travel

I Found My Heart in San Francisco

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

This land is your land, this land is my land…

Pandora just happened to settle on these words chirped by Elizabeth Mitchell as we drove from Sausalito to San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge catches my breath every time I see it. At first just peeking over Victorian rooftops and then, in plain, awe-inspiring site. We rented a convertible, because why not on a 24-hour surprise birthday trip to San Francisco with no kids?

Looking up to see nothing but blue sky and “international orange” felt like a mix between Full House dreams and a rollercoaster to freedom. Ryan reached cruising speed and my hands caught the wind above. I was completely overcome by the near perfection of the moment.

The extreme joy I felt, coalesced with an extreme fullness of my dad. Then, a deep longing to have him there with me. To experience joy with him one more time.

If I closed my eyes under the warm sun, I could almost feel him right there next to me. He always said yes to a spontaneous trip. No questions asked, other than, “When are we going?”. Windows down, one hand on the steering wheel and his elbow resting on the side of the car. A baseball cap, Oakley sunglasses, chewing Trident gum, while giving me a half smile that perfectly said, “It doesn’t get much better than this.”

I felt my dad the whole trip. Ryan said he did too. On the flights as my calming voice: “It’s going to be okay. Just enjoy it”. In the butterfly that greeted us halfway up a long hill on our hike in Marin. In the solo mountain biker cruising amidst the expanse of empty trails. In a juicy orange. In the fog horn and the ocean bell.

It’s amazing that my dad was in San Francisco. It confirmed that inkling, that he’s in me. He’s in all of us. He’s everywhere.

So, listen to the songs he loved.
Go to the places he loved to go.
Travel 500 miles away and feel him.
But also, just be. He’s right here.

The Time We Took Two Under 2 to Italy

~ Jenna ~ 2 Comments

“Would you do it all over again?”, asked my youngest sister. My mind quickly recounted slamming my hands into the mattress in a sleepless fury, while yelling, “I can’t do it anymore!”. And then I flashed to our self-guided nighttime walking tour through Rome, gelato in hand, engulfed by the romantic magic of a brand new city full of monuments older than Jesus.

Like life at home right now, traveling to Europe with an infant and a toddler was hard. And it was magical.

We had been planning for our Italian family reunion for the last year and also loosely planning our second baby around it too. September was our last month of trying where I wouldn’t be too pregnant or have too young of a baby to go.

As you might have guessed, I got pregnant. Our little seed of hope turned into a little baby girl and our family became four just two months before we would take off.

I was pretty anxious leading up to the trip; there were a lot of unknowns about how our independence-seeking, runaway two-year-old, and fresh into the world two-month-old would react in a new country. Germs, logistics, passports, schedules and other fear-based obstacles took turns making me question the plausibility of this trip.

There’s a Mark Twain quote that goes something like: when you look back over your life, you’ll regret more of the things that you didn’t do, than the things that you did.

So we went. For Mark Twain’s sake and for that vow we made to each other when we got married; to see the world together.

My mom dropped us off curbside at LAX’s Tom Bradley International Terminal. She kept saying how brave we were for going. Brave, or stupid, I kept thinking to myself.

I reminisced briefly on the last time I was in Italy. I wore an SDSU college sweatshirt, drank gin and tonics, and traveled spontaneously around with nothing but an oversized backpack. Here I was 10 years later, returning a slightly different version of myself. I wore Birkenstocks, drank beer (and also electrolytes) and traveled with four backpacks (and that was only our carry-on luggage).

We reserved the bulkhead seats and didn’t have too many annoyed eyes staring at us just yet.  After a few hours of airplane food, Daniel Tiger, Fancy Nancy and sticker books, Maisley reluctantly fell asleep on her makeshift bed below our feet. Coura took turns sleeping in her bassinet and wrapped to one of our chests. It definitely wasn’t relaxing, but also wasn’t as crazy as I had imagined.

We stayed in Rome for the first two nights and then took a NASCAR style ride out of city and into the countryside of Tuscany, settling into a farmhouse outside of the small hilltop town of Cortona.

28 of Ryan’s Dutch, American and Russian family members ranging from ages 5 to 75 all met us there for a week of family bonding, site seeing and gelato eating.

The first few days were an adjustment. I had that “out of my comfort zone” pit in my stomach, coupled with jet lag, cranky babies not sleeping, and 4th trimester surging hormones. Things that helped me get through those first days: time, meditation and focusing on my breath, talking and connecting with Ryan, sleep, prayer and staying present.

