Temple of Dendur

The habit started in my late teens when I had discovered that the Met Museum’s entry fee was “by donation.” I had no idea what that meant so the girl behind the desk explained, “You can pay what you want.”

I still couldn’t wrap my head around the concept so she had to drive it home for me: “You can pay as little as one dollar.”

My eyes bugged out of my head. I had a $20 bill (a king’s ransom for a 17-year-old in 1987) burning in my pocket. I had expected to give half of it away to the Museum’s coffers, but now she was telling me I could keep the lion’s share? I felt like I had won the Lotto.

I thought nothing could exceed this joyous news––until I entered the Museum and saw something I didn’t know was possible: I saw people sitting along the low stone walls in the glass wing that houses the Temple of Dendur.

It was my first time at an art museum. I had only seen museum-goers on TV and they were always on their feet, moving through a museum. I didn’t know it was possible to sit and think. And more importantly in my case, pass the time.

I had nothing to do in those days. I was young and broke and struggling to find my way in life. Unsure of what to do with myself, the only thing that felt meaningful was sitting at the Temple of Dendur––for hours. So I came week after week.

Those visits gave me purpose. I’d write in my journal about how one day, I would come here with Someone I Love; one day, I’d be a published author. I fantasized about getting married in front of the Temple, with champagne-toasting guests standing all around and floating lotus tea lights in the reflecting pool.

I grew to love the Temple for giving me a place to sit, a place to dream, a place to come into myself no matter how slowly and awkwardly it took. For what its stone silence gave to me when I was a lost and lonely youth, the Temple of Dendur remains my favorite place in New York City.

Write Like Her

At 22, I seemingly had it all. I lived in a narrow but sunny apartment in a well-kept brownstone on a gorgeous, winding block in the historic West Village of the best city in the world: New York. And on weekday mornings, I waitressed at the Cornelia Street Café.

With the rest of the city tucked into their office buildings and schools, I’d throw open the French café doors at 9am and set the rickety wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk. Within a few minutes, the neighborhood bachelors arrived for their cappuccinos and morning cigarettes. I’m sure I had female customers too, but I remember the men most of all. Other than an exchange of “good mornings,” their only other communications were hand signals for “more coffee” and “check.”

I sat at the bar with a full view of the customers. Sipping my café au lait, I did what everyone was doing: reading the Times, doing the crossword. But I’m not sure the guys were also looking at Anna Quindlen’s columns like I was.

I didn’t know what an essayist was. All I knew was that Quindlen had a weekly column of text on the right-hand side of the last page––and she filled this dedicated space with words about adult issues I didn't wholly understand: marriage, death, children, career, relationships. But what I lacked in Life Experience, I made up for in Emotional Intelligence. Through the craft of her essays, I could sense the pains, joys, injustices and celebrations––so I cried and cheered right along with her.

On the surface level, it looked like I was a 22-year-old café waitress. But the deep undercurrent of my life was flowing. Without knowing Anna Quindlen, I thought she was a brave woman for giving public voice to the private thoughts in her head and feelings in her heart. She made me want to write like her. I mustered up the courage: If she can do it, why can’t I?

Madame Butterfly

The Italian aria, “Un Bel Di, Vedremo,” triggers the most memories about what a special young adulthood I had living in New York City for 18 years––from my late teens through my mid-30s.

In Puccini’s opera Madama Butterfly, Cio-Cio San sings “Un Bel Di, Vedremo” (“One Beautiful Day, We Will See”)––as she waits for her bounder, Pinkerton, to dock his ship in Nagasaki port.

This long solo defined my youth: hopeful, lovesick. But even though I felt lonely in New York, I was not alone; I was accompanied by innumerable experiences.

For one, the Metropolitan Opera frequently performed Madama Butterfly. But in those days, I didn’t have the money to go uptown to Lincoln Center. I was lucky enough to have a small TV (the size of a large toaster oven) in my tiny apartment. There was no remote control so I left it set to Channel Thirteen. To my surprise one evening, PBS broadcast a taped version of the Met opera and from the comfort of my futon, I watched the beautiful, tragic opera unfold.

