Anatomy of a Vacation

Sam and I are on vacation. A real vacation. The sort of vacation that is long enough, and hopefully relaxing enough, to really, or almost nearly, forget about the crazy, hectic, jam packed days that make up the rest of our life.

Not that we want to forget, we love that part of our life and are choosing to live it. But for heaven’s sake – these last 2 years have been insane!!! So when our friends Terry & Sandy mentioned back in January that they would be spending 2 weeks in Italy in June, Sam and I mentioned that we would be available to take care of heir house while they were away. Our offer was completely selfless of course.

We enjoy the heck out of Terry and Sandy – but their house – well there is just something downright spiritual about it. The first time we visited them after they moved from Kansas City to St. Augustine, Florida, we nearly cancelled the trip the day before we left. We were stressed and frazzled and had been traveling a lot the past 2 months, and the last thing we were looking forward to was another weekend of travel. But we got on the plane anyway, and something happened as soon as we walked through the front doors of their house. We relaxed. I mean we really relaxed. We slept better than we’d slept in years. We both slept the entire night without waking, something that never happens for either of us. And then we kept on sleeping. And when we finally awoke, we were rested. Rested. Sigh….

We’ve been back since and it’s the same thing. We sleep. We eat. We sleep. We talk. We sleep. We eat. We talk. And we leave deeply relaxed.

So you can see why we selflessly offered, ahem, I mean, asked, ok we practically begged, to stay at their house while they were away. Being good friends, and gracious to boot, they readily agreed.

I took home some sea shells from the beach that weekend to remind me of what I had to look forward to. I kept them in a little arrangement on the shelf in my bathroom and each morning while I was getting ready I would remind myself that I was going to get to spend a week in Florida at Terry & Sandy’s house. Ahhhh. I could almost hear the waves crashing against the beach, and behind that, the soft tinkle of the fountain outside the window of the room in which we slept.

We decided to leave on Friday, June 13th, which was also my birthday. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate turning 42. For the next 9 days we will be “living” in Terry & Sandy’s house, enjoying this little corner of paradise and an escape from much of what constitutes our “real life”. If I am not too busy sleeping and eating, I plan to chronicle our plans to do absolutely nothing. I am sure it will be fascinating reading!

Just This Moment

Tonight was a big night. A really big night. I sit on the board of a local neighborhood association. And for the last 5 months we have been wrestling with a board member who fancies himself a revolutionary. He’s an interesting guy. For about the first 30 seconds. And then it gets old. And then I want to shove a stake through my left eye.

We have been trying for the last several months to figure out how to get him off the board. We finally came up with a plan. We sought legal counsel. We held countless meetings. Tonight we held a vote of the membership to decide our revolutionary’s fate. We were all nervous. Our secretary spoke. I spoke. Others spoke. It went well.

The votes were counted. 61 in favor of voting him off the island. 3 in favor of keeping him. The 3 votes included his own. Only 2 friends in the whole mess.

He was as stand up as anyone I’ve ever seen. He accepted his defeat graciously. He said he was taking the vote to heart. He said he appreciated seeing democracy at work.

Jeff, who hosted us in his space, said it felt so much like family to him. He was nearly breathless when he said it. “Its like a great big family. We fight. We argue. But we still love each other in the end.” Jeff set the tone for the entire evening. God love him.

When we realized we’d won, there were hugs all around. I even hugged the revolutionary. And he hugged me back. Then we all went out for drinks. And bar food. I was drunk with happiness and box wine and deep fried olives.

On the way home, I thought about the fact that despite all the trouble in my life, this entire evening had been filled with moments that were extremely perfect. They were gilt edged and dripping in honey. Just this moment. And the next one after that. Tonight, nothing else mattered.

On the Rocks

She: What do you like to drink?
Me: Scotch
She: Really?
Me: Really.
She: Why Scotch?
Me: Because at the end of the day, I need something just as hard, just as biting. I need to shutter.
She: Shutter is right. I don’t know how you can stand it.
Me: The Scotch is easy. But not the days.

The 3 Day San Diego Breast Cancer Walk

After 8 weeks of training, we finally hit the pavement in San Diego and started ticking off the miles. These weren’t training miles. Nope, these were the real thing.

