I’m not a big fan of looking backwards, usually. There’s nothing you can do to change the past, so dwelling on it serves little purpose in my mind. Learning from it? Well, that’s something.

This year has taught me so very much. About me. About my friends. About my family. And about life in general. The lessons have sometimes come in powerful face slaps that sent me reeling for days or weeks on end. Sometimes they’ve snuck up on me, quietly, like Batman does on his villains. And I imagine still others have yet to register yet.

I took possibly one of the biggest risks I could have this year by walking away from a job that wasn’t making me happy to explore and find what would. My daughter was just a year old, and I had three months’ worth of income in the bank and a relatively solid idea of what I was good at. That was it. I started Altitude because I believed in what I was capable of doing. I still do. And the people around me have supported me, encouraged me, and unwaveringly cheered me on all the way.

So what I have I learned?

• Nothing is impossible.
• Believing in yourself is paramount, because absolutely no one else can adequately do it for you.
• True friends are worth everything, and they show themselves in the moments when you need them most. Treasure them.
• Hard work really does pay off. Not always right away, but it does.
• There are few absolutes in the world, save the love you have for your child.
• I am far stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.

Those of you reading here have likely landed because we’ve met somewhere along the way – either online or off. And I have to tell you that *you* are what keeps me coming back to this every day. Working insanely long days and waking up in the middle of the night to scribble down a fleeting idea. Because walking away from the corporate world was, in large part, a commitment to something bigger than me, part of which manifests in sharing this personal blog. I don’t want to do it on my own. I want you along with me. What fun is an adventure if you can’t share it?

Thank you for being here. Thanks for your friendship, your humor, your encouragement and your conversation. 2008 has been a pivotal year for me, and I can’t wait to charge into 2009 with all of you by my side.

Cheers, and Happy New Year to all of you.

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There are mice in my garage. And I don’t care.

I was actually alerted to this fact when, bleary eyed, I stumbled into my kitchen yesterday morning to find a small, ash colored field mouse curled up dead on the floor. It didn’t alarm me much (if it had been a cockroach, that’d have been a whole different scenario), but I was a bit sad. I think one of the cats probably had a bit too much fun with the poor thing and smooshed it to death.

So I did what any non-rodent petrified person would do and, rather than shrieking to wake up the rest of the house, I took an old tea towel and gingerly picked him up, wrapped him neatly, and carried him to the garage to lay him gently to rest in the Big Trash Can in the Sky (almost).

When I opened the door, I saw three little furry puffs, huddled behind the dog food, staring nervously at me. They scattered almost as quickly as I noticed them, disappearing somewhere behind the luggage and the clothes I’ve been meaning to donate to Goodwill for about three years.

I said a quick little something to the sky on behalf of my silent little stowaway, and put him in the trash. I was even careful to nestle him among the plastic so he didn’t tumble into a dark corner somewhere.

For a moment, I exercised my anthropomorphism and reflected on whether the mouse’s family and friends would be missing him, wondering what happened after he so bravely found a way to venture into the Warm House in search of dinner or something. I wondered if they realized what had happened, that their garagemate had met his doom in my kitchen only to be shipped off to the trash. I wondered if they were worried they’d be next.

So I did what any completely sane woman would do, and I gathered an old pillow, pulled off the cover, and used a box cutter to tear up a bit of the fluff and make a pile of warm fuzziness that just might make a human’s rendition of a mouse house. I took a handful of dog kibble and stuck it down inside. Then I tucked the pillow back in the corner where my pocket-sized tenants would be sure to find it.

I know they’re rodents, ok? I know this. But my garage is nothing more to me than a disorganized storage mess. It’s brimming with forgotten gadgets and books I can’t bear to part with but will never again read. It’s crammed with boxes I don’t even remember. They’re just more like accidental appendages, trailing behind me from move to move like toilet paper on a tennis shoe.

To them, it’s a warm(ish) shelter from the cold, somewhere to be relatively safe from harm, a place to be with their family and huddle together. I’m ok with sharing that with them. They’re not hurting anyone, most especially me, and I’ve got the room to let. After all, isn’t a little comfort and shelter something we all seek?

Photo credit: aturkus

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Insecurity is so painfully, imperfectly human.

I’ve been reading a novel lately, the details of which are actually rather inconsequential. What’s struck me over and over is the dialogue.

The main character is a typically flawed, introspective and remarkably intelligent young woman. She’s in love with someone, but she’s sharply insecure about that relationship. Not surprising.