I went on to see some very imaginative spin-offs over the years. I couldn’t afford David Hwang’s Tony award-winning play, M. Butterfly, but was happy to catch his screenplay starring Jeremy Irons. I was fortunate when a friend’s mother gave us two free tickets to see Miss Saigon on Broadway and I got to experience the fixed storyline transmuted again.

But the interpretation that stunned me the most occurred around 2 in the morning––when Afrodite took the stage at Boy Bar. The tall, black drag queen wore her trademark 70s-style afro wig, a glamorous velvet gown and elbow-length white gloves.

The DJ cued the record and within moments, the heavy synth and bass of Malcolm McClaren’s “Madame Butterfly” flooded the sound system. Afrodite jammed hard and moved her lips in perfect synchronization:

            “Call me a fool! Call me stupid!

            Bend this arrow, kill this cupid

            I have faith, I’ll always pray

            My white honkey’s here to stay.”

Toward the end of his expressionistic rock song, McClaren mixes in the traditional “Un Bel Di, Vedremo.” In the crowded club of X’d-out partygoers, I closed my eyes and let the Italian aria wash over me: “One beautiful day, we will see...”

I was so young and lost and had no idea what I would see. But I had faith that one day I would see––and it would indeed be beautiful.

Quality of Life

Boston has grown on me. The city’s initial welcome was most unwelcoming. But over time, I’ve settled into the fact that people are miserable here because the government and its agencies do such a poor job at providing a rich quality of life.

The roads, schools, parks, libraries, business community, transportation, cultural institutions, prisons and various public works all lack leadership and a cohesive vision that results in proper urban planning. Brookline and Milton (two communities not a part of metro Boston) stand apart as examples of stewardship.

Nevertheless, I owe a public apology to the Museum of Fine Arts.

When I first moved here (September 2008) and visited the MFA, I was appalled at how Aztec art was piled upon 19^th century American art, and how painting and sculptures were stacked about and randomly hung as if it was someone’s garage. I now eat these words.

Unbeknownst to me, the MFA was in the process of building the new “American Wing.” I recently visited the newly opened Wing, a stunning piece of architecture and so well blended into the neoclassical design of the original building.

Moreover, I was blown away by the thoughtful presentation of artwork. Collections were grouped sensibly and pieces displayed with such care, I had mental and physical room to move about and contemplate them from all angles.

In my opinion, the new American Wing at the MFA is not only a critical success, but a shining example of what all of metro Boston could be like if leadership, time and creativity are applied.

Reinventing "That Day"

On Sunday I climbed to a mountaintop (Mt. Tom, NH – 4,051 feet). My objective was to get as far away as possible from TV/radio/Internet/newspaper––and all the endless rehashing of 10 years ago. I understand it’s important to reflect, but what about today? Yes, I know what happened then, but what about now?

           

I didn’t think about “9/11” on my walk. Instead, I had tremendous clarity/breakthrough on a creative project. I also mused about some disagreements I’ve been having in my life and wondered what I’ve been doing to attract those unfortunate situations.

Mostly, I thought about stopping and turning back. “It’s too hard, I’m going too slow, I’ve gone the wrong way off trail, what if I get hurt, am I safe, I’ll never be found if something happens to me.” (Roll down a ravine, sprain my ankle, have a dead tree fall on me, pinning me.)

Now truthfully, I did go the wrong way and did walk off trail once. But as soon as I asked for directions from a couple of Unfriendlies, I was back on track and determined to push on.

But man, the mind chatter did not stop, not once. Not even crossing some fun, mildly challenging streams, or passing by the rushing-forth power of cascades. It was only when I got to the top did my mind shut up. And that’s because my mouth got talking.

I met a group of hikers who had carried up a 12-foot flagpole, lashed it to a dead tree stump and flew the Stars and Stripes. It was their annual way of commemorating the events of 10 years ago and I thought “Good for them.”

