My colleagues and I would see up to 21 homes in three hours. I was a lot younger then! Afterward, I would feel really tired and need a nap. It was hard for me to understand why I would be so tired after just “looking at houses.” A number of years into my career, another Realtor gave me the best explanation for the phenomenon I had ever heard. “Terranda, every time you go into someone’s home, you are entering their consciousness (state of mind and emotions). On caravan, you are doing that 21 times in three hours. No wonder you’re tired.” A spiritual teacher later confirmed this for me when she said, “House is consciousness.”
What my house says about me has changed over the years as I have changed. Now, a heart-shaped, hemp doormat welcomes guests to my home. I want them to feel loved when they visit me. This is such a clear, strong intention, when the mat wore out, I requested a replacement as a Christmas gift. One friend looked on the internet to find the mat; another purchased it from a store in Wisconsin. My conscious choice is to have my home be a warm, welcoming, nurturing, beautiful, peaceful sanctuary surrounded by gardens. It hasn’t always been that way. Once, when I was depressed for several months, it was dark, dirty, closed and in a state of disarray. I had no energy to take care of it or myself.
My Albuquerque journey has placed me in an old adobe home, new condo, single-family residence, manufactured home, Mediterranean and contemporary homes, single and two-storey homes, with and without cats and a dog. Each one tells a different story. If your home were writing this post, what would it say about itself?
Living in close contact with another person brings stuff up – both mine and theirs. I’m learning so much about myself. What do I really value? People or things? How attached am I to having or doing things my way? Foil or no foil on that baked potato? What’s negotiable with me? Which values? What’s not? What am I attached to? Where can I let go? Am I in touch with my needs? What about theirs? Can I speak up in a loving way when there is confrontation without making the other person wrong?
I’m practicing. Sometimes I’m more adept at it than others. Paying attention, having a clear, conscious intention, and being willing to take responsibility guide me through. My values are my touchstones. Is my heart open? Do I have an agenda? If so, can I get off it? When I go to bed at night and ask myself, “Is there anyone I’ve left out of my heart today?” is the answer “yes,” or “no?”
Blurbs from the Burque:
I’ve stayed with six different friends along the way – with some a few days or weeks; with others, one to four months. I’m really grateful for their generosity, love and support. I’m really grateful to have six friends who would take me in! I feel like I’ve had a crash course in relationships. Tom Hopkins, real estate trainer extraordinaire, says, “There are only two times you ever really know someone - when you marry them, or you rent to them.” Although I’ve known some of the friends for 25-30 years, I was shocked to learn how little I really knew about them. Only when I lived with them did I really experience what it was like to be in their world. Only when I lived with them could I look into the mirror they held up for me to see new things about myself.
For many years, as a real estate broker, I would preview new properties on the market mid-week when Realtors promote their listings to other Realtors. My colleagues and I would see up to 21 homes in three hours. I was a lot younger then! Afterward, I would feel really tired and need a nap. It was hard for me to understand why I would be so tired after just “looking at houses.” A number of years into my career, another Realtor gave me the best explanation for the phenomenon I had ever heard. “Terranda, every time you go into someone’s home, you are entering their consciousness (state of mind and emotions). On caravan, you are doing that 21 times in three hours. No wonder you’re tired.” A spiritual teacher later confirmed this for me when she said, “House is consciousness.”
What my house says about me has changed over the years as I have changed. Now, a heart-shaped, hemp doormat welcomes guests to my home. I want them to feel loved when they visit me. This is such a clear, strong intention, when the mat wore out, I requested a replacement as a Christmas gift. One friend looked on the internet to find the mat; another purchased it from a store in Wisconsin. My conscious choice is to have my home be a warm, welcoming, nurturing, beautiful, peaceful sanctuary surrounded by gardens. It hasn’t always been that way. Once, when I was depressed for several months, it was dark, dirty, closed and in a state of disarray. I had no energy to take care of it or myself.
My Albuquerque journey has placed me in an old adobe home, new condo, single-family residence, manufactured home, Mediterranean and contemporary homes, single and two-storey homes, with and without cats and a dog. Each one tells a different story. If your home were writing this post, what would it say about itself?
Living in close contact with another person brings stuff up – both mine and theirs. I’m learning so much about myself. What do I really value? People or things? How attached am I to having or doing things my way? Foil or no foil on that baked potato? What’s negotiable with me? Which values? What’s not? What am I attached to? Where can I let go? Am I in touch with my needs? What about theirs? Can I speak up in a loving way when there is confrontation without making the other person wrong?
I’m practicing. Sometimes I’m more adept at it than others. Paying attention, having a clear, conscious intention, and being willing to take responsibility guide me through. My values are my touchstones. Is my heart open? Do I have an agenda? If so, can I get off it? When I go to bed at night and ask myself, “Is there anyone I’ve left out of my heart today?” is the answer “yes,” or “no?”
Blurbs from the Burque:
- Regularly-recurring freeway signs: “Move crash vehicles from travel lanes.”
- Upkeep costs: Woman’s haircut, color, highlights: Albuquerque - $85; Montecito - $185.
Monday, September 5, 2011
“Rubber Ducky, You’re the One”
“Rubber Ducky, you’re the one. You make bath time so much fun. Rubber Ducky, you’re the one for me, dee dee dee dee…” Grinning from ear to ear, I spontaneously burst into song one morning in the Rubber-Ducky-themed bathroom at the home of my friends, Mark and Pamela. They were going out of town for a week, knew I was in transition, and offered me the keys to their beautiful Ventura condo. “Come. Stay. Make yourself at home. Eat anything you want. Here’s the parking pass. Please bring the newspaper in and put the trash out. Good bye.”
