I was a marketing director in a Big 6 accounting firm when that was still a foreign idea, telecommuting in 1993 before it was cool, working as a business coach before the coaching industry was born, and have voluntarily left the workforce several times in my career over the past 40 years because I wanted my job to fit my life better. This topic, loving your work and “making it,” whatever that means in your terms, is a favorite topic of mine so I was interested to see that LinkedIn has launched a podcast on the topic. Welcome, “Hello Monday.”
My Southwest adventure/”soul” vacation – December 2017
Day V
It is a rich blessing in life to travel to distant places to
explore and experience a variety of cultures. Interacting one-on-one with
people who may not be like me, and who view the world differently, is a
challenge I relish. In a word, it’s perfect.
I am then exponentially rewarded when I return to my quiet
solitude. I am able to relive those experiences through writing.
Santa Fe is full of people who celebrate their existence
through color, music, and food. The day after Christmas, I decide to investigate
The Pantry for breakfast. I had been told by the clerk at El Rey Court that I
could walk to it, it was right next door, and that it was “pretty good” for a
longtime, locally owned restaurant.
From the instant that I walked into The Pantry, I had the
sense that it was more than “pretty good,” and was inspired with a desire to
capture and preserve its spirit in words.
I waited 10 minutes or so (groups waiting maybe 30 to 45
minutes to get a table) to get a seat at the bar. It had an old diner feel—low
stools, a crowded dining room, additional rooms in the back for overflow
diners, and short order cooks doing their magic within sight through an open
window behind the bar into the kitchen.
It isn’t their art that inspires me, again, so much as their
lives, themselves. I am fascinated by the choices people make in order to
pursue their bliss.
I walk the less than 100 steps next door to El Rey, and
finally sit elbow-to-elbow at the diner counter, watching the wait staff
adeptly process food orders and seating customers, seeing them call diners by
first name, watching the food come and go from the kitchen, taking in the menu
and daily special choices, always some blend of American and Southwestern
fare—with red or green chili sauce toppings, and institutionally-specific
renditions of local dishes.
I opt for the daily special which is a thin-sliced prime rib
covered in peppers, sautéed onions, and accompanied by two eggs, over “medium,”
wheat toast, pantry fries, and green chili gravy. Oh my. The pantry fries are a
specialty, red potatoes pan-cooked with onions and two kinds of paprika, and
some secret seasoning.
The food orders kept flying out incredibly fast considering
how many customers were seated or waiting. It was another A-plus experience. I
decide I will have to go again, during my short visit – and hopefully, in
future visits.
While seated, I met the young man who sat next to me on the
bar stool. He had dark curly hair and a beard, and introduced himself as Noah.
Noah volunteered that he was originally from New York and Connecticut, and had
moved to Santa Fe a dozen or more years ago, following a fellow musician. They
play in the local music scene. By day, Noah is a bartender at Santa Fe Bar
& Grill, and age 40, said he was satisfied with his life. Except on one
measure, he added. The relationship part.
That, of course, launched a discussion about the
relationships we had just ended. Mine almost three years, his two. He astutely
gauged that he has invested “in the wrong girl.” He said she had alcohol and
drug issues, that he had seen as a warning sign but had chosen to ignore. I
laughed, and noted that “she must have been very pretty!” He laughed, and replied
that “yes, she was.”He explained that
looks were very important to him, and that he tended to be attracted to women
younger than him. She was 28.
Noting the age difference, and the obvious red flags, I
brought up that I had been reading “Attached,” a book by psychologist Amir
Levine that provided a practical approach for people to understand adult
attachment styles in order to improve their intimate romantic relationships.
Noah was interested, so I told him more. I suggested he pick
up a copy of the book, and to “choose wisely” next time. He recommended several
local places to eat, from his resident perspective. He also offered that he was
working the lunch shift at the Santa Fe Bar & Grill tomorrow, Wednesday,
and that it was a good place to eat and meet other locals as a solo traveler,
suggesting that I would be comfortable there. I thought this was a good option,
so I said I’d see him there.
The rest of the day, I went back downtown, toured the
Georgia O’Keeffe museum using the audio app on my phone, with the earbuds I had
brought with me. Renowned painter O’Keeffe was an enigmatic figure—who was mentored
by famed American photographer Alfred Stieglitz (1864- 1946) who was 23 years
her senior and ultimately became her life partner—and bucked the male-dominated
art world at the time.
