The next morning, the man who brought us breakfast asked me, “Is there a special occasion?” I decided, in the light of day, and with a good night’s sleep under my belt, to answer with the truth. “You know what? It’s just been a really hard year.” The man nodded, knowingly, then smiled and left me alone with my poached eggs and welled-up eyes.

Let’s be frank: 2016 was a shit show on every level. A minority of Americans somehow elected a dangerous, inexperienced narcissist as our president. Global terrorism and a national obsession with guns left us shattered weekly, daily. Our earth was angry – fires, floods, hurricanes, blizzards. On a micro level, it was a rough year for our family, too. My career was derailed, not once, but twice in that lousy year. My husband’s work shifted dramatically, as well. My back went out in a rather spectacular fashion, leaving me completely immobile, sitting on a toilet at a friend’s house, wondering, “How long will I be here before someone notices I’m missing?” We adopted a dog we love, but who found great satisfaction in digging up expensive irrigation and landscaping, and who swallowed a distressing number of socks, sipping them down like noodles. The kids had their share of ups and downs, too, as did our extended family, and they have their own stories to tell, for sure. The winter began early, with a rainy, stormy bang, leaving us with downed trees and massive leaks all over our newly remodeled house. And the capper, a week before Christmas, all that rain brought down the 75 year-old cobblestone retaining wall behind our house, gifting us months of nervously watching the hill above us slide down to become the hill just behind us, stopping barely a foot from our back door. Needless to say, there was not a lot of sleeping that entire rainy season.

Our family boldly started 2017 off by setting an intention for more joy, but I was still mired in sadness and rage that quickly settled into defeat and despair. I was so profoundly shaken by the year before, that I turned down every offer of work, convinced that another spectacular failure was imminent. I cut myself off from friends and family, feeling utterly unworthy of their love and support. I stopped teaching and practicing yoga and meditation. I walked around like a shell of who I had been before. I basically looked the same from the outside, but my insides were empty, hollow. I had failed everyone, and I was embarrassed and profoundly sad. As if mirroring my mood, the rain kept coming down, along with the mud and the rocks. Our back yard situation became the daily, physical, and utterly unavoidable metaphor for everything in my life – all crashed down and broken apart, but somehow still sliding toward an even bigger disaster.

And yet, and yet. I still labored, often in the dark and without much hope, toward the promise we made as a family. I searched hard for that joy, and, when it appeared, I dug deep to embrace it. At some point in the spring, the rain finally stopped. The literal and figurative sun reappeared. I decided to stop wallowing and start accepting the help the universe was offering me. I accepted a freelance gig working for a dear friend. I accepted a request to teach yoga. I accepted lunch invitations and dinners with my girlfriends. I accepted my sister’s offer to join her family for a week at the beach. At the end of the summer, I accepted a fulltime job. In the fall, Harry and I accepted a loan to rebuild our wall. And about a month before the end of 2017, our entire family accepted a crew of workers, just as determined as we were to clear away the physical detritus of 2016, and build a strong foundation for 2018.

So, that brings me to the New Year. If 2016 was the year it all fell apart, and 2017 was the year of hitting bottom so I could begin to rise, then I’m choosing to declare 2018 the year of rebirth. The Hindu god Shiva’s work is to destroy in order to rebuild. And while he’s certainly visited us before – hello, flooding our house from the inside out - I feel like his blueness took up permanent residence with us toward the end of 2015, and he brought with him lots and lots of lessons for us to learn. The last two years have been all about major destruction for me and for our family – both physically and emotionally.

This process has wiped out who I thought I was and forced me to become who I’m supposed to be. Not the perfect person I was trying to project, but the real, human, me. The me that makes mistakes. Lots of ‘em. The me that knows that just trying my best is more than good enough. The me that knows that, as long as I am kind and brave (shout out to Glennon Doyle), then, that’s enough. Then, I’M enough. I’m choosing to spend time with the people who love the flawed-ass me, and who don’t want or need the perfect me to show up, like, ever. In my new job, I leaned into the fact that I had a lot to learn, and watched as help greeted me at every turn. At home, I let go of the idea that I had to do everything, and made room for others to rise to the occasion. And while I wept very real tears the day my youngest had to walk to and from school, alone, for the first time ever, I also wept with pride when he returned home, tired, but puffed up from meeting the grown up challenge.

I am deeply grateful for the opportunities that others have given me, but I know my revival is nobody’s job but my own. I have to do the work. But here’s the kicker, and the hardest part for a people pleaser like me: how that work is accepted or viewed or judged is not up to me. Not even one little bit. The yoga sutras present the idea of Abhyasa Vairagya – encouraging us to make great effort, but without attachment to the results. I’ve always been all about the great effort, but letting go of how it’s received is soooo hard. I want everyone to like me. I want everyone to be impressed by the work I do. I want people to think I’m smart, I’m kind, I’m funny, and that I’m a good mother and wife. And I am all of those things, some of the time. But I am never, nor is anyone else, all of those things all of the time. It’s just not possible. And pretending it’s possible is not only unsustainable, in the end, it’s both exhausting and false.

So, for 2018, here’s my plan. Continue to seek joy, and pray for the ability to accept it. Ask for help, and say, “yes, please” when it’s offered. Embrace brave and kind as my new mantra. Abhyasa Vairagya. Release the exhausting and false narrative of perfection. And know in my bones that destruction, destruction, destruction leads to rebirth, rebirth, rebirth, if you’re willing to put in the work and let the rest go.

Happy New Year, everyone. Sending you much love and wishes for your own kind of 2018, filled with lessons and learning and love and laughter.

XO

When we finally arrived at our halfway point, Austin, TX, we were all good and fried. After a week on the road, it was so nice to be at our friends' gorgeous home on Lake Austin, to rest and recover and recoup. After a great night’s sleep, Harry got up with the pup, while Roman, Ford and I slept in. Best. Gift. Ever. When the boys and I finally stirred, we saw that Obi was having the time of his life, playing with our friends’ dogs, running all over the lawn and leaping off the lake wall in to the crisp, cool water. Dog heaven, for sure.

For breakfast, we headed to Torchy’s Damn Good Tacos, and yup, they were indeed damn good. Roman and I had the Wrangler Taco and Harry had the Democrat. Our friends tell us that when President Obama came to Torchy’s, he, too had the Democrat. But of course.

We drove back to the lake and just spent a quiet day enjoying all the gorgeousness. There was a short hike with dogs, lots of fetch, and plenty of swimming – with kids, adults and pups. For the first time since we left home, I wasn’t feeling guilty or selfish for bringing our sweet Obi along - he was having a ball. Our friend said, “You know, dogs just want to be with their people.” True, but they also want to swim in a lake and sprint around a yard like maniacs.

In the afternoon, Harry took a nap, and the boys and I sat on the screened-in dock, reading, writing, drawing, and enjoying the cool breeze that came with a light afternoon shower. I was starting to feel like I was officially back in the South, and that something familiar was wrapping gently around me. As I eased in to the sound of the raindrops on the dock, and the change in the temperature from hot to cool, I knew that the hardest part of our journey was over, and that the comfortable and safe part had begun. There was still adventure to come, for sure, but nothing that we couldn’t handle. After the heat dome, the emergency vet, and the west Texas flat, we had made it to this gorgeous oasis, and all was well.

That night we went into the city for dinner and music at Stubbs BBQ. The food was great, and the band, Lake Street Dive, was amazing. The stage was covered, but the crowd was out in the open, with a storm wind blowing through the courtyard. At one point, the lead singer shouted, “I feel like Beyoncé!” as her hair and dress swirled all around. It was awesome. Their encore was a live version of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody that brought the house down. It takes serious balls to cover Queen at all, ever. But live, and in between Dixie storms? Dayum.

Day two in Austin was all about the lake. Our friends took all of us out so the boys could attempt waterskiing, and we could all get dragged around on a raft. Roman and Ford were troopers and cheered each other on while almost, almost getting up on their skis. And when it was time to pull out the raft, they went alone, together, and with me. It was a blast, and we laughed and smiled until our bellies and cheeks ached. Our friends brought snacks and Harry manned a brilliant playlist. The skies were blue, the water was cold, and the day was perfect, perfect, perfect.

That night, we drove over to The Salt Lick for a BBQ dinner with some more old friends of Harry’s. We sat outside with Obi, and talked and ate for hours. All the kids played together – and with Obi - and danced to the live music. Austin was doing even more of its magic.

After two nights in one perfect place, and the first long stretch of just plain, old ease, it was so hard to imagine getting back on the road the next morning. But we had miles to go, and as much as I wanted to move into our friends’ guesthouse situation and live there to the end of my days, it was time to get moving.

On our last morning in Austin, we went back downtown. We ate breakfast at the original Torchy’s, because, really, who doesn’t need more breakfast tacos? After we ate, Harry dropped us off, and then left to pick up the ultimate Austin souvenir: four new tires! Yay! The boys and I strolled along South Congress and nosed in the shops. I bought a beautiful silver ring at Limbo, and then we got some cold sweetness at Amy's Ice Creams. Harry joined us soon after, and we turned once again toward the freeway. We talked about how much we loved Austin and I mused about how fun it would be to live there. Roman and Ford went silent. I turned to them and asked, “Does it make you nervous that I talk about moving to almost every place we travel?” Roman looked me in the eye and said, simply, “Yes.” Okay, note taken.