We went on a few day trips to surrounding hilltop towns, organized a fun game of water polo with all of the cousins at the farmhouse pool, and ate countless pizzas, all under the 100-degree tuscan sun. 

Maisley had a blast playing and swimming with her dutch cousins.  She even learned how to say her favorite word in dutch: nee (pronounced nay). She can now refuse us in two languages!

Coura slept, cried, smiled and drank her way through our Italian adventure, seemingly growing from a newborn into a baby during our 11 days abroad. “Unique Places I Breastfed Coura” is probably a blog of it’s own, but two highlights were the refreshingly cool floor of St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican and hilltops with expansive views of bright sunflower fields. 

Ryan and I took turns losing our mind, so that at least one person remained positive and calm at all times. We were saved by kind people at the airport who lead us to shorter security lines, quiet drives with napping babies, afternoon thunderstorms, and an amazon fire tablet holding our mini savior; a tiger in a red sweater.

After 20 hours of return travel, we arrived home with thankful hearts and extra tired eyes. We asked Maisley to tell us her favorite part of the trip. She replied with, “Sleeping on the airplane.”

While neither of the girls will remember this trip, it will forever be part of their essence and one Ryan and I will never forget.

We gained far more than we lost on this trip, and I’d do it all over again every time (although probably waiting until all kids are old enough to hold their own head up before we go). 

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In Maisley’s Backpack:
Pipe cleaners
Painters tape
Under the Sea & Zoo Sticker Books by Usborne
Traveling pack of Fancy Nancy books
Moana doll
Buckle Toy
Amazon Fire Tablet full of Shaun the Sheep, Daniel Tiger and Moana

In My Backpack:
doTERRA – On Guard Essential Oil Protective Blend
No Jet Lag Homeopathic Jet Lag Remedy
Bach Flower Rescue Remedy Drops (for anxiety)
Lavender essential oils
Cozy airplane socks
Ultima Replenisher Electrolyte Hydration Powder

Other Secret Weapons:
Mother and father-in-laws
Packing cubes
Family members who can calm your crying baby
Snacks, so many snacks

Sleep + Springtime

~ Jenna ~ Leave a comment

I miss her when she sleeps. 

Almost every night before I close my eyes, I lay under the covers with my iPhone in night mode and scroll through the thousands of images and videos of my happy girl. The trips we’ve taken, the simple moments at home, family love fests, her first this and that, smiles with dada.

The sleep deprived “me” of two months ago is rolling her eyes like I’m that mom.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m elated that she’s finally sleeping through the night. I did an invisible front-flip-back-handspring when I woke up after seven hours of uninterrupted snoozing.

I just feel this little tug of “something’s missing” whenever I’m not next to her. Will I feel this way forever? Is that why moms are so sad when their children go off to college? Now I’m really sad, why did I just go there?

In other news, spring is in the air and my excitement to travel and explore is in overdrive.

As soon as March hits, like clockwork, I suddenly and impulsively find myself booking trips. Almost like an addiction, I get this high knowing I’ll rekindle with my vacation-self soon.

Traveling with Maisley is different, but also has a new level of enjoyment (like most things in motherhood).  She got her wings at three months old on a trip to Seattle. I fed her on the way up and down, otherwise she slept most of the time.

I think our upcoming trips to Portland and San Francisco will be easier and harder in different ways. Easier because she’s more of a human at 8 months, and harder because I literally don’t think she fits into her “nimble nook” Pack ‘n Play anymore.

Regardless of the challenges, I’m actively committed to soaking up every minute with Maisley.

Because in a few fast months, the images from these trips will too become part of the memory montage on my dimmed iPhone screen.

P.S. I thought sleeping through the night would significantly help with my mental clarity throughout the day. However, yesterday, when I was trying to pay our gas bill online, my credit card wouldn’t work. I tried four times and then called my husband in frustration. Turns out I was inputting our zip code from 2012.

Maybe mom brain is permanent and the lack of sleep was just a good excuse.

Ideas & Daydreams

~ Jenna ~ Leave a comment

I felt a breeze of Australia today. I was putting Maisley in her car seat and out of nowhere this rush of air came through me like a whisper on a whim.

The sun, a smell, the air.

It was transporting and invigorating. It filled up my wanderlust tank in a split second. It was Australia, in Carlsbad. I felt it.

