Hello from three years later. Obviously life stepped in and took me away from this little depository of ramblings, insight and sometimes helpful advice. Unfortunately, it’s not due to being kidnapped and carnally used by Peter Bishop in another dimension. (Damn it.) I’d like to say I took a three-year sabbatical and have returned with my Ph.D., yogi designation from a high monk in Tibet, a very sexy cabana boy, and knighthood. But that would be lying. And lying is wrong. Just ask the kids.

What I did do was endure a year of full time employment that lead to the realization that I am much happier as my own boss (in addition to putting money away for an addition to the house). I also built up my own PR business, walked the red carpet twice (interesting stories – must tell you sometime), watched Mr. Man and Sweetness become full-blown grade schoolers, and got sucked into the world of Girl Scout Leader hell. All ripe scenarios for snarky commentary here, I promise. Even without Peter Bishop.

So sit back, grab a glass of wine and escape into my house of crazy and maybe a little inspiration.

What’s really important to you? That sounds like a simple enough question, but give it some real thought. The first thing jumping to mind may not be right. Or is it? Ponder it a bit. There’s no penalty for changing your answer.

A friend recently posed that question to me. At first it seemed simple enough, but the more I thought about it the more complex it became.

My first response was based entirely on what was going on in my life at that moment. I was feeling unappreciated and used like last week’s newspaper at the bottom of the bird cage. My immediate response was “appreciated for my skills, knowledge and results.” A nanosecond later the mommy guilt kicked in and I felt my first response should have been “my family.” Yet, at that particular moment I was exasperated with the kids fighting and was entirely uninspired by the requirement of coming up with yet another dinner menu and cooking.

Perhaps, in the end, my initial answer and resulting guilty response was telling me I needed to take a few steps back.

The static of all the things we deal with every day can easily put what truly is important to us in the back seat. If we get too wrapped around the axle with the daily deluge, we can even forget to put a seat belt on those important things, leaving them exposed to some serious injury.

For me, I am in the process of expanding my career from a part-time, making ends meet while I try to be a mom the rest of the time proposition to a more full-time passion driven career. I’ve recognized just doing work for the sake of making money is nothing short of an energy vampire, leaving me short tempered and emotionally unavailable for my family.

However, building something that sets me on fire each day, putting my skills to the test and making a real impact on people I choose to help, takes time, energy and a great deal of rejection. It’s tearing me up inside, which, as it so happens, leaves me short tempered and emotionally unavailable for my family. Thus, the lack of a seat belt for what’s important.

What’s really important

As I stared at those words in an email, sent from across the Atlantic by a new but fast friend, “what’s really important to you?”, I was forced to stop and really think.

There are days I wish the kids would go play quietly, or possibly visit grandma, while I get work done. I thought about the last time I wanted that and made myself remember my life nine years ago. I was living alone in a very tiny house in a part of the country I detest, working for a thankless and overbearing employer. I was unattached and desperately wanted to be home in Seattle, find a wonderful man and have those two kids I’d been dreaming about.

I have all of that today. Every. Last. Piece. Of. It. Why then does it not come up as what’s important? I think we all suffer from overload. A 24/7 kid schedule is enough to drive any good mom to fantasize about running away forever with an immensely sexy hunk to live in an undisclosed location doing things that make E.L. James blush.  That doesn’t mean family isn’t important. What it might mean is we’re letting the minutia of everyday life have too much weight.

So a potential new client or employer you so desperately want to work with has given you the “talk to the hand” treatment, repeatedly. Maybe folks you really want to network with are looking just too busy or unimpressed to return calls or emails. Perhaps you’re now in a position to re-wallpaper your family room with all the rejection letters.

Look away from the computer screen. What do you see?

I see family photos, drawings my daughter insisted I hang up, my son asking me to push him on the swing, my daughter practicing cutting with scissors, and my dog putting his paw on my leg asking to take a walk.

There is definitely a need for balance in life. We all need things that energize and fulfill us and it’s not realistic to think any one thing will do that. All things, family included, have positive and negative aspects. Yet, in the end, when you step back and take it all in, the most important things stand out.

For me, I’d rather have these wonderful little souls who love me unconditionally than my dream client, who could very well end up being as much work as a 4 year old anyway. Or possibly two.

Why is it that we sometimes put so much stock into acceptance from others? As if the very validation of our existence hangs on the approval of one person or a handful of people?