Our next destination was Lafayette, Louisiana, but on the way we stopped in Luling, Texas for some world-famous BBQ at City Market. (Yes, somehow, we were about to put away more BBQ. But, in our defense, we were in TEXAS, y'all! Vegan cleanse comes later!!)  Luling has a population of about 5,400, and I swear most of them were either inside City Market or eating their BBQ outside – in the 90+ degree heat. And I completely understood why - it was insanely delicious. The ribs and brisket were so tender and so perfectly seasoned, and then coated with their incredible sauce. We went inside and checked out the smokeroom where the cooks were doing their thing. It definitely lived up to its name, with the fragrant clouds of smoke lending a gorgeous, otherworldly air to the space.

After our meal and a short walk for the pup, we hopped in the car and drove off, leaving Texas behind, and with our eyes fixed on Louisiana.

HIGHLIGHTS:

Where We Ate:

Austin:

Torchy's Damn Fine Tacos

Stubbs BBQ

The Salt Lick

Amy's Ice Creams

Luling, TX:

Luling City Market

Who We Saw:

Lake Street Dive

Where We Shopped:

Austin:

South Congress Street

Limbo

Well, almost a year after writing my last post about our epic Summer of ’16 Road Trip, I’m finally going to finish the tale. Needless to say, once we returned home, there was a lot of real life to take care of: a job to take, an El Nino winter to endure, a marriage to uphold, a retaining wall to fall, a job to quit, and boys to raise.

However, in the spirit of “better late than never,” I’ll return to our road trip story, as so many of you are setting out on your own summer adventures. Hopefully, the continuation of our journey will resonate with you in some way – be it introducing you to a new place on the map or something fun we did along the way. Who knows? Maybe it will even inspire you to hit the road yourself.

I’ll keep blogging, too, in real time, so I’ll keep going with the “Road Trip ’16” title situation to help us all keep the past and the present straight.

So, without further ado, here we go back in time to the Summer of 2016….. (cue Wayne’s World flashback music….)

We return to our story in Carlsbad, New Mexico. After a glorious day inside one of the largest caverns in the world, we set off for Austin, Texas. Harry and I had set Austin as the sort of half way point on our journey. After lots of touristy fun and a super busy schedule, we were so looking forward to three nights with dear friends in their beautiful home on Lake Austin. For the first time on the trip, we would have no real agenda, other than to catch up with old friends and to relax.

After a little Obi walk and yet another complimentary hotel breakfast, we hit the road. I’ve been to Texas a few times, but never to the western part of the state. I was struck by how green and lush it was, even in the early summer. After so many days of dry, brown and dusty heat dome views, it was a joy to see a greener, crisper version of the now familiar desert. And then, far ahead of us, we saw something rising up on the horizon: mesas. I had never seen a mesa before, and I was completely blown away. The graceful way they rose up from the otherwise completely flat landscape, their stair-step sides and rock topped pinnacles – and then to learn they were formed by my favorite, all-time geographical marvel, the shifting of tectonic plates? It was absolutely love at first sight. We all wondered at the incredibly variety of shapes and sizes, and Harry and I giggled at one of the mesas that loomed before us as a giant green breast, with a hard, stone nipple reaching for the sky. I rapidly googled everything I could about the mesas, and we all learned so much, while zooming along at a brisk Texas Interstate pace.

We stopped to eat lunch in Ozona, Texas, walked the pup, and then merged back on to I-10. A few minutes on the freeway and Harry asked the boys, “What is Obi up to? Is he jumping up and down or something?” The boys peeked back. “No, Dad, he’s just lying down.” “Hmmm.” We kept going. Then, just as Harry was about to pass a semi – he slowed down, and merged behind the truck. “There’s something wrong with the car. I think we might have a flat.”

I immediately began to panic. A flat? We were going like, 1000 miles an hour, and everyone on this stretch of freeway was going even faster. There’s no shoulder to speak of and it’s 93 degrees outside. Once again, I was struck by how this car - its sheet metal and glass - was keeping us all alive, and how, if it were to stop, we would be helpless and incredibly vulnerable. And after our scare with Obi in the heart of the heat dome, I was under no illusion of invincibility – I was painfully aware of how truly fragile we were.

Harry carefully pulled the car over, and managed to get out and inspect the car without getting run over. Now, let me get super specific on the situation. On this stretch of I-10, the speed limit was 80 MPH, and in this part of the state, even the folks in the slow lane – quite literally inches from the left side of our stopped car – were going at least 90 MPH or more. I was absolutely terrified.

The tire was indeed flat, but fortunately it was the back right tire, so at least there would be some protection for the nice AAA man that would come to our aid. I dutifully called the number on our card, and once I gave them the location, I was assured someone would be there in 30 minutes. Phew.

Harry wanted to show the boys a little bit about changing a flat, so he had them come safely out to watch him jack up the car, remove the lug nuts and remove the flat. His thinking was he could get a head start, and then when AAA arrived, it wouldn’t take nearly as long. After some kerfuffle getting the dog in the front seat, unpacking the entire back of the car to get to the spare, it was mission accomplished. 

Suddenly, my phone rang. The 30 minute window was now going to be another 90 minutes. I teared up. Harry said, “We’re not going to wait. Call them back. I’ll do it myself.”

He went back there and with a little more help from the boys, got the spare on the car lickety split. We put the damaged tire back where the spare lived, repacked the car, put Obi back in his crate and loaded it back in. Unfortunately, there was no gingerly re-entering the stream of traffic – so, with all fingers and toes crossed, when there was an opening, Harry gunned the car and we were back on the road. We called our friends and let them know we were still coming, but woefully behind and BTW, where’s the best place to get a new spare?

After a fretful, but gratefully uneventful, few hours, we reached the outskirts of Austin, and headed to the Ski Shores Café right on Lake Austin. I cried with relief as we pulled in. The sun was setting over the water, the grass was green the air was cool (well, after the heat dome, 88 degrees was cool to us!) and there was a huge “Dogs Welcome” sign. Obi and I both sprang to life the minute our feet hit the lawn. Our friends had a table right by the water, with cold beers for the grown-ups, and ice-cold water for the boys. We chowed down on burgers and fries and onion rings and shared our journey thus far with the first friends we had seen since leaving our house, some 1,800 miles ago.

After dinner, we drove to their house, and it was an even more beautiful than I had imagined. The property was perfectly situated on a point in the lake, with a little inlet that let to their boathouse. There was a huge swath of lawn along the curving lake wall, and ample shade provided by gorgeous, old-growth oaks. Set up for company, there were two guest rooms, each with its own bath. After the string of economy hotels and motels that had been our shelter over the last few days, it felt like heaven.

As we started to unpack, Roman said, “Is it okay if we change it up a bit? Mom, you always sleep with Dad, and I always sleep with Ford. Can I sleep with you, and Ford sleep with Dad? And then tomorrow night, can we switch again?”

Yes, my love. A thousand times, yes.

We all slept like logs that night. Happy, happy logs.

HIGHLIGHTS:

Where We Ate:

Lake Austin: Ski Shores Cafe

Sometime after that, we lost touch. I got married; he got a new phone.

And then, while I was visiting Atlanta in 2007, we were suddenly face to face. I was at a restaurant on the edge of Piedmont Park, and my 3 year-old needed the bathroom, as three year-olds often do. I walked with him, carrying my one year-old baby, when my toddler fell and started to cry. As I crouched down to help him up, I heard a familiar voice say, “Hey.” And there he was. My first words to Robert after five some-odd years? “Will you hold my baby?” And like every request I had ever made of him, he granted it, without hesitation.

That day, he met my kids, he met my husband, and we had drinks with my best friend, her husband and her daughter. Our lives had come full circle, and we never fell out of touch again. We would talk every few months or so, and then, when he finally, FINALLY got a smartphone, we would text. We texted on birthdays, holidays, big game days for The University of Georgia. And when the Falcons were in the Superbowl this year, we texted first with elation, and then distress, and then disbelief, and then, finally, with sad acceptance.

Somewhere in that exchange, Robert wrote, “Glad you’re writing again.” He followed my blog. This blog. After all this time, he was still in my corner.

That was our last conversation. Robert died, unexpectedly, at age 48, three weeks ago. His sister found my number in his phone. Her message said, “I hope this is the right Patti.” It was. Unbearably, it was. And once again, I found our shared history wiped away in one terrible, awful instant.

It’s been almost 30 years since I was his girlfriend, and a decade since we were with each other in person. I am not his sister, his mother or his wife.  Their pain is something I can’t even begin to fathom. And yet, I hurt. A lot. Songs that used to make me bust out singing, now only make me burst out crying. When my 11 year-old started in on REM’s Superman the other night, I almost had to leave the room.

So to you, Robert, I want to thank you for being my everything for so long, and thank you for setting the bar so damn high. The way we felt about each other was the measure by which I've judged every relationship I’ve had since. Most failed miserably in comparison. But most importantly, I will miss our friendship. I’ll miss our laughter, I’ll miss our shorthand, I’ll miss having a co-rememberer. I’ll miss the person who knew me so well and yet, somehow, still wanted to be my friend anyway.

And, to Robert’s wife, if you ever read this, I am so terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. I don’t know if you’ve ever even heard of me, but something tells me that you will recognize the boy I describe as the man you married. And know that my heart goes out to you and to everyone who loved him.

I don’t have any real wisdom to share. Loss is just something you have to go through, something you have to be in before you can get out. But here is one thing I do know, maybe the only thing I truly know: tell the people you love that you love them. All the time. Even if they tell you to stop or ask you to give it a fucking rest. Make sure everyone you love knows how much you love them, every single minute of every single day. Love is the only thing that matters because it is the only thing that lasts. It lasts longer than cassette tapes, relationships, or towers. Longer than bodies, longer than memories.

And it never, ever, ever dies.

