Wanna take a road trip? I promise lots of stories.

There’s a lot of absurdity in life, and it’s one of the things I relish most. I’m unsure if the universe knows this about me and deliberately guides me to silly stories — or if these kinds of things happen to other people and they choose not to share them.

Well, my friends: I do share. I adore laughing at both life and at myself.

My story begins a month ago, when a button popped off my coat on my way to work. I threw it into my car’s cupholder for safe-keeping and then promptly forgot all about it.

It’s important to know that this was not a flat button with four holes. It had one of those little nubby things (I’m sure this is the technical sewing term) sticking off the back.  Like this:

Fast forward to two weekends ago. I was traveling to Massachusetts to visit my best friend from college and his family, including his newborn son Grant, who I was meeting for the first time. Besides the dads being some of my very favorite people, I have a little crush on Grant’s two-and-a-half-year-old brother, and I was very much looking forward to the snuggles.

My drive was unremarkable until about two hours in, when an intense snow squall came out of nowhere. The snow was falling so heavily and so densely that I couldn’t clearly see the front of my own car. I also couldn’t see the edges of the road to pull over. Slowing to an almost stand-still, I white-knuckled it by following faint tracks of the car in front of me, hoping that its driver had some magic way of knowing what was road and what was not.

It took almost an hour to get to the next exit, where a gas station offered me a chance to regroup. By the time I arrived, the squall was tapering off — but it left at least six inches of powder in its wake. Other drivers at the gas station looked as shell-shocked as I felt.

Exhausted, I headed inside and took stock of the options available. I’d already had two large coffees that morning… but, oh look, there’s a soda fountain with my other go-to for a quick caffeine infusion: Diet Mountain Dew!

It’s been a long time since I’ve purchased a fountain soda, but nothing’s changed at all: I could buy a normal, 16-ounce drink for 89-cents… or upgrade to the 14-gallon “Mega Monster Super Slurp” for a dime more.

This was a no-brainer: I chose the Mega Monster Super Slurp. And kudos to modern engineering because despite its girth, this bucket of soda fit perfectly into my standard cupholder.

A few minutes later, I lifted my Dew bucket to take my first sip.

Wait…

What is happening?

My brain can’t comprehend this.

Why are my pants soaked?

What IS HAPPENING?

It took a few seconds to register the reality.

There is a waterfall of Mountain Dew gushing on me.

Moving at 65 miles an hour, and now panicking, it finally clicked that something about the cup had failed quite miserably. I needed to put it down.

But where do I put it? The center console had already filled with Dew.

That’s when I saw it.

Right there, floating around in the cupholder pond like an inflatable pool toy, was the button. The button with the nubby bit that must have punctured the bottom of my soda bucket. I threw the cup onto the rubber mat on my passenger side and tried to process my next steps.

Luckily, the next exit offered relief in the form of one of those old-school, unstaffed rest areas. Even better, there were only two other cars in the lot. This didn’t need to become a big deal. I would clean myself and the car up, and get back on the road.

I randomly had a roll of paper towels with me, so I sopped up as much of the soda as the towels would hold, grabbed a pair of pants from my suitcase, and headed inside the building.

The moment I opened the door, I realized I had made a grave error in judgement. The rest area parking lot had two sides, one for cars and one for… buses. Sure enough, two buses packed with kids on a church trip had arrived just before me.

Let me paint this picture:

I pulled open the main door to find 40 tweens running all over the lobby, burning off excess energy and fighting over the last bag of M&Ms in the vending machine. The chaperones were trying to herd everyone and failing miserably. An elderly couple stared at a map of NY parks hanging on the wall. Another man was filling his water bottle.

This is all typical, every-day rest stop behavior, right?

Then I walk in. I am a middle-age woman wearing purple corduroy pants that are soaked from the crotch to the knees. I’m carrying a dry pair of pants, along with a huge wad of soaking wet paper towels that are dripping. Dripping with bright YELLOW liquid. 

The kids started points and laughing. The chaperones looked confused and embarrassed for me. The elderly couple noticed the commotion and fought back smiles.

I had a choice to make.

