“Dare: To reach life’s end having lived not only the length of it, but also its depth, width and height.”

During a recent meeting to refinance my mortgage, the loan officer asked about my current income.

I looked at the coffee mug I was suddenly squeezing.

I had come to hate this question.  It seemed so intrusive, so evaluative – a mother-in-law questioning your childrearing skills, a dentist inquiring about your flossing routine.

I knew he wasn’t judging me.  He had arranged several mortgages for me in the past, and as per our routine, we chattered with the comfort and candidness of old friends rather than as loan officer and customer – he even told me about his wife’s illness, her fears, her struggles.

But still I hesitated.  The truth was discomforting: that I’d lost one of my clients, becoming a poster child for the recession.

My income had dropped.

And, I had no other immediate prospects, save a few temporary writing/editing gigs.

I had seen other people flinch at this information.  They’d study me with that quiet, assessing look, the one we all give the house that’s been on the market too many months or the student who has been in college too many years.  The conclusion:  There must be something wrong.

But nothing was wrong.

In fact, something was right.

Something right that meshed with The Dare.

Depth: Look inward. I wanted two situations in my life now more than I wanted the impressive income: (1) to spend more time with Just My Joe (significant other), and with the Prince (son Matt) while he is home from college for the summer, and (2) to spend more time writing.

Width: Look around.  I still had one client that I’d worked for, for almost ten years.  So, I was still producing, still making an income, still using my education.  As long as I was blessed to be able to work for this client, I would.  And, I would work hard for them.  Sure, the living is tighter.  But when is enough $$ ever enough?

I’d spent 25 years of my life thinking, “Just a little bit more, just a little bit more.”  And each time, the little bit more just set me up with a richer lifestyle, with more things that failed to satisfy, and true to form, I’d begun the “just-a-little-bit-more” chant all over again. An addict never satisfied.

Height: Look up. I had to have faith in myself, in God, in Just My Joe, that this would work.  When you feel called, nudged, needled to make a change, to step into the unknown, shouldn’t you have faith that it will work? When one door closes another door opens.

In 1993, the year my son was born, I first earned a six-figure income.  Nineteen years ago.  I can’t even imagine what that would equate to today, when adjusted for inflation.  And yet the money was nothing, NOTHING when compared to holding my newborn.

It took me a long time to realize that situations make me happier than things.  An organized home.  Parents within driving distance.  A son who is happy, fulfilled.  A man I trust and respect, and who loves me despite my flaws. Time to watch the sunrise from my porch, rich cup of coffee in hand.  A view of clumsy cows ambling through a pasture. A ramble on a 4-wheeler through nature so thick that I’m encased in green. Clinking glasses with friends or my surrogate sisters over a lunch of salmon in an upscale restaurant.  Pets that soothe me on tough days.

A few years ago, I gave serious effort to creating a Bucket List.  It was eye-popping. Under the category “To Own” I’d listed four things.  Under “To Do,” I’d logged thirty-six things, and under “To Visit,” a dozen destinations.  Doing and going outnumbered owning by about twelve to one.

And so it is that I’m living a little more frugally… but happily.

Back when I worked crazy hours, I was focused on life’s length, thinking that I’ll write “one of these days.”  Now I’m basking in the depth, width and height of actually doing it.