My rational self reminds me the only person whose opinion of me I should ever consider is my own. I should never give any one person so much power over me, be it a parent, a boss, a client, a prospective client, a friend and certainly not a stranger. My barometer of success should come from my own sense of whether I did my best and learned from my mistakes.

Sounds all well and good. Right?

But then, I’m not in my rational mind a good percentage of the time.

I live my life from the heart, for better or worse, and while most often this doesn’t necessarily lead me astray, it opens me to pain far more often than if I simply followed my rational mind.

Add to that the ever frustrating fact that I am a consummate rybelsus perfectionist, forever expecting more from myself than even I can deliver. I possess the remarkable talent of pulling off what I once thought was impossible, only to walk away disappointed because I didn’t catch the bad guy AND win the girl, so to speak.

And in there lies the failure: putting stock in the “girl” giving a crap in the first place. Something is clearly wrong with me when I’m focused more on what a potential auxiliary player thinks than simply basking in the success of a job well done.

It’s times like these I’m reminded of a poem I read when I was a teen, Alastair Reid’s “Curiosity.” So captured was I by the prose I saved it and refer to it from time to time. It so closely foreshadowed my life, despite the fact that I often consider myself more a dog than a cat.

I was recently accused of being a romantic. Quite ironically, it was by the very person who I am sure quite literally couldn’t care less should I suddenly suffer a horrific end via rabid alligator upon my next stroll in the park. Though I must admit, as much as I despise giving credit at this point, the observation is quite accurate.

I am a romantic because rather than listen to the rational mind, which would keep me safe at all times, I follow my heart. And with it comes the ample opportunity “to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain,” as Reid puts it.

Failing is only a chance to learn. And what I’ve to learn is this: only my assessment, my feelings about my work, my understanding of how great my accomplishment, are all that need matter. Another’s failure to recognize all the wonder that is me, all my hard work, all my fantastic skill, all my value, all I can accomplish when I set my heart to it, all I’ve done, all I hold dear, everything that I am, is purely that person’s loss.

I will go on, working hard not to take others’ lack of acceptance of me the least bit personally. Easier said that done. But certainly made easier when one accepts the other person is a narcissistic, self-centered, conceited hairy armpit of a tree sloth.

That aside, these words from Alastair Reid I know for sure:

“And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.”

Do you know what it’s like to want something? I mean really want something. So much so that you develop a cop on a high speed chase kind of tunnel vision while you ignore the infernal screams of your rational mind warning of the most certain impending doom of that hairpin turn ahead?

That’s a rhetorical question by the way.

That’s where I am right now. It’s a wild ride, and one over which I have as much control as I do the eruption of an Icelandic volcano. And I’ll tell you why.

I’m a creature of passion. Not so much the “take me now subcreature” kind of passion, though I’m not saying I’m opposed to such acts of uninhibited carnal instinct. That’s actually quite a nice one, with the right intrinsically talented subcreature, mind you. But overall I speak more of an on fire for life kind of passion.

I’m the species of passionate creature that simply needs to feel passionate. It doesn’t have to be all the time and it doesn’t have to be about everything, but there has to be a level of passion for something or I begin to feel dead inside.

I’m here to tell you that dead feeling is not pretty. It comes on slowly, creeping into all aspects of my life. It will last for a relatively short while, a few months to a couple of years, accompanied by mild depression, impatience and withdrawal. I’ll not feel very active. I’ll not reach out to do things with friends. I’ll hide out in my room, watch a lot of TV or movies by myself, maybe read. I won’t have patience with family, pets, traffic, small appliances, coworkers or the guy who reports the weather in that nasally voice. I’ll not have much energy to do simple things like eat, clean the house or brush my teeth. You get the picture. Not pretty.

The good news is the dead feeling doesn’t last forever. Self-preservation eventually moves in and manifests itself as restlessness. That part is truly the most dangerous for me. It’s then that the monster stirs, reminding me that I am a creature of passion and things are a little low in the passion department. Like a bear waking from a long winter, a deep hunger rises in me and the worst part about it is I have absolutely no idea what I hunger for. I just know I’m ravaged and whatever crosses my path first will be the prey I’ll single-mindedly hunt down with a stamina a doped Lance Armstrong can’t even fake.

I can’t count how many times I’ve been through this little routine. Sometimes it’s for little things, like a project I want to do or a place I want to visit. Other times it’s a whole life change like when I moved to Glasgow, Scotland, after college or the four focused years it took to become a helicopter pilot. I just never know when it will strike and I’m just as clueless as to what will ignite my passion. I only know that once something takes hold, I’m in for a ride, and it’s almost always wonderfully predestined and makes my life richer.

