The Grand Adventure

This is a piece I wrote for Long Beach Magazine. It was published in the January 2010 issue.

A few years back, sitting in the kitchen of a beautiful guest house just outside of Christchurch, New Zealand, I came face to face with some surprising truths about myself.  My husband and I were six days into a three-week visit, and we had fallen in love with the country. Sure, we’d spent the first two days highly suspicious of the extreme kindness we found everywhere, but once our suspicion wore off, we were able to properly focus on the gorgeous sights, rich culture and genuine hospitality that surrounded us.

I pride myself on being a good traveler. My father worked for the airlines when I was growing up, and trips were plentiful. We rode standby most of the time, which meant arriving at LAX knowing that we might not be actually leaving for several hours; sometimes we even had to go back home and try again the next day. No big deal. My parents taught my brother and me to see travel (life, really) as a grand adventure: things may not go the way you’d imagined, and that’s okay. I have many fond memories of the four of us running from terminal to terminal at top speed, laughing uncontrollably; of getting lost while walking around London and being warned by a local that continuing on that street would surely lead to our getting shot (oops); of having to track down, all over Madrid, a certain brand of popsicle my younger brother quickly became attached to; of sneaking contraband food into our hotel room in Rome for the sake of saving a few lire. Grand adventure, indeed.

But it had been years since I’d done any real traveling, and what is exciting as a child can be challenging as an adult. The majority of our trip to New Zealand consisted of a self-guided driving tour, made ever-so-slightly terrifying by the drive-on-the-left, sit-on-the-right driving practices. We spent many long hours on the road, and slept in a new place every other night; sometimes every night.

A journal entry from that trip reads: It’s been not quite a week and we’ve seen so much, so many different landscapes and people and places, sounds and smells. Bit overwhelming, really, at this stage. Constant traveling can be hard work, especially for two people who hold [the concept of] Home at such a high premium… I told R. when we started the journey (or maybe before) that traveling to other countries makes you really take stock of who and what you are; your shortcomings, strengths, boundaries, comfort levels. You grow so much, I told him. My own boundaries have become all too evident, and they are hard to face…I need the upper hand in every situation more than I am comfortable admitting. I am impatient, and short-fused. I blame.  …Am exhausted from so many days of driving, taking in scenery and information, figuring out directions, meeting new people, guessing at etiquette, etc.

It was surprising to find that, in concert with the thrill of experiencing a new country I’d wanted very much to visit, one I found delightful at every turn, I was also experiencing a brand-new level of discomfort. I hadn’t realized until then how very pronounced my reliance is on a certain order and certain types of knowledge. Being in a new place day after day means that you never know where your next meal is coming from. It means repeatedly having to track down the restroom. And, if you’re driving, it means not really knowing where you’re going, even though you have directions and lodging and all of that. And if you’re traveling with a partner, you can also expect tensions to crop up, multiply, cause disturbances—particularly on long trips, particularly in a different country.  All of which can put a strain on things.

To what extent do we define ourselves by our arbitrary situations and conveniences? The answer, for me, was eye-opening. Without those things, evidently, I am less patient, less kind, less generous (and that’s a generous description, to be sure!).  But in the uncomfortable examination of those ideas, I was able to move past them. I did my best to become an observer of my gut reactions, and to avoid being led by them. That in itself went a long way toward easing the interpersonal tensions inevitable on a long trip; but it also allowed me to be more patient with myself. And then a funny thing happened. As I got more comfortable with the idea that I was really not as unflappable a traveler as I’d thought, I also got more comfortable with not being entirely comfortable—and that, in turn, helped me to give up the struggle and just enjoy myself, regardless of the situation.

Lessons learned on the road translate well to all other aspects of life. On the road, we are perhaps our truest selves. We can’t hide behind our schedules, our laundry, our social commitments while we’re in motion. In our daily lives we’ve worked to eliminate as much of the unknown as possible, thus removing an entire set of circumstances that test our mettle. And so, often, our truest selves are different from our daily selves. Is that a bad thing? Maybe not. Many people never take that test. But for the bold, travel is a test like no other, and the benefits can be life-changing. Of that much, I’m certain.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together

Forgiveness flounders because I exclude the enemy from the community of humans and myself from the community of sinners. – Miroslav Volf

These past few days, I’ve been thinking about faith even more than usual. Between the horrors of what’s happening in Haiti and the unfathomably callous and stupid remarks that a few public figures have made, it’s hard not to. Harder, still, to reconcile some of the comments I’ve heard from someone dear to me, the most surreal one of all: an angry statement made to me about the Haitian people “complaining” on TV and their lack of gratitude.

At least two of those speakers consider themselves men of faith: Christians, in fact. And while I don’t often take on issues like this publicly, I can’t keep my mouth shut about this. I’ll speak plainly, because there’s not much to my point.