XO

A few weeks ago, our current presidential administration released their goals for the upcoming year’s budget. And while I could turn this post into an epic rant about everything I hate about that budget, I am going to hone in on just one thing I loathe: the elimination of funding to the arts.

In my humble opinion, the undermining of the arts, much like the undermining of the press, is calculated and nefarious and serves as fuel for the other more headline grabbing and, eventually, more dangerous and dire issues. Here’s why. If you eliminate the arts, you close the door to learning. You cut off people’s access to experiences other than their own. In short, you burn bridges with the fuel of fear.

The arts are a uniquely human endeavor. Through the arts, we share our experiences. We seek to understand and to be understood. Whether through a piece of prose or a painting or a modern, dissonant opera, the arts allow us to mine our humanity and uncover the truths that connect us. Without the arts, we remain islands: islands of community, of race, of religion, of class, of affluence, of gender, of political persuasion. If this administration's goal is to divide us, to make us afraid of people who appear different or "other," eliminating access to and funding for the arts is as good a place to start as any.

And while artistic expression is undoubtedly a subjective issue – the concerto that brings me to tears may bore you right to sleep – I argue that the arts, and all its related pursuits, are at the core of who are as a people. Not everyone who takes a drama class will win an Oscar, but what they learn will shape who they are forever. In fact, I will go so far as proclaim that most every important thing I’ve learned about life, I’ve learned from the arts. So, in the vein of the new, oft-maligned (sometimes by me….) art form known as the “listicle,” I give you my top 10 most important life lessons we learn through the arts.

1.     There is no “Other.”

When you act in a play, you are literally tasked with living in someone else’s skin, usually a skin quite different from your own. The challenge is to seek the heart of that character, and to find something there that you and your audience can relate to. That’s what beings them to life. The connection. Same same with living on this earth. As President Obama said, “There is more that unites us than divides us.” I believe that 1000%. And while we are all our own, unique flowers, with our own unique circumstances, we are all fed by the same energy and light. And the more we can connect to that, the better off we’ll be.

2.     Teamwork is Everything.

An orchestra is not a collection of individuals or even sections working independently of one another. Yes, there are instruments that look different or sound different or that have different jobs, but they all have to come together to make a powerful, multi-faceted, cohesive sound. In one part of a piece, you and those in your group take the lead, but in another, you graciously support the section that picks up the melody from you and yours. Sometimes you have a solo, and sometimes you support the soloist with a one-note baseline. The point is we all have roles to play, and those roles shift and change, due to the task at hand. At work and in your community, it’s important to take on your job graciously and understand its part in the whole. It’s not about being the star all of the time. More often than not, life is about supporting others.

3.     Different is Beautiful.

I’m not a painter, but I appreciate someone showing me a new way to look at the world. On any trip to a gallery or a museum, I can literally feel the scales falling off my eyes. Artists present me their world, or sometimes, my own world, but from a completely different perspective. The ability to see different realities at the same time is a kind of cultural and emotional fluency we desperately need all the time, but especially now. Blacking out the windows to other experiences or, dare I say, building walls between cultures does not make us our best selves. Embracing diversity and seeing its beauty and strength does.

4.     Sometimes You Get What You Want, Sometimes You Don’t, But You Still Have to Show Up.

Just because you don’t get the clarinet solo, doesn’t mean you stop playing in the band. Sure, there is disappointment, but you learn to move on pretty darn quickly in the interest of the greater good. In fact, your love and pride for your stand partner almost instantly overcomes your own feelings of jealousy. Resilience is a dish best served early and often. The arts are a safe place for kids and adults to learn disappointment and recovery, as well as achievement and pride.

5.     There is Nothing as Satisfying as Making Something.

To stand back from a drawing or sculpture or poem or story or dance and to be able to say, “I made that,” is pretty darn cool. American society is so focused on consumption, it’s easy to forget the simple pleasure of being a maker, whether you make a beautiful thing or a beautiful movement or a beautiful sound. I would argue that if more of us stayed in touch with our inner maker, the world would be a happier place. We don’t all need to make bespoke coffee mugs for our full time jobs, but if the pride you took in writing a really great presentation or making a pretty sweet sandwich could tap into your innate sense of yourself as a creator, job satisfaction would skyrocket. The arts teach us the crucial skill to seek artistry everywhere, even in the seemingly mundane.

6.     What You Create is Ultimately Not Yours.

As a writer, while I’m working on a new piece, it is totally mine. It’s me and my computer, and nobody else. But the minute I show it to my husband, post it to my blog, or publish it somewhere, it takes on a life of its own. It belongs to the reader. It belongs to the world. My baby up and leaves me. Maybe it will call on Sunday, but I shouldn’t expect it to. I don’t make the child rearing metaphor lightly here. I work hard to raise my children to the best of my ability, but ultimately, their life is their own. I can lay a foundation, I can pour over the words, the actions, the intention, the character, but once my boys walk out the door, it’s on them. Understanding the beauty in creating and nurturing an idea, and then letting it go, is a key foundation for parenting, for love, and for any kind of work we do out in the world. My favorite yoga sutra introduces the idea of Abyassa and Vaigarya - the art of working steadily without attachment to the results. The arts teach that in bushels. And life requires a pretty good working knowledge of that very idea.

7.     Kindness Matters.

When you’re creating with a team or even with your own self, kindness is the fuel. It feeds the fire, greases the skids, allows creativity to flow, and makes collaboration possible. As someone who has worked for giant corporate entities as well as a small, eight person start up, I will tell you kindness goes farther than smarts. You can be smart as all get-out, but without kindness, no one will follow you, or worse, you’ve only bought temporary loyalty with a salary. It may last for a while, but the crash will come eventually. Usually at the worst possible time. Work a little kindness and empathy into your work life, and you'll find a definition of success that's more fulfilling and, ultimately, more creatively satisfying.

8.     Trust is the Key.

Much like kindness, without trust in yourself and your collaborators, your artistic effort is sunk before it begins. Sure there will be self-doubt, but at our core we have to trust in what we’re doing. We may not understand it exactly, but, as hard as it is, we need to believe in what’s coming through us and let it flow. An actor can’t be emotionally raw in a scene without complete trust in her scene partner. I can’t be emotionally raw in relationship without complete trust in my life partner. It’s scary as can be, but no risk, no reward. And the more your put your heart out there and find it fully supported, the easier it gets - both to trust and to be trustworthy.

9.     You Get What You Give.

Practice your steps, learn the music, and you’ll at least be ready for the recital. Skip class, don’t pay attention to your partner, and disaster looms. Effort in, satisfaction out. That doesn’t mean the end result is what you imagine – I find it rarely is. I can practice all dang day and still have something wonky happen. I can prepare and work my ass off for weeks, and still fail. Miserably. But at least I know in my heart I gave it my best. And that effort, regardless of the result, is what teaches me the lesson at hand, and it’s what, eventually, gives me the strength to peel myself off the floor, and to begin taking that first, tentative, shaky step to whatever is next.

10.  Love is the Answer. Always.

Art comes from love -  of self, of inspiration, of creating, of whatever it is that speaks through your work. If we can tap into that, no matter what anyone else thinks, we have succeeded in our art and in our lives. Losing yourself in your passion is the closest thing we have to heaven on earth. Whether it be losing yourself in a drawing or losing yourself in a performance, surrendering to and trusting the river of love that moves us all along, is some powerful stuff. Learn to love through your art, and then practice that love every day of your life, in every possible action. Our lives are our ultimate creation. It’s the art form that matters most. And love makes it all happen.

So, go forth and create, in whatever way that makes the most sense to you. Find the art in the everyday and absorb the lessons that come with it. And if your particular art form includes a cellphone and the office numbers of your senators and congresspeople? Well, that is a beautiful thing indeed.

XO

A friend posted something the other day that I can’t stop thinking about. She basically asked the question that is constantly on my mind these days: How you can be at every protest, call every senator, tweet every bully - elected and not - and somehow show up and be there for your kids? It resonated because I feel that push/pull every, single day. I want to work 24/7 to protect my boys’ future, but if I’m not present for their present as a result, what’s it all for?

I read through some of the replies on her feed and there was a lot of good advice. Folks who marched before they had kids, but now have less time (and maybe a little more financial stability), are good to pass on their walking shoes to another set of protesters and instead, donate to the ACLU and Planned Parenthood after bedtime. A few said that raising a new generation of kind and decent people is the best way to secure a better future. In other words, tend to the now to get to the kind of later you want. I also liked the idea that just because you do some things that seem “normal" -  like catching a movie or baking cookies or going for a hike - that doesn’t mean you are normalizing a lunatic. I agree with these folks 100,000 percent.

So, here’s my plan. If you give me a little bit of a heads up, I’m there, and so, by the way, is my entire family. We will march and chant and, as a result, we’ll do the future a solid by raising kids who fight for what they believe and fight against whomever threatens those beliefs. A last minute protest two hours away? Probably not gonna make it. Mufasa wouldn’t appreciate being left behind at Lion King rehearsal. But I’ll send money, I’ll text you a “Go Get ‘Em!” and I'll even comment on your Instagram post with an enthusiastic raised fist emoji. I can’t be at every protest in person (and let’s be honest here, there are going to be A LOT of protests…), but I will be at every protest in spirit. The thing to remember is that we are all standing up in our own way. Sometimes we stand up in massive crowds wearing knit hats, and sometimes we stand up by sitting down at the kitchen table and talking with our families.

This struggle is going to be a marathon, not a sprint. Better yet, to use one of President Obama’s favorite analogies, it’s a relay. We run like hell when it’s our turn, and then we pass the baton and rest for a bit. We find something beautiful or kind or funny in the world to enjoy. We hang out with our friends. We read a novel. We cook. We write. We smile. We breathe. In short, we recover. And then, when the time comes, we’re ready to take up another leg.

