Fine Yesterday – WTF – Page 3 – Fine Yesterday … WTF

Magníficas Montañas de Torres del Paine

I woke yesterday morning to a clear, crisp day. Cuernos del Paine shone brightly in the morning sun. Days like this are precious. The weather in Torres del Paine is notoriously unpredictable and quick to change.

I made the five-hour trek from Punta Arenas the day before with two Chilean women, Carolina and Christina, and by the time we got to Torres del Paine, we were fast friends. Christina didn’t speak English, but that didn’t seem to matter much. Google Translate was useful, but it has its limits. At one point, I entered, “That door is beautiful, covered in rust.” Google returned “Az ajtó gyönyörú, roszdás”, which didn’t seem at all correct. It didn’t even LOOK Spanish. She looked puzzled. I checked, and realized I had translated my phrase into Hungarian. So I typed, “What, you don’t speak Hungarian?!”, in Spanish this time. We laughed and laughed and laughed. This would be a good time to note that a two pisco sour limit is a sensible policy.

Carolina and Christina graciously invited me to join them for dinner, and it turned out they were celebrating Carolina’s birthday! They shared a special bottle of wine that they brought. The two of them turned out to be one of the greatest highlights of my trip to Torres del Paine. As it turned out, they were also scheduled to go on the trip I had reserved for the following day.

That was the good news. The bad news was that there were so many people going on that trip, they divided it into the English speaking van and the Spanish speaking van, so we were separated. The upside was that I had the opportunity to make some new friends, particularly my seat mates, Molly and Ken. Molly was a fisherwoman with an adventurous soul and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. And Ken was hilarious. It was an international group … Americans, Swiss, and Belgian, and everyone got along famously.

We had breathtaking views of the Paine Massif, throughout the day, and the weather continued to cooperate. We had crazy wind, which is common in Patagonia, and created ever-changing color and texture to the clouds in the sky. We hiked out a long jetty to get a peek at Grey Glacier, and I was extensively sandblasted. I’m fairly certain I will need to re-grow a couple of layers of skin. Later in the afternoon, we made our way to an unforgettable overlook, where the views of Cuernos del Paine were a spectacular backdrop to the turquoise hue of Lago Pehoé.

After lunch, we took a short hike to the Paine Waterfall, where I experienced the windiest conditions of my life thus far. At one point, I had to stop and put all my weight forward just to keep from tipping over. The waterfall? Worth it. We also saw hundreds of the quirky, funny guanacos. One was in a super bad mood and chased another one out of the herd. It was fascinating. They are FAST.

I enjoyed another dinner with Carolina and Christina, where they later taught me a couple of their favorite Spanish swear words. I was having trouble with the pronunciation of one, so we were exaggerating the enunciation: Mierda. No. Meeeee-errrrr-dah. Mierda. Mierda. And so on. When we noticed our neighbors at a nearby table looking at us in horror, we laughed and laughed and laughed. Remember: two pisco sours. Tops.

This morning came too soon. I longed for a few more days at this otherworldly place. But … on to the next adventure. We had a full van back to Punta Arenas, with not a single English speaking person on it. I kind of loved the challenge, with only hand gestures and community college Spanish classes in my toolkit. I got really good at charades.

We were treated to vibrant rainbow after vibrant rainbow on our way out of the park. It was a magical way to transition to this next leg of my adventure.

Now, off to Punta Arenas for a day before I head off to Antarctica. I’m always fearful before a trip like this. But the moment I begin my journey, the trepidation falls away, like I’ve shed a heavy coat. I am left with nothing but a sense of wonder.

Tiptoeing along the razor’s edge of death was hard. It was scary. But it occurred to me today that I would not be in this beautiful part of the world had it not been for that day. I never would have been so bold; so audacious, if I hadn’t been given that glimpse into my own mortality. I’ve never had an appreciation for that truth as fully as I do at this moment. Surrounded by the most beautiful mountains I have seen in my life.

I am grateful.

It’s here.

The night before I left for South America and Antarctica, I couldn’t sleep. This trip had been a year in the making. Much longer if you factor in the time I spent dreaming about it. In 2016, I was four continents in to my seven-continent goal, and South America was next. In my original plan, I saw a week in the saddle in Patagonia. So, I prepared … I took horseback riding lessons and started saving for the trip. And then, I ran across a brochure for Ecuador and the Galápagos Islands, and my plans changed. 2017 … South America … check!

Five continents down.