Australia is my daydreamer’s paradise. The place she goes while sitting in traffic or on a walk with Maisley. Specific spots all around the city come flooding into her: Watson’s bay, the coastal walk, Lord Nelson’s Brewery.

Sometimes I think those rush of beautiful memories are more divine than just a daydream.  As if they come straight from the Mother Nature and God collective. Those two creators sit amongst the stars, gleefully sending us beautiful signs of wonder right in front of us, and wonder we once knew.

I asked my beautifully creative photographer friend how ideas come to her. Are they abstract? Concrete? Do they come in color, words, images?

She told me that she writes in her morning pages every single day. While most of it is just stream of consciousness, she finds gems of ideas hidden in the words. She allows herself time to daydream so that she can create and experiment with original ideas, not just those she sees on Pinterest or Instagram. And she travels. Whoa does she travel.

She then returned the question.

An idea or thought typically comes into my mind either from something someone said, or a little pop from another train of thought. It floats around the chatter of my mind for a few days.

From the front, to the back, to the front again. It persists. Sometimes it bothers me.

A few other ideas begin circulating.

Then, without warning, a bigger idea comes into the flow. I call this thought, “the closer”. It comes in hot. It’s an idea that somehow makes the other ideas fit into a story or narrative. Then I write without hesitation. With freedom and ferocity.

Whatever the source, I’m just happy to get a breath of my soul place and a visit from creativity every now and again.

30 Years Young

~ Jenna ~ Leave a comment

20 wasn’t so long ago, and it was also a lifetime ago.

Many days in my early 20’s were marked with independence and freedom. My mid 20’s with uncertainty, exploration and career growth. And my late 20’s were filled with unconditional love, I do’s and a baby. I graduated college at 21, lived in Australia at 23, ran a marathon at 26 and had a baby at 29.

While sometimes I look back in disbelief and think “Who was that girl?!”, I know my core being is threaded through each of those years.

Turning 30 isn’t so scary. Maybe it’s because I watched so much Friends in my 20’s that being 30 seems pretty cool. Or maybe it’s because overall, I’m happy with how I lived in my 20’s.

My only complaint is how quickly the years whisked away. And I don’t think time is stopping for a coffee break anytime soon.

When our daughter Maisley was first born, she had three veins on her left hand that were darker than the rest, crossing in almost a tic-tac-toe fashion. As she enters four months of life, the once prominent markings are starting to fade.

Sometimes I feel overwhelming sad knowing these moments and years are fleeting, and that I can’t grasp them anymore than I am. Her giggle and the way she looks and feels right now, right in this moment, won’t happen ever again.

Sometimes I wish a day away because life is hard. But I won’t do that anymore. Not in my 30’s.

Ryan surprised me and planned a trip to Lake Arrowhead for my birthday. We got stuck in the snow and for a brief second my fatalistic mind thought, “This is it. This is how it ends”. But alas, we made it to the cabin. At dinner, everyone went around the room and said their favorite thing about me. I was embarrassed, but also proud.

Ryan told me that I’m the bravest person he knows. He remembers me walking with my pillow clutched to my chest through security at LAX airport when I moved to Australia. It’s the nicest thing he could say about me.

Sometimes I don’t feel brave. Sometimes I feel afraid. Afraid of success, afraid of failure, afraid that I’m not the mom I want to be, afraid that I’m losing direction in my career. Knowing that he believes in me and that my family believes in me, gives me the confidence to keep pushing and keep trying.

While time will do as she pleases, fast and slow, slow and fast, I will live boldly in this next decade. Unapologetic. I will live not for pleasing, but for growth, for my family, my faith and for my greater purpose. I will live with love and keep trying to be better at the little things and the big things.

I’ve got nothin’ but love and gratitude for you 20’s, but I’m ready for the next adventure.

 

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For Jack.

~ Jenna ~ 1 Comment

A legend;
humble in his adventures,
wild at heart,
a shipmate,
friend to many.

High wispy clouds,
a golden haze on the horizon.
Deep blue water,
an oasis of childhood memories.

Waves crashed on the three arch bay,
ebb and flow,
ebb and flow.
Bringing in peace,
washing away grief.

Family and friends gathered;
from every season,
from every adventure,
from many parts of the world.

We all shared him in common.

Beers on the beach,
that’s what he would do.

Everyone gripped their memories;
Ray Bans covered wet eyes.

Who loved him and he never knew?
Whose life did he change?

A hundred surfers took to the water;
a circle of stories, a prayer, wild flowers.
Ashes forever amongst the ocean,
forever amongst us.