Those 3 days were perhaps the most amazing, magical 3 days I’ve experienced. A microcosm of all that is good and right in the world. Three days of enthusiasm, of inspiration, of encouragement, of determination, of caring, of service, of support, and of laughter. And did I mention pink? There was lots and lots of pink. I have really never experienced anything quite like it before, but despite the crazy beauty of the event itself, I know one thing for sure. I am never, ever, ever, NOT EVER, walking 60 miles again. No sir. Not me. ☺

Still, the experience was amazing, in no small part due to the incredible cast of volunteers. There were nearly 5000 walkers and more than 550 volunteers, supporters and staff. I would love to see the operations manual for this event, because as near as I could tell, it ran flawlessly.

We arrived very early Friday morning at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, where we were met by volunteers dressed in their pajamas and fuzzy slippers. Apparently they had just rolled out of bed in order to help us load our luggage onto the trucks that would carry it to our campsite, some 20 miles south.

We made our way to the Opening Ceremonies where we quickly found our friends Steve, Jenne’ and Momme’. It was easy to find Jenne' as she is the national spokesperson for the 3 Day. If you can find the stage, you can almost always find Jenne’. In fact, Jenne’ is who first told us about the 3 Day and we initially signed up in support of her. As we began training and fundraising, it became so much bigger than that, but seeing her up on stage was a very cool reminder of how our journey started.

And then we were off. All 5000 of us padded our way through the streets and sidewalks of Del Mar. We climbed the hills of Torrey Pines State Park, wound our way down to La Jolla Cove and finally, 20 miles and 11 hours later, Sam and I arrived at camp which was in Mission Bay Park, right on the water.

Along the way we were cheered by countless numbers of supporters.
Office buildings hung giant banners along the route and hundreds of office employees came out to clap and cheer for us. Shops and restaurants put out bowls of candy, snacks, Kleenex, sunscreen, lip balm, balloons and buttons. Individuals dressed themselves, their children and their animals in pink and stood outside their homes waving and clapping for us. At the top of one particularly steep hill a couple spritzed us with water bottles, and at the top of another hill, a resident had thrown a hose over the fence so we could splash our faces. Still others put stereo speakers in their windows or boom boxes in their driveways to play music as we passed by.

And then there were the walker stalkers. These were dedicated individuals who followed us along the route to entertain us. They would stop in one spot, let us pass, and then drive several miles ahead of us, stop and do it all again. One guy sang to us through speakers in the back of his truck. Another handed out smiley face pins with his 4 year old daughter.



And this hilarious older gentleman wore a sign around his neck that proclaimed “I’m a Breast Man!”



Everybody loved the San Jose bicycle police as they flirted and popped wheelies for us.



But my favorites were these two women who dressed as cows, drove a black and white spotted PT Cruiser and road around telling us to “Moooo-ve it!”



There were 3 Day volunteers who dressed in crazy costumes and drove up and down the route honking and cheering. They drove sweep vans, which were vans you could take to the next pit stop if you were hurt or just too tired, and each van was decorated in a different theme, including this one which was covered in bras.








And every 2-3 miles there were pit stops with a medic tent, port-a-potties, snacks, Gatorade and water. Each of the pit stops had a theme and all of the volunteers dressed accordingly.


Needless to say, we were thoroughly encouraged and entertained, and the show of support from the community was particularly touching. Still, the miles were long and hard, and both Sam and I limped into camp that first night, certain we wouldn’t be able to do another 20 miles the next day. Despite our training, we both developed shin splints and muscle cramps, but thankfully no blisters that first day.

We set up our tent, organized our gear, ate dinner (Oh my God did it taste amazing even though it was just pasta and sauce). We showered in semi truck trailers and the showers were some of the best I’ve ever had! The water was hot, hot, hot, the water pressure ferocious and the trailers themselves were filled with steam, almost like a sauna.

Everyone watches for the last walker to come into camp, so we can cheer them. When that person arrives, everyone goes crazy with excitement! The last walker has the honor of raising the flag over camp, which signifies that everyone is home and safe.

And then - lights out at 9:00 pm. Sam and I slept like rocks, despite the sleeping bag and tent. I think I could have slept anywhere as tired as I was. I got up in the night to go to the bathroom (the worst part about camping) and it was really cool to look to my right and see the ocean and to my left and see a sea of pink tents.

People began getting up at 4:30 and 5:00 the next morning. Sam and I slept in (!) till 5:30am. Then it was breakfast, stretching and we were back on the trail. Day 2 wasn’t significantly harder than Day 1, but it was long. Our route took us through Ocean Beach and Sunset Cliffs. At one point, we looked down an alley and saw walkers going the opposite direction at the other end. We realized if we cut through it would be a huge shortcut. It was tempting, so tempting, but we talked ourselves out of it.