This sounds sustainable to me - a way to remain vigilant, to stay righteous, to keep a weathered eye, but, also, to live a life. To set an example by actively seeking joy, in part, to stay connected to what we’re fighting for.

So, onward, fellow humans. Onward with strength and onward with softness. Onward with outrage and onward with forgiveness. Onward with fight and onward with peace. But especially, onward with love and compassion and hope. Let’s give ourselves permission to tend to these pillars of our humanity, and to revel in them whenever we can. Lord knows we need them, now more than ever.

XO

We’ve all heard people say, “Don’t pray for a sign and then ignore it.” But what if you get a sign (or two, or three) about a change you don’t want to make? Some would say this is the universe guiding you to your true path. But, in reality, it just feels like life is fucking with you, pardon my French.

The last time I wrote here, I was a few weeks into my dream job. I was using my background in advertising and writing to work for a clean skincare company that I loved. While the work was hard, I was learning a lot, and I was thrilled to help promote products I truly believed in and to be a part of a small company’s bright future.

But here’s the thing, y’all. A “dream” job at the wrong time is just like meeting your “dream” partner at the wrong time – it will all eventually go sideways, whether you want it to or not, whether you think it should or not. And, sometimes, the more you want something to work, the more you ignore the signs.

Eventually, however, the body gets involved, and to paraphrase Fatal Attraction, it will not be ignored. How did my body try and grab my attention? Well, about a month in, my back went out in such a severe way that I was rushed to the hospital and put on bed rest for a week. This was immediately followed by a nasty bout of the stomach flu – something I had successfully avoided for years, even with kids. Then came the not sleeping. For over a month, I would wake up at 3:30 am every morning, worrying. About what I wasn’t doing for my family, what I couldn’t provide for around our home, what I wasn’t accomplishing at work, what I didn’t take care of at the kids’ schools. I just couldn’t figure out how to do it all in the way I wanted to do it. And how did I want to do it? Perfectly, of course. The curse of the Type-A People-Pleaser.

Once you can’t sleep, other physical ailments creep in, adding a new item to the 3:30 am panic – what’s going on in my body? Is this perimenapause? Do I need a therapist? Am I losing my mind? And then, oh shit, is there something really wrong? Am I sick?

Finally, I went to see my doctor. I was sure by then that something was horribly wrong in my body or in my mind. I told her through tears about my myriad of symptoms, and how I hadn’t been sleeping. “Which came first,” she asked, “the symptoms or the not sleeping?” I thought about it. “The not sleeping,” I said. As I uttered the words, I was sure this was the calling card of whatever horrible disease I had contracted. She handed me a tissue and wisely counseled that all of my symptoms were also symptoms of insomnia – if the body isn’t getting proper rest, everything starts to shut down. Her suggestion? Get the sleep under control, and then we could address whatever symptoms remained. I left her office with a prescription, which I gave to my husband to have filled the next day.

Now, I have to pause here for some context. I am a fantastic sleeper. World class. I can sleep on planes, trains, automobiles. I can sleep on desktops, shoulders, suitcases, benches, straight backed chairs. When I travel, even to the other side of the world, I break records with how quickly I can adjust to a new time zone. And at home, I’ll say, “goodnight” to my husband and be asleep before he can answer back. So, when I came home the next day and held the prescription bottle in my hand, the bottle that shouted at me with its all caps, “TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH AT BEDTIME AS NEEDED FOR INSOMNIA,” my breath caught in my throat. I actully took a picture of my hand holding the bottle. I finally had a sign I couldn’t ignore. Something had indeed gone majorly sideways, and I needed to make a change quick, before something worse happened as a result.

It took a few days, but I knew what I had to do: I had to quit my “dream job.” It had nothing to do with the company or the products or the amazing people I worked with. It had everything to do with me. With getting myself grounded. With putting on my own oxygen mask first, so that I could assist others. And so, over the Christmas holiday, I resigned. That night, I slept for 10 hours straight. No Xanax necessary.

What’s next? Well, I can honestly say I don’t know. If you read this blog or know me in real life, you might sense that I’m a girl who likes to have a plan. (And if you’re my husband, you’ll know that this is exactly how I describe myself in a crisis – whether that crisis be where we’re going to dinner or what to do about a massive, collapsed retaining wall…). As of this moment, I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a pretend plan to share with people who want to know what my plan is. I just can’t fake anything right now. It is what it is.

So, instead of running myself ragged by taking another job or mapping out my next my 6-pronged approach to “getting what I want,” I am leaning into this uncharted uncertainty by leaning out. I deleted the 24-hour instant-messaging app, turned off my text alerts, and muted the ringer. I’ve deleted Facebook from my phone and about half the accounts I was following on Instagram. I’m seeking out the friends I love, but not always getting out of my car at school pick up. I’m taking yoga classes, but only with teachers I respect and in spaces that are sacred to me. I’m marching and speaking out, but I’m not wasting time with trolls. I’m cooking healthy, whole foods for my family. I’m hiking with my dog, sometimes in the pouring down rain. I’m going on the really good field trips. Basically, I’m just taking some time.

Oh, the one thing I am adding back in? I’m writing again. For me. And for any of you who care to keep reading along. For the simple reason that it gives me joy. At one point this fall, a prescient friend asked me, “What are you doing right now that makes you happy?” My answer was to burst into tears in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I still don’t know what will ultimately be the job or the vocation or the calling that will make me “happy,” but I am beyond happy (and grateful) to have some time to feel it out with my head, my heart, and my laptop. 

Onward.

Y’all. I have a new job. I’m so excited to tell you about it, but before I give you the scoop, let me back up a bit.

I’ve been in advertising for my entire working life. I took time off to be with my kids when they were little, but even then I was acting in commercials. When my youngest was about to enter Kindergarten, I became a certified yoga teacher, and I loved it. However, right about the time I started teaching, I went back to work part-time, at, you guessed it, an ad agency. I was working at a place I still love and for people I will adore until the end of time. But before I even knew what was happening, I had stopped teaching yoga altogether and was back in advertising for reals.

But here’s the thing. A lot had shifted in my life and in my awareness of the world around me. So, when I wasn’t working at my day job, I was writing my blog, THIS blog. What had started as a way to let folks know when I was teaching yoga had become a place where I could write about the things I was most passionate about: family and friends, food and travel, and health and wellness.

And if you follow this blog or my Instagram, you know that I am particularly devoted to sharing what I’m learning about living a healthier life - from hiking trails and vegan cleanses, to clean skincare and organic lip balm. I believe firmly that what we put ON our bodies is just as important as what we put IN our bodies. The skin is our largest digestive organ, and it will literally eat whatever we feed it. Over time, I’ve learned to feed my skin as well as I feed my body, because, in the end, it’s really the same thing.

In the three years I’ve been writing The Goodness, the hours researching and writing this blog have been pure joy. About a year ago, I started to wonder if there was a way to combine my 15+ years of advertising and marketing experience with my desire to spread the word on wellness and health. So, I started writing letters. Lots of letters. Some to total strangers in the clean beauty business, some to activists working to ban toxic chemicals from our food and personal care products, and some to friends of friends of friends who might know someone who knows someone who would meet me for coffee. This went on for months. Everyone I wrote to answered me: some were encouraging, others were decidedly not. But over the course of the last year, I had a lot of great meetings, and got to know some really incredible and helpful people. But even after all of that, I still had no idea how to make this career change happen.

One letter I wrote, however, was different from the others. It was as much a fan letter as it was a request to meet for a cup of tea. That letter was to Hillary Peterson, the founder of True Botanicals. (I've written about her already here.) I’ve been using their skincare pretty much exclusively for four years. A check of my Instagram will definitely show my devotion to/obsession with what’s inside their beautiful amber bottles. And while I love how clean their products are and how gorgeous they feel on my skin, I’m a long-time customer because the products work. Plain and simple. My skin has never looked better. That’s saying a lot given that I just turned 47.

About a month ago, Hillary and I finally met in her office on a Saturday morning, and we had a great conversation - it went on for hours. After our chat, and after meeting with Hillary's incredible business partner and CEO, Christina Mace-Turner, True Botanicals offered me a job, and I jumped at the chance.

I’m only a few weeks in, but I am thrilled beyond belief. The people I work with are smart, talented, funny, kind, and work from a place of undeniable integrity. I feel good about what I do all day long. I’m so proud of our products, and even more proud of our mission to deliver effective, high quality products, completely free of toxins. The work we do protects the health of our customers and lifts up our network of organic, sustainable, and fair trade suppliers. And I am learning so much. Man, am I learning.  Sometimes it feels like a fire hose of information has been hooked up to my brain, but in the best possible way. It’s hard work, but good, important work. And it’s fun. I get to talk about and write about skincare and wellness all day. How awesome is that?

The path here was long and winding, and for much of the time, I didn’t even know I was even on a path. But looking back, I can see how the choices I made (and some that were made for me) led me right here. Who knows what’s coming in the future, but right now, living in this moment is pretty darn sweet.

Last night, I looked back at all of those letters I wrote, and came across this sentence: “So much good can come from simply putting your dreams out there.” I believed that then, and I believe it even more today.

Dream on, beauties. Dream on.