I’m a Christian. In fact, I’m a Born-Again Christian. Until shortly before I became one, I hated Christians, as I’d only ever known bigoted/privileged/white/uptight/uneducated/over-educated/judgmental Christians. But one does not become a Christian for the people (or perhaps I’m alone there?); one does it for the Christ part. All of this to say: I know the rules.

Christ gave us two rules. Two! Only two. They are:

1) Love me above all things
2) Love each other as yourselves

That’s it. Okay? Two rules. If you don’t love Christ above all things, there’s a problem. If you don’t love others as yourself, there’s a problem. Me? I run into these problems every day of my life. Every day. I do my best; I strive; I aim higher. Every day I fail. And I will continue to do so. I know this.

That’s also how I know that I have no business appointing myself God’s hall monitor. Because in Christianity, sin is sin is sin. So if you’re not loving your neighbor as yourself, then guess what? You are no better than those people who, uh, “made a pact with the devil.” If you lie, if you cheat, if you overeat, if you lust after someone else’s spouse–if you do anything, in other words, that we have all, at one point or another, done–then you are no better than anyone else.

I have an outstanding capacity for being an asshole. I swear, a lot. I’m quick to anger. I’m judgmental. And do you know what that means? That means I have no right to point fingers at anybody else. None. None at all. It means I’d better get busy sorting my own life out, in fact.

Just needed to get that off my chest.

The Help Haiti Blog Challenge

So Ms. Diels is doing this thing, inspired by Ms. LaPorte, and then Ms. Farough got involved. Logically, then, it’s a smashing idea.

All of us small-biz people can surely donate something. (Even if you can’t afford to? You can probably afford to. Because someone needs it more than you do.) So here’s what I’m doing.

I will donate the full cost of a Brand Alchemy Session to the Red Cross on behalf of the next two people who book with me. That’s a total of either $600 or $800, depending on whether said people choose the optional report. (Details on the Brand Alchemy Session here.)

Step right up. What day would you like yours?

The Biggest Reason I Love Social Media

It’s not because social media has been the most important factor in building my business. (Although it has.)

It’s not because it levels the playing field in so many ways. (Although it does.)

And it’s not because I’m now very much in touch with the quotidian habits of people I have not seen in twenty-five  years. (It is definitely not that.)

The biggest reason I love social media so much? Because it’s okay to be affectionate.

Yeah, that’s right. Because I can tell people I admire that I think they’re great. Because I can tell people I love that I love them, and it’s not weird. (Or at least no one has called me on it.)

I’m very touchy-feely by nature. I tell my husband and kid I love them roughly eighty times a day. (I’ve never actually counted, but I say it a lot.) I’m a hugger. A cuddler. A kisser. I pat arms and heads. But only when I have no fear of being rebuffed; otherwise I’m an ice queen.

Lots of everyday things are just amazing to me, and I like to point them out. Particularly when those things are people. But it often freaks people out, in person. And sometimes it’s misinterpreted (you can’t really hug everybody, as it turns out). And yet. Online, I can yell, “I LOVE YOU!” when someone I know says something particularly witty or inspiring. I can leave a note on a blog belonging to someone on the other side of the world, letting them know that I think that person is lovely and wise and wonderful and makes the world a better place.

Why is that? Is it because it’s text, as opposed to real-time flesh and blood, and therefore less confrontational? Is it because online we have to rely on words alone, as opposed to all of the visual/socioeconomic/sexual/etc. signals that we flash at each other all day long? Maybe a combination of the two–maybe also a million other reasons, to boot.

There’s a side effect to this thing, though. I’m becoming less and less afraid of being rebuffed. Which is to say: I’m more and more affectionate in real life. I’ve all but stopped worrying that people will think I’m weird or too forward or needy (and trust me: I am all of those things). Because I work from home, because Twitter is my co-worker, I’m immersed for much of the day in a culture where building people up is–o, the humanity!–the norm. (I know! What?!) And because of it, I don’t stop to think anymore before lavishing my love upon the people I run into.

Oh, I know it sounds a bit like a cheesy inspirational novel (Twitter Emboldened Me: An Awakening of Love). But you know what? Life is like that sometimes. I’m okay with it.

Also? I LOVE YOU! You are really awesome.

No resolutions.

There’s something about the concept of resolutions that seems overly fussy to me; stingy, almost. I’m a spirit-of-the-law type, and do not do well with very specific restrictions aimed at my behavior. [Someone less rebellious might have said "directions" rather than "restrictions" -- but here we are.] What does wonders for me is a general direction, an overarching goal. So what I’ve done for this year is write a letter to myself from the future–the end of 2010–describing everything I would like to do and be a part of this year as though it’s already happened. [Apologies for that hideous sentence. Wow!] A couple of the blogs I follow recommended doing this, and it’s just gooey enough for me to be totally intrigued, and anyway, why not; how fun! I understand that at the end of the year I’ll be amazed at how much of the content in the letter has actually taken place.

It’s part experiment and part mini-manifesto. And I suspect all manner of good things will come of it.