That night we went to the camp show which included a karaoke contest, a lost and found fashion show and believe it or not, a dance party. I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, but as Jenne’ so aptly put it, “Nothing says I’ve just walked 40 miles like doing the electric slide.” The stage and dance floor were crowded with people dancing their hearts out. Of course I’m convinced they all took sweep vans back to camp right after mile 6. Ha!


Sam and I visited the Remembrance Tents that night as well. There were 14 white tents that sat on a slight rise at the edge of camp, each illuminated from the inside creating a beautiful glow. 13 of the tents represented each city where a 3 Day walk had been held this year. The 14th tent was larger and inside was a smaller white tent, also illuminated from the inside. The large tent was lined with photos of women who had participated in a 3 Day walk whose lives had been lost to breast cancer, some only weeks earlier. There was a long table with journals to write in, and there were markers so that you could write the name of your loved one on the smaller white tent. It was beautiful and sad and put our sore muscles and aching feet into sharp relief.
Day 3 started with everyone taking down their tents. It was sad to see camp come down even though it meant I would soon be sleeping in a real bed.

Day 3 was a killer for me. My feet were hurting terribly after just 2 miles and I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to finish. We saw a lot of walking wounded that day, people with bandaged knees, ankles and shins. People with entire sections of their shoes cut away to deal with blisters. Both Sam and I had shin splints, muscle cramps, blisters and sore, sore feet.

Our route took us past the Mission Bay Golf Course, Fiesta Island, Old Town San Diego, Mission Hills Park, and Balboa Park. The route was especially pretty, but still it was a struggle for me to maintain a positive attitude. I wanted to quit. I WANTED TO SIT DOWN! I asked everyone around me, “How are you doing? How do you feel?” They all said the same thing. “We hurt. We are tired. We want to quit.” But they didn’t. Everyone kept walking. One foot in front of the other. I did the same.

Left. Right. Left… ouch! Right. Every 15 seconds my brain asked me if I wouldn’t like to quit, if I wouldn’t like to end this insanity. Left. Right. Left. Right. I kept telling myself to walk normally, because as soon as I gave into the pain, I would begin to hobble which caused other parts of my body to clench up and hurt. Left. Right. Walk naturally. Good. Keep going. Left. Right. Ouch!




Finally, finally, it was over. When I saw the gate to Petco Park, which signaled the end, I burst into tears. Thank God we’d made it. The walkers who had finished before us had formed a long tunnel for us to walk through in celebration of completing the walk. They high-fived us and hugged us and cheered us. It was so cool.



Once everyone had arrived we walked together, arms linked, and wearing our white “completion” t-shirts, into the closing ceremonies. The staff and volunteers and supporters lined our path and it felt a bit like “This is your life” to see them all together at one time.

Once we were in, the survivors, all wearing pink t-shirts, walked in together. Everyone took off a shoe and raised it in the air to honor them. These steps were for you.

Closing ceremonies, and then it was over. There were hugs and tears as we all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I knew for certain as we climbed into our cab that we were leaving something remarkable, something much bigger than the two of us.

I thought of the women whose photos were on the walls of the Remembrance Tent. I thought of Rhonda, Katherine’s Mom. I thought of Katherine. I thought of my own grandmother. I thought of the women whose stories I learned from all of you, whose names are scrolling on my 3-Day webpage. And I knew my blisters would heal, my feet would stop hurting, and my muscles would relax. But until there is a cure for breast cancer, moms and daughters and sisters and grandmothers will not have the same luxury of quick recovery as I do.

Thank you for your exceedingly generous support and encouragement. Because of you, Sam and I were able to present a combined contribution of nearly $28,000. Because of you, we are that much closer to finding a cure.

Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

Crash

sweet smoke
full moon
Dave Matthews,
heal my wounds

Sometimes, music is required

This past Thursday I attended a funeral. Judy Eubank, the mother of one of my best friends, died unexpectedly.

I’ve known Judy for nearly as long as I’ve known her daughter, my dear friend Carrie. Carrie and I first met when we were both fresh out of college and new in our careers. Carrie was job hunting and was referred to me for an informational interview. Instead of talking about job opportunities, we gossiped about our respective employers and when our allotted appointment time ran out, we agreed to meet for lunch to continue our conversation. We became fast friends, developing a bond that has only deepened over the past 15 years.

I met Judy only a short time after meeting Carrie. Carrie was still living at home and I was instantly intrigued and enamored with the strong relationship she and her mother shared.