Stieglitz gave O'Keeffe her first gallery show in 1916 and
the couple married in 1924. Theirwinter-spring love, by the way, has been chronicled in movies and their
many years of letter writing to one another have been preserved, studied, and
shared as they reconciled the desires for work, their art, with a marriage, and
are considered laced with the humanity and fragility that makes for a passion
far more interesting than fiction. Considered the "mother of American
modernism," O'Keeffe moved to New Mexico after her husband's death and was
inspired by the landscape to create numerous well-known paintings. Georgia
O'Keeffe died on March 6, 1986 at the age of 98.
A seven-minute video in the Museum was worth watching, as
well, with footage of interviews with O’Keeffe in her elder years. She was
remarkable, and though some locals commented during my visit that she was known
to be “rude,” friends who knew her—and who were interviewed for the biopic
video—said she was “witty, warm, and very human.” I thought that was a nice
thing to say about someone. In addition, it caught my attention that O’Keeffe’s
voice was recorded and played back on the video, saying, “here, I felt more
like myself,” regarding her move to New Mexico from New York at age 62. I
thought to myself, “wow, she made that move at ’62,’ maybe there is hope for me
yet!” Of course, the images of O’Keeffe in her New Mexico surrounds are also
iconic, as she was photographed in black-and-white images, and made herself
available for these throughout her storied and prolific years in the high
desert.
Here is a photo of O’Keeffe, at home in one of the two
ranches she renovated to suit her, this taken in 1956 at age 69:
I also walked to visit the New Mexico Museum of Art, which
was a disappointment to me except for the discovery of native artist Gustave
Baumann, whose exhibition of life works included woodcut prints (like Everett
Ruess’s chosen artform), as well as paintings, marionette creations, and
sculptures. The pieces on display intrigued me, though I was most captivated by
his prints, and I promised myself that I would keep an eye out for more
information or a book about him. Best-known for his work as a printmaker,
Baumann arrived in Santa Fe in 1918 and lived there until his death in 1971.
Here is a link to a 2014 article about him: http://www.santafenewmexican.com/pasatiempo/performance/theater/wood-stock-gustave-baumann-s-marionettes/article_3527ea39-ed13-5b90-8f6b-991c9498789d.html
And a photo, circa 1969, of Gustave Baumann with his
marionettes:
Day V also included encounters shortly thereafter with Anita
(who later emailed me that her real name was Donna XX) at the local coffee
shop, and with Kate Wheeler, owner of the Savory Spice Shop, who Anita
introduced me to. In the short time that I engaged with Kate while making my
purchases, she shared with me that she had moved and her demons had gone with
her, when she went to Australia, but since moving to Santa Fe had encountered several major life challenges, convinced investors to back
her spice business, was a former chef, teaching cooking classes and told me “I
like you.” Thanks, Kate. And thanks, Santa Fe.
My Southwest adventure/”soul” vacation – December 2017
Day IV
Christmas
Day.
I
took all day of Day III on my journey to drive to Santa Fe, arriving at my
destination well before dark—on Christmas Eve. I hadchosen the El Rey Court, a delightful adobe
motel that has historic roots and even though is on the outskirts of town, on
Cerrillos Road, was still central to every place I wanted to visit while in
Santa Fe for four days. It was beautiful, cozy. I set up my “writer’s garret,”
and got myself oriented so I knew where things were and how to navigate without
a map or GPS (it doesn’t take me long to get comfortable in a new town, I have
an excellent sense of direction and a willingness to explore and immerse myself
in a place). Santa Fe is not big, only about 80,000 people, so this was easy to
do.
On
Christmas Day, Monday, I drove around Sante Fe’s downtown and immediate
streets, looking for an open restaurant. It’s about 9am. I’m startled by the
closed store fronts, not one place open – haven’t found a restaurant yet – but
being alert to the notion that restaurants attached to hotels would likely be
open for their guests. I’m circling, carefully navigating the one-way streets.
I’m repeating the circuit I became familiar with last night having arrived to
this enchanting place on Christmas Eve eager to join the energy of the place I
remembered from my Christmastime visit 30 years ago.
Last
night, the place was bustling with moving bodies—groups, couples, families all
merry and bright, taking in the lights, streams of glowing luminaria, festive
storefronts—coyote, chili, mesa-scenes, native tapestries and jewelry, an
explosion of color and delight—and, of course, the spirit-stirring scent of
burning pinon pine pervasive everywhere. It is as I remembered it, times three.
I think Santa Fe was much, much smaller and less chic when I was here last.
This
morning’s visit is in stark contrast. I’m surprised by how few people are here.
And yet, at the same time, my Southern sensibilities provide the observation
that I am equally surprised by the numbers of people who are out—away from
their home bases—on Christmas morning! This is something of a revelation to me,
as I’ve spent all of my Christmas mornings, ensconced at home, among presents
and family, home-cooked meals, Christmas trees festooned with our own creations
and choices…until now.