When I first saw a description of a trip to my sixth, Antarctica, I thought it was out of reach. Too expensive. Too physically challenging. But I never could get that trip out of my mind. It was an expedition, not a cruise. A place where you could find quiet. Camaraderie in a small group. So, the whisper of two weeks in Antarctica in a sailboat with six other guests grew to a roar. I had to find a way. I had to see my sixth continent in exactly this way.

We would depart from Punta Arenas … about a five-hour drive from Torres del Paine. The peaks of Cuernos del Paine had captivated me from the moment I saw them. So … what’s another couple of days to add to this trip of a lifetime?

I reserved my spot on the S/V Australis a full year in advance. I counted down the days, and they always sounded so far away. But tomorrow was the day. It was here.

I traveled 7,898 miles over the next 26 hours, and the trip went off without a hitch, save for one woman with an anger management problem. I really thought she may get us diverted. But she eventually calmed down, and we continued on our way.

In Santiago, loading for the next leg, I was seated in the fifth row. I looked up to see a couple I traveled with in Galápagos! The song, “It’s a Small World After All” stuck with me for a couple of hours. We shared hugs and some laughs, and then the plane pushed back. We started taxiing down the runway, but then made an abrupt u-turn back to our gate. The luggage handlers rushed over and reopened the belly of the plane to “get something out”. The cases they removed (along with a cooler), were marked “Fragile”and “Medical”. Apparently, some important vaccines were loaded into the wrong cargo hold. The vaccine story was way less interesting than the one I made up in my head (which is so often the case), where they were transporting a human heart. For a 14-year old boy, and time was running out. (My inside voice is surprisingly detailed.) At least I didn’t leap up and start shouting, “Save the boy! Save the boy!” That would have been weird.

Four legs on the trip down, and every arrival was on time. For three of the four legs, I had an empty seat next to me. The trip was off to a great start.

The Hotel del Rey Felipe was a short 20-minute ride from the airport, and as I checked in, my Galápagos buddies walked in to the lobby. “It’s a Small World After All” …

I ran into our expedition leader at breakfast the next morning, and we had a chance to get to know each other a bit. Somehow, we got on the topic of ostriches (you never know where a conversation with a naturalist will lead), and he gave me some interesting information about a similar, smaller bird in Chile called Darwin’s Rhea. As luck would have it, I spotted two just out of town! They never would have caught my attention had I not had that conversation. Fun fact: they can run up to 37 miles per hour.

Our ride to Torres del Paine was beautiful. White wildflowers and a rainbow of lupine lined the road, and sheep were plentiful in the rolling hills. We saw pops of the vibrant pink of Chilean flamingos in ponds along our route, and trees were permanently bent and caught in a frozen combover fail as they yielded to the relentless wind.

We picked up a handsome young guide in Puerto Natales, and it was there that I learned that one kiss on the cheek is customary. This may be the appropriate time to mention that I have a thing for Latin men.

Off to see more of this hermoso logar (beautiful place) today. But first, a nap. Buenas dias!

Resolutions: Eighteen in ’18

1) See the peaks of Torres del Paine in Patagonia from the back of a horse.

The pull of Torres del Paine was magnetic when I first saw images of that majestic massif. I dreamed of a week-long journey on horseback, and began taking riding lessons to prepare. Before I had a chance to plan a trip, I felt an even stronger call. Antarctica. I leave from Chile, so for now, I’ll settle for an afternoon ride and a day-long hike. But the pull? I anticipate it will grow stronger with the taste of this too-brief stay.

2) Form a snowball in Antarctica. Throw it as far as my arm will allow.

A snowball, and most certainly a snow angel.

3) Get a photo (or dozens) of frolicking penguins.

If I’m lucky, I’ll have the opportunity to see the Adélie, Chinstrap, and Gentoo Penguins in Antarctica, and the King, Gentoo, and Magellanic Penguins of Patagonia and Tierra Del Fuego. We’ll see how many I can check off my list.

4) Cross the Drake Passage in a sailboat. See Ushuaia, Argentina come in to view as a changed person.

With every journey, I’ve changed. Grown. With this expedition, I anticipate a seismic shift. I’ve never been somewhere so desolate and wild. To experience the vast expanse of ice and sea, with no visible land for days … how can I possibly remain unchanged? I’m eager to discover what this voyage reveals.

5) Stargaze in Zion and Bryce National Parks.