• Option one: Flee. But the damage had been done, and I really wanted dry pants.
• Option two: try to explain what was happening. But who am I explaining this to?Would I just yell it out to everyone? Would my defensiveness actually make it worse? “I SWEAR YOU GUYS, I TOTALLY DIDN’T PEE MY PANTS!”

I went with option three: acknowledge the scene with just a smile, proceed to the bathroom, and allow all of those people to have a great story to tell their friends that night.

Life is absurd. My recommendation is to always go for the outcome that gives other people a good story to tell their friends. Always. Most of the time, you end up with one, too.

This very moment: January 26, 2010

Ten years ago this afternoon, Scott and I drove into Tompkins County and began a new chapter. The move from California marked our first major adult decision since marrying, and represented change in every aspect of our lives. Beyond adjusting to the weather and new careers, we traded a 800-unit beach-side apartment complex for a dwelling set deep in a densely wooded area with a total of three neighbors (plus wild peacocks) over a half mile.

1/4 of our complex in California

Our driveway in Ithaca

1/4 of our complex in California

Our driveway in Ithaca

For me, the move also meant going back “home,” a place I’d rarely even visited in the 16 years I’d been away.

Were we crazy?

When I left Ithaca in 1994, it was for the big city life. Boston University’s huge student body and urban campus spoke to me: I loved being able to disappear in crowds. Ithaca is so much smaller, and my own orbit was even tinier. I was done dealing with the cast of characters that dominated every time I left home.

A decade later, here we are, back in the place I fled so gleefully. We own a home and land. I work in a community-based nonprofit, and we joke that Scott’s the Ithaca version of Mr. Hooper on Sesame Street.

Before this move, I’d never committed to anything for more than 4 years — not a person, nor a job, nor an apartment, nor a town. Between 1994 and 2010, I moved 19 times. Scott’s record is about the same. We embraced a nomadic lifestyle.

Good grief, look at us now. Just in the past year, we’ve celebrated huge adult milestones: 10 years of marriage, five years of owning the haunted church house, and now: 10 years of living in the same community.

I’ve learned that living in a smaller place where people take care of one another is the adult life I crave. I am grateful I had the chance to live in Boston, Sydney, Kansas City, Boulder, and the San Francisco Bay Area, and I cherish every memory and friend from those years.

Life has changed, and I have changed. I don’t need to disappear into crowds anymore. I can disappear into my backyard, or with family at the farm, or along the Finger Lakes Trail that shares the side of our property.

The past 10 years have been a wild and crazy ride…. into stability. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m not ‘going back home’ at all anymore.

I am home.

Our crammed car as we traveled to Ithaca

The cozy home we’ve built, together

 

Happy New Decade!

The passing of the “2010s” seems like a good time to return to this blog for a moment. A lot has happened in the past 10 years, and as we embark on the unknowns of a new decade, I find myself humbled by the lessons I’ve learned and the person these years helped me become.

2010: Scott wasn’t too sure about our move to New York, a state he had no emotional ties to. Truthfully, I wasn’t so sure either. We knew that California wasn’t the forever place we had hoped — but moving back to my childhood hometown? A place I left “for good” in 1994? This was big. 2010’s gift was the understanding that a huge leap of faith is a lot easier when you have your person by your side.

2011: A weird little hobby of mine exploded into Ithacake. I made rules to try to balance a full-time job that required extensive travel with this creative side gig. And then I kept breaking those rules.  “I can only handle one cake a month” turned into “one cake a week.” “I can’t deal with the stress of weddings” became “depending on the couple, maybe a wedding a month would be okay.”  2011’s gift to me was learning to be kind to myself as I learned new skills.

2012:  With a new kayak and a chance to travel to 19 different states, 2012’s gift to me was adventure.

2013: Everyone should have a year like our 2013. It just felt… stable, easy, fun.  It took some hindsight to realize this fact, but 2013’s gift was the desire to never take the simple times for granted.

2014: We knew being homeowners would be an adventure, but we couldn’t have guessed the stories that would be coming out of our haunted church house for years to come. From renovation projects to flying squirrels, 2014’s gift was the discovery that Scott and I make more than just a great couple — we are a team.

