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The New Ridge

There are times in my life when I have been lost, times I wish I could get lost and others when I know I’m lost and I’m stricken with fear knowing I need to figure my way out. I am either a complete stubborn blockhead or simple profoundly self-reliant because I eventually figure it out. In the last few years – crap, just last week – I have had moments when I declared myself incapable of figuring my way out. I plopped myself down and announced someone else needed to figure it out. That’s kind of a joke because I am the lead; I might have a team working with me, I’m not alone, but I am the lead. The evolution is that my tantrum fades and I get back up but I learned about fifteen years ago that when I am lost and wandering, feigning I know what the hell I am doing, I pray. I am not original enough to pray my own words. I pray the Rosary. I figure that God knows my heart, knows my desires and my lamentations and I don’t need to recount the litany. So, I just pray the Rosary. The rote, repetitive prayers gets me unfocusedĀ  or rather it shifts my focus off “ME” and to the wider view in which I am no the center focus.

So in the process of finally building my house, I have been searching for a name for the house. It sounds absurd (maybe) or pretentious but I wanted the house to have a name. My Meemaw’s house was always The Creek. Famous people always have homes with names: Dollywood, Graceland. Literary estates have always had names, too. Think Tara. Well, my home has been a long held, private estate, a place I have slowly built inmy mind, a place I wanted to dig in the dirt and grow veggies with my kids. A back porch to swing and watch the sunrise. A kitchen to cook for a crowd, watch a football game, watch my sons gather with their friends and be kids – or teens – or adults. The house in my mind is complete and now, that vision is being converted into a reality and I have found its name.

I grew up in a neighborhood we (those who grew up there) affectionately call The Ridge. My development is called Hawk’s Ridge so it’s fitting that I wanted the word ‘Ridge’ in my house’s name. The word Biddan derives from Old English, see the word origin here. I sent a private icon into the foundation of my home to The Blessed Mother, whom I imagine must have been struck with paralysis at times but also had obvious faith in God’s plan for her life. I admire her strength. I petition her often. And I keep praying.

 

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