From Finisterre To Silverton, and Three Years In Between

At the end of the earth in Finisterre three years ago, I sat in a small bar overlooking the ocean. During those cafe-con-leche-sipping moments, I knew exactly three things: I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be single, and I wanted to live in Oregon.

Within a week of returning to Virginia from Spain, I accepted a writing job that would prove to be one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my professional career. Under the leadership of a phenomenal writer and talented communications director, I learned how to write and was mentored by one of the best—and toughest—managers I have ever known, and for her I always will be grateful.

In a moment of serendipity just a few months after I had started my new endeavor, I met someone—something that I had deliberately tried to avoid—and within a matter of weeks, we were in it. I often have described our relationship as being as smooth as a dirt road in Costa Rica, but somehow we have hit pavement and now only the occasional pothole. He may be my greatest challenge yet and I am quite sure that I have been his. But however we are—we are in it together. And together we are embarking on our next great adventure.

I have felt deeply every growing pain this county has endured during the past 18 months and sadly, I do care. Perhaps too much. And where I am going next, I will need a rain coat because it rains a lot in Oregon.

The greatest wisdom that I have received along The Way has been this: follow your bliss; life is not a dress rehearsal. The only regrets in life are the risks you don't take. Cliches, I know, but they are because they are true.

The world feels like an upside-down-kind-of-place right now. As the country takes stock, so too have I, and I have determined that it is time to return to my family, my people, my tribe. It is time to go home.

Steve and I are pulling chalks in August and will drive westward into the sunset, toward the great Pacific Ocean, and will settle in our new home in a small, progressive community just south of Portland called Silverton.

Hope to see you all there someday.

The Next Adventure

The recent death of Anthony Bourdain—renowned chef, author, and world traveler who touched the lives of countless many through his intellectual, cultural escapades—has reminded me how fragile life is—that in just a moment, it can all end. Shocked and saddened, I reflected upon the words of Henry David Thoreau,

"The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face? 

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor."

Death is sobering and grief brings moments of reflection—a pause that we otherwise would not take—and it reminds us that even in our noblest pursuits, life can be missed. Over the years, I've lost a handful of friends and acquaintances to suicide, and it never gets easier to understand. But what I have also learned is that life is far too precious to miss out on, our time here on Earth is finite, and I want to be awake for it. Thoreau's realization of this moved him into action.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swatch and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."

Thoreau's actions and his very existence are a guide for those who wish to live with zeal and keep perspective on what truly matters—family, friends, community, love. Living simply allows us to stay focused on these matters and to suck the marrow out of life. While economy is a necessity, it is not an end, and it can distract from mindful living.

A few days ago, I walked through a park with a small swing set. As a child I had spent countless hours swinging, listening to birds, meditating—just being. I walked to the swing, climbed on, and repeated this ancient ritual. The earth moved up and down and the birds sang relentlessly. The sun warmed my skin and my hair swept through the air then flopped against my back at the apex of each pass. My mind fluttered away and I began daydreaming; it was 1920 and I could hear the music of the day playing in the recesses of my mind. I imagined being in my backyard, getting ready for tea, listening to music. The minutes passed, then a few more. My adventure lasted for what felt like hours, but was only a cat-nap's worth of time. When my feet returned to the ground, it occurred to me that I had spent so little of my time doing this extremely important act and that I had neglected for years what was once the most important daily ritual of my life. Saddened by this thought, I turned, walked away, and carried on with my "important" adult business. Ironically, here it is a few days later, and whatever else happened that day has been forgotten and the only thing that I can remember is my unforgettable, unexpected excursion on the swing.

When was the last time you played on the swings?