In this latest trip around the patch, I’d spent the last two years in a nasty funk and this past summer the monster finally started to stir. And the longer the hunger for renewed passion roiled inside me, I knew the more fantastic the impending adventure. Then suddenly, I was on fire.

The ride started in mid-December and hit its first peak mid-January when I followed my instincts and a deep calling to the other side of the world, to a place that feels like home. While on that trip I got my groove back thanks to the people I met and adventures I encountered. I found my power and, like Ethan Hawke, was given an idea for the next step of my mission, if I should chose to accept it. But you know, as I sipped my first double whisky in a 300-year-old pub toward the end of my adventure I realized I was kidding myself. I didn’t have a choice about accepting the mission beyond how tight my seatbelt would be for the ride.

With the fires stoked, I’ve become more single-minded than ever. I, for the first time in years, have a clear idea of how I can put my professional skills to use to help others I care about make their dreams come true and it energizes me in a way I’ve not felt before. My energy is up. My interest in things I’d let slip by the wayside is renewed. My goal is crystal clear and in my sights. My bow is strung, arrow is notched, and my breath is held. I’m moments away from releasing.

As I wait that antagonizing last moment, I sway between anticipation and impatience. It’s in that moment a tiny voice of reason can ever so slightly get a whisper in. Usually I ignore that bugger. I’m all about damning the consequences when my heart is set. Perhaps it’s age this time that lets me hear him.

“With every action, there is a reaction. With every Yin, a Yang. You cannot welcome something so big into your life without seeing something go. Be fully aware of what you wish for, and be ready for the sacrifice you must make to bring it home.”

I pause.

I’ve already come so far, but I know I’m not there yet. So far the sacrifice is my time and attention at home as I prepare. What will it be when I release that arrow and set the string of actions in motion I’ve so carefully planned?

I blink and, for just a brief second, glance outside my tunnel vision. I’m reminded that mountains were never climbed by those who sat at their feet and stared dreamily at their peaks. Oceans were never crossed by those fearing to leave sight of the shore. God doesn’t give you a passion without creating a path to achieve it.

Confirmed, I refocus forward with unshaken attention. I’m in this for the full run of the game.

I want this. I really want it, and when I have a fully ignited passion driving me, things balance out for the best. The alternative is a wreck of a Jen. Like Yoda, it’s do or do not. There is no try. I will do this, and if it fails miserably, I’ll never wonder “what if I had the courage to do it?”

I run my tongue across my lips in anticipation.

Release…

I made a big mistake recently. I decorated the house and started talking about Christmas the weekend after Thanksgiving. Parents with older kids, I can see you pointing and laughing. Please stop. I may break down and need to be admitted to the psych ward, so thin is the ice I now tread.

In my defense, my kids were 2 and 4 last year. They just kind of floated along, enjoying the Christmas stuff as it came, entertaining themselves throughout the season. I love getting the house decorated and the tree up. I enjoy the festive atmosphere. Until now.

This year, no such luck. Total and complete pseudo-sugar induced rush 24/7. (I say pseudo, because I’m not giving them enough candy, cookies or anything else that will further deepen this nightmare. I even threw out all their left over Halloween candy.) They’re bouncing off the walls, disobeying at every turn, fighting like the Starks and Lannisters, and asking at least every five minutes “Is tomorrow Christmas yet?”

Case in point, Saturday we started the advent calendar after four days of begging to start it. There was only one tiny piece of chocolate after lunch. Then after naptime, as I was having the kids help me make a batch of gingerbread cookies for their class next week, Mr. Man announces he’s not interested in helping, he’s going to go rest. Stupid me. I believed him.

Twenty minutes later, after the cookies were in the oven, Sweetness and I go into the living room to find her advent calendar mostly open, all candy eaten and Mr. Man claiming he doesn’t know what happened. I found it ironic he had the foresight to eat hers, thus saving his for later.

Note to parents, quiet time for a three year old in his room doesn’t work with 2 ounces of chocolate onboard.

While this frustrated me (both the lying and my type-A desire to share the daily advent calendar opening with both kids), it was a drop in the bucket. I actually reached tipping point mid-last week when the disobedience reached and all time high (since surpassed by the way). While I did think it would be fun to start a new Christmas tradition and do Elf on the Shelf, I bought that freaking toy to assist me in coercion.