The brilliance is in the fact that her love interest allows – nay, encourages – her to speak what she’s thinking and feeling, regardless of how it may sound in the braces of love. Irrational. Needy. Insecure. Desperate. Wanting. And then he does something remarkable: he responds to it, and is reassuring. We as readers are immediately drawn to their relationship because as imperfect as it is, it has the element of reassurance.

We crave reassurance as humans. In fact, many of us are quite capable of recognizing that our thoughts and feelings are often irrational and driven by wayward emotion. But we want those we care about to not only encourage us to share those torturous thoughts, but we want to hear that they have them too. We want them to tell us it will be ok. That they care about us. That they’re going to be there anyway. The dialogue I’m reading is moving, if only because it satiates the wish we (or at least I) have to have someone look you up and down, and still tell you that you hold a very special place in their world.

Some of the most primal of human connections are based in a very fundamental sense of acceptance. We use familiar life constructs to define that: they like the same music I do, or we laugh at the same jokes, or we enjoy the same movies or books or activities. But what’s really at issue is the unconscious message that “you understand me”, and often in terms not easily articulated in written or spoken words. It’s a sense that by our affinities, we’re communicating something far more complicated and intricate about who we are, but those are more safely tucked behind more mundane ideas of hobbies.

Unless, of course, someone clicks with us enough to translate what lies beneath. And then, somehow, we feel validated. We are comforted in the knowledge that we are unique, that we have something to offer to someone that’s special to them, that they’d be missing something if not for us. We are reassured that we are not accidental.

How very fragile and elusive that can be.

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The amazing thing about the web is that your friends come from everywhere. Some you don’t even get a chance to meet. And in the spirit of Thanksgiving and before we all get wrapped up in the hubub, I wanted to spend a moment and say thanks to a few people that have touched me this year via these crazy interwebs. So here we go, in no particular order:

Mack Collier: For reminding me that chivalry is not dead, and that nice guys can still finish first. You’re one of the good eggs, Mack. Never change who you are. Thank you for being my friend.

Beth Harte: For unabashedly sharing her passion, and for always encouraging me never to hide my own. Beth, you’re someone that I hope I know and share life with for years to come.

Tim Jackson: For teaching me yet again that perseverance triumphs, and for being gentle and kind of spirit. There are few people who embrace and appreciate subtle beauty in the world, and I feel truly blessed to occasionally share the world through your eyes.

Frank Martin: You’ve shown me what generosity, humor, and compassion look like all wrapped up in a handsome package. You encouraged me and believed in me from the beginning, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.

Pamela Martin: For letting us all have a bit of Frank, and for giving me endless amounts of laughter. Your ability to connect viscerally with people is profound, and I can’t wait for the next opportunity we have to cause a little mayhem together.

Jason Falls: Every conversation with you is eye-opening, and few people on the planet can elicit the unadulterated laughter that you do. For all the friendship, understanding, hilarity, and all that’s to come, I thank you.

Chris Brogan: Talent, generosity, brilliance and a searing wit all balled up in a guy who not only is amazingly good at what he does, but has the humility and ability to connect with people like few others I know. Cheers to always having copious junk monkeys, and never forget Step 1.

Geoff Livingston: Your personal brand is really high on my list. You’ve always told me to stay true to myself, and somehow, I keep listening. Thanks for that. Personal brand or no, I’m proud to call you my friend.

Liz Strauss: If I were building barns, I’d want you with me. Not only do you bring light and happiness wherever you go, but your desire to lift up those around you is an example that everyone needs to see.

Connie Reece: Pink boa or not, you are beyond fabulous. Everyone needs a Connie. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve brought me perspective that I just wouldn’t have otherwise found. Thank you for giving so much of yourself for others, always.

Kellye Crane: Talk about an inspiration! Every moment I’ve been terrified of doing this solo gig, you’ve been proof positive that not only can it be done, it can be done with style and poise. I can’t wait for the chance to share a cocktail and toast your success.

Sonny Gill: You’ve given me a whole new appreciation for Armani. I blame you for sucking me back into fantasy football this year, but getting to know you as a friend and colleague has been worth it. Plus, you let me beat up on the boys. That’s been fun.

Deb Robison: Just when I think you’re this delicate flower, you make me spit wine on my computer screen with a joke that I thought only I could appreciate. And what a razor sharp mind you have. Thank you for the hijinx. Just wait until we get together in person. Heh.