2015: When cancer strikes a family as suddenly and as horrifically as it hit us, it’s very easy to get caught up in the sadness, worry, and fear. 2015’s gift to me was recognizing the abundance of love and support that surrounds us, and that there can be beauty and gratitude even when it feels like the world is crumbling.

2016: Anyone who has followed this blog knows about my 40 Before 40 project: my effort to complete 40 new adventures before this milestone birthday. From getting slathered in honey and slapped with tree branches to rolling down a Kentucky hillside in a hamster ball, 2016’s gift was knowing I will never be too old to try something new.

2017: Sure, there were good times and plenty of laughter this year, but I also lost my best friend of 30+ years to brain cancer. Emily’s death changed me in both personal and professional ways, but under the crushing weight of her death, I had no way to see it at the time. 2017’s gift was an understanding of how to take things one step, one breath at a time.

2018: When I wrote my eulogy for Emily, I talked about my admiration for the way she lived her life every single day. She was unapologetically herself. As I began to heal from my grief, I realized that it was time for me to starting being unapologetically myself.  That meant putting an end to aspects of my life that did not align with my values.

This was a year of growth and change in almost every way.  2018’s gift to me was the knowledge that I am strong. 

2019: Mom and Dad made the move back to NY, putting my entire immediate family within a reasonable driving distance for the first time in 25 years. That would be enough for an incredible year, but add all the professional change as well. I am honored and humbled to work with this incredible group of people and for an organization that makes me feel like a valuable part of my community. 2019’s gift to me was the feeling that everything I went through in 2018 was worth it, truly.

…

Your guess is as good as mine as to what gifts these next 10 years will deliver. I start this new year — this new decade — with gratitude for the gifts I’ve received and the people who love me unconditionally. My immediate family, my in-laws, my extended family, my closest friends: you are the rocks that keep me grounded during turbulent times, and the waves that keep my soul alive.

I wish you peace, health, and abundance as we now roar into the 20s!

 

 

A year of change, risks and rewards

This week marks my one year anniversary at Hospicare. It was my first major career change in 9 years, when we moved 3,000 miles so I could begin my adventure in higher ed.

For most of that time, I was so content in my job that I assumed it would see me through to retirement. I felt challenged in my day-to-day work, enjoyed my colleagues, and had the opportunity to meet some of the best, most authentic, most caring donors in this country.

There were ups and there were downs, like every job. There were more ups than downs, and I wasn’t particularly motivated to consider anything else.

Then Emily died, and I did a lot of reflecting. A few months later, a serious work situation was handled very poorly, and I did a lot more reflecting.

In June, mom and I went on a trip to the Pacific Northwest in celebration of her 70th birthday. Getting away — truly getting away — offered a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in a long time, and space to keep reflecting.

Scott and I moved back to Ithaca because I wanted to be back home. And I’m proud to call this region home. Was I doing enough to actively participate in making it a better place?

I’d been as involved in the community as possible, considering that my job required substantial travel. I volunteered for local nonprofits, contributing during one-day activities and as a Board or development committee member. I started a small scholarship at my high school. I reconnected with friends and neighbors, and enjoyed the area’s endless festivals and parades, and its parks, waterfalls and gorges.

Yet something was missing. I wondered if I was taking more than I was giving.

A couple weeks later, the job at Hospicare presented itself in a very surreal way. I had gone on the website to look at volunteer opportunities and saw the posting.  The very next day, a professional colleague reached out.

“Did you see this? The job description sounds like it was written for you.”

My first interview took place a few days — yes, days! — later.  The process I’d gone through in college to secure a minimum wage lifeguarding gig took more time.

Considering the job meant making peace with risk. Nonprofits are more vulnerable than larger institutions like higher ed. The executive director would be retiring, and there was no way to know how the culture and the work would change under new leadership. Nearly everyone in the development department had left, so I would be flying solo until I could find and hire a new team.

In another chapter, these red flags would have chased me away. This time was different.

No one needed to sell me on the mission. I learned the value of palliative care from my work at a children’s hospital in 2007. Emily’s experience with hospice opened my eyes to how the interdisciplinary and holistic approach makes a devastating experience slightly better for the patient and their loved ones. And finally, if you’re going to lead a team, it’s awfully enticing to have a fresh start and build it from the ground up.