And
yet, there is something magical and inviting about this discovery. There’s a
whole world “out here.”
I
finally find The Burrito Company, open and busy with diners and cheerful,
welcoming employees.
“Mary,
Did You Know” is playing on their audio system. The booths are bright red. The
place is warm, homey, and the smells are enticing, the prices remarkably
reasonable for these parts.
It
occurs to me as I bite into my delicious chorizo quesadilla, accompanied by a
large café mocha, that on this “most wonderful time of the year,” that the
warmth and comfort I seek in connection with others is really everywhere, not
just at home. It’s “out there” but how do you find it? [I get momentarily
distracted from my journaling by the menu sign that heralds “fried ice cream”
and I think, “Have I ever had fried ice cream? I’m intrigued.]
Returning
to this thought, how will I find the connection I seek today, all alone, “out
here” on Christmas Day?
I’ve
been thinking all morning that it would be super uncool of me to hone in or
invite myself into anyone’s family Christmas Day, that’s one thing I can cross
off the list of options! I think, though, about all the times my Bergh family
opened our home and hearts—and dinner table—to other alone people over the
years, people in transition, seeking, or broken, and I muse whether my karma
will come around. Will someone “take me in” as I took others in, in past
Christmases and other seasons?
Sarah
Greene, a new friend back home, texted me a suggestion to connect with a dear
friend of hers who lives in Santa Fe and who would be “happy to meet me.” I’ll text
her, but not on Christmas Day.
Ok,
so if I’m not inviting myself into someone’s family sphere today, how am I
going to spend this day?
It’s
worth noting at this juncture, too, that some of those dearest to me back home
are texting or sending me well wishes on Facebook. And, I’ve talked to my
family of origin—most members—on the phone by mid-morning as I now type this.
I’m feeling somewhat less alone thanks to their reaching out.
And
yet, what is always at the forefront of this emotional tension is the conflict
I have always had to seek adventure, to put myself “out there,” away from home,
and exploring and appreciating God’s great glory and reveling in the great
human experiences granted to me as an observer, a traveler in this life, and
sometimes participant.
Indeed,
there has always been something magical to me about the serendipity I have
experienced through travel. It’s a tension between “aloneness” – watching
others’ togetherness from outside the circle—and yet at the same time relishing
my vantage point of sentinel, one sort of keeping watch.
It
has always been a part of my makeup to observe, to stand outside, to feel
different. What do these folks know about being close, being vulnerable, being
happy, standing together—as witnesses to one another’s lives—that I don’t?
But
as I have gotten older, I am beginning to recognize that not everyone knows
something that I don’t know, that I can learn to reconcile that my differentness,
and my desire to stand apart at times, is something I can enjoy.
I
know that I can enter into the sphere of others easily when I choose to. For
example, last night, upon arriving in town and heading to the Coyote Cantina at
Ralph Megna’s suggestion, I met a lovely family headed by oil and gas Oklahoman
and recent Santa Fe transplant, Ellis Randolph. They were sitting next to me,
animated with their lively discussion, and welcomed me into their conversation.
They also invited me to join them for the luminaria walk, but after exchanging
cell phone numbers and hanging out waiting for them for several hours I ended
up declining, instead opting to rest back at the El Rey after my long day’s
drive.
It
is enriching, however, to experience a tiny piece of another person’s life, though
entirely fleeting, when they are willing and open to sharing it. It is in those
moments that I feel really special—gifted, in a sense. Blessed. Thank you, God.
And, thank you, strangers, for opening your life to me, if only for a moment. I
already felt a connection to Ellis’ family in that moment—Ellis’ story about
his move to Santa Fe, his daughter Mary’s Silicon Valley story, his
brother-in-law Jay’s cross-country Tesla trek.
But
back to this singularly “alone” Christmas morning. As I sit at The Burrito
Company, I continue to jot down notes…
The
balance of the emotional tension in my conundrum resides in the need to enjoy
my solitude. In between the moments of serendipitous connection and aloneness,
I am seeking to enjoy my own company. What a concept, right? It is, for some of
us!
I’m
never more aware of how alone I am than when I am focused on enjoying my own
company. I’m chuckling as I’m writing this, because I remember my dad being
particularly fond of his own company and never hesitating to remind others who
tried to enter his sphere that he was “perfectly content enjoying his own
company.” He would do this by fishing, hunting, reading, watching sports. It
was often difficult for him, I think, to allow others to share those
experiences with him, his pursuit of solitary activities consumed a good deal
of his adult life, as I recall.