In August, I’m spending a week stargazing in Grand Canyon, Zion, and Bryce National Parks. I’ll stay in places far from the city lights. Orion’s Belt … the Big Dipper … the Milky Way. I remember how small I felt under the star-filled sky when I was a child. I hope to recapture a small measure of that wonder, if only for a moment.

6) Celebrate 55 by running the Yosemite Half Marathon. Get a PR.

My last half marathon was in September of 2014. That year, I did three. To celebrate my 55^th birthday, I’m going to run again. My fourteenth race. I’m a slow runner. You could call it a wog, a slog, or a really fast amble. But I get there, eventually. My best time for the 13.1 is two hours and 58 minutes. My goal is to beat that. At least by a minute.

7) Write. Every, single damn day. Aim for an hour, settle for a half.

Writing is a discipline. And one of the qualities I do not possess is discipline. I want to write a book. And I’m going to need to find discipline. At my desk, in front of my keyboard. Every. Single. Day.

8) Ride in the Bike MS. Ride both days; minimum 126 miles.

The greatest distance I’ve ridden in the Bike MS is 67 miles. Life (and travel) has gotten in the way, year after year. This year, this summer, I’m going to ride. And ride and ride and ride. And work towards hitting my goal of 126 miles. I know I can do it … I’ve done the STP, for crying out loud. But it’s going to take some time in the saddle to get back there. So, watch out, Shane Train, I’m saddlin’ up. Pedal, pedal, pedal, repeat.

9) Do a “52 Weeks of Photo Inspiration Challenge”. Use each photo as inspiration for a weekly blog post.

Two skills I have been interested in honing are writing and photography. This resolution serves both. I recently found a 52-week Photo Inspiration Challenge, with subjects ranging from passion to silhouette; from movement to high heels. I love the idea of seeking out an image that represents the subject so fully that it inspires me to write.

10) Read. At least a book a month. The kind of book that makes you think.

I have bookcases, and stacks, and piles of books. I love words, and sentences, and paragraphs. Words, sentences, and paragraphs that evoke emotion. I typically have four or five books at varying stages of completion. This year, each month, I am going to pick one. One that is hard work … whether the subject matter is politics, creativity, or a biography. Each month, I am going to start it, and I am going to finish it. And learn …

11) Enable my 401k Auto-Increase. Retirement is not so far away …

It is far too easy to find ways to spend money. Travel, books, travel, new shoes. And travel. But the closer I get to 55, and then to 60, the more I realize I want to fund my retirement in a way that I can continue to travel. I’m gonna need that trailer. And that dog. The 401k auto-increase is a painless way to gain some ground.

12) Get out of bed each weekday morning and get to the gym. Appreciate the ability to make that choice.

I love having coffee in bed in the morning. And I struggle to feel motivated to get to the gym. This year, I vow to remember the Harborview ICU. Remember Overlake Hospital. Remember there are people who would give anything for the privilege to move their body. Remember.

13) Go camping. At least once.

In a tent. With a campfire. And s’mores.

14) See Hamilton!

This one’s easy. And just damn fun. I’ve got tickets and three good friends to join me.

15) Get Kermit the Kayak out on the water at least every other week from June through August.

I bought Kermit to train for my Galapagos trip. The Galapagos trip is now a fond memory, so kayaking now serves only as fun with a side of fitness. I loved getting Kermit out on the water, but barely got her wet last year. This year, Kermit’s gonna get busy.

16) Take a memoir writing class at Hugo House.

We are so lucky in Seattle to have such a place as Hugo House. I have so many stories to tell, and Hugo House will walk with me on that journey.

17) Send hand-written birthday cards and thank-you notes.

I have a neighbor that writes thank-you notes. Beautifully handwritten notes. The notes are specific. She writes why she is thankful. She writes what your gift, or act, means to her. She writes these notes even though her home stands just behind mine. She takes the time to buy the card, write her carefully-considered words, seal and stamp the envelope, and send it. These notes … they mean so very much.

18) Make my den the most comfortable, welcoming room in the house. Call it a studio. Write there.

I have some ideas about how to do this. The bay window in my office looks out on to an umbrella-shaped tree. A well-stocked hummingbird feeder keeps my favorite bird dancing just outside the window. My father’s typewriter sits atop my desk. The room is bright in the afternoon light. I need a new chair. A chair that invites me to appreciate the tree, the birds, the warm afternoon light. I need to organize, remove the clutter. A fresh coat of paint, maybe, and an ottoman. And some antique letters, above that bay window: “Deb’s Studio” . Where magic happens.