Twelve months later, I can reflect back on my acceptance of the job and know that I made the right decision at the right time.

Our new executive director has set a tone that inspires me to want to work harder and better. My team is the most kick-ass, fun and creative group of professionals I have ever known. Every dollar we raise goes directly to support patients and families when they need us most. In doing so, I finally understand how my work can make this community a better place. A place more people will feel proud to call home.

There are ups and there are downs, like every job. During the downs, I feel empowered to make changes and to grow, and that makes all the difference in the world.

A few weeks ago, we hosted our largest fundraiser of the year — a community event that brings together 350 swimmers, escort boaters, volunteers, spectators, and 4,000+ donors.

As we were waiting to welcome our final swimmers to shore, a member of the water-based safety team radioed to let me know that our last swimmer was also celebrating her birthday. 

I jumped on the mic (photo above, and yes, I was also dressed as a mermaid) and immediately announced this news to the crowd. As she came onto the dock, our band started playing “Birthday” by the Beatles (“You say it’s your birthday! It’s my birthday, too!”).  The swimmer climbed out of the water to hundreds of cheering and clapping fans and screams of joy.

What no one knew was that this day also would have been Emily’s 43rd birthday.

My job has given me so many gifts over these past 365 days. That one beat them all.

We are now “those” people

In our house, the cats have always been in charge. But today we crossed a new threshold. The humans are officially outnumbered by felines.

About 3 months ago, a grey kitty showed up at our back porch accompanied by Ms. Smallie, the stray we’ve been looking after for the past three or four years. Ms. Smallie’s been known to bring around boyfriends in the past, but this guy was a little different. For starters, he was VERY shy and VERY passive — not exactly traits that make for an easy life outdoors in the wild. He also warmed up to Scott pretty quickly, making us question whether or not he was truly a stray.

Then, a week ago, the grey cat hurt his front leg. He was limping badly, and eventually refused to put any weight on the paw at all. We worried about the coyotes and other predators that hang out in our woods, and sometimes near the house.

We did something that felt awful in the moment, but was the right thing to do: we set a trap, captured our little friend, and surrendered him to the SPCA. In the process, we fell in love.

As the SPCA searched for an owner, neutered him, gave him all his shots, checked out his leg (which is fine), and declared that he was adoptable as an indoor cat, Scott and I struggled with what to do.

Well, that’s not entirely true. We pretended to struggle. In our hearts, we knew exactly how this whole thing was going to end.

Today we stopped fighting the inevitable. We packed up a carrier, drove back to the SPCA, and re-adopted the little guy we had surrendered.

World, meet Wally:

For the next few weeks, we will be gradually introducing everyone else… and dealing with whatever fallout might happen. But for now, the resident cats are none the wiser, and Wally is in his safe room, gazing out the window he clearly already adores.

This is how it happens. This is how people become crazy cat ladies.

I am 100% okay with that.

50 Before 50: Cuddle with a baby sloth

When I left my last job, my colleagues chipped in to get me a gift certificate to a local zoo, where the staff offer hour-long “sloth encounters.”

These people get me.

Needless to say, it was all I could have hoped for. Well, that’s not totally true. I had hoped to steal the sloth, actually, but that proved impossible.

Next time, little buddy. Next time.

Gratitude for a year of growth and change

Last Thanksgiving, I sat on my couch under a crushing weight of knowing that within hours — a couple of days at the most — my best friend from childhood would be gone. By the time the holiday rolled around, I had already said my goodbyes, and her immediate family was holding vigil at her bedside.

Thanksgiving week will never be the same. From this point on, it will be impossible to separate it from Emily’s death. But that’s not tragic in the way it might first sound. I am sad for what I lost, but still immensely grateful for what I have. Both those things are true, and I feel them simultaneously.

Em’s death was one of the hardest things I’ve gone through, as it should be — it’s a sign of how deeply I valued her and our friendship.

After she passed, I had one final gift for her: a eulogy that I read to her family and friends.

I couldn’t know it at the time, but she gave me a gift, too. She gave me the gift of courage.