Live like him;
don’t be afraid,
ignore the chatter,
burn bright,
to the fullest.

For Jack.

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Nesting : The Birds & Me

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There’s a Mourning Dove or “Love Dove” nesting right outside my front door.

I had been hearing her sweet cooing for a few weeks, and as I walked outside yesterday, she came rushing and flapping toward me in full mama protection mode. I was a little frightened by her to be honest. When I came back and saw her peacefully resting in her loose nest of twigs and branches, I understood the former commotion.

Our Love Dove’s two-week incubation seems like a drop in the bucket compared to my current 9 month gestational journey.  However, as I continue to see her everyday, I can’t help but notice the symbolism of motherhood soon to be hatching upon our home.

I have a self-admitted wandering spirit.  It’s something I love about myself that has been cultivated through years of travel and living abroad. But it’s also something that can leave me feeling unsettled, craving constant newness and change.

On any given free weekend, I am typically filling up the calendar with short road trips, adventures, or new happenings in our city. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet for too long, or whatever they say.

I always day dream of moving to a new city or raising my kids as cultured Europeans with my husband’s family in Holland. We talk about the small loft we would share and the important work we would do, the people we would meet and the amazing food we would eat.

But right now, in my third trimester of incubation, I am content. More than I ever have been.

I have this innate feeling of wanting to be home and stay close to home. I want to be here in Carlsbad, working and fiddling around the house. It’s such a foreign yet content feeling.

I have always had this fear of “settling down”. The phrase inherently feels opposite of the way I want to live my life. Who wants to simply “settle” for anything?

But maybe with the growth of new life and a change of seasons, I’m not as afraid. My husband reminds me that we will always travel, and that we will never lose our sense of adventure. We will just have to hire a bigger rental car.

I think I’m nesting too. 

Fire & Ice : A Writer’s Muse

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Mother Nature rules the roost on this island. She decides when Geyser will explode into the air, when the next volcanic eruption will transform the land, when the tectonic plates will shift and when the northern lights will dance. I felt small and insignificant, figuratively and literally next to the dramatic and fierce landscape, at the mercy of Her. A risk taker, enjoying a land that emitted a quiet, impending doom.

I couldn’t help but notice geometric patterns tagging the landscape; an ikat rug amidst the frozen lake, leopard print covering the mountain side. The bright colored roofs on a gloomy day made me giddy with childlike wonder and enamor.  The vibrant street-art filled the otherwise boring walls with a funky personality of opinion and depth. The volcano formed scenery reminded me of agro crag from Nickelodeon’s GUTS. Tales of mischievous elves and the hidden people ran through my mind as I gazed into the mountainside, feeling confident of their presence.

The dramatic landscape and the feeling of unpredictability in this country fosters raw, vulnerable art. A transformative aroma in the air, a feeling begging for fresh thought and nurtured ideas.

Iceland: the perfect setting for a writing retreat.

As I arrived home and unpacked my suitcase labeled ‘heavy’ by airport staff, the only thing I found left untouched was my little green book, Brave Enough, by Cheryl Strayed. She was scheduled to attend our writing retreat in Iceland, and of course, sign my book, but much to everyone’s disappointment, had the stomach flu and couldn’t make it.

The writers were reassured with an Icelandic saying, þetta reddast, meaning it will work out.

This little book represented a theme for my week at the retreat. What I thought would be my experience, was something quite different. Something more, defined not just by one person but an entire country, like-minded friends, authors and mouth-watering brown bread.

Self-discovery as a new writer was my heart-tugging purpose for attending the retreat. Looking back, a quite lofty goal. I have been seeking direction and clarity in my new full-time pursuit as a freelance copywriter/blogger/newsletterist/non-fiction short story teller, and this seemed like the perfect setting for exploration.

Wednesday to Sunday in the small, big city of Reykjavik were dedicated to writing, workshops, receptions and tours. I was intimidated by all of my accomplished co-writers, legitimized by their published work and extensive background. Were they nervous like me? Were they undercover introverts who love their alone time but also feel rejuvenated by fresh conversation and connection?

I knew I would have to explain myself as a writer and this made me a little anxious. As if someone was going to discover that I wasn’t actually a writer? In reality, being surrounded by so many honest and vulnerable people was a huge relief. These were my people. 

When I explained my current situation of career ambiguity (like some kind of a prognosis) to a man of 60-years, he just nodded his head in understanding and agreement.  He explained that he has done all types of writing in his career, and that was the best part about it. You don’t need to have just one formula.