I
realize for me, and that is part of why I am taking this solo journey across
two states, that though I am quite accomplished at “staying busy” as my sister
Vicki calls it—going places where other people are—that this time is about
learning to pursue and enjoy solitary activities that are fulfilling.
I
feel compelled to write about it. Writing is one of those solitary activities
that is fulfilling for me.
So,
if I go back to my original question, “how am I going to spend this ‘most
wonderful day?’” part of the answer was that I had in my mind that following
breakfast, I would attend the 10am mass at St. Francis Cathedral in downtown
Santa Fe.
When
I found The Burrito Company open for breakfast, I also found a parking spot
around the block from it, which I realized once I saw where I was, exactly, was
also less than a block’s walking distance from the Cathedral.How lucky, I am thinking. After I have
breakfast, I can scoot the three minutes or so over to the church for mass.
So,
that is what I did.
The
Christmas Day mass at St. Francis Cathedral turned out to be what I would
characterize as a “whole person” experience, where I was engaged with not only
my intellect but with every one of my senses, with my feelings, my
spirituality, and my personality. Maybe my other experiences on this trip have
been like this, too, but this particular one bowed me over. I was, quite
literally, “overcome.”
It
started with the overwhelming sense I had that we are all one family—the
diverse crowd, locals and tourists alike gathered for the special mass to
herald the birth of Jesus, and the priest welcoming all and carrying out the
proceedings in English and Spanish. There was excitement in the air, the place
was bursting at the seams, and many folks had to stand at the back of the main
nave or even out in the lobby. I snuck past waiting crowds, and being only one
person, was able to slip into the end of a pew about three rows from the back
on the far right. I tapped an older lady on the arm, asked if I could slide in
next to her, as there was still room in the pew.
I
joined the service, had already missed the readings, but caught the first hymn
while I took in the Corinthian columns that soared several stories high framing
bright white walls and arches painted with ornate Romanesque scrolls in deep
greens, reds, and gold. Soon I could hear the choir, and though I could not see
them in the transept, was happy to enjoy Oh Holy Night accompanied by an
organist, violins, guitar, bell choir, and at some points in the song, someone
playing castanets. It was quite beautiful, and that was when my emotions first
came to the surface.
Besides
the fantastic space, and the music, and the priest’s warmth, the little lady
sitting next to me held my hand as we recited the Our Father. These days,
Catholics tend to raise their palms, some congregations encourage the
hand-holding connection, but as I looked around, my neighbor and I were some of
the very few who had actually reached out—I was, literally, touched. This
brought another wave of emotions, the tears started to drip down my cheeks. I
was, and whispered to my hand-holding neighbor, a “long way from home.” It was
so beautiful. My neighbor whispered back that “she was finally home again,
after 20 years away living in Texas,” and a tear also rolled down her cheek. It
was a special moment for me, an “old softy,” as my dad would have said.
The
prayers for the homeless, the needy, those without families, those on hard
times all hit me pretty hard in the following minutes of the mass, too, as I
bowed my head and couldn’t seem to stop the tears. I wasn’t sad, I don’t think;
I felt that the primary emotion was gratitude, and a sublime connection to
everyone and everything at that moment. I decided to accompany my neighbor to
communion, as she grabbed my elbow and steered me up our side aisle and I had
not committed any mortal sins since my last (albeit without a priest)
confession. I felt something powerful was happening in that space, and for that
time, and was happy to be a part of it.
I
found out after the service that the dear older woman was a Santa Fe native who
had returned to live in her hometown after 20 years in El Rio, having agreed to
live on a lake with her husband. She was so happy to be home. She told me that
her name was Rosina Lopez de Short. I talked to her about the topic I was
writing about: how people grow and make decisions during times of transition.
It
turned out that Rosina, 81, is an artist, a retired art teacher, and she gave
me her name and I gave her my email.
Later
I found this online image of Rosina with her artwork.
My Southwest adventure/”soul” vacation – December 2017
Day II
December
23.
"Keeping wild places close to
your heart” ~Ryanne Sebern
It’s
Day 2 of my trip.