So we sat, we chatted, we ate our granola bars, drank from our Nalgenes, discussed the 360º view of the mountain range––all under a fluttering flag.

I sought to forget “That Day” and ended up creating a lovely moment of remembrance with strangers in a perfectly peaceful setting.

These Are the Good Times

My summer vacation involved visiting with a string of old friends, who are now mothers of young children. As such, their lives are a little hectic.

For starters, many of the kids are no longer cute babies. Instead, they are toddlers or school-age children with a fierce determination to be paid attention to. Their personalities are taking shape and all of that growing and expanding consciousness is not always easy to deal with.

Fits ensued, fights developed and several parental reprimands were handed down. My friends profusely apologized for their children’s behavior, but I waved away those apologies.

All of the children in my life (friends, family) are happy and healthy and growing up big and strong. This blessing of good health is not something we can take for granted. So many children in this world suffer from lack of nutrition and adequate medical care.

Also, my friends are blessed to have the resources to care for their children and be available to guide their children. There are so many parents worldwide who are simply focused on survival. Taking the time to nurture, educate and ensure the well-being of their children is a luxury that many, many parents can only dream about.

Poor health and poverty cannot be overlooked. And with the cold, hard facts of this reality in mind, I realize that these are the good times for those of us who are healthy and able to feed our families.

Things I Miss

What I miss about:

West New York

I miss the Cuban food. Growing up, I took the pasteles, media noches, arroz con gandules y platanos for granted. In my travels, I’ve come upon a couple of “Cuban-themed” restaurants. I always stop to eat at them. The food is good, but never as great as the Cuban food I grew up with in West New York.

Manhattan

The biggest thing I miss about New York is the intellectual stimulation. Thus far, New York City is the smartest place I’ve ever lived. The very essence of the city is its arts and cultural environment. New York’s contribution to the world is the constant interpretation of the human experience. Readings, writings, paintings, sculptures, films, performances, acts, shows, exhibits, festivals, concerts and gigs––unceasing in quantity, unabated in quality and constantly pushing me past the bounds of my knowledge and giving me a new experience everyday. I miss that about New York. I have not found that vivacity elsewhere.

Carlsbad

I miss the quality of life that is influenced by the hospitable climate and the beauty of the natural environment. Carlsbad is a mix of Southern California beach life, Mexican rancho history, upscale suburban amenities and stark desert life. I miss living my life outdoors.

Crested Butte

I miss the majesty of the mountains. I miss the way my spirits soared looking at the landscape and having a true Rocky Mountain High.

Brookline

I miss the convenience of the Coolidge Corner neighborhood: the bank, the post office, the Trader Joe’s. I miss going for a walk on a summer night to grab a “fro-yo” and browse the Brookline Booksmith.

Manchester by the Sea

I miss the big beautiful acreage my deck overlooked. I miss watching the birds play in the shrubbery, keeping the strutting turkeys at bay and listening to the sounds of the ocean waves from the other side of the woods.

These are the things I miss.

Matzoh Ball Soup

Childhood was a relatively healthy time for me. Throughout grammar school, other kids had pink eye, strep throat, mono, head lice, broken bones, canker sores, ear infections, and other maladies that kept the School Nurse’s Office doing a brisk business. I only had the occasional head cold and maybe even the flu once or twice.

But when I moved into New York City, I became the most sickly young adult on the planet.

It was a combination of a couple of factors. For starters, in the big city I was exposed to a broader range and a heavier volume of germs than the little town I grew up in. Those germs were transmitted by people from all over the world. And while hand-washing has always been a part of good hygiene, it was less hyped-up in the 1980s. Carrying hand disinfectant was unheard of.

Secondly, I pushed my immune system to the limit. When I moved into the city, I was an 18-year-old full of energy. I’d stay out all night with my friends––then go home, shower, change, dress and go to work. I repeated this cycle for a couple of days until I eventually crashed, coming down with a “bug.”

Sniffling, sneezing and with a runny nose, I’d throw on a pair of sweatpants, put my hair up in a ponytail and pray I wouldn’t run into anybody as I walked over to 2^nd Ave. Deli.