One of the novelists, Adelle Waldman, recalled her humble beginnings saying, “I used to be just a girl with a word document.”

Maybe I’m in that phase.

I captured so many other important, tasty bits of knowledge throughout the retreat. Here is a small sampling:

  • If something disturbs you, write about it
  • Be humble in front of the world
  • You have an idea, now find the story
  • What is something you are too afraid to ever write about. Write about that.
  • Don’t mistake the good feeling of finishing something, with actually being finished
  • Emotional responses are not your friend
  • Writing is the only art form where you can inhabit the body and mind of another human, real or fake
  • Open yourself to condemnation and shame, and trust in everyone’s humanity
  • Know the difference between a confession (deep/dark) versus a revelation (how something changed you)
  • Ask yourself the question, “Who am I really?”
  • Be brave in your writing

I am brave. I am brave. I had to be brave traveling alone at 22 weeks pregnant. Brave to be vulnerable and true in sharing who I am. Brave to take the leap into a career of the heart.

Now, to take my real-life bravery and translate it into my writing, and my pursuit of new writing opportunities. My challenge and purpose is clear.

We were treated to a small Skype session with Cheryl Strayed at the end of the retreat. It all worked out. And I left with so much more than a signed book.

A soul brimming with creativity, motivation and bravery.

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Photo Credit: Lucy Rogers

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22 Weeks : 10 Days in Iceland

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As we made our descent onto the harsh landscape of a country inhabited with a mere 300,000 people, I couldn’t help but feel like we were landing on the moon. Accurately named the land of fire and ice, this country already had a grasp on me.

After much anticipation, 10 upcoming days of Icelandic adventure, a writing retreat, and a baby-moon were upon me. Here is a small taste of my experience traveling to Iceland while 22 weeks pregnant.

International travel as a baby bean carrier felt amazingly out of whack, but at the same time, so normal, because it was still me, doing my favorite thing in the world.

Far outside of my control and comfort zone, I quickly realized that the real Mother Nature rules the roost on this island. 

My anxiety level was certainly higher than on a normal trip, unsure of so many unknowns and wanting to protect my baby. I had a few rough nights of heart-racing insomnia that left me questioning my strength. This led to anxiety about having anxiety and not wanting to put extra stress on my baby. Anybody?

I quickly turned those thoughts into a positive mantra, arming myself with a new sense of purpose and double the amount of strength with my baby on board.

“I will not harbor unhealthy thoughts anymore.” – Elizabeth Gilbert.

With pickled shark plaguing the menus, I knew I was in for an interesting week of eating. We as Americans, or maybe me as an internet reading informant, seem to be significantly stricter on pregnancy diet than other countries. No lunch meat, no unpasteurized cheese, no raw eggs,  the list goes on. No such rules exist in Icelandic culture. I cheated a few times, and gave myself permission to be ok with it. Hunger and nausea usually won the battle when there was nothing else to eat!

Bean, will you forgive me?

Natural, geothermal hot springs sprinkled the landscape. A full-body mineral bath plunge felt like Iceland’s form of a baptism; holy relaxation. 

As if in perfect harmony with my need for reassurance, bean was moving around inside of me like a wild, fist-bumping banshee the entire trip. While laying in bed one night, watching “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, my husband felt bean kick for the very first time. His reaction and disbelief were priceless, slightly creeped out yet unable to get enough. We laughed and cried in a magical moment imprinted on my memory forever.

Despite the challenges, and missing out on a couple of experiences, it was worth it. It’s always worth it to jump out of my comfort zone and come back built up with an even greater layer of strength and bravery.

Our pseudo lunar landing was complete. One small stamp on our passport and one giant leap in the memory book for our family.

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“Trust me. It’s Paradise…

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“Trust me. It’s Paradise. This is where the hungry come to feed. For mine is a generation that circles the globe in search of something we haven’t tried before. So never refuse an invitation, never resist the unfamiliar, never fail to be polite, and never outstay your welcome. Just keep your mind open and suck in the experience and if it hurts, you know what… it’s probably worth it. You hope, and you dream but you never believe that something is going to happen for you, not like it does in the movies and when it actually does you expect it to feel different more visceral, more real, I was waiting for it to hit me……..I still believe in paradise, but now at least I know it’s not some place you can look for ‘cause it’s not where you go, it’s how you feel for a moment in your life…and if you find that moment… it lasts forever.” – Richard, The Beach