“You hit your brother in front of the elf. She’s going to tell Santa.”

For the record, the Elf, aka Heart, sat on the Christmas tree and watched my little glutton stuff himself with chocolate. Sweetness assured him Santa was now not bringing him any presents now. In fact, I think they’re both convinced they’re getting nothing, and at the same time, everything they’ve seen advertised on TV. Would it be wrong to suggest Santa comes and takes toys away from naughty kids?

I’ll be reading Lama Lama Holiday Drama each night at story time in hopes maybe that will sink in. That and getting a prescription to Valium. When I call my parents for help and advice they laugh so hard they end up hanging up because they can’t speak through the diaphragm spasms. Odd”¦

This past weekend I took Sweetness to Disney on Ice: Dare to Dream. What hooked me in me was her current complete and total obsession with everything Rapunzel. She recites the movie based off the instrumental soundtrack for goodness sake. Obsession isn’t a strong enough word. When I saw this Disney event included a Tangled section, I knew this was the mommy and daughter date for us.

We were incredibly lucky with our seats. We were only three rows up, right in front of the action. And unlike our last Disney on Ice show where I learned the rules as I went, I made sure to bring along her princess dress. One of 2500 princesses in attendance, Sweetness could hardly sit still in her polyester sparkly purple dress and matching crown. The only thing missing was a little Pascal. Thus rectified by the dude walking up and down the aisles selling his wares.

The show started with a shortened but no less stunning version of Princess and the Frog. Since Sweetness hadn’t seen this one, I whispered the details as they were happening and she seemed to follow along. The next story was the timeless Cinderella complete with everyone pitching in to sing Bibbity Bobbity Boo. While she liked these, Sweetness about jumped out of her skin waiting for the final story.

After Cinderella the Tangled story was far and beyond the best. Flynn Ryder and Rapunzel did some of the best and most beautiful skating of the show, at times wrapping their arms into Rapunzel’s “hair” hanging from the rafters and flew through the air. I’m such a sap, I got all teary-eyed at how amazing it was. But I really lost it when I saw they chose a little girl from the audience to help Flynn and Rapunzel send off the first lantern. She got to hug her heroes!

In the end all the Disney princesses and princes attended Rapunzel and Flynn’s grand finale party, and the kids just went crazy in the stadium as each of their favorites made an appearance. Sweetness was particularly thrilled with herself for recognizing Ariel. (All the princes and princesses were dressed in white, not their typical costumes.)

While the price of tickets can sometimes be rather dear for these events, I can’t recommend them enough if you have a little one who loves these stories. Not only did I get to spend a couple of hours of special time with my little girl that she loved, but she also was exposed to live performances and a beautiful sport – ice skating. She wants to know when we’re going again.

When hearing of a tragic event in someone’s life, where in they’ve lost a part of themselves, be it a limb, a sense, or an ability, I often turn in on myself and ask that impossible question – if given a choice, and told I had to choose one or lose my life – which would I choose to loose?

Smell is linked to taste, so losing that would in effect lose both for me. There are those born with the ability to taste and not smell, but I am not sure after my 40+ years of experience if the two could be separated. As they’re a two for one, they’re both ruled out.

Touch is a tricky one. How one could lose all feeling in the skin is beyond me, so the question here may well lie in losing a limb. As I’ve had to live my life with a less than normal body, compensating physically literally every step of the way, I wouldn’t have the heart to lose any more of my body. Pieces of bone here and there are enough, thank you very much. And absolutely not, when asked about my hands and arms. They have made up for my legs and feet my whole life. No, touch will have to stay.

In my younger years, I’d have quickly said my hearing. Of all the senses, that is the one I’m most prepared to substitute with heightened sight and awareness, as the deaf can read lips, speak a sign language and even feel sound.

Yet, as I get older, I wonder if in fact I wouldn’t be a better person by losing the sense I hold most dear.

As an avid reader and writer, not to mention helicopter pilot, I rely on my sight. My eyes started to go thanks to a astigmatism in my 20s and it took until my early 30s to build up the courage for Lasik, which did marvels for my sight and I’d never regret.

Yet, it’s sight that limits our growth as human beings. Think of it. One look at someone and we make all manners of assessments on who that person is and whether he or she is worth our time. We make judgments based on clothes, skin color, hair style, height, weight, beauty and even how someone measures up to physical “normalcy.”