Tara Whittle: I’ve missed you since I’ve been so absent from Plurk, but I blame you for the money I spent on purple eyeshadow. You are so crazy smart, and incredibly warm and giving. I’m so glad we’ve connected.

Donna Tocci: I’ve missed you on Plurk, too. But you have always had a nanner for me when I needed one, and I can’t imagine how to return that favor now that my karma doesn’t allow me any. I was so excited to meet you, but it was far too short. Let’s be sure that the next time is longer.

Ann Handley: Word snobs, unite. I’m so inspired by your writing and your sense of humor. You have a talent, Ann. Plus, you crack me the hell up. Thanks for not only the professional opportunities, but for adding color and humanity to my crazy world.

Gavin Heaton: I will always remember how totally floored I was the first time you left a comment on my piddly little blog. You too regularly stitch me up with laughter, and often you probably don’t even know it. One of these days, I’m going to make it down under and thank you in person.

Jennifer Laycock: You’ve been another person that constantly amazes me with your generosity of spirit and commitment to do well by the people in your world. Thank you, for your encouragement in my professional adventures, but also for being someone that exemplifies the good in people.

David Alston: How fortunate am I that I get to call you my client AND my friend? I hope the latter will long outlast the former. We’re gonna kick some tail together, you know. And maybe do some Johnny and June cash renditions if I have enough margaritas.

Christina Kerley: Click My Junk, lady. You are profoundly amazing and you inspire me. That is all.

Gennefer Snowfield: How can I not love someone who loves jelly? Aside from that, you make me work my brain, and you understand some of the crazy shit that results. It’s always gratifying to meet a kindred spirit across the web, and I’m super glad I met you.

There are so many of you, and I’m sure I’ve missed someone, somewhere. And there are many of you that I’m just getting to know: Shannon Paul, Dave Mullen, Miguel Cano, Amber Tardiff, Olivier Blanchard, CC Chapman, Justin Cresswell, Lucretia Pruitt, Scott Parks, Katie Morse, Valeria Maltoni, Steve Woodruff, Lisa Hoffmann, Ken Burbary, Leigh Duncan-Durst, Cara Kiethley. And the dozens of people who keep showing up in my crazy universe, day in and day out, taxing my brain and expanding my mind and restoring my faith in the fact that connections between people are real, and good.

For those of you I have yet to get to know, let 2009 be the year when I count you too among my friends, and give you something worthwhile in return.

It’s your impact on people’s lives, including mine, that makes a big, fat, outrageous difference. You’ve blessed me. Thank you.

Photo Credit: carbonnyc

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When I was a child, there was a man named Kelly that worked at our local grocery store. It wasn’t much of a fancy store, just your typical neighborhood grocery where you occasionally ran into a schoolteacher in the aisles. (That in itself was always strange to me as a kid, imagining that my teachers had lives outside the classroom.)

Kelly was probably in his 50s or 60s, and he worked at the end of the cash register, bagging groceries and tucking paper sacks in carts. All the sacks were paper then, and they smelled vaguely of wood and dust, and made a delightful crinkling sound when all smashed aside one another in the grocery cart.

I’ve never known someone as happy as Kelly, I don’t think. He sang, and his laughter was big and unapologetic. His skin was a deep brown, and I remember how bright his enormous white teeth shone against it. The best part for me was when Kelly handed out lollipops. Each time he saw me, he asked me my name, although he must have known it a hundred times over. I’m sure now that he asked me just so I would tell him, and he could tell me just what a beautiful name it was.

There was a resonant, deep joy about this man. I never realized it, really (and I imagine there aren’t many 7-year-olds contemplating such things, especially when faced with a delightfully sticky sucker to distract them). He was that guy that everyone has a story about – the guy that just manifested happy, in all its glory.

He bagged groceries. As an adult, I’m now struck by the complexity of everything that makes up my world, and I wonder how I’d feel about working at the local grocery store, helping people out to their cars with today’s super-mega-bulk packages of Charmin and strawberries and anti-bacterial wipes. In fact, there aren’t many Kellys anymore, what with self-checkout and warehouse clubs where bags are dispensed with altogether.

Would I want for more? He didn’t. Or at least, he didn’t appear to. Kelly might have had regrets, or dreams of something else. But you’d never know it in the way he smiled and sang and laughed and brought everyone along for the ride with him. It’s as though the simplicity of his day was just fine by him, and handing me that red sucker while I blushed and stammered my way through a meek “thank you” was the highlight of his week. Maybe it was.