It hasn’t been a walk in the park — not by a long shot — but I have made some drastic changes to my life in the past year, and I am proud of those changes. Some of them I have written about here, and others I have not — collectively, they’ve allowed me to live a healthier and peaceful existence. My day-to-day life is positive. My brain is engaged. I feel valued and that I am contributing to my community. The energy I put into the people I love has allowed friendships to deepen, and new memories to emerge.

My family will always come first. It sounds cheesy, but it’s true that Scott pushes me to be the best version of myself — and our relationship is one I refuse to take for granted. My parents, brother and sister-in-law are some of my closest friends, and I couldn’t ask for more loving in-laws. And the furry feline members of the family are right up there, too.

I’m grateful for a career that has reignited a spark. There are huge challenges ahead, but I am part of and lead an amazing team, and I know we can get the job done.

I am grateful for friends who lift me up, who steal me away for a night of laughing and fried pickles or a long, quiet hike through the forest.

I’m grateful for a warm house with a ton of character and maybe a couple ghosts.

I’m grateful for my overall good health, and the strength I have built — not just physically, but emotionally.

I’m grateful for a country that I still believe can be healed, provided we can get back to the values we share, regardless of political affiliation.

I’m grateful for laughter.

I’m grateful for love.

I’m grateful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you, your families and friends. And a special shout out to Em’s family for you hold a special place in my heart and mind this day, and every day.

A fascinating study in small communities and the lasting impact of words

Going to work for a small nonprofit in my hometown has come with some changes I fully anticipated — being far more visible and exposed in the community, for example. But it’s also been fascinating for a whole slew of unexpected reasons, most notably in understanding how deeply my ties to the area run, and how little things you think you may have forgotten from childhood can resurface in a flash.

(For very obvious reasons, I’m not going to use names or identifying details. But those are details that don’t matter much anyway — it’s the larger picture that I find so curious, and that I’m trying to unpack in my mind.)

When we process donations, we often do them in batches with a theme. For example, 10 gifts made in memory of a someone who died, or 35 gifts that came from a community event. That helps keep the reporting clean, and makes the process for thanking donors more streamlined.

On Friday, I was working with one of these batches. There were nine donations in the batch, and I recognized five of the names — a fact that itself is very telling about the nature of my new position. But two of the names stuck out more than the others — for completely opposite reasons.

Both donors are former teachers of mine. One taught me an incredibly valuable lesson on my first day of middle school; the other stokes an angry fire in my belly that has burned for more than 30 years.

The first teacher assigned us a project about Egyptian culture, and then overheard me say to a classmate that I didn’t know where Egypt was on a map. He stopped our class from working and sent me to the wall map at the front of the room.

I was lost, literally, as I searched Europe and South America to no avail. Then voices started chiming in from the back of the room. “It’s in Africa,” someone mentioned. “No, look a little higher,” another said, as my finger floated around the middle of the continent. Eventually, I found and pointed to Egypt, and we all went back to our projects.

I suppose I could have internalized this experience and learned a lesson to never admit what I do not know, especially to an authority figure. But something about how the situation was handled taught me something very different: it’s okay not to know everything. You’re not in this world alone. Your classmates are there for you. And collectively, you can find the answer.

The other donor? A teacher who did not like me at all. I have a thousand stories from her class, all of which involve me feeling like a failure. She once told my parents she hoped I was good at math because I’d never make it as a reader or writer.

I wrote both thank you letters, and I was sincere in expressing my gratitude for these philanthropic gifts. But if I’m being honest, a part of me really wanted to stuff a copy of my journalism degree into the second teacher’s envelope.

I didn’t do that. But I did rewrite one paragraph in her letter so that I could use a semi-colon.

Yes, I’m a professional. I’m also too smart to purposely burn a bridge, especially one that really doesn’t require burning.

But once in a while, in a small town like this one and absent the ability to speak out without sounding like a lunatic with a 30-year chip on her shoulder?

Maybe, once in a while, just in those situations, it’s okay to let a passive-aggressive semi-colon do the talking.

50 before 50: become deprived of all senses

The last time my wanderlust found me in a new age-y spa, a Russian man poured honey all over my body and then slapped me with tree branches as I worried I might catch on fire. It was an experience.

This time, I climbed into a wall, floated in water infiltrated with 850 pounds of salt, and then went home and slept for 30 hours straight.