2^nd Ave. Deli was always a zoo, no matter what time of day I went. I knew to gird myself against the mayhem and the incredibly ancient waitresses who shoved past me in cushioned waitressing shoes.

At the take-out counter, I’d ask for a large container of Matzoh Ball Soup and the guy would ask: “With noodles?”

I’d nod, and he’d say, “Yes of course with noodles.”

I felt like this noodles question was always a test! Once I passed, I’d feel bold enough to ask, “Extra Challah, please.”

Today, whenever get sick, I long for 2^nd Ave. Deli’s Matzoh Ball Soup.

Travel Tripod

In the photo, it looks like I’m standing in front of a white wall. From the lousy shot the woman took of me, you wouldn’t know I’m standing in front of the Washington Monument. She cut off the top of one of our nation’s proudest symbols, rendering it unidentifiable, insignificant.

I made a vacation-altering decision on the spot: “Buy a tripod.”

Tripods are often thought as the sole domain of professional photographers. I may not publish my photos or get paid for them, but they are not of rank amateur quality either. I have studied the manual of my Nikon SLR and know how to use its settings. I’ve also read articles online and in specialty print magazines about photo composition and working with different light.

Now wherever I go, my $16 collapsible tripod goes with me.

Even if the light is bad day or I look an awful wreck, the point of my photos is not to make me out to be a model, but to tell the story of my experience at that given moment. My travel tripod helps me to tell my story through my own eyes.

Summer Internship

Summer internships were rough back in my day.

In 1987, there was no such thing as “corporate casual,” not even on a Friday. Despite 100 degree temperatures and 100% humidity, I was obliged to trudge through the sweltering streets of New York City wearing: heels, opaque pantyhose, a cream-colored silk blouse (with collared bow) and a navy blue suit made of a poly-light wool blend. 

(Today, I see college interns wearing khakis and polo shirts. And the girls wearing light bouncy skirts with open-toed shoes and get this: no pantyhose!)

But back then, I was in no position to complain about the obvious disconnect between rigid dress codes and record-setting heat waves. I was a 17-year-old English major with mediocre grades and no practical experience––yet I had somehow managed to land a highly coveted internship in the New York offices of Paramount Pictures.

Since I had been assigned to the corporate communications department, I expected writing assignments. Instead, I was instructed to serve as a precursor to “Google.” That’s right; my internship required me to be a search engine.

Each morning a messenger delivered a string-bundled stack of newspapers to my desk. All of the New York dailies were in the stack, as well as the big papers from select East Coast cities and London.

My job was to comb through each newspaper looking for any article that mentioned a current Paramount Pictures film. (One of them was “Beverly Hills Cop 2,” starring Eddie Murphy.)

I underlined the “product mention” and carefully clipped the article. After I had gone through all the papers, I arranged the clipped articles on the photocopy machine and produce stapled, collated booklets (which I then distributed to the inboxes of senior executives for their review).

For an entire summer, I did this sole function day in, day out. I arrived sopping wet in perspiration-soaked clothes, endured the chill of the hyper air conditioning system and would then go out at lunchtime just to warm myself up and dry off the clothes I was wearing.

At the copy machine, I grumbled to myself that I wasn’t “learning anything.” And on many levels, this is true. I didn’t click with any of my superiors, so I never saw the big picture of our work or was given other, more meaty assignments.

Yet, by the end of the summer, that internship had instilled a love of reading the newspaper in me.

From combing through articles, I learned that journalism was another form of storytelling and this insight gave me something to consider on my own career path as a writer. Moreover, I had acquired the awesome skill of reading quickly and efficiently while incongruously, enhancing my level of comprehension.

The second thing I learned is that it sucks working in an office and wearing a monkey suit on a hot summer day. It took me another 15 years of playing by someone else’s rules, but I eventually said “To Hell With That” and I now wear shorts, a tank top and flip flops sitting at my own desk on my own time.

So, internships do have their value after all.