XO

P

Day Five: Las Cruces, NM to Carlsbad, NM

If you read my last post, you already know that on Day Four we had a scare with our pup, Obi, that landed all of us in a 24-Hour Emergency Vet Hospital for a few very tense, very scary hours. For those who read the tale and for those who haven’t, you’ll be glad to know that on the morning of Day Five, Obi was not only back to his old self, he was his old self +++. After running around the hotel room, jumping up on every piece of furniture, stealing more than his share of underwear, shoes and stuffed animals, we took him for a good, long walk, and then hit the road again. Our destination? Carlsbad, New Mexico and a visit to Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

Our drive was short – only 3 hours – and, thankfully, totally uneventful. As we left the flats and headed toward the hills above El Paso, TX and into the Guadalupe Mountains, we had a gorgeous view of New Mexico’s El Capitan. I could have stopped there for an hour, but we had to press on – pictures through car windows would have to suffice! Once we arrived in the town of Carlsbad, we got settled into our hotel, took Obi for a walk, and then, once he was happily back in his crate, we drove for about 30 minutes to the entrance to the National Park.

Y’all, I am not a girl who likes tight spaces. At all. So this was not a stop I was super excited about. And as we drove the gently winding road from the gate to the visitor’s center, my heart began to race. I had heard the caverns were incredible and gorgeous and that the main room was HUGE – the size of 14 football fields. All fine and good, but the getting down there was really starting to worry me. We had discussed taking the elevator down and back up, but after talking to the ranger and seeing the miniature scale model of the caverns, with the freakishly tiny looking elevator shafts, cut through 700 feet of limestone, we decided to hike down, and then elevator up.

We walked to the natural entrance to the cave, and my stomach was full of butterflies, or, given where we were going, bats (more on that later). As we hiked down the steep path toward the mouth of the cave, my mind went bizzerk. What if there are tight spots? What happens when I can’t see the sun? What if today is the day the cave decides to collapse, after millennia of stability? Um, and what is holding this thing up anyway? Clearly, I should have spent more time on that particular exhibit in the visitor’s center, but, alas, on we went, following the path back and forth and down and down, and into the mouth of the cave. Gulp.

However, as soon as we actually entered the cave,  everything felt much more comfortable. Once inside, I was immediately wowed by what we were seeing – beautiful, gauzy chandeliers of stalactites hanging from the ceiling, textured walls that were once coral reefs back when Pangea was a thing (Pangea! I LOVE Pangea!), and tall, smooth columns of stalagmites. It’s like another planet down there, and the more you see, the more you want to see. We took several turns down into the cave, still bathed in the sunlight pouring in from the huge opening above. That part of the journey was just long enough to lure you in – we knew that if it was this incredible 100 yards in, what was waiting for us below would surely blow our minds. Now, I’m not gonna lie, when the path turned on itself and went under that opening, I had a moment of pause. But I took a deep Ujjayi breath or ten, said goodbye to the sun, and made my way, one step at a time, toward our final destination, some 700 feet down into the earth.

It took us about 45 minutes to get to the end of the path. Along the way, we saw more spectacular formations, and a few creepy-looking ladders, from when the first explorers descended into the cave’s depths, some 120 years ago. But when we reached the Big Room, I honestly couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The space was huge – as I said before, 14 football fields large – but you kind of don’t believe that’s possible, until you see it. The ceilings were so high, and there were people and walkways as far as I could see in every direction. Incredible formation after incredible formation was beautifully lit, as far as the eye could see. All four of us instinctively started taking pictures, knowing full well that not one picture, not 10,000 pictures, would ever do the place justice or convey in any way what we were seeing.

There are a couple of loops you can take, and we decided, of course, to take the biggest loop and check out the farthest reaches of this incredible underground room. Once we passed the last turn for the smaller loop, it was as if we were the only people in the entire cave. The space grew more quiet and peaceful with every step. And finally, on the backside of the farthest part of the path, we were completely alone. It was still, cool, quiet and simply the most peaceful place I think I’ve ever been. We all held hands, closed our eyes, and just felt it. The damp chill on our skin, the silence in our ears, the firmness under our feet, the peace in our hearts and minds. Of all that we experienced in the cave, I’ll relive those moments alone/together in the heart of the cavern for the rest of my days. I have never felt more held by the the earth or more connected to my family. It was truly magical.

As we turned back toward the elevators, the boys walked ahead, and my husband and I had a chance to take in the last 30 minutes or so alone. We marveled over waterfalls of limestone, hidden pools, and seemingly bottomless pits. We held hands and had a mini-date, deep underground. We met up with the boys near the elevator, they used the bathroom (yes, there is a bathroom in the cave), we convinced them that we didn’t need anything at the gift shop (yes, to my horror, there is a gift shop in the cave) and then we got in line to go up and out.

Once again, I had a moment of pause. As natural and inviting as the cave had been on the way in, none of that gradual transition would be happening for me on the way out. What I kept seeing in my mind’s eye was the itty-bitty, teeny-tiny elevator shaft from the model in the visitor’s center: so little in diameter, but forever in length. 700 feet back up, and in just 90 seconds, the Ranger told me. Then the Ranger turned, and started talking to the folks behind us. Yes, he said, only two of the four elevators is working. Yes, the ones that are working were just repaired the week before. No, the other two would probably take a year to be repaired, hopefully no one is in there. Ha, ha, ha. I almost threw up.

When it was our turn, the doors opened, and I realized that the actual elevator is only nominally bigger than the microscopic one in the model. They took as many of us as they could, the doors shut, and we were on our way. Once again, yoga breathing was my friend, and I kept my eyes gently closed. At one point, I made the mistake of opening my eyes, only to see that there were two windows in the elevator, and that the 700 feet of limestone were whizzing by, seemingly inches, nay, CENTIMETERS, from the glass. With eyes closed more tightly this time, I prayed for this nightmare to end, but in a really good way. Finally, finally the elevator stopped, the doors opened, and I was out, and back on top of the earth’s crust once more.

We ate a quick dinner at the visitor’s center, and then took our seats for the evening’s main event – the Bat Flight. There is a beautiful, stone amphitheater built around the natural entrance to the cave, and every night at dusk in the summer, the cave’s most famous inhabitants, the Mexican Free-Tailed Bats, do their thing. At about 7:30 pm, the Ranger began his talk. He spoke about the bats – why they live in the cave, what bugs they eat, and where they hunt. And then he told the crowd that there’s no photography allowed. Not just flash, not just lit, not just still or video – it’s all prohibited. He said that our devices don’t mess with the bats echolocation, it’s just that the park wants to “keep the experience as natural as possible.” Wow. I was loving this whole thing already.

The ranger talked for about 15 minutes, and then he stopped short, saying, “We’ve got company." Then he packed up his mic and walked to the back of the amphitheater. At first, it just looked like a few birds swooping and diving at the cave entrance, but then there were more and more, and it became clear that the creatures were actually spiraling up and out of the cave - not birds at all, but rather, the bats, heading out for the hunt. This went on for about 10 minutes, and then let up a bit. I'll admit to having been a little disappointed. But then another spiral started, and another and another. We watched the bats fly up, up and away for 45 minutes, and when we left they were still going. We probably saw tens of thousands of bats and it was unreal. We had learned that the first recorded explorer to the cave found it by following what he thought was a trail of smoke far off in the Guadalupe Mountains. Of course, when he rode his horse over, he discovered the bats, went into collect their guano, and eventually, found the Big Room, and many of the smaller, side chambers in the caverns. When you see those thousands of bats pouring out of the cave, you can understand how it would look like a pretty solid plume of smoke from afar. I also understood that I was glad I went into the cave BEFORE I saw how many bats live in there.

And, here’s the thing. I don’t have any pictures. No one in our family does. As far as I could tell, no one at the Caverns that night does. People not only heard the Ranger’s talk about no cameras, but everyone completely respected it. And as a result, our crowd of 300 or so people did something I haven’t been a part of in a long time: we all experienced something in nature, together, with our own eyes, not filtered at all through a screen. The crowd was utterly silent as the bats danced into the sky, save for a small child occasionally saying, “Bye,” as he waved them on. It was incredible. The Parks had gone all yoga teacher on us, and had forced us to be truly in the moment, in that magnificent, glorious, wondrous moment. And I, for one, am eternally grateful.

We drove back to the hotel, tired, but full of awe and wonder. Obi was full of energy, so the boys and Harry took him for a long walk, and then, in the night, I took him for another walk (or two) around the hotel in my pajamas. The Obes was back and ready to go, but, possibly, nocturnal. Sigh.

Lucky for him, our next stop was three days at Lake Austin, with dear friends….and their two dogs….

More to come!

XO

HIGHLIGHTS:

What We Did:

Carlsbad: Carlsbad Caverns National Park

Day Four: Scottsdale, AZ to El Paso, TX, um, I mean Las Cruces, NM

When last we left off, our little crew had made it across the desert in the heat dome, and we were enjoying Scottsdale, Arizona. On the morning of Day Four, we woke up in our hotel and headed straight to the pool to get our slide on. In the hour and a half we were at the pool, we hit that slide HARD. We all had a blast, and it was the perfect end to a perfect, although HOT, few days in Arizona.

After we cleaned up and packed up, we were on the road again. We stopped in Tucson for a late lunch, and to check out the city’s newly revitalized East End. We had a terrific meal at Maynard’s Market, and met the owner, Richard Oseran. When we asked if we could bring our dog into the market, he was so lovely and so gracious, and found us the perfect, out of the way spot in the market. It was so hot outside (111 degrees!), and we were so grateful for a cool place with a cool floor for our Obi.

Our next stop was the Pima Air and Space Museum. The museum was both air conditioned and dog friendly, so it seemed like a great place for Obi to get a little exercise and for my boys (especially the 52 year-old one) to get in some plane excitement. The museum was awesome, with giant hangars full of all kinds of aircraft. Harry was in heaven, and the boys had a blast. Obi loved meeting everyone in the hangars, and seemed almost surprised that he was allowed in there at all.