Here’s to a happy and healthy 2018 …

Alone

I’ve been single for eight years. Up until I decided to spend some time alone, I chose the wrong men. Unavailable men. Selfish men. Cruel men. Over and over, I made bad decisions. Until the day I decided I was incapable of making a good one. So I chose to be alone.

Achingly alone.

Since that day, I’ve lived life fast and hard. I go out too much, spend too much, drink too much. I run. Like I still have the fire and frenetic energy of the fourteen-year old runaway I once was. Like I’m being chased by a predator. If I stop, if I breathe, I feel. So I keep running.

Last night, I saw a photo of an infinity pool overlooking a beach, with two beers in a bucket in the foreground. The photo shattered me for what it implied. Two people will share that view of the beach. Two people will meld their bodies and drink a beer together. Two people. The image triggered the kind of deep, empty sadness that makes it hard to breathe.

I’ve been thinking a lot about solitude; what it feels like to be solely responsible for every household or life decision, every hardship, and every joy. To feel the vacuum of a joke without an audience. Does a solitary path still feel solid under my feet? The walls I have built to protect myself have become a prison, and I’m starting to believe they no longer serve me. I can’t run fast enough to escape my history. There are remnants of my past that push the notion that I am not good enough, or pretty enough, or worthy of a healthy relationship. It’s hard work to counter those thoughts. But I’m trying.

This time of year is predictably more difficult than the long, warm days of summer. For me, the expansive hours of darkness feel oppressive, and the loneliness cuts deep. I have no need to be rescued. For years, I’ve proven to myself that I am strong and capable. But I feel a growing yearning to share my life, to share adventures. And tell someone my damn jokes. My resolve is softening; my commitment to living a solo life is slowly crumbling. There are good men out there. Kind men. Compassionate, ethical, honest men. I know there are, because I know some of them.

These thoughts scare me. A lot. So … baby steps. Beginning with saying out loud what my heart has been whispering. To quote Forrest Gump, “And just like that, my runnin’ days was over.”

Gratitude and Loss …

I’m on an airplane on my way to Palm Springs. The plane is soaring over a blanket of fluffy, cotton clouds that will dissipate the farther south we go. We’re flying in to sunshine and ninety-degree weather. My sister has a beautiful home, and a salt-water pool. We’ll celebrate Thanksgiving with turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and cranberries. We’ll enjoy our feast poolside, around a table with a built-in fire pit. We’ll probably have too much wine.

I’ll go for a walk and admire the palm trees lining the streets. I’ll marvel at the brilliant azure sky contrasting with the pale, dusty mountains that tower over Susan’s home. We’ll laugh until our bellies hurt. We’ll play games, and we’ll spend a lot of time in that pool. The perfect Thanksgiving. Sounds idyllic.

Doesn’t it?

But on my way to work this morning, I was struck with a sadness so deep, so empty, that it took my breath away. I pulled over. Pressed my forehead against the steering wheel. Thinking back to a sweet spot in my life. In my family’s life. To a Thanksgiving more than twenty-five years before. Justin was about eight, I think. All four of my grandparents were alive. My sisters and I were happy in our marriages, and our four children were whole and healthy. My parents were vibrant and strong.

But this year, we’re scattered. Fragmented. My son will spend the holiday with his girlfriend’s family in Washington. My sister, Neil, and Izzy will stay home to look after their animals. My nephew, Chris will join them from Montana. They have friends joining them, too. They’ll have a fun, raucous, unconventional holiday.

I have another niece and a nephew, estranged from the family, who will be somewhere. I don’t know where.

I am so full of gratitude for what I have. For my parents, who are still the adventurous, fun-loving, consistent mom and dad they have always been. For my son, who has grown up to be a remarkable young man. His girlfriend, who I love like my own daughter. My sisters. Izzy. Neil. Dennis. Innumerable friends, more precious than gold.

But that gratitude is tempered by the experiences that have formed today’s reality. To juxtapose the memory of my healthy boy with the young man who struggles every day with his damaged body. To remember those times before great loss. Before divorce. Before mental illness and substance abuse. Before my nephew’s Purple Heart.