On
Saturday, I set out in pursuit of connecting experiences in downtown Flagstaff—the
locals call it “Flag” —finding a central place to park my Prius near Heritage
Square and walking to places I had identified as initially interesting. My
first stop was to see the inside of the historic Monte Vista hotel, which has
for more than 90 years hosted everyone from celebrities and law-breakers to
skiers, river runners, and business people.While there, I looked at the artwork on the walls, absorbed the
architectural details of the stunning lobby and stairwells, and talked with the
clerk who was a longtime local resident. She had left and returned to her
hometown for her recent life transition, explaining that Flag had a hold on
her. Not only did it have a hold on her, she was 26, she said, but she had
decided to live downtown and within walking distance of the much loved Monte
Vista, and the job she truly enjoyed. I took pictures of the historic lobby,
and also of a painting made by Bruce Aiken, father of Silas whose Airbnb
apartment I was occupying during this two-day visit to Flag. Silas and his
siblings were raised, by the way, on the floor of the Grand Canyon where artist
Bruce maintained the pump house for the National Park Service: Link https://www.grandcanyonnews.com/news/2017/may/23/33-year-nps-vet-artist-bruce-aiken-recounts-grand-/Here’s a fairly recent story about Silas’
unique childhood, too: https://www.azcentral.com/story/travel/arizona/grand-canyon/2016/04/08/grand-canyon-national-park-childhood/80498036/
Just
a block or so away, I found breakfast on Heritage Square at a colorful, warm
Chipotle-style pick-your-own ingredients breakfast at a place called Mix. While
there, I was able to chat with the young waiter. I had noted his busy and
attentive interest in helping the breakfast patrons, even though this was a
pay-as-you-order establishment.I
overheard him say to another customer: “On a scale of one-to-ten, how ‘fresh
and easy’ was your food?” It made me grin, and so when he stopped at my table to
deliver my food, I told him I’d heard that and wondered if that was his own
recitation or if his employers had prompted him to use such a line to engage
with customers. He laughed and said it was his own invention. I commented that
this was both outgoing and creative of him. He said he was happy to answer my
questions, when I told him I was writing a book and interviewing people along
the way about their transitions in life.
Interestingly,
this young man shared that he knew that the one thing he wanted to change about
himself was being less shy. He said that his leaving his hometown, a small town
nearby in Arizona, to attend Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff was part
of the solution to that personal challenge for him. Another part of the
solution for his personal growth, he said, was choosing to study a helping
profession – he said he had decided on Exercise Science as a major, and planned
to become a Physical Therapist. He had personally experienced recovery from a
concussion, from playing hockey, and been helped by a PT and so thought this a
worthy endeavor. He added that his sister, a nurse, had influenced his
direction, too, since she was happy with her chosen profession helping people.
Back
outside Mix, I walked across the Heritage Square and met Delvin Huma of the
Hopi nation, who was selling Cochina carvings he made himself, while his wife
Tracy and three of their six children shopped for gifts in downtown Flagstaff.
I bought White Bear, the Cochina in the center of Delvin's trio of tokens he
has set down on the brick wall and explained to me what the carvings meant and
who his people are.
Delvin
agreed to allow me to videotape, and use his full name, as a way to share some
of his story with others.I shot a seven
minute clip, we talked awhile longer than that, and compared notes about our
respective life transitions. Delvin, it turns out, is not selling Cochinas for
very much longer. He had earned an EMT certificate at community college some
years ago, and was now attempting to enroll and complete his four-year degree
in order to better his life for himself and his family.
Everyone
is on their way to somewhere.
One
of the other people I met that morning in Flag, at its delightful alpine
setting high in the Coconino forest, is Ryanne Sebern, of Evolve Jewelry
Studio.Ryanne was kind enough to share
a bit of her story with me about her transition to working full-time to fulfill
her passion as an artist. Her children are 6 and 4, and the flexibility she has
gained through being self-employed gives her more mom time with the kids, a priority,
as well as allows her to fullypursue
her art with them close by.
We
talked some about the tremendous discipline and organization it takes to run
your own enterprise like she is doing. Ryanne, 43, had previously served as an
outdoor guide, then later worked in the outfit's office, all the while working
on her art part-time. But now she has taken the path to produce and promote her
work at evolvejewelrystudio.com,
through her longtime association with the Flagstaff Artists' Gallery
cooperative on San Francisco Street in downtown Flag and elsewhere.
I
could not resist the silver tree earrings, with the garnets, and fell in love
with Ryanne's apt description of the conifer's strength, its ability to grow
and sustain itself through the winter, and maintain beauty through its own
seasonal transitions! It seemed fitting, on this particular sojourn of mine.
She also gave me permission to stay in touch, and to include her story as I
write the book about "personal growth during times of transition."
The jewelry is stunning. Her marketing is pretty incredible, too. I've included
her lovely bio here, and the link to
her business, as well as the link to the Artists' Gallery.
My Southwest adventure/”soul” vacation
– December 2017
Day I
Why,
hello, Everett!
