My parents sold their home.
It's the house they've lived in for 38 years, the one I grew up in. One of my earliest memories -- of my mom taking my brother and me to see our new place one night in 1972 -- and all my childhood and teens are wrapped up in that house.
And yesterday I said goodbye to it for the last time. I walked around all weekend teasing memories from my subconscious, taking in the way everything looked as if I were inhaling a last breath.
To say I had mixed feelings is an understatement. I thought I'd cry as my brother and I and his kids drove away but I didn't. (I do that now, alone, as I type.) Instead I watched my mom arranging things in the garage and was relieved that life would be easier for her and my dad in the new condo. No more dealing with snow piling up on the roof or washing a million windows or running up and down flights of stairs.
Change happens. We can't escape it. Sometimes it's painful. Sometimes it's exhilarating. Often it's both. How we react to change defines our success. If we fight change, we waste away, we become bitter, cynical, paralyzed, we watch others move ahead, cloaked in our selective memories of the good old days. If we embrace change, however difficult, we're carried with the wave. We can still fondly call on our memories but we don't become entombed by them.
Too often, people and businesses make the mistake of assigning factors to success that, in reality, have little to do with it. Companies hit the jackpot with a product or the way they marketed it and assume every product or marketing campaign from that moment forward must resemble the first. We rigidly follow best practices instead of learning lessons and considering common sense. We do this in politics and religion too. A 2,000-year-old book, a 250 year-old document, even a 30-year-old political philosophy, become immutable, untouchable, dogma. Instead of learning the lessons the original work was meant to address, we worship the person, the paper, the stone, the bricks and mortar.
The irony is the bricks and mortar are not real. The memories -- and the lessons we learn from those memories -- are real. I will never again walk into the house at 370 Sloane Avenue. But lying on that gold shag carpet in the den watching Sonny and Cher or Walter Cronkite, or laughing with my brothers and my mom on her bed during a dozen blackouts, or doing math homework with my dad at the kitchen table, or spending summers reading in the backyard: I can take those memories wherever I go. They'll all be with me long after the bricks and mortar are gone.