I know by Thursday, the gratitude will win. It always wins. But the older I get, the messier it all becomes. Gratitude and loss have become inextricably bonded. So today, I’ve spent some time grieving. But tomorrow , I’ll get on with the business of living in the moment. With joy, and laughter, and one spectacular cannonball. There is a pool here, after all …

The seed of an idea …

The seed of an idea, to move from being a sporadic, informal storyteller to putting my thoughts on a more formal platform, took root long ago. The birth of that idea will take me another step further. I’ve gotten past the first stage, where I didn’t speak it out loud. It was too fragile. I lacked confidence. I wasn’t sure my voice had that much value. Now, I’m in my first trimester. I’m settling in to the idea. I’m getting excited about it. Some of the stories I’ve told have encouraged meaningful conversations … with my friends, with my family. But it still feels tenuous.

There are details in the evolution … the business side of it, the marketing; getting the word out. I created a new Instagram account. Added a link to my blog. And I’m on Twitter! But I have not mastered that. This will continue to be an interesting learning process.

But it’s not the heart or soul of my journey.

I’ve thought a lot about inspiration recently. Things need to happen in order to have something to write about. They can be little things … the beauty of the season’s first snowfall. Or they can be epic, like sailing around the Antarctic Peninsula. But mostly, they’re somewhere in between. For me, inspiration can come in many forms. But, travel. Wanderlust. When I’m planning a trip, remembering a place, reminiscing over photos, talking about where I’m going, or where I’ve been, I can feel the vibration in my bones.

Four years ago yesterday, I was with my sister on a trip to Thailand and China. Two years later, I buckled up and headed to Africa. Yesterday, I got my pre-departure briefing for Antarctica. In between, I felt the sand in my toes in the Galapagos Islands. I kissed the Blarney Stone.

I often wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t tiptoed along the edge of the brink. If I’d never felt an invasive ventilator pumping life-giving air in to my lungs. What if I never observed the relief and joy of my family as I responded after a night of being told I wasn’t going survive? Would I have tried to see so much of the world? Maybe, but likely not with the same sense of urgency. Those things did happen, though, and it gave my life fire. Turns out, the chance to start over was the very best kind of gift. One I won’t ever take for granted.

The seed of an idea … I think there’s a book in that.

No, Dad. We don’t crowd-surf anymore.

My sister celebrated her birthday on Saturday. We’ve traded concert tickets for our birthdays since Star Jeans and feathered hair, and this year was no exception. I was talking to my dad before we left on Friday. He was surprised we hadn’t grown out of wanting to sing and dance and listen to live music. “Are you going to crowd-surf?”, he asked. I laughed. We have definitely grown out of that.

We traveled from Seattle to Vancouver, BC, making our way up along scenic Chuckanut Drive. At this time of the year, it is a vibrant tunnel, with thousands of golden leaves falling gently from the sun-dappled canopy. The leaves dance from our tires as we wind through the narrow byway.

There is something about driving that makes conversation easy. Amy and I had hours together, stopping when a peek at the water or a path through the woods caught our eye. We talked about memories of our childhood, and the angst and tragedy, both real and imagined, of our youth. We laughed at concerts past. How we would enthusiastically weave our way through the crowd, ducking and dodging, to reach the coveted front row. And laughed even harder about how rude that seems now. It was worth the affront to gain a front-row seat to Steven Tyler, Bon Scott … Mick Jagger.

I love having sisters as best friends. I got lucky. I got two. The intimacy of knowing a person from birth is an extraordinary gift. We’ve shared rooms and secrets. We’ve fought, and we’ve made up. My sisters share my history. They know my soul.

I know family isn’t safe, or comfortable, for everyone. It can be tangled and messy. It can mean pain, and it can mean comfort. It has expectations. If you’re fortunate, stretched tightly beneath those expectations is a sturdy safety net. I am so thankful for the gift of my family. I have never felt alone, and I am grateful.

Happy birthday, sis. I love you.

Wanderer …

Someone asked me the other day if, after visiting Antarctica, I will have seen all of the world’s oceans. Not even done with my first goal of seeing all the continents, and this question had me plotting the next. After I sail among the icebergs of the Southern Ocean, I will have one remaining: the Arctic Ocean. I was close when I visited Iceland, but close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. The Arctic Ocean seems a little daunting to get to, but is bordered by Greenland, Canada, Alaska, Russia, and Norway, so I have options. Spitsbergen, Norway, perhaps?

This discussion got me thinking about destinations. There is a thought-provoking reporting tool in the admin section of my WordPress site. The report lists the countries of the people that have landed on my blog. Today, it stands at 65, from Israel to Saudi Arabia, to Slovenia and Nicaragua. It is such a compelling list … my imagination ran wild. Which post did the person from Algeria read? What keyword was searched from the Czech Republic? Someone from Mauritius found me. Seeing the Underwater Waterfall there has been on my bucket list for years.

