Praise and Pranayama: When Mamma Gets Rich, We're Getting a Pool

You couldn't ask for a better view here in the hills of Morgantown, West Virginia. I'd keep it forever, if I could have ownership — of the house, that is. The sky belongs to God, who by the way does not appreciate my yoga practice that my little one is mimicking, according to better Christians who know you can't mix praise and pranayama. If you ask me, God knows the benefits of breath work for those of his children who struggle to exhale. 

I've asked to buy this house multiple times, but my landlord grew up here and is Very Attached: Her late parents' furniture is still piled to the ceiling in the dry, unfinished basement where my two young boys fight over their turn to play Gorilla Tag on the Oculus in their makeshift man cave. Two years ago, the Realtor showing the property promised the furniture would be gone when I moved in, but that was a lie, or at least a misguided assumption, either of which earned her a commission and me a basement full of a thing that makes me itch: clutter. My landlord is very nice, which isn't quite a salve for the overflow of stuff but is a thing to note on Day 15 of November Gratitude. She says we can stay here as long as we'd like. Given the panoramic view of Appalachia’s lady lumps, it's a tempting offer. Or that’s what I’d call it if I actually had another option in a housing market posing as David shooting down the Goliath of my American Dream. 

My kids want a pool and a zip line. My two dogs want a big fenced yard. We could have all of that on this extra-large, semi-secluded corner lot, or another lot — if a deed had my name and my paychecks had another zero. I-F: I watch those lofty letters go up, up and away on the breeze that days ago carried the oppressive scent of smoldering leaves from my next-door neighbor’s burning pile that apparently became legal at 5p.m., an hour after the smoke started at 4.




This morning, post daily prayer-slash-yoga session, I made a quick pass on Facebook Reels before waking up the kids for school. On an NYC street, the “Apartment Guy” approached Barbara Corcoran of Shark Tank and asked for a tour of her home. She told him she was once a messenger who made a delivery to the $11 million apartment she now owns, where she asked the homeowner, If you ever sell it, will you sell it to me? Twenty-six years later, she got the call. They say God’s timing is perfect. (If you don’t believe, substitute your deity of choice and be encouraged.)




As I digested Barbara’s motivational moment that proves social media isn’t all bad, a heart palpitation arrived to either remind me Rejoice, You’re Alive or Prepare for Maximum Doom; the interpretation always depends on my Anxiety Monster's level of rage. I’ve been having palpitations for many years on and off. So far, EKGs, echocardiograms, and Holter monitors say I’m alive. I’m grateful for the opportunity to keep the faith. 




After Reels but before my daily green tea, as I piled scrambled eggs onto grain-free toast so small that “slice” feels like a misnomer, a familiar daydream squirmed its way through the worrisome cluttered basement of my mind: all the things I’d do if my goals were to come true. Besides a deed with my name and a safe yard for children and dogs to roam free, there would be lots of giving. What a thrill to imagine making life better for friends, family, and animals in need. Over the years, I’ve decided that if life were fair, only people who intend to give lots of money away should have lots of money. In lieu of fairness, all we have is effort and chance. 




Just now on Rachael Ray, Billy Porter repeated a mantra: God has bigger plans for you than you could ever have for yourself. Amen and ohm.