Today I Taught a Teacher

Seated at a dinner party, the woman on my right wasn’t particularly chatty. That didn’t bother me one bit because the guests across from me and on my left had social skills up the wazoo. We entertained each other with hilarious stories and madcap anecdotes. It was a conversationalist’s dream come true.

But after a plate of food and a few glasses of wine, the people pleaser in me pointed out that at the very least, I should make a few polite observations and general comments about the evening to the woman on my right. So I gestured to the table’s floral centerpiece and told her that the wildflowers in the vase were plucked from the mountainside. I knew this because I had seen them on my morning hike.

“How did you get to the top?” she asked.

I thought I was a comic genius in replying, “I walked.” But she pressed me with more questions like where did I walk and how long did it take.

That was when I realized that she knew nothing about hiking.

Careful not to insult her intelligence or come across as an overbearing know-it-all, I laid out the most rudimentary tenets for any beginning hiker: bring water and stay on trail. She hung on my every word as if I was the sole mountaineer of Everest. A part of me almost wanted to offer to be her guide!

My more gregarious dinner partners called away my attention and the evening fully progressed. As I was leaving, the woman approached me and thanked me for the information. “I'm going to do this. I’m going to the hike the mountain.” I was buzzed and encouraged her adventure.

Outside someone came up to me and said, “I saw you were talking with so-and-so,” referring to the budding hiker. It turned out that the woman with the long brown hair was a relatively famous yoga teacher (famous in the yoga community, that is). They wondered if she was giving me tips, imparting wisdom unto me.

“We just talked about nature,” I said.

Powerful Life Lesson from a Politician

Rudolph Giuliani did what everyone thought was impossible: He closed the parks at midnight.

You can’t do that! tabloid headlines cried.

But it turned out that – um – yes he could.

That singular act taught the young 20-something me a very powerful lesson: I control my own status quo. I then started looking at everything differently:

“You have to work for a company – 9 to 5, Monday through Friday.” Not so.

“You have to know what you want and act quickly.” Not so.

“If you don’t like the way something is, you just have to live with it.” Not so.

Not so, Not so, Not so about a whole host of things!

When Giuliani locked the park at night, he opened me to the idea that I could do anything.

In the Zone

I took my first yoga class at a Los Angeles spiritual center in 1995.

From the moment I stepped out of the car, everything about the place screamed “crazy cult religion.” Halogen lights shone on paintings of figures (I would later learn were “deities”). Gold statues of these deities also abounded, donned with garlands of pink flowers and bowls of uncooked rice placed at their feet. The yogis milling around before class spoke softly and smiled at me a little too much. I looked down. Whatever happened, I knew enough to not drink the Kool-Aid.

I sat down on the studio floor in a cross-legged position and was proud for doing that. All I knew about yoga was that you sat on the floor.

The teacher wore a tightly wrapped white turban and a flowing white robe. Based on an Anthropology 101 class I had taken in college, I knew that people from different cultures dressed differently than me. But why was a middle-aged white woman in L.A. dressed in the manner and attire of another culture?

She opened up the class with some song about Peace and Love. The lyrics were in English, but I couldn’t understand what I was singing about.

The exercise class moved in slow motion. She instructed us to do a pose and we would do it. But much to my annoyance, she kept us in that pose for what felt like an eternity. I thought my arms would fall off as she asked us to keep holding them up. Then she’d finally say the name of another pose and I’d storm into it––only to be asked to hold it for another eon. 

Throughout class, I couldn’t stop thinking how “stupid” I thought it all was: the place, the teacher, the poses and most of all, me for agreeing to “come here” with a friend. But somewhere in the middle of all that chastisement, I looked up at my clasped hands, index fingers pointing upward, and I was flooded with purpose, intent and unflappable presence.

When I walked out of class, I smiled at the other students. I was thrilled to accept a hug from a stranger who overheard me mention it was my first class. I paused in front of an open window to smell the scent of jacaranda.

It’s now 16 years later and I’m still practicing yoga, almost daily.