With my own birth defects leading others to make conclusions about me when I was younger (kids can be so cruel), I developed a terrible aversion to anyone the slightest bit different physically. By avoiding them, I wasn’t allowing myself to be pigeonholed as “one of them.” When this ingrained trait followed me into adulthood, I became increasingly uncomfortable with those folks when I should have had nothing by love and compassion. It sickened me that I reacted this way. If I’d not seen them, only talked with them, heard their voices, experienced their talent, oh what a different life I’d have lead.

I wish I could say if we were all blind the world would be a better place, but human nature is sadly not that simple. We’re quite frankly brought together by defining what is different from us. Nothing rallies a country/people/political party/fanatical religious sect/kids on the playground like a common enemy.

So when lying in a coma, talking with my guardian angel offering me a choice, I will still battle with myself on whether losing my ability to see a beautiful sunset, the canyons of Utah, the glorious fall foliage, and my children’s faces will be worth learning to love unconditionally without my blasted visual judgment.

Of course, this philosophical meditation only helps me see what I can work on in myself today. I’m getting there, as I get older and learn to see myself and others as we really are. But, clearly, there is always room for improvement. I wonder what Freud would say, that I don’t accept myself and thus my mother? Hummm.

How do you remember to be thankful, when from the moment you’re woken in the morning until exhaustion takes you at night you struggle to be somewhat productive and do right by your family, boss, PTA, neighbors, pets, beliefs, convictions, etc. and so on? When every thought and task is interrupted at least twice and takes three times as long to complete? When even a short to-do list can take 12 hours and still be incomplete when you can no longer keep your eyes open? And when personal time is reduced to the times you lock the door when you go into the bathroom to pee?

With Thanksgiving this month, a lot of folks have been practicing a month of thanks, posting status updates on social media, blogging, or even simply writing down one thing they’re thankful for each morning. I have to be honest, at first I thought, “how do I find the time?” Then I’ve seen so many social media posts on thanks that in the end, I’m reminded every time I log on to be thankful.

I’m reminded of a very important universal law. What we give returns to us in abundance. With each person just sharing a simple thankful thought, we’re all showered with thoughts of thanks.

Even though I’m feeling overwhelmed and tired at times, I’m finding myself slowing down and reflecting on what I’m thankful for each day. Just seeing everyone’s thankfulness makes the day a little brighter.

Of course, with the devastation of Hurricane Sandy and how it has affected so many friends, and even some of my family, it’s easy to identify a whole truckload of things to be thankful for on my side of the country – electricity, house in one piece, all of my property present and accounted for, fresh water, gas, food, and all the other daily things we take for granted that so many are wishing for today.

The trick is to find that thankfulness every day, even from the pit of your own personal drama – work, cranky kids, sick dog, husband out of town, what have you. Because the truth is, we all have a lot to be thankful for, and if we focus energy on that thankfulness, imagine the showering in return.

My mom tip today is to develop a habit of finding one thing to be thankful for each morning. Pick a time to do it and make a habit. Do what you need to do to remember, such as writing it on a note and put it on the computer monitor. When things get tough, go back to that thought. It does wonders to change your perspective and will even lighten your mood. And, as we all know, when mom’s happy, everyone’s happy.

We don’t have a lot of fall foliage here in the Pacific Northwest the way the do in the Northeast. After all, we are the Evergreen State, right? But there are those collections of trees (mostly man planted) that can give the fall color I love. Last fall I broke down and put some of that beloved color in my yard. I selected a gorgeous Sunset Maple, it’s last few leaves glowing an almost florescent red.

We planted that gorgeous tree, following the rigid instructions, digging a hole as deep as the two foot pot and six feet by six feet wide. We flooded the hole to assure it was well soaked, then when the water was gone, we put the monster pot in the hole and filled it back in.

All spring and summer I made sure the tree was well watered. Heck, I even talked to the thing, telling it how gorgeous it was. This week it started loving me back.

I chose this spot to plant it so I could watch it change color from my dining room and kitchen. Every time I do the dishes or eat a meal, I can look on it and marvel. It’s not disappointing me one bit. I’m in love and will only fall deeper as the color changes.

As the weather starts to shift here, I’m digging out the old craft supplies to make some fun indoor activities. When I was at Target today I saw this little bag of mini pumpkins for $3.49. Perfect. With some paint, glue, crafty embellishments and even a few markers we had ourselves an hour of crafty fun.

And the good news is, we’re headed to the in-laws this weekend so guess who is getting some grandkid-made seasonal decorations? Wa ha, ha, ha. Happy Halloween everyone.