I cannot adequately describe the “floating” experience to anyone who hasn’t gone through it themselves, except it’s like a drug-free psychedelic experience that left both Scott and I feeling completely incapable of driving home in a safe way. And apparently, you really need to float at least three times before you fully appreciate the impact it has on your brain and well-being.

The whole idea is that you are deprived off all your senses for an hour by closing yourself in this pitch-black, heavily insulated tank. There is sight, and yet I kept seeing flashes of blue. Scott saw reds. There is no smell. There is no taste. There is no touch — the water is kept at your skin’s ambient temperature, so you lose the feeling between where your body ends and the water begins. There is no sound, except for the pulsating noise of your heart pumping blood throughout your body. I swear, I could trace the blood as it left my heart and moved down to my toes and back up to the heart.

It. Was. Wild.

I think that’s all I want to say for now. I just urge you to find a place near you and try this out.

It’s a lot less stressful that being beaten by trees, that much I can guarantee!  Also, 30 hours of sleep is pretty darn magical.

 

Turning the page; a new chapter awaits

What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. – Henry David Thoreau

Tomorrow marks my last day as an Ithaca College employee. This is the job that brought us 2,788 miles across the country for a new life (and the chance to actually enjoy seasonal-appropriate weather again).

I’ve been at IC for eight and a half years.  That’s the longest I have stayed at a single job, and that says so much about the opportunities the college afforded me, the relationships I built with inspiring alumni and donors, and the friendships I’ve made — with both donors and colleagues-turned-friends.

What makes leaving a bit easier is the knowledge that these relationships are for life. 

My decision to leave came quickly. How people react to a departure says far more about them than about me, and the few unkind notes are far, far outweighed by the dozens and dozens of kind and wonderful (and often lengthy!) emails and letters about the difference I’ve made in people’s lives. Alumni, parents, donors and colleagues have gone out of their way to make sure I know how special our relationship is to them. Many of those notes have brought me to tears, and they drive home for me the fact that I am in the right line of work. 

I will forever be grateful for this experience and this chapter of my life, and the lifelong friends I have made through and at IC. 

As you know, I lost my best friend last fall. The crushing weight of her death, and the anxiety and sadness I felt throughout the holidays and into the new year forced me to evaluate my life and career.

I love IC, and access to education will always be one of my top priorities. But as I reflected last winter and spring, I began to realize that I needed to make a change. I needed to find an organization that was making a difference right here in the community I love and call home.

Em’s experience with brain cancer, which she was diagnosed with at just 30 years old, drove home for me the fact that none of us know how much time we have left on this planet. I asked myself: if I died suddenly, what will I have hoped to contribute to the world and to my community?

At the same time, I kept thinking back to Emily’s last months. Every time I saw her, or talked to her mom or husband, they raved about the hospice nurses who would visit their home a few times a week. The nurses were there to ensure a pain-free and graceful exit from this world, but they also did so much to support Emily’s family. Some of the stories I heard about the care and love they showed to Emily’s 10-year-old son made a huge impact on me.

A few weeks ago, I visited the website for our local hospice and palliative care services. I thought volunteering might be a good way to get my foot in the door… but then I stumbled on the fact that they were hiring a Director of Development & Community Relations. If I had to write a job description for where I am at in my career, this would be it. I applied, and almost immediately began to embark on a series of conversations with staff (the Medical Director is a family friend, so that helped me understand the culture, opportunities and challenges quickly!) and the hiring committee. Once the offer was made, it was a no-brainer. I enthusiastically accepted.

I am thrilled to embark on this exciting new adventure… which begins Saturday with my attendance at their largest fundraising event of the year! 

Tomorrow is a big day for me. I close a major chapter, and flip the page to a new one. It also is the day that Emily would have been celebrating her 42nd birthday. The irony isn’t lost on me, and I think this is a poetic and beautiful coincidence.

It was hard not to call Em immediately when I accepted the job, but I know she was there with me, every step of the way. And she will be with me tomorrrow, as I take this big leap into an exciting new chapter. I know she’d be proud— she was never someone who cared about prestige or fancy titles, and only about making life better for others. 

I love you, friend, and I miss you.