Boston Run at Dawn

Boston tucks up at night and falls into a deep slumber. The city’s streets are relatively car and people-free in the early morning. A few delivery and sanitation trucks make their rounds; and of course, there is the omnipresence of hospital shift workers (garbed in scrubs) coming and going.

On an early-morning run through the city’s north side, I pass famous landmarks such as TD Garden, home to the legendary Celtics and Bruins. I jog down the concrete steps of the infamously ugly City Hall and over to its revolutionary predecessor, Faneuil Hall. I run through the new North End Park, as I-93 traffic rolls soundlessly through the Big Dig below. I head east until the land runs out at the Harbor. I pause to look at the distinct air traffic control tower across the water. I recall recently learning about the Logan the airport was named after.

I turn away from the water and head back home. Boston is living history. But on my run today, I am very much in the present.

Irony at Its Finest

New England is charming. From the beach to the mountains, and the little towns and villages in between––I am happy living here, exploring here and feel that the area is now a part of my mien.

But New York City is “home.” I can look at every curb, every street, every bus stop and recall an incident, a memory, a story, a party, a fight, a cocktail, a falafel wolfed down at 4am and unfortunately yakked back up by 4:05.

So while I love the life I live elsewhere––returning to congested, noisy, expensive New York feels like a breath of fresh air.

Memorable Rains

I once hiked in the driving rain for seven hours on Mount Washington. The narrow trail is blazed through the open mountaintop, meaning the trail sits above treeline with no tree cover. Walking on trail, I was fully exposed to the lashing of high winds and driving rain (that drove at me sideways, not from up above). My waterproof jacket, pants and boots turned out not to be as advertised. With no place to stop and take cover from the rain (that never once abated during my seven-hour trek), I was unable to take breaks, eat my sandwich or relieve myself. I also had to walk at a slower pace than I had originally timed for because the wet rocks were slippery. Wearing a 40-pound pack (and pretty darn exhausted), it was easy to lose my balance and my footing; I had to be extra careful not to become injured. Conditions were so bad that I didn’t even have the option of complaining. I pressed forward and arrived at the hut before dark.

Another time, I biked home in the driving rain from the upper west side of Manhattan (the GWB) to the lower east side (Avenue A, East Village). Not only was I freezing and thoroughly saturated, but my helmet’s shape funneled a single drip drip drip of rain on the tip of my nose the entire way; that’s a total of 150 blocks, 10 miles. Through the slish-sloshing of their windshield wipers, cab drivers were unable to see me and erratically pulled out in front of me. Every time I thought about bailing out and going to a subway station, I thought: “I'm already wet.” So I just pedaled forward and made it home in one piece.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t recount two other memorable rainstorms (both with Jeff)––perfect timing that worked out to our advantage:

Car camping, Vail, Colorado – cooked a steak dinner over the campfire, readied for bed, zipped up the tent and the sky opened up without a minute to spare.

Backpacking, section hiking the Appalachian Trail, Kent, Connecticut – the rains came right at the end of our longest day (12 miles). Cooking a hot dinner that night was disrupted but we were so tired, we ate trail mix and goldfish crackers and fell deeply asleep to the patter of rainfall on our tent.

Pair of Honors Back-to-Back

Two friends honored me with thoughtful invitations recently: one asked me to be her roommate, and the other asked me to hike the Colorado Trail with him. For personal reasons I declined both offers, but am complimented that they asked!

Based on those two invitations, it would have been a great week.

But then the Universe bestowed another pair of honors on me: Two editors responded to my pitches––even though they both rejected my story ideas.

One editor rejected my book proposal because it didn’t meet her international sales strategy needs, but she awarded me with another assignment. It’s a modest assignment but I look forward to building her confidence in me.

The other editor rejected a personal essay I had submitted, but was impressed with what she had read. She encouraged me to keep in touch and try again. (I will!)

First Meet with Run Club

I’m not a fast runner––although I did run a marathon in 2007 and have competed in numerous 5k races. Nevertheless, my completion times are pathetic. I run to stay in shape and I like organized races because they are fun events.