I
am delighted to find the book of my soul traveler, Everett Ruess—which includes
his journal writings, letters, and woodcut artwork—among the Grand Canyon
library that my Airbnb hosts have thoughtfully assembled for their guests in
this little one room, self-contained apartment. I have just arrived in
Flagstaff, Arizona, on Day 1 of this solo travel adventure that will take me
across Arizona and New Mexico. I confess that the miles and six-plus hours’
drive from Redlands, California, to Flagstaff, Arizona, were accompanied by not
a little bit of creeping self-doubt that I would find what I was “looking for”
on this trip. So, finding Everett Ruess’ “A Vagabond for Beauty” waiting for me
was a kind of affirmation that I was on the right road!
“Adventure is for the adventurous. My
face is set. I go to make my destiny. May many another youth by me be inspired
to leave the snug safety of his rut, and follow his fortune to other lands.”
~Everett Ruess
Ah,
yes, isn’t that why I am venturing out? Everett’s words strike a chord in my
heart. I have been, as he suggests in his sublime encouragement to others, in a rut. My work in public relations at
a women’s liberal arts college is fine, but does not fulfill my creative urges;
I am still in “recovery” from a twenty-year marriage that I finally had the
courage to end; I teach part-time as an adjunct professor at a nearby
university at night; my children are grown and self-sufficient. By all
accounts, I have a pretty good life. And yet, I find myself at mid-life trying
to figure out “what’s next?” I definitely feel—no, I know—that I am in a period
of transition.
In
times past, when I have made a transition in life, I felt scared and excited at
the same time. And, based on history, I should know that what will happen in
the future will be wonderful, no matter what kind of trepidation I feel along
the way. In fact, I’ve never gotten “stuck” – caught up in my own drama, or
forgetting to “grow” – for very long. Encountering Everett at this juncture is
like reacquainting with an old friend, and a muse.
Everett
Ruess was an artistic, adventurous young man who set out alone several times to
experience the beauty, as well as the fury, of nature in the American West.
During the 1930s, he met and discussed art with painter Maynard Dixon, and with
well-known photographers Ansel Adams, Edward Weston and Dorothea Lange. He was
lured first by the splendors of Yosemite and the California coast, and later by
portions of the lonely red rock lands of Utah and Arizona. In November 1934, at
age twenty, Everett disappeared from the canyon country near Escalante, Utah,
and was never seen again. Although his burros were found some distance from his
last camp, his fate remains a mystery.
I
first read the book in 1990. One of my all time favorite letters by Everett
Ruess was one where he was reminding his family to use his pen name, Lam Rameau
(not "Sam") as he tested their parental inclination to send food his
way, very specifically requesting Swedish bread, peanut butter, pop and Grape
Nuts while he traversed the West on foot or riding a burro, writing, drawing, talking
with locals and natives, as a young man circa 1932.
Following
is a photo of that letter. And, a "Happy Journeys" Christmas card he made as a
blockprint, to send to his family from his travels afar.
What
drew me in to Ruess' story was his drive to spend months on these solo travels,
searching for his own unique connection to the land, its people, and its
massive, piercing beauty, yet all the while staying connected to those he
loved—he was but a teenager when he first ventured out, and was gone for years,
only occasionally making the trek back to the "home base."
The
special connection for me was that I originally bought the book on my first
solo adventure to the Grand Canyon/Four Corners region—specifically at Marble
Canyon Lodge—not long after having moved to California from Arkansas. I had
struck out in my Acura Legend, a fast and comfortable, beautiful sedan,
determined to cover Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and the southwest corner of
Colorado as a single woman. Unattached at the time, and feeling quite
courageous, I was 31 years old, and single, when I was introduced to Ruess’s
book at the gift shop there, bought an extra copy and shipped it to my dad in
Louisiana thinking he'd enjoy it, too.
The
coincidence that thrilled me at the time was that Dad called me in California,
a very rare behavior (him using the phone, I mean) to thank me and report that
he had read Ruess' letters in high school in Long Beach in 1942-44, where his
Arkansas family had migrated to work during the WWII war effort.
The
first book was called On Desert Trails, which was apparently published within
just a few years of Ruess’s death. This later collection—the one I had bought
in 1990—was much expanded in "A Vagabond for Beauty," the first book
of mostly letters having been out of print for decades. Ruess is legend in
these parts, as he disappeared mysteriously, his remains were never found,
presumed having perished in a flash flood in one of the deep canyons he loved
so much. There have been rumors and speculation that he was murdered, and all
kinds of folk tales in the 80-plus years since his death. There's more to my
thematic connection to Ruess that I'll save for another day. Here are links for
more information about this enigmatic traveler, poet, diarist, artist:
But,
for this leg of my journey through Arizona and New Mexico, reading Everett’s
words and being reminded of my connection to his wanderlust, and his writing
about it, helped assuage any lingering worries I had about whether I would
“find” what I was looking for on this sojourn.
