I have been working on Finder Not Keeper for quite some time, hammering through the enormous checklist inevitable with opening an online store. The task felt insurmountable at times, but every month yielded results that gave me a sense of progress.  Last spring, I decided the perfect time to launch was that fall of 2013, when the kids had returned to school and my daytime hours were my own again.

But in between, my nearly empty nest sort of filled up again. That happens a lot with birdies flying away and coming back, which other mother birds understand but which caught me by surprise. So, with time and space going elsewhere, I delayed a little longer.  Store opening goal became January 1 of this year.

Then a health issue derailed the opening.  [Edvard Munch scream face. Give me a flock of baby birds over this anytime.]  

So, last week, I went into the hospital to resolve the issue and all went quite well. I had an incredibly handsome surgeon and the best nurses who everyone knows are much more critical to recovery. That operating room, though? The last thing I remember before going under was speaking frankly to them about the lousy feng shui in that arena.  Cluttered carts everywhere. Not at all what I expected and truly disappointing.

Anyway, that's not what this post is about.  While recovering, I had a drug-addled dream that I want to describe. I dreamt that my husband and I moved to a foreign city, to a rundown house with mold on the walls.  He would go off to work every day while I remained behind, weakly swiping at the walls in my red velour robe. The neighborhood rug rats thought I was wearing a unique gown.

After work one night, he and I went scavenging in a warehouse that was part art colony and part garbage dump. The stuff I found was amazing. Considering all the artists who had studios there, I was shocked they walked past these treasures every day and didn't nab them.

But I did.

Then in my dream, I realized there was no way to get this stuff home. He and I were on a skateboard. We set aside my loot, hopped on the board, and flew flawlessly and smoothly, picking up speed and doing little jumps over curbs and cracks. At one point, we soared over a rock pile à la Evel Knievel, drawing oohs and aahs from all the rug rats who kept peppering this dream like squirrels and who were attempting pathetic little ollies.

Then I woke up.

And my first thought was not of all the great treasures left behind but of sadness that the skateboard flight had ended.

And I'm taking that as my subconscious slapping me into shape.   

The store will open soon, maybe even in the next few weeks. Which is wonderfully exciting. But I can't forget that getting here has been a helluva ride, mold, bumps, rug rats, and all.