I haven’t consistently run for the past two years though, so I registered for a 5k race and then joined a local running club to begin training. But I panicked upon learning that a 9-time Boston Marathoner would be leading my first group run.

From the second I hit “start” on my chrono and set off on my toes, I thought I was running too fast. My face flushed and my body lumbered. I alternated between heavy breathing and shallow gasping. My mind screamed, “I’M DYING,” but I was familiar with the route we were running and knew with certainty that I would survive (because I had before). It turned out to be easy to ignore my mind because all I could think about was throwing up.

Up ahead of me, the only other girl in the group ran at a 6- to 8-minute mile pace. She was booking. Since our route looped the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, I could see her across the water conversing with another fast running mate. The only sounds coming from me were huffing-and-puffing and grunting.

Luckily, the Boston Marathoner was very gracious. He kept his pace with me and another guy in the last of the pack. Throughout the entire run, the Marathoner chatted about different topics. I would’ve contributed to the conversation, but my tongue felt like it had swelled up within my whole head.

Did I think about stopping? No, but I wanted to slow down. I was running outside of my comfort zone, physically pushing myself––and I was gripped with fear the entire time. I faded from the Marathoner a couple of times, but I forced myself not to drop back too far. From my experience running with other groups, I know how mentally important it is to keep up with the pack. After what seemed like an ETERNITY, we turned a corner and were on the return route home.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the other guy in our pack stopped running. Now it was just me and the Marathoner in the final stretch. We picked up our pace. I pumped my arms and legs hard, and raced the elite runner to the finish line.

I had such a strong finish: 3.5 miles in 35 minutes––that’s a 10-minute mile for me, a significant improvement over running by myself.

My spirits soared. I was a champion for finishing. I had just run the race of the century.

Away from Concrete and Civilization

The social forecast for this weekend appears to be active. A party, a runner’s expo and a book reading are all on the agenda. The anticipated mixing and mingling is in sharp contrast to how I spent last weekend: with a solitary walk in the woods.

The Boston area received two inches of an “April Fool’s” snowfall on Friday, April 1^st. The next day, I woke up early and headed to the low-rolling Blue Hills Reservation. Despite the sunshine and reasonable temperatures, I knew the snow covering would keep most people away and I could enjoy a peaceful hike on uncrowded trails––something I took for granted while living in the remote Elk Mountains in Colorado and now miss here in the dense population of New England.

Like most ridges in urban areas, the ascent is immediate and steep. There is no gradual elevation increase through switchbacks; just a straight-up shot. I was mindful of my footing, but relieved that the snow covering was soft enough to gain traction yet firm enough to not be slippery. I met a few other hikers at the top of the ridge, but once I got walking, I was by myself.

I walk to find answers––the type only revealed through my experiences away from concrete and civilization.

In the peace and quietude of the woods, my mind turns on in full-blast stereo. I don’t “think” about my problems, I hear them “shout” at me. And it is beautiful to hear me. Back on the grid, I’m so plugged in and racing at such a pace, I don’t have time or bandwidth to take me on. I push me to the back burner and focus on my other obligations. But on the trail, there’s nothing but plenty of time.

And in that walking time, my suppressed problems rear up––and then evaporate. Solutions come to me that I hadn’t previously thought of; or ideas for trying for something new; or I accept that I can’t change a bad situation, only manage my role in it. The “mountains” in my mind that were seemingly insurmountable, I am suddenly able to climb.

Family and friends assume I hike for exercise. 

Apartment with a View -- Into Myself

The leasing agent told me my new apartment had a view. I leased the place sight unseen (it was occupied and unavailable for viewing) because I needed a place to live pronto and I really wanted to live in this amenity-rich building.

When I got the keys a week later, I was delighted to see that the wide windows gave me ample view of Bunker Hill Monument, a mile away. (I’m grateful that the National Park Service still has budget to light the tower at night with a modest upward-glow from its base.)

But, between my window and the monument, Interstate 93 sprawls out in my view––for as far as my eye can see.

