Becoming Jill of Ark

I’ve always been envious of those self-proclaimed commitment-phobes. A fear that prevents one from getting involved with someone or something for the long-term haul seemed like more of an asset than a disability. Me, I’m a serial commitment-seeker. My vice is chaining myself to circumstances that don’t really suit me and that I was probably never that interested in to begin with. The worst part is that once this epiphany comes to light within a given romantic possibility, an opportunity to earn additional income, a continuing education endeavor, or a self-development initiative, I insist on riding it out until all the blood has drained from my knuckles. My inevitable dismount is always far from graceful.

You see, for years I’ve had this tendency to keep myself insanely busy so I don’t have time to confront the ugly truth that lurks just beneath the surface of my immaculately written and color-coded day planner—I am not happy. But I don’t leave myself much time to think about what it is I’d rather be doing. Anything that’s “just for me” quickly slips into the black hole of my devotion where it’s safe from reality and its dream-crushing ways.

Since her conception back in the spring of 2008, Jill of Ark danced around the edges of said black hole. I longed to shake my groove thang with this alter-ego who seemed so much more hip than plain old boring and stuck-in-a-rut me but couldn’t steady my footing enough to keep balance (I never have been much of a dancer). At best, we brushed fingers as I picked up pet sitting jobs and occasionally tuned into friends’ animals, all the while insisting that my abilities were limited and that my work was very part-time. My blog moved farther and farther away from its intended purpose until it became almost completely idle.

In the words of my cat, Holly, who peered up at me from atop her throne (the back of the recliner to us human layfolk) the first time in nearly eight years that I walked into my home as a single woman, "Thank GOD that’s over with!"

I’d been insecure and miserable, full of doubt, confusion, and self-loathing. I deprived myself of pleasure and fun. I held myself back in fear of offending people or stepping on their toes. I bottled up so much stress and anger that I nearly exploded. My creativity seemed not just blocked but nonexistent. It took some pretty grueling circumstances and powerful life changes for me to finally start to step out of my own way.

And, it seems, my dear animal friends have been patiently waiting for this to happen.

In recent weeks, their words and guidance have come through to me clearer than ever. Their blunt, no-nonsense-but-all-in-love perspectives have made more sense than any counselor’s or self help book author’s advice, and it’s hit me how their distinct personalities mirror aspects of myself that have been kept in the shadows. Especially the princess (Holly) and the self-righteous shrew (Hannah).

So, gracious readers, for a miscellany of reasons, I’m making one more commitment. I am committed to surrendering myself and my ill-serving patterns to the wisdom and guidance of animals—as much as possible, at least. Their ultimate ambition, as they’ve explained to me, is to help me become Jill of Ark and all she represents instead of continuing to dichotomize her against my ordinary state of being. And I’m committed to sharing their teachings (it was their idea for me to write about them) and my journey to fully embracing them with you in as unfiltered a writing style as I’m able to manage so that you might be touched by them, too. (Okay, technically, that’s two commitments, but I can live with it if you can.)

I am aware that by normal human standards, this project will likely make me a candidate for asylum. But if what I’d been living until now is “sane,” I think I’ll check myself in.