Now, the museum's gift shop was ice-cold, but the hangars were a bit warmer, and as we walked around, Obi started to pant. At one point, he just spread out on the floor – like he was trying to get as much surface area as possible on the cool, concrete floor. I quickly took him back to the gift shop to soak up more of their a/c. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t want to leave to go back out into the heat and toward the car, but what worried me was that he didn’t want to drink. At all. He just flat-out refused. Hopeful that he was just tired and ready for another car nap, we got him in his crate, in the car, and then we were on our way again.

Along the 10 freeway in Arizona, there are dozens of billboards for something called, “The Thing.” I had no idea what it was, but before we left California, a few people had told me that it was a classic roadside attraction and not to be missed - 100% kitsch and right up our alley. I called ahead to see if pups were welcome, and we got an enthusiastic, “Yes! We love dogs!” So we decided to stop and check it out. And here, in the parking lot of "The Thing," our day took a frightening turn.

When Harry and I lowered the crate from the car, Obi refused to come out. Then, as he tried to stand, he slumped over to the side of the crate. He didn’t look tired or sleepy, he looked sick. Now I was really worried. I went inside and asked if we could bring in our entire crate, and the ladies at the counter could not have been more understanding. They said, “Of course! Whatever you need to do!” So in we came, with our giant crate, our peaked pup, and our worried boys. I finally coaxed Obi out, and he perked up a bit as folks came by to give him some love – meeting new people is his most favorite thing ever. Since he seemed a little better, Harry took the boys to see “The Thing,” while I stayed with Obi in the gift shop.

After they walked away, Obi laid back down. I sat on the floor with him, as the concerned staff looked on and new visitors arrived, stepping carefully over and around us to get to "The Thing." Everyone we met was so concerned, and, of course, they had a million contrasting opinions. “He’s clearly hot, but it’s weird that he’s not panting.”  “He might be dehydrated, but his gums still look good.”  “He’ll be fine, but you need to get him to a vet right away!” All of this while we were sitting in the middle of the floor by the cash register.

The boys come out almost as quickly as they had gone in and insisted that I go see “The Thing.” I left Obi with Harry and our eldest, while our youngest and I headed through the door and down the path to “The Thing.” I won’t give it away, but it was indeed a classic, kitschy, roadside attraction. A little scarier and hokier than I would have imagined, but, hey, it was only 75 cents. Of course,  all I could really think about was Obi, so I practically sprinted my way through.

When I got back to the store, nothing had improved. Obi was still refusing water, still lying listlessly on the floor. I asked if there was a vet in town. No one knew of a vet for miles. We were supposed to stop that night in El Paso, but that was another 3 hours or so away. I was not about to wait that long. After a final goodbye from the lovely ladies in the gift shop, we loaded our sick pup back into the crate, and as Harry drove, I researched. First, I called our vet at home, but they were closed. Then, I called our vet’s 24-hour hotline, and while they were kind and supportive, they said that without seeing Obi, it was impossible for them to make any kind of diagnosis. I knew Obi had to see a vet, and fast. I found a 24-hour veterinary clinic in a town called Las Cruces, New Mexico. When I called to explain what was happening, they could not have been more kind. They said they’d be ready for us, and they would do everything they could to help Obi. So, I cancelled our hotel in El Paso, found a new one in Las Cruces, and on we drove.

I have to tell you, the 90 miles between that moment and Las Cruces, were the longest of the trip. I was trying so hard to hold it together - I didn’t want the boys to know how truly terrified I was. But it wasn’t just concern for Obi that was racking me; it was guilt. When we first read about the heat dome, we knew that our pup would be extremely vulnerable. And yet, we kept to our plan. Before we left, I read obsessively about how to keep a dog safe in extreme heat, and I thought we had done everything right. And yet, here we were. There were so many reasons to take Obi with us – it would be great socialization for him, we’d be so bonded after this, he’d learn to be such a great traveler – but really, I just didn’t want to leave him for such a long time. I wanted him with me, plain and simple. I fought so hard for him to come with us, and now, my selfishness had put him in danger. 

Finally, finally, we reached Las Cruces. It was late, 10 pm or so, and everything around the vet was deserted. The veterinary hospital had bars on the windows, but the lights were on, and I knew there were kind souls inside. And I had to trust them, I just had to. Harry and I unloaded the crate and carried it inside, with the boys following closely behind. The staff greeted us so warmly. Obi stumbled out from his crate and immediately laid down on the floor. Our eldest went in the back to the bathroom, Harry filled out paperwork, and our youngest and I did our best to comfort Obi.

Just then, the door burst open, and a woman came in cradling something I couldn’t see, and she was screaming, “He’s been hit! He’s been hit! Oh, my god!!!” Before I knew what was happening, one of the veterinary assistants swept me, Obi and my boy into an exam room and shut the door, but still we could hear her screaming and crying. We heard footsteps running, voices talking, doors opening and closing, but mostly, it was the screaming, the horrific sound of someone’s heart breaking. My youngest son’s eyes were like saucers, and welling up with tears. Our eldest came into the exam room, ushered by the assistant, who had kept him from going back through the lobby and witnessing it all. As soon as the door closed again, we lost it. The three of us cried with worry for the lady, for her pet, for her heart, and for Obi. After a while, Harry came in and told us that the woman’s dog had been hit by a car, and while the vet had rushed out to help, it was already too late. The woman’s dog was dead.

And then our oldest boy asked, with equal parts fear and innocence, “Does that happen a lot?”

“What, love?” I asked in response.

“Cars. Do dogs get hit by cars? A lot? And do the dogs always die?”

Oh, my baby. I watched as a new, painful, understanding washed over his face. I pulled him and his brother close, as if I could literally hold their broken hearts together.

A few minutes later the vet came in, and Obi slowly started to perk up. He stood on his own and wagged his tail. This was HUGE given what we had seen over the last couple of hours. The doctor gave Obi a full exam and told us, “I can’t feel anything physically wrong with him. His temperature is slightly elevated, but I don’t think he’s overheated or dehydrated.”

We all cried again, but this time with relief.

To make a long story slightly shorter, after a variety of tests, Obi was given the all clear. The vet surmised that he had probably eaten something that didn’t agree with him (perhaps that delicious duck poop near a pond in Scottsdale? Hmmmm....), and that was the cause of his symptoms. The vet gave him a charcoal tablet to help clear any toxins, and then, after hours of refusing to even look at his water bowl, Obi drank three bowls full. This time, our tears were happy ones. After hugging and thanking every single person in that building, we headed to our hotel in Las Cruces for some much, much needed sleep.

As my head hit the pillow that night, I felt like I had aged 100 years. Not the superficial aging of the heat dome, but an aging of my heart and soul. Was it even possible that this was the same day that started with us all at the pool, laughing and taking turns on the water slide? No, not at all possible. We had been put through the ringer that day, and seen and heard things that would change us forever. But in the end we were all safe. A little worse for wear, but safe. I closed my eyes and said a prayer of gratitude for all the people who had helped us and supported us when we were so scared. I also prayed, hard, for Obi to wake up in the morning and be himself again. I prayed for him to try and bite me, to jump on the beds, to steal a sock and run around, to knock over his water bowl and traipse water allover the floor. All the things that had been driving us crazy in the cramped quarters of each hotel room thus far, I prayed with all my heart for them to return.

Day Five: Las Cruses, NM to Carlsbad, NM

In the morning, I nervously opened Obi’s crate. And there he was, my little canine baby, his eyes shining bright with health and mischief. Let’s just say, my prayer was answered...and then some. Obi bolted out of his bed and literally bounced off the walls. He leapt up on the the bed and jumped from there to the chair and on to the floor. He dug into Harry's bag and tried to steal the boys' stuffed animals. Clearly, he was back, stronger and more energetic than ever. 

Finally, with the crisis behind us, we packed up and headed toward Carlsbad Caverns. We drove on with worn-out, grateful, and happy hearts, eager to have all that happened grow small in the rear view mirror, and hopeful for new adventures ahead.

XOXO

HIGHLIGHTS:

Where We Stayed:

Scottsdale: The Hyatt Regency Scottsdale Resort and Spa at Gainey Ranch

Where We Ate:

Tucson: Maynard’s Market

What We Did:

Tucson: Downtown’s East End, Congress Street

Tucson: Pima Air and Space Museum

Dragoon: The Thing

Hi, everyone! I'm so happy to report that we made it to North Carolina, safe and sound: two weeks, nine states, 3,652.7 miles. We’ve seen so much and learned so much in the last few weeks, it's a little overwhelming. We’re still processing it all, and probably will be for a long time. But I can say, it's already been an incredible experience, and one I'm so glad to share with my family. A cross-country trip is a once in a lifetime event, and it's pretty great to be smack dab in the middle of it all, with the people (and pup!) I love the most. 

Now, I do have a confession to make. I had planned to write a post every day or two, to keep you all with us every step of the way and to share my thoughts, my fears, my excitements in the moment. But the truth of the matter is, at the end of each day, I barely had the energy to jot down a few notes before I fell fast asleep. In fact, there were many days where I was catching up in my journal while my husband, Harry, was driving us to our next stop. So much for me “live blogging” our trip! Ha!

The upside? I wasn’t writing long posts because I was too busy living it all, and yes, being in the moment, my own self. There was some drama to be sure, and a few truly frightening moments, but the vast majority of the trip was great - happy family, happy dog, happy adventures - and I'm so glad I was truly present for it all.