In New York City, my apartment overlooked brownstone gardens. In San Diego, my apartment overlooked the Pacific Ocean. In Crested Butte, my apartment overlooked the Elk Mountains. Here in this northeast point of Cambridge, my apartment overlooks: the MBTA rail yards, Mass DOT’s salt lot (for snow removal) and about one billion cars going by my window every day.

Yet, I’m not going to move––at least not yet, not for a while. For starters, the highway scenescape is not so bad. Perched above it a half-mile away, I find solace in the repetition of the endless rolling by.

More importantly, I’ve decided I can’t keep moving around the country to distract myself from the larger pains and the deeper issues that exist within me. Yes, it is fun to be like a highway car and move around and live in different places. And I’m grateful for all the friends I meet along the way; they make my adventures all the more real for me. But like Bunker Hill, I now want to stand quiet and still––and face up to my battles.

The Company I Still Keep

It’s the 8^th anniversary of my self-employment. It’s been a good, steady ride. Most importantly, it’s been a meritorious work experience––every time I work hard, I make lots of money. And I can’t even tell you the money I’ve saved and the hassle I’ve been spared by traveling “off peak”––that alone has been a major perk of self-employment.

Before I embarked on my “solopreneurship,” I worked at the marketing agency, Wechsler Ross & Partners. At that time, nearly all of us on the Creative Team were in our 20s and 30s. We were writers, designers, web programmers, etc. We bloomed with ideas, means of expression and a desire to make an impact.

If I had known then that my Wechsler colleagues would be the last group of friends I’d make en masse––I would’ve rethought leaving.

A major downside to self-employment is the isolation that comes from sitting alone day-in/day-out in my home office (and as a writer, alone in my head). Of course I try to combat my isolation by scheduling lunches with friends, attending professional events in the evening and going to a yoga class rather than just practicing at home with a DVD.

But it’s not the same. Which is why nearly a decade later, I’m still in touch with my Wechsler colleagues, even though none of us work for the company anymore. Whenever I’m back in New York, I pull together a “Wechsler Alum Reunion.” We gather over cocktails to listen to each other’s stories, discuss client projects and reconnect our career paths. To me, they are still the company I keep.

Frank Firing

The receptionist had a message for me: My boss, Frank, wanted to meet at the coffee shop downstairs. It was the year 2000 and I had only been working at his agency for a few months. He was in the process of renovating the studio, so for the present, there was no place to have a conversation without the entire staff overhearing.

Frank was sitting at a back table holding a coffee he had barely sipped. I could see by his clenched jaw and red, slightly bulging eyes that something was wrong. He asked me if I wanted a coffee––in hindsight, I suppose that gesture was more out of habit than courtesy––but I declined. I was so nervous that I had bungled a client account, so I got right to the point: What’s wrong?

It was then that he fired me, telling me I wasn’t a “fit” for the agency. I did something neither of us expected: I broke down crying. I had left a secure and comfortable position at a renowned organization to pursue higher commissions at his little rinky-dink agency. I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire and felt humiliated.

I remembered this frank firing today when I fired my mom’s home health aide.

Although the aide was professional in tending to my mother's healthcare needs, I heard my mother making small talk, but the aide said little in reply. Then the aide’s cell phone rang and I heard her carry on an animated conversation in front of my mother. When she hung up, the aide fell back into silence and sat watching the TV. My mother had just come home from a 2-month hospital stay. But the aide made no suggestions or offers: Is there some small household chore I can do for you? Would you like some lotion on your legs? Etc.

Now I know what Frank was talking about when he said I wasn’t a fit. Moreover, I understand why his eyes were red and his jaw was clenched that day. Frank was paying me to help him build his dream (that is, nurture the growth of his agency). I am paying this health aide to help me build my dream (that is, nurture the improvement my mother’s wellbeing). Although this is business, both are very personal pursuits complete with emotional investments and financial sacrifices.

In running a small business and a household––heart is needed. And that’s a fit no résumé details can capture.