The upstairs hall bathroom has a Rubber Ducky shower curtain, two duck-shaped bathmats, Rubber-Ducky-bordered towels, and a collection of ten Rubber Duckies in a variety of colors on the bathroom counter including a boat-rowing ducky, a mother ducky with three ducklings on her back, a blue one and a black one. Pamela is African-American and her husband Mark an artist from Switzerland. “Where’d you find the black one?” I asked, only to learn there is a Rubber Ducky store. The Rubber Ducky soap dispenser, twice the size of a normal one, emits a loud QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! while dispensing soap. There’s a framed Duck family portrait on the wall above the towel bar; one member irresistibly looks you in the eye. This is the way to start a day. With joy. With laughter. Having fun. Bursting into song.
The guest bedroom has two deep, rose pink walls and a Holstein-cow-patterned duvet cover bordered in red. The two oversized bed pillows feature Swiss cows (you know they are Swiss from the white cross on the red background. Also, they say “Swiss love.”) Black-and-white ceramic cow lamps grace both nightstands, and a beanie-baby-like Holstein cow sprawls on one, leaning its chin on big red lips that say “Let’s smooch.”
A triangular Toblerone chocolate bar awaited me on the pillow at bedtime. Hanging in the walk-in closet opposite the bed was a ghost with a gauze body, skeleton head and bony fingers reaching out to me. I texted Pamela: “Thank you for the skeleton greeting! Please thank Mark for the candy bar,” knowing full well the reverse was true. At week’s end I hung the ghost from their garage door opener to welcome them home when they parked their car. A replacement Toblerone bar was rubber banded to the skeleton’s bony, beckoning hand. The skeleton was still there a month later when I visited again. They let it scare them periodically just for fun. On my second visit, they were in a hurry leaving, so I had to make my bed. When I picked up the duvet cover, a rubber spider the size of my hand dropped to the floor….and, a candy bar. “Eeeek! A spider! Lol…” my next text read. Needless to say, the spider is now hanging from the garage door opener, and the ghost returned to the closet. Mark has a new name. Whenever I talk with Pamela I tell her, “Say hello to Spiderman.”
Amid the art on the cow-guest-bedroom wall are three-dimensional, silver-glittered letters that spell “enjoy.” How could you not? There is such a sense of playful abandon in these rooms, it’s impossible not to enjoy. I think Mark and Pamela need to give decorating lessons to mental health care facilities. Pamela is a nurse. Patients and colleagues who encounter her are lucky to experience the joy-filled love she emanates from her being.
One of my spiritual teachers said, “House is consciousness,” a reflection of our state of mind and emotions. Mark and Pamela embody the lighthearted playfulness, joy and love their home reflects. It was a delight to be there. As delightful as it is to know them and be with them.
The upstairs hall bathroom has a Rubber Ducky shower curtain, two duck-shaped bathmats, Rubber-Ducky-bordered towels, and a collection of ten Rubber Duckies in a variety of colors on the bathroom counter including a boat-rowing ducky, a mother ducky with three ducklings on her back, a blue one and a black one. Pamela is African-American and her husband Mark an artist from Switzerland. “Where’d you find the black one?” I asked, only to learn there is a Rubber Ducky store. The Rubber Ducky soap dispenser, twice the size of a normal one, emits a loud QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! while dispensing soap. There’s a framed Duck family portrait on the wall above the towel bar; one member irresistibly looks you in the eye. This is the way to start a day. With joy. With laughter. Having fun. Bursting into song.
The guest bedroom has two deep, rose pink walls and a Holstein-cow-patterned duvet cover bordered in red. The two oversized bed pillows feature Swiss cows (you know they are Swiss from the white cross on the red background. Also, they say “Swiss love.”) Black-and-white ceramic cow lamps grace both nightstands, and a beanie-baby-like Holstein cow sprawls on one, leaning its chin on big red lips that say “Let’s smooch.”
A triangular Toblerone chocolate bar awaited me on the pillow at bedtime. Hanging in the walk-in closet opposite the bed was a ghost with a gauze body, skeleton head and bony fingers reaching out to me. I texted Pamela: “Thank you for the skeleton greeting! Please thank Mark for the candy bar,” knowing full well the reverse was true. At week’s end I hung the ghost from their garage door opener to welcome them home when they parked their car. A replacement Toblerone bar was rubber banded to the skeleton’s bony, beckoning hand. The skeleton was still there a month later when I visited again. They let it scare them periodically just for fun. On my second visit, they were in a hurry leaving, so I had to make my bed. When I picked up the duvet cover, a rubber spider the size of my hand dropped to the floor….and, a candy bar. “Eeeek! A spider! Lol…” my next text read. Needless to say, the spider is now hanging from the garage door opener, and the ghost returned to the closet. Mark has a new name. Whenever I talk with Pamela I tell her, “Say hello to Spiderman.”
Amid the art on the cow-guest-bedroom wall are three-dimensional, silver-glittered letters that spell “enjoy.” How could you not? There is such a sense of playful abandon in these rooms, it’s impossible not to enjoy. I think Mark and Pamela need to give decorating lessons to mental health care facilities. Pamela is a nurse. Patients and colleagues who encounter her are lucky to experience the joy-filled love she emanates from her being.
One of my spiritual teachers said, “House is consciousness,” a reflection of our state of mind and emotions. Mark and Pamela embody the lighthearted playfulness, joy and love their home reflects. It was a delight to be there. As delightful as it is to know them and be with them.
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