Over the years I came to know Judy in three distinct ways. She was first and foremost the matriarch of the Eubank family. At bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and holidays, she presided over the gatherings with the pride and confidence of a mother lion. One of my favorite memories is of sitting along side Judy and Carrie at Broadway Church on Sundays. Judy was a strong and independent woman, and to be included in her family brood, as I often was, was to feel safe and loved.

I knew her most recently as her banker. Judy called me several years ago to talk about her car, which was in need of replacing. I was both flattered and terrified when she called. That she was willing to trust me to help her through a financial difficulty was something I took very seriously. We worked out a rather creative arrangement and she moved her banking relationship to my bank. Over the ensuing years, she called to let me know each and every time interest rates rose. She also called regularly to ask questions about the minutest details of her account. To say she was high maintenance would not be an overstatement. But I never stopped feeling flattered that she trusted me to answer her questions.

I knew her most intimately through Carrie’s eyes. Judy, as a mother, was a strong force of a woman who loved her children with a fierce intensity. She was a mountain stream – beautiful and powerful, shaping and molding with her intensity all those within her embrace. As the youngest of 3 children and the only one who remained in Kansas City, Carrie has spent most of her adult years negotiating that fine line along which she is both an accomplished adult with a family of her own, and yet still and always her mother’s baby girl. Carrie has for the last 20 years, spent equal amounts of time trying to become closer to and stand independent from Judy. It is the dance mothers and daughters have danced throughout the ages and I’ve watched from Carrie’s side, mesmerized, and a little bit envious.

Judy died in her sleep, without warning to those who loved her. She’d spent the previous two days enjoying having her entire family in town for a reunion she'd organized. Always the matriarch, even unto death.

The funeral was bittersweet. The suddenness of her death meant that her friends and family were fresh with grief and shock. Photos of Judy throughout her life lined the back wall of the church. She was stunning as a young woman. A photo of her as a teenager sitting on a railing next to a sign that read, “Do not sit on railing,” was surely a sign of the independent path she would forge as an adult.

The service was filled with Judy’s favorite things. She loved simple pleasures: music, poetry, fresh flowers, a cool glass of water with a twist of fresh lemon. We listened to poetry that Judy had written over the years, and to classical music, a country song, and a beautiful, sad guitar piece that Tommy, Judy’s musician son performed.

I sat in my old pew at Broadway Church, and felt as if it had only been last week since I’d last sat there. (In truth it’s been more than 10 years). The space felt as warm and inviting and safe as ever. Paul and Marcia – co-ministers of the church – had aged, but their message was the same. “You belong. You are safe.” Its no wonder Judy loved this place as she did. And I loved it too, thanks to her and to Carrie.

I sat together with Carrie’s other best girlfriends. Each of us understood that this was big, very big. Judy's passing was a seismic event. There was just no other way of understanding it. We wept as Judy’s best friend read a letter that Carrie had written to her mom. Tommy’s band mates sat a few rows ahead of us. I watched as these big guys cried openly while Tommy’s song “Glassy Headlights” played.

I had a clear view of Carrie as she sat in the front row, flanked by her siblings Tommy and Mindy, her husband and her children. She was grieving, but throughout the service she was first a mom, holding her kids on her lap, comforting them, just like Judy would have done.

Mindy’s husband Scott took little Jackson to the bathroom and Tommy stretched his arm across the space between them and gestured, “Come here, come closer.” Mindy did, and perhaps the biggest flood of tears for me came as I watched Tommy wrap his arm around his sister’s shoulder and hold her tightly. Judy’s fierce love lived on.

As I looked around I was struck by the fact that for the most part, we had mostly first known each other as kids, or young adults. And now here we sat, with kids of our own, with grey in our hair, some of us with extra pounds around our waist, with mortgages and car loans, obligations and responsibilities, and we were burying our parents. Our parents! How did this happen? When did we become this grown up? Did we ever really believe the baton would be passed? That the role of family matriarch or patriarch, would fall to us?

I watched Carrie’s children, Sophie and Mikey, and remembered my own grandparents’ funerals. Had my parents wondered how it had come to this? How they could be burying their own parents?

Following the service, we gathered on the front steps of the church as Judy’s seven grandchildren – ranging in age from 6 months to 9 years – each let go of a single balloon in memory of their grandma Nani. Simple. And beautiful. As Judy would have wanted it. The seven balloons rose up in unison, free of earthly tethers, floating away into the crisp blue sky, undaunted by the blazing sun. I watched until they disappeared.

