SECRET #1

The Good Life Is Not What We Think It Is

Not life, but good life, is to be chiefly valued. Socrates, quoted by Plato in Crito

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasure in heaven ... For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Matthew 6:19–21

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

There I sat, a little girl tucked away in my secret hiding place—a hidden crawl space nestled behind the closet of one of the many but rarely used guest rooms in our sprawling 1930s colonial. No one bothered me there, and in that hideaway I spent countless hours in my own world of make-believe, losing myself in the elaborate game I'd made up of creating my dream house.

It was a meticulous, time-consuming process. I'd start by picking out the biggest, most ostentatious mansion for sale in the real estate section of my father's latest copy of Architectural Digest—the one with the formal English garden in front and the cliff overlooking the ocean in back, available for the bargain price of only $17 million. I'd then take a sheet of graph paper snatched from my dad's desk drawer and carefully sketch out my dream version of what I thought the floor plan should look like.

I was always careful to include such "basic" necessities as an indoor pool, a basketball court, and a game room. My perfect house always included at least ten bedrooms, with a fireplace, sitting room, and cavernous spa-like bathroom in each. There were at least two gourmet kitchens (you never know when you might need an extra), a dining room that seated forty, a university-sized library filled with books from floor to ceiling, and every other far-fetched amenity my eleven-year-old imagination—inspired mostly by the Barbie Dreamhouse and too much time spent watching Life-styles of the Rich and Famous—could conjure up.

When the floor plan was finally complete—and it always took hours to get the blueprint just right—I'd decorate. I'd pull out the thick stack of department store catalogs I had pilfered from the recycle pile and spend countless more hours methodically picking out furniture, linens, and accessories for every single room, right down to the china dishes in the cabinets, the fluffy towels in the bathroom, and the classy shoes in the closet.

As I'd shop the catalogs, I'd picture my adorable, well-dressed children and my kind, handsome, and wildly successful husband. I'd envision our enchanted, problem-free existence, the happy times we'd spend enjoying our luxurious home.

However, when I had finally exhausted every catalog and filled every imaginary room with as much expensive "stuff" as I could possibly find, I was never left with a feeling of accomplishment, despite all the time and effort I had exerted. On the contrary, the letdown was intense. I filled and filled and filled, but it always left me empty. And so I would start over with a new house and a new floor plan, ensuring countless more hours of wanting and dreaming and filling, knowing that this time—finally—I would get it right.

In my dream house, life was perfect. In my dream house, I was happy.

Or so I thought.

What I didn't know then was that even at that tender age I was developing a dangerous habit. I had already begun equating possessions with happiness. I had already started believing that a Good Life was dependent on what I had. At eleven years old I was convinced that if I could just get the right stuff, my life would be complete. Full. Happy. Satisfied.

This destructive pattern would set the tone for much of my adult life and nearly destroy my marriage. Of course, I didn't learn just how destructive that way of thinking truly was until much, much later.

The Grown-Up Dream House

After so many years of merely dreaming about it, I was more than ready for the chance to be all grown-up, and to remodel and decorate my real dream house, albeit on a slightly smaller scale.

Finally the day came, though admittedly not under the happiest of circumstances. In 2004, our home was severely damaged by Hurricane Charley. Afterward, my husband, Chuck, and I decided to make some major renovations beyond just the necessary repairs from the hurricane damage. Chuck—the financial rock of our family—insisted on paying cash. After using insurance money to fix the broken roof and windows, we began saving to remodel the inside.

While I (not so) patiently waited, I collected ideas. Once again, I'd spend hours drooling over magazines and catalogs, tearing out pictures of all the things I liked, all the things I knew I wouldn't be able to live without, all the things I knew would make me happy.

Just like I planned as a little girl, in my grown-up dream house life would be perfect.

After what seemed like forever, the big moment finally arrived, and our much-anticipated remodeling project began. There were fresh coats of paint and new walls, a library of my very own, custom cabinetry with pullout shelves, granite countertops, new hardwood and real stone floors, gorgeous new curtains and rugs and furniture and accessories. But then, before we knew it, the projects were done and the money we had set aside was completely gone.

Except I couldn't...