Everyone stops on occasion to ask, “Who am I and what’s the point of my existence?” and in between periods during the Stanley Cup Playoffs, I had a moment to lament my teams’ loss and ask, “Who ARE these jokers?” It gave me pause and I realized that I’m one of those jokers, groping around in the dark, trying to find the door knob. Did I tuck my chin down, grab a box of something from those darn Keebler elves and hide in my room listening to John Mayer? Oh no, baby. With the help of hockey, mummy had an epiphany and yes, I’m speaking in third person. Try it sometime – it’s empowering. Just don’t do it out loud at a PTA meeting.
I’m done feeling the icy fingers of fear curling around my mojo. I lived too long and experienced too much to allow fear to immobilize me, turning me into the proverbial deer in headlights. We run around like loonies and miss out on those dreams that we had when we were younger. What happened to them? They’re still there, along with some dusty French vocabulary from 10th grade and the lyrics to “Purple Rain”. Dig to find those dreams because our guts were right back then until someone told us that we weren’t realistic, pragmatic or had the talent and moxie to do it. Do you think Bill Gates, Donald Trump, Mother Theresa and the like actually listened to the nay sayers, so why did we? If we want to make our own wine, age our own cheese, write our own book, start our own business, move to another country and raise our children to think that the world is bigger than our neighborhood, then why can’t we? Nothing except fear has been holding us at bay and keeping our dreams this fuzzy little white boat on a distant horizon.
I want to be that ferocious mother, voracious wife, creative cook, prolific writer and all around powerhouse that I was born to be. I have a feeling that millions of people, particularly women, have given themselves away and feel like a whisper of their former selves. It dawned on me that along the way, I gave up my birth-right, allowing my attention, creativity and focus to be infiltrated. Like a puck making it past the glove of a hockey goalie. I’m done and taking my new found mojo, pairing it with well-placed juju and taking my husband, four kids and my 40 year old rear all the way to the Stanley Cup. And we’re not stopping until we all turn and look at each other breathlessly and say, “We did it.” And why a blog? Why the blog not?