Countries

This list of sixty-five diverse countries fascinated me. So I broke it down. Out of the sixty-five, how many countries have I been? Fourteen. Places I want to go? Twenty-eight. Airplane tickets in hand? Two. Which places do I not know enough about to put it in any of the categories? Twenty-one. I’m eager to put some time in to learning about these far-flung locations. I imagine some of them may go in the “no chance in hell” bucket, but others stand a good chance of being the next grand adventure.

What a world we live in. In some ways, it feels so small. In other ways, it feels overwhelmingly vast. There are cultures to experience, wildlife to revere, history to study. To stand before a majestic mountain range inspires genuine awe, as does the expanse of an open sea.

While there are 65 counties on my WordPress report, there are 196 countries in the world. I’ve seen a mere 20. Girl, you need to get busy.

ALL the pants!

The weight loss journey is full of ups and downs (so to speak). A couple of years ago, I was going horseback riding in Glacier National Park, and one of the facts I had to enter on my reservation form was my weight. These things seem unrelated, but unfortunately, when I originally signed up for the trip, rather than my ACTUAL weight, I entered my goal weight. Seemed like terrific incentive at the time. Less so, after I later had to admit … “Uhhhh … I’m gonna need a bigger horse.”

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Now, I’m getting ready to go on my extreme adventure, and I’m at it again. I’ve been on Weight Watchers for several months, and while there continues to be, quite literally, many ups and downs, the trend is downward. For the last couple of years, I have made extensive use of leggings, stretchy skorts, and comfy maxi skirts. Deep in my closet, structured pants collected dust.

Last night, I decided to give it a go.

Reluctantly, I tried on the first pair of dusty pants, and they FIT! Eyes round, my mouth in a surprised “o”, I tried the second. They fit, too! And a third. I whispered, “all the pants”. This continued for the fourth, fifth, sixth pair of pants. By living alone, I am free to fully express myself in the privacy of my own home. In this case, I likely saved someone a call to the psychiatric ward, as I danced in my closet, wildly giggling and shouting, “ALL THE PANTS!” over and over.

All this time, I didn’t know. I didn’t need stretchy fabric. I didn’t need to go shopping. I just needed to eat lettuce!

Dreams and crossroads …

My mom and I had lunch with an old friend yesterday. One we hadn’t seen for a very long time. Sylvia had been cleaning out her house, and came across a couple of old memories. It was so fun to dust them off, and remember …

One of the things she had was a design board I made for her when she bought her home. Along with the design board was a folder that held concepts for color, furniture, and seating. We were sitting in the room I had helped her design. I looked around, looked back at the folder, and looked around the room again. The layout, color, and texture of the room reflected so many of the ideas I had presented to her more than a decade before. Her room was lovely, and it withstood the test of time.

Just before I worked with Sylvia on the room, I had been working at a telecom company for seven years. I was the thirty-third employee in ‘96, and rode the wave as the company grew, went public, and eventually failed. The late 90s were a wild ride as the dot-com bubble grew and grew, and finally burst. My career had evolved from a temporary receptionist to an executive assistant, and eventually a business manager. The company was closing, though, and I didn’t want to do that anymore.

So I went to design school.

My mind was on fire. My homework kept me awake at night in the best possible way. I dreamed about color and form, and I had never felt so alive. I spent hours with drawings and textiles and flooring and color. I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to immerse myself in ideas and innovation. I wanted to create.

And then, I got a call.

My previous boss had joined a new company, and offered me a job. It was a good offer. I was a single mom; a responsible mom. I was standing at a crossroad. I loved what I was doing. But it was risky. Being a business manager was reliable. Sensible. Being a designer inspired passion, but felt frivolous against the safety of the known. I felt heavy as I accepted the offer.

Since then, I’ve been a business manager, a logistics manager, a project manager, and a business analyst. I have a lot to be thankful for. My career has paid the bills. I was able to raise my boy in reasonable comfort. It has allowed travel to places I might never have been able to afford. But what if I would have rolled the dice and stuck with my passion? Seeing that design board brought my hunger for creativity back in a rush.

I feel like I’m standing at a crossroad again. Create. My dream at this juncture in the road is to travel, photograph, and write. But this time, there is a lesser sense of urgency. I have time to plan. In the meantime, I will be reliable. I will be sensible. And I will prepare to be frivolous.

Because this time, it’s gonna stick.