Who
was that Karen, all those years ago on that adventure across four states? What
was she looking for? And, who is this Karen, 27 years later? I had already
lived 11 years longer than Everett Ruess, when I first encountered his talent
in 1990. Did his intensely creative and short life propel or inspire me in some
way at that tender age? Why, at 58 years of age, as I am single again, and back
out on the road for some self discovery—or rather, what—am I hoping to find?
Unfortunately,
I didn’t chronicle my adventures in those days, so much of my life history and
preoccupation with “becoming” is forever lost. I suppose in a way my journaling
like this, my writing as I go, is a way to help me focus on becoming who I am.
I hope that makes sense. Maybe it only makes sense to me. If no one else ever
reads this, which, if it is truly a journal and remains so, it doesn’t really
matter. If this becomes a memoir or something else intended to help others,
then perhaps some sense-making is necessary. I will try to sort it out as I go.
This
kind of process requires some combination of experiencing life “out there,” and
also taking the time to reflect, write, and sort of dialogue with yourself, to
get what’s in your head down on paper. Or, in this case, in a digital file. As
I travel, I’ve been talking with people, interviewing them when they will let
me, taking notes in a small black notebook, writing as I can while in transit,
then coming back to the laptop to expand on my day and thoughts.
On
Day 1 of my travels, finding Everett Ruess’s “Vagabond” book and knowing I
could spend some time with him was grounding for me. Wanderlust for him was
getting out in nature, and getting far away from civilization. And yet, he was
also connected, and wrote to and about the people who were important to him on
his journeys. In that respect, we are alike. The connection and writing parts,
I mean. I don’t intend to venture far away from civilization on this trip.
Though in 1990, I was much braver, I think, and had taken my bicycle with me
and ridden many miles by myself out on lonely beautiful Arizona and New Mexico
roads. Which reminds me, it was summer. This trip, I did not bring my bicycle,
thinking it way too cold. It is, after all, December 22.
Wow. My last post was June 8. This was a year of upheaval. All good.
As I approach the December holidays, I am reminded of my amazing "soul" vacation to Flagstaff and Santa Fe last year. I'm in a much different position this year, not as free to wingit and travel as I like as long as I like on my own steam--and yet, happy as a clam in my Little House, consulting and teaching while I figure out what is next in life.
Adventure always awaits!
I thought I would use the professor blog, since it's the only one I have right now, to post my travel writings from the Christmas vacation of 2017. For posterity.
Demographics of editors at America’s major newspapers:
• 73% are male
• 9 in 10 are white
• Come from 109 different colleges and universities
• 60% have a journalism degree
• 7% went to an Ivy League school
I hadn’t realized I was the only one in the public relations field who disliked (OK, hated) being called a "PR" until I received an invite for an educational webinar directed at PRs.
In a rare moment of occupational venting, I posted my disdain on the Facebook page of an industry forum known as the PR Czars.
It turns out I’m not the only one in the media relations field that wanted to vent on the topic.
I’m not a PR. I work in public relations. It’s my career. I occasionally write press releases for clients.
But I’m not a PR.
PR, at least in the marketing and business world, is generally accepted to mean public relations. Or media relations, as that’s what most of us really do. We work with journalists (YouTubers, IG’ers, bloggers, etc.…define journalist however you like) to get the media (again, define that as you like) to feature the topics and products of importance to our clients.
It’s not rare that we hear “that’s good PR,” or something along those lines. Many of the firms we work at, along with some of our industry trade media, have PR in their name. XYZ PR, The Journal Of Disruptive PR, etc. Few would assume the name of the firm is XYZ Press Release or that something considered “good PR” is actually a good press release.
The confusion factor -- One reason to be careful when writing PR
In today’s era of email first, check for clarity later (and I know I’m not alone in this), I often receive typo-laden messages from clients that look like a cat walked across their keyboard. I love cats, and while I don’t need my emails to be in AP style and am no stranger to typos myself, the use of PR in marketing to mean more than public relations can cause pause or confusion. And when you confuse your team, even for just a little bit, you slow us down.