I imagine Kelly’s life as a simple one. A fulfilled one, and surely not without sadness at times, but overall one of contentment and peace. A home of his own, friends, a card game on the weekends and family over for Sunday supper. And then Monday, back to the store and brown paper sacks and neighborhood gossip.

Kelly must be quite elderly now if he’s still wandering this rock. I find him cropping up in my mind often, mostly when I find it hard to believe that simple and unfettered happiness is something real. I hear him laughing. I nearly hear him telling me that whatever it is, it’s just not that big a deal.

I’m not much for fluffy inspiration in hollow places. But Kelly brings me back to simple tenets that somehow always seem to matter. Be helpful, be kind, laugh, give of yourself, lift others, be grounded, say nice things.

And as often as you can, give out lollipops.

Image credit: Darwin Bell

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There’s been a bit of a meme traveling the web lately, asking people to detail five things about themselves that are little known. And while no one tagged me in particular, a few people asked, and I felt like it would be kind of fun to think about what those five things would be, and test my bravery a bit to let them out.

1. I don’t have a college degree.

Perhaps some of you aren’t really shocked by this. I’m about 21 credits (1 semester or so) shy of my music performance degree. Why? Well, I knocked around for a while trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, so landing in music took a little self exploration. Which put me on the six year plan, and that meant four years of tuition money wasn’t going to cut it. So after attempting to work full time and go to school full time, I had to make the difficult choice to go find a “real job” and hope that life would take me back to school someday. If I had all the money in the world, I’d be a career student. I love learning. But landlords don’t take extra credit to pay the rent. So, I ventured off into the business end of the music world, working as a fundraiser for the symphony orchestra. I loved it. My career took off, and I never managed to get around to going back.

Has it hindered me? Not really. I suppose I haven’t gotten a few interviews because of it, but in retrospect, I’d never be where I am now if I’d decided to settle into the corporate lemming walk off the MBA cliff (sorry MBA friends, nothing against it, just not my gig).

2. I’m self conscious about my hearing.

No big sob story here, just lots of troubles as a kid that left me with pretty limited hearing in my right ear. (And please believe me when I say that my hindrance is microscopic compared to some.) Background noise on phones sucks. And professionally, it’s challenging to be in a crowded cocktail party or conference and fight to hear the conversation happening just a few feet from me. So if I say “what?” a lot in our conversations, it’s not because I’m not listening. Chances are it’s because instead, I’m hearing the asshole behind me prattle on about his weekend conquest instead of your illuminating dialogue.   At least now it’s socially acceptable to have headphones jammed in your noggin all the time.

3. In another life, I’d be a physicist.

I’m a complete nerd when it comes to space stuff. I get the astronomy photo of the day from NASA, because I can. I can stand outside and stare at the stars for hours on end, even in frigid weather. I’ve read Brian Greene‘s The Elegant Universe and The Fabric of the Cosmos over and over again (and my brain still hurts). If I had school to do over again (see #1 above), I might just try and do something science-y. The trouble there is my lacking math skills, but hey, a girl can dream.

4. I’m a cliche: I ride horses.

Off and on, I’ve done hunters/jumpers for about 20+ years. (For the non-horse people in the audience, that’s the rather reckless practice of riding a 1,500-pound horse while it jumps over fences decorated like little houses or barns or dumb stuff like that).  I’ve broken I think  a total of 11 bones doing it over the years – most of them minor (although the tailbone one was pretty unfun). Horses are a wonderful outlet for me – I could (and have) spend an entire Saturday, filthy with horse hair and barn dust and be completely blissful. I don’t own my own horse and never have, but someday, I will. In the meantime, I’ll be content to ride other people’s and dream of the Olympics.

5. My Gramma Rules.

Ruthie is 85, and during the warmer months, she gets around on her hot pink mountain bike to take herself to the store, garage sales, whatever suits her fancy. She paints, and she’s amazingly talented ( I have several of her paintings in my house, and I treasure them all).  She was married to a wonderful man who tragically succumbed to alcoholism and later cancer, and she always maintained a disposition of hope and optimism. She’s also agoraphobic, fighting for 50+ years to learn to be comfortable in open settings, social situations, and crowds (and she’s overcome it beautifully).  Gramma never, ever fails to make me laugh, amaze me with her wisdom, or spoil me rotten. I’m so blessed to have someone like her to guide me through this crazy world.

So, there you have it. I’d love to know five things about you. I’m not going to tag you lest I put undue pressure, but please do share. It’s the fun of all this, after all.

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