After everyone else had gone, I stood on the front steps talking with Carrie and her girlfriends until I was baked through from the heat. When we finally said our goodbyes, I decided to go home, even though I should have gone back to work.

At home, I peeled off my sticky clothes and stood under the cool spray of the shower. I redressed, went downstairs, poured myself a glass of water, with ice cubes, and lemon. I sliced a fresh tomato and ate it with a little vinegar, salt and pepper. Simple pleasures. Simply enjoyed.

Thank you Judy, for reminding me that in the end it is about how much you have loved, and that the greatest joy can be found in the simplest things.

You will be missed.


When spirits speak,
few words are needed.
Sometimes, music is required.

Judy Eubank
1942 - 2007

The Secret

As usual, Val has said something that got me thinking. She has that way about her. Last week Sam and I made a spontaneous trek across 63rd to share a bottle of wine with our favorite neighbors and we starting talking about the best selling book “The Secret.” Val believes in the power of setting intentions. I do too, but there is a place somewhere in there where I think it feels silly.

If I say I want a red Porsche, will it cause one to miraculously appear in my drive way? I don’t think so. On the other hand, if I say I want a red Porsche, and I really do, and I remind myself everyday that I want it, doesn’t it make sense that I will start organizing my life in a way that will allow me to acquire one? Well, I think it does.

Val told us that a year or so ago she set the intention that she would be earning $40M a year from her rental properties. Now she is. She laughed, “I think I have to set the goal higher!” That makes sense to me. Val & Vern buy houses in the hood, renovate them beautifully, and lease them out to Section 8 and other tenants. They really care about their houses, their tenants, and their neighbors. Slumlords they are not. Val says she can tell a real difference in some of the blocks where they’ve purchased properties in that the neighbors seem to feel a sense of pride at having a truly well maintained property on their block. She says she’s noticed that other neighbors have begun taking better care of their properties. And because Val has never met a stranger, she’s gotten neighbors talking to each other, where before they were not.

But anyway, I digress. Val wanted to make enough to live on from her rental properties. Though I don’t know the details, I imagine that with each house Val and Vern buy, they think through the income and expense potential to decided if it will get them closer to their $40,000 a year goal. If it doesn’t fit the plan, they don’t buy the house. That’s intention in action.

I get that, yet for most of my life I have been loathe to set goals or intentions for myself. That’s not to say I haven’t gone through the motions a hundred or so times. For most of my life, I’ve had employers urging me to set goals around things I didn’t really care about. I did it, but those goals didn’t motivate me, instead they felt like a weight hanging around my shoulders. Ugh.

But there have been other goals I have cared about. When I was younger (in my 20s and early 30s) I used to make long lists of things I wanted to accomplish in my life. I would organize them into categories: trips to take, friends to spend time with, classes to take, languages to learn, weight to attain, money to earn, debts to pay, etc. Each list was several pages long. I still have those lists and they are fun to re-read, but I am not sure they actually caused me to do anything differently.

In more recent years I’ve drafted a narrative that describes the values I hold most dear in my life. I holed away in a hotel room for a day and a half to do it, and put my entire heart and soul into the effort, but I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head what I came up with. Sigh.

I guess if I’m really honest with myself, I would have to say that part of the problem with goals is that I hate setting myself up for failure. In order for it to seem a worthy goal, I end up setting the bar very high. Lose 20 pounds before Christmas – and keep it off. Now there’s a new one, and also one I’ve yet to achieve, despite having set it year after year after year. I don’t even bother putting it on my list anymore. I want to weigh less, but I also realize I don’t want it badly enough to make the daily sacrifices needed to make it happen. There is a difference between wanting the end result of a goal and being willing to do the hard work of getting there.

Which brings me back to my problem with “The Secret” which contends that all that is needed is the desire and intent. If you set your heart upon your desire then magically the hard work disappears and what you imagined will appear. If that were true, I would have been a size 4 for the last 20 years.

Well, all this thinking about goals and intentions is really the result of Val’s suggestion that we start a neighborly tradition of meeting on or around July 4th each year and setting our intentions for the year – just to see what happens.

Both Sam and I sat down and wrote out our goals this morning (and I am happy to report that no where on my list is “lose weight”) We will share them with Val & Vern later today and then Val will keep them in a safe place until this time next year when we will do it again.

I have to say that the act of having this “assignment” from Val, who both Sam and I love dearly, makes it more meaningful, and as a result I am taking it more seriously than I have in a long time.

I am not going to share my goals here, but they will be in a safe place at Val’s house, and next year on the 4th of July, I’ll let you know how we did.