Lest you think my piece here is just one man’s rant (and please keep in mind I was asked to write it by the Muck Rack's editor Jessica Lawlor who saw my rant on the Facebook group) I’ve heard from colleagues that they’ve been told they need to “PR something” by clients. Or need PR. And sometimes, they want a PR. When that partner or potential partner tells us they need to PR something, we don’t want to assume they actually need a press release. Because we all know you don’t actually need a press release to land media coverage. But that’s another topic.
And while many of us say we’re PR consultants, and been called someone’s PR guy, gal, guru, etc., by clients, I would never say I am a PR or that I do PR. Saying that I am a public relations or a press release sounds silly.
Our friends overseas and in other industries
I’ve heard from a few that PR practitioners overseas are called PRs. Turns out that may be true. However, I refer to the sheet of metal covering my car’s engine as a hood, not a bonnet. I refer to what many around the world call football as soccer.
Flip it to other industries. Some of my colleagues work in advertising. They’re not Advertisers… or Adders. Or Ads.
The person who helps you find your mortgage isn’t called a loaner or a mortgager.
I have never heard my favorite barista in San Diego (if you don’t know Kristen, the manager at Java Earth, you really should!) referred to as a coffeer. Or a coffee-r. And I never ask her to coffee me… unless it’s very early.
Call me what you want, just don’t call me late to dinner
Am I making too much out of too little? Maybe.
Consider this just some fun venting on a day when I’m not on deadline. Venting is important…you know what happens when machines can’t vent! But judging by the comments my post received on Facebook, I’m not the only one in this industry that feels this way.
And again, I was asked to write this.
Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I’m not a curmudgeon. I only look slightly down on you because you use the word guru on your LinkedIn description and feel that saying pivot makes you sound smarter than saying change direction. If you want to optimize the disruption of something with a thoughtful design that is critical to your business, so be it. I can get on board with that, regardless of if your design is thoughtful and results-oriented or not.
Truth be told, you can call us what you want. As a group, we tend to be pretty thick skinned (you need to be in this industry) and we generally enjoy what we do. Every time we land great media placement we get a little dopamine hit that keeps us going and makes it all worthwhile.
But we’ll still snicker a little if you call us PR. Venting and snickering is just how us PRs are ;)
Bill Byrne is a veteran PR pro with serious disdain for people who call themselves gurus or ninjas, unless they’re spiritual leaders or feudal Japanese mercenary. In the last 20 years Bill has worked with a diverse range of brands, ranging from the youth marketing space to financial entities, tech products, general consumer goods, along with beer brands and snowboard companies. A former NYC agency guy, he spent years in the Manhattan offices of Cohn & Wolfe and PainePR before eventually co-founding Remedy Communications in San Diego.
Sen. Al Franken, the
liberal Democrat and former “Saturday Night Live” comedian from Minnesota, and Rep. Trent Franks, a
one-time oil wildcatter turned anti-abortion crusader who represents a
conservative Republican district in the suburbs of Phoenix, resigned reluctantly in similiar non-apologetic fashion this week among the growing numbers of men in America who are reckoning with the change in rules regarding their ability to maintain their positions of power amid investigations of alleged sexual misconduct. This Los Angeles Times article recounts the political rhetoric of their exits: interesting, if not unsurprising. What I am challenging is not whether either politician should have been ousted, but I am suggesting that if Franken/Frank had wanted grace and some consideration above the noise, each man would have needed (help from his PR person??) to craft a heartfelt and nuanced entreaty asking for the perspective that he thought his situation deserved. From a public relations perspective, I think this was a missed opportunity.
As I've been exploring ideal work conditions from an employee's perspective, through my serving as a mentor at the University of Redlands School of Business, I jotted down a few ideas for how a boss can help their charges. Here is that short list (feel free to comment or add to it):
How a boss can help:
Clarify roles
Clarify objectives
Use clear, regular communication about expectations and constructive and encouraging feedback for improvement
Create time and opportunities to co-explore insights about performance, not just keeping up with “to do’s” and not focused on missed opportunities, but filtering priorities and revisiting objectives and metrics, seeking agreement on adjustments and progress as a “thought partner”
Be seen as authoritative and fair; no favoritism
Be willing to mentor, or if not, willing to provide employee with a “coach”
Provide a safe work environment
Be willing to admit mistakes (“just because you are ‘sure’ doesn’t mean you are ‘right’), provide teachable moments based on own experience
Model the behavior employees are expected to uphold (no gossiping, no venting about peers, no oversharing, keep commitments, do not take advantage of position/privilege, roll up one’s sleeves)
Remove obstacles
Provide development opportunities
Encourage promotion, upward mobility
Give clear and regular communication about assignments
and Today’s Exhausting Feminism http://bit.ly/2UpQkQs via @HeatherWilhelm