So, here's my new plan. In this and the next few posts, I’ll catch you up, leg by leg. I'll share our adventures, large and small. I'll share the details of where we stayed, what we ate and things we did, but I'll also share the details of our emotional journey, as best I can - a kind of travel guide and memoir mash up. And at the end of each post, I'll provide links to all the places I mention, just in case you get inspired to check any of them out.

We have a long way to go on this journey, but, in the words of Maria von Trapp, "Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start..."

Day One: San Francisco, CA to Palm Springs, CA

On Sunday morning, June 19, Father’s Day, we hit the road. As I mentioned in my last post, we planned to take the southern route on the way out, with the sound thinking that it would be cooler in June than in August. Well, a few days before our departure, we heard that a “heat dome” was predicted for all of southern California and Arizona, starting the first day of our trip and lasting through day four. For the uninitiated, a heat dome is a system of extreme heat, caused by high pressure systems forming in the upper atmosphere, that pushes warm air toward the earth and basically traps it there. Good times. After some discussion about changing the route, we ultimately decided to press on with our original plan, and head straight into the dome, armed with as much water and ice as we could carry.  

Day One was our longest drive of the trip – an estimated 9 hours, according to the GPS. We watched the temperature climb as we drove south, but it was still in the manageable 90s. We took the cutoff to Palm Springs just north of LA, and headed toward the desert.

As we got closer to Palm Springs, we started taking pictures of the outside temp reading on the dashboard. 108! 111! 113! Wowza! The reading was 118 degrees when we pulled into our Palm Springs hotel. At 7 pm in the evening. Holy schlamoley. We decided the best plan was to go to our room, order room service, and wait for the temperature to drop. After a couple of hours of air conditioned cool, we put our pup, Obi, in his crate and headed for the pool. It was only 111 degrees at this point (!!!!), but man, what a glorious night. It was the night before the solstice, the moon was one day shy of full, and the pool was almost deserted. The water was ice cold, and we swam and played for hours. It was heaven. All of us laughing, splashing, and rinsing away the first and longest leg of our journey. Harry remarked how easily Obi had already acclimated to life on the road – how quickly he settled into his crate, how well he was eating and drinking, and how reliably he let us know when he had to take a pause for the cause. “This is gonna be easy,” we laughed. Oh, how cute and naïve we were one day one!

When the temp finally cooled down to a brisk 96 degrees, I took Obi out for a late night walk, all over the hotel property, under the almost-full moon. It was glorious, and such a great start to our adventure.

Day Two: Palm Springs, CA to Scottsdale, AZ

We knew this day would be the hottest of the heat dome, with a predicted 122 degrees in Palm Springs,  but it was also our only chance to see Joshua Tree National Park. It’s typically about 15 degrees cooler there than in Palm Springs, but still, that would put the high at around 107 degrees, not exactly the way you want to experience the desert with your children and pup. To be on the safe side, we headed to Joshua Tree around 7 am, hoping to experience some of the park before it got too dangerous.

When we entered the West Gate, it was already 96 degrees. Not exactly cool, but not yet lethal. Armed with our map and about 1,000 gallons of water and ice, we drove in. I had never been to Joshua Tree before, but so many people close to me love it, and speak about it so reverently. Now I understand why. The first thing that we saw was a family of quail, trotting across the street, I took that as a good omen: Joshua tree is CLEARLY good for families, even in the dreaded dome of heat. Then, the rock formations came into view. Oh my gosh, the rocks. I’ve never seen anything like them. It looked like a giant child had just stacked up rocks haphazardly all over everywhere. Some even looked like the dribble castles we make at the beach. They took my breath away. We were about 3 minutes into the park when the boys saw a particularly enticing pile of boulders. “Can we climb those,” they cried? Why, yes, yes we can!

We pulled over and up they went. They saw a jackrabbit on the way up, and thankfully no rattlesnakes on the way down. Watching them interact with nature they’ve never seen before was amazing, and reminded me why were on this journey in the first place. They climbed up and up and up, until they got so high, I begged them to come down. They worked together to find the best paths up and down and over, and had a blast. And no one complained about the heat. Not even once.

Our next stop was one of the few maintained gravel roads where pups are allowed to get their walk on. It was creeping up toward 100 degrees by this point, so we just walked about 10 minutes out and about 10 minutes back, but Obi was in heaven. Our eldest took the leash and sprinted (SPRINTED!!!!)  in the desert heat, while Obi jumped and ran. We got up close and personal with the eponymous Joshua trees, and experienced the park’s rolling hills, scrubby vegetation, and big, beautiful sky. All the while, we were feeling the heat, feeling it in our bones, and gaining a true respect for its power. We walked back to the car, where Obi thankfully drank his body weight in water, and then we were back into the air conditioning for a drive through the park and back to the 10 Freeway.

Joshua Tree National Park is the coming together of two deserts – the Mojave to the West and the Colorado to the East. As the two deserts met, we passed through the incredible Cholla Cactus Garden – acres and acres of the most gorgeous cacti I have ever seen -  and then descended into vast spread of the lower section of the park. We experienced firsthand how these two types of deserts are actually vastly different, as the Joshua Trees and giant rock formations gave way to a scrubbier, flatter, yet somehow greener, desert. Every turn unveiled new wonders, and with every too-hot-to-get-out mile we drove, I listened to my heart beating, “You must come back. You must come back. You must come back.” Every campsite we passed, I saw us there, with our tents, with our sleeping bags, and I saw it all so clearly, I’m certain it was a vision of a certain future. We’ll be back. I know it.

Once we were back on the 10, we started taking pictures of the outside temp again. 119, 120, 121, and finally, the peak temperature of 122 degrees Fahrenheit. Yikers. We hit a rest stop just over the Arizona state line, where we all got to experience 122 degrees in the flesh. Now, so many people had said, “Yes, it will be hot in Arizona, but it’s a dry heat,” and that is indeed true, it is a dry heat. So dry, in fact, I could literally feel my skin age every time I stepped outside. But just because it was a dry heat doesn’t mean that it wasn’t hot. Is was DAMN HOT, y’all. Like scary hot. At that rest stop, we all got back into the car, as fast as possible. But as I took the wheel for the next few hours, I had one thought, and one thought alone: the only thing between us and certain death was some pretty thin metal and a few sheets of glass. I white-knuckled it as I drove, and tried to do nice, slow yoga breaths as I passengered. I don’t usually love an urban sprawl, but I definitely relaxed when we hit the suburban outskirts of Phoenix, and when we arrived at our hotel in Scottsdale, I let out a huge sigh of relief. We had made it safely across the desert, in the middle of the hottest weather event on record. We immediately took Obi on a walk around the hotel property, then, once he was good and worn out, we hit the pool. Once again, night swimming in the heat dome did not disappoint. And that night was even more spectacular than the one before: the full moon, the summer solstice, and a gorgeous sunset that I won’t forget anytime soon.

Day Three: Scottsdale, AZ and Phoenix, AZ

I set my alarm for 7:00 am, hoping to take Obi for a hike in the McDowell Sonoran Preserve. I looked at my phone, checked the temperature, and thought, “Oh, good! It’s only 93 degrees. If I get up now, I can get to the trail before it gets hot.” Everything is relative, people, even in the heat dome. Obi and I got to the park, and we were drawn to a cool, modern, steel shade structure. There were some women there who had just finished their run, and they guided me to the trail head for the Gateway Loop. Well, the first 30-40 feet was a metal, open grate bridge, and Obi was having NONE of it. He sprawled his legs almost all the way out and just froze. I pulled, I prodded, I pleaded, but to no avail. Finally, I dropped his leash and ran to the other side of the bridge, hoping he would follow. I was encouraged when he sort of stood up, but then he just slowly backed his way off the bridge and sat, staring at me from the other side. Fortunately, the ladies were still there and they showed me the end of the trail, so instead of doing the loop, we did a little out and back, past tall Saguaro cacti, vibrant Prickly Pears and more of my beloved Chollas. I’ve always been a green forest kind of girl, but the desert was definitely working its way into my heart.

I got back to the hotel and the rest of my boys were still sleepy and moving slowly. We eventually got it together and headed to Heritage Square in downtown Phoenix to get a taste of the world famous pizza at Pizzeria Bianco. Sooooo delicious. I started with their seasonal Farmer’s Market Salad – cherry tomatoes, goat cheese, onions, and a balsamic vinaigrette – and it was the most refreshing, delicious, flavorful salad I’ve ever tasted. As a family, we ordered three amazing pies, one Margherita (classic tomato sauce, mozzarella, basil), one Wiseguy (sausage and onion), and one Biancoverde (white pizza with a variety of cheeses and arugula). We polished them off in a flash. The crust was thin and light, and the toppings seasonal, fresh, and simple, but ridiculously tasty. Really and truly, the perfect, perfect pizza.

We went outside to stroll around the square and past the gorgeous, historic Rosson House, but the temperature was a scorching 118 degrees. We took one loop around, and then went back to the car to head to our next stop, the Musical Instrument Museum. This museum houses a huge collection of instruments and features dozens of artists from around the world. We started with the Artist Gallery, a showcase of different performers from different genres and eras. Afterwards, we went through the Mechanical Music Gallery, and were lucky to see a live demonstration of the Apollonia, a giant, self-playing organ/accordion/saxophone/xylophone/drum. It was absolutely spectacular and a total hoot. After a good, long time in the Experience Gallery, playing all manner of gongs, banjos, drums and glockenspiels, we made our way upstairs to the Geographic Gallery, with a walk through the North American room, and a long perch in front of the Steinway exhibit. As we left, Ford and I tried our hands on the gorgeous Steinway in the lobby for one last hurrah. I wish we could have stayed longer, but we needed to get back to our pup, our sweet, patient pup.

Once back at the hotel, we rested, walked and fed Obi, and then went back to the pool for more heavenly night swimming. As much of a stinker as the heat dome was during the day, in the evenings, it was downright lovely. I love living in California, but I do miss warm nights. Maybe not enough to deal with 118 degree days on the regular, but, hey, I’m a glass half-full kind of girl.

So that’s the first report, done and done. Next up? Leaving Scottsdale and working our way to Carlsbad, New Mexico and the unbelievable Carlsbad Caverns.

See you soon!

XOXO

P

HIGHLIGHTS:

Where We Stayed:

Palm Springs: The Ace Hotel

Scottsdale: The Hyatt Regency Scottsdale Resort and Spa at Gainey Ranch

Where We Ate:

Phoenix: Pizzeria Bianco, Downtown Phoenix

What We Did:

Palm Springs: Joshua Tree National Park

Scottsdale: McDowell Sonoran Preserve

Phoenix: Heritage Square

Phoenix: MIM, Musical Instrument Museum

Oh, my gosh, y’all, we’re doing it. We’re driving across country this summer -  2 adults, 2 kids, one mildly (okay, completely) insane 6 month-old puppy. My husband, the kids, and I have been dreaming about this for years, shaping the route for months, and nailing down the details for weeks. And unless something majorly unexpected happens, we’re hitting the road in about a week. Eeps!

Partly because I think it will be fun, and partly because I think it will help me stay sane, I’m going to write about it. Right here. If you subscribe to The Goodness, my little travel missives will appear in your inbox just like all my posts. If you seek out my writing through my website, patticocciolo.com, you’ll find our travel journal under a new tab in the navigation, cleverly titled, “Road Trip’16.” Genius, I know.

I’ve never done a road trip quite like this before, so I don’t really know what to expect. When I was a child growing up in Georgia, we always drove to our family vacations in Florida or North Carolina. I was famous for throwing up all over my brothers in the back seat, every, single time. Perhaps this is why our road trips were never longer than 4-5 hours and why, at some point, one of my brothers chose to ride in the way-back with the dog, instead of in the middle row with me. Who’s to say.

But, at some point, I think in college, my wanderlust started to get the best of me. As a student, and then as a young, poverty-level, junior, junior advertising assistant to the assistant account executive, the only way I could get away was in my car. Whether it was fleeing our small college town for our nation’s capitol, or driving from Richmond to New Orleans in August (!!!), the road trip became my BFF. There was no feeling of independence greater than hopping in the car, alone or with friends, and hitting the road. Sometimes cars broke down (mine), and fancier cars were borrowed (my step dad’s). Sometimes the driver (me) panicked upon seeing a toll road for the first time ever. Once I got a speeding ticket fleeing a shattered heart, driving back to college after my father died. Once I got speeding a ticket fleeing a bad breakup, driving to my mother’s house at midnight. I’ve driven across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge (AH-MAZING), and I’ve driven all over New York City (AH-MAZING in a whole other way.) But no matter where I’ve driven or been driven, it was always a blast, there were always unexpected turns, and, most importantly, it was always an adventure.

My husband’s family, on the other hand, took tons of road trips.  My late father in law was in the Air Force, so the family moved a lot while my husband was growing up. While some posts were overseas, most of them were in the US. So driving to new posts and new lives and new adventures was a regular occurrence. And with grandparents and beloved cousins in California, there were even more reasons to get in the car to follow their hearts. And in the 17 years Harry and I have been together, we’ve driven all up and down the east coast, all over Carlifornia, and through a pedestrian-only piazzas in Florence. (That, my friends is a good story, but for another time.)

As for our kids, they love a road trip. They’ve been between San Francisco and Los Angeles more times than they can count, and crisscrossed North and South Carolina more times than I can count. Our eldest son's first road trip was to my husband’s family reunion, when he was less than a week old. Our youngest was born in Los Angeles, so you can only imagine the hours he logged in the car before he spoke his first word.

So, technically, we’re ready. Our car has a DVD player, and we just bought a YETI cooler. But driving across the country is not driving across a state, not even a giant one like California. While anybody can do a weekend road trip, going full-on road-warrior and driving across the country is NOT for the faint of heart. Oh, and have I mentioned that we’re taking our puppy? Our six-month old, snapping-turtle of a teething puppy, who also happens to be a Labrador?

Okay, I can see you shaking your heads over your iPhone/iPad/laptop. You're thinking, “These people are crazy and this woman’s blog will be a tale of woe, from one coast to the other and back again.” And perhaps you’re right. I’ve said all along that this trip will either be the greatest thing ever, or it will destroy our family for generations to come. Who knows. But the only way to find out is to do it. And writing about it along the way will be part travel guide and part cry for help. Here’s to hoping that it will be a little more of the former and little less of the latter.

Stay tuned for more, but here’s a general outline of our West/East Route. Drumroll please: San Francisco to Palm Springs to Scottsdale to El Paso to Carlsbad to Austin to Lafayette to New Orleans to Auburn to Banner Elk, NC. Phew! Got any recommendations? Shoot them to me, either in the comments or under the “Contact” tab on my website. Wish us luck, y'all. We’re gonna need it!

XOXO

P

PS - And to satisfy my mother, here is a message to all you burglars out there: YES, we have house sitters and YES we have an alarm. We also have a death and quick-getaway-defying driveway. So there. You have been warned!

It’s official: my mat and I are getting back together. It’s probably not accurate to say we had totally broken up, but for the last few months, we’ve certainly been estranged.

To be fair, we’ve had a rough year. Last fall, I had an emergency appendectomy and had to stay off my mat for months. Then, when I went back to work, my part-time job was, more often than not, a full-time job. My mat and I would still hang out, but not a lot. What was left of my practice helped me keep it all somewhat together, but we rarely went deep. Not exactly the healthiest relationship.

And then a couple of months ago, the collapsing discs in my neck did their thing. My nerves flared up, my muscles contracted, and I could barely sit or stand, much less get my asana on. Just the thought of any kind of movement terrified me. And while I knew in my heart that my practice would help, I turned away. Over and over again. For weeks.

When it first went down, I called my spine doctor. However, after being told I would have to wait A MONTH to see him, I finally took a friend’s advice (well, many friends’ advice…), and tried acupuncture. Between the needles and the cupping and the herbs and the body work, something clicked. After one session, I had a day of relief. After two, I had three days of relief, and after the third and fourth sessions, I had near complete relief. 

Once the pain subsided,  I slowed down at work. And with my life/work balance restored, I went back to cooking and eating the way I used to.

And then finally, finally, I went back to my mat.

Lucky for me, my mat took me back.

My practice wasn’t long; it was only about 45 minutes of asana, followed by a good, long Savasana and a delicious meditation. But it was exactly what I needed. It was just me, my mat, and my practice. I followed my inner teacher and gave my body and soul exactly what it needed. And at the end of it all, I nearly wept for joy.

I can’t explain why I so often turn away from what I need. I do this over and over again, and something tells me I’m not alone. In fact, after an informal poll of close friends, I know I’m not alone. That said, my hope is that, at some point, the call of what we need becomes so loud that either we hear it, or the universe whomps us upside the head to make sure we hear it. It’s up to us to decide when we listen, but at some point, we have no choice but to hear. I'm starting to think that listening first, and avoiding the whole "whomp upside the head," might be a better way to go. (I know, crazy, right?)  For me, the work  is not only to listen to my heart, but also to ACT: to move on right away when something doesn’t feel right, to make time for the friend I haven't seen in far too long, to be present and truly savor each moment with my family, and, yes, to get on the damn mat.

One of my teachers says that the best way to know if your yoga is improving is if your relationships are improving. Yoga is all about relationships, and not just the ones with your hamstrings and with your hips. Yoga is really about your relationships with your family, your partner, your friends, your neighbors, your dog. Through our partnership with the mat, we find the time, the space, and the peace to calm our busy minds. Once the mind chatter quiets, we have room to receive, and in return, room to give. And isn't that what good relationships are all about? A balance of giving and receiving? 

So, while we're reunited (and it feels so good), I know that my relationship with my mat and my practice will go through its ups and downs. All great relationships do. Here's hoping that my mat and I keep the communication going, that we never go to bed angry, and that we always have the ability to come back together, even if we sometimes need a break.

Ah, the course of true love never did run smooth....

XO

Our family adopted a puppy last week, and he is adorable. He’s big and fat and clumsy and floppy, and we named him Obi Wan, Obi for short. He has giant paws, hazel-y green eyes, and a coat as soft as anything I have ever felt.

And he is totally bonkers.

Let me back up. We are smart, responsible people. We researched breeds, we contemplated puppy versus older dog. We read books, listened to audio, watched YouTube videos. We found the right crate, the recommended food, the squeakiest, chewy-est toys. We were READY, y’all. Prepared.

Well, I don’t know if you know this or not, but puppies are insane. INSANE. They want to eat everything, including the humans attempting to give them food and shelter and love. Their biological imperative is to explore the world with their mouths. This may not seem like a big deal or even all that surprising. However, in a cruel twist of fate for the canine/human connection, during this I-Must-Explore-Everything-With-My-Mouth period, puppies are equipped with tiny, razor-sharp, shark-like teeth, and a crazed look in their eyes that makes you certain they have come into your home to end you. I think this is why puppies are so undeniably adorable. Otherwise, we, as a species, would never, ever have brought these small, furry, biting, unhinged beasts into our caves, lo, those many million years ago.

As for us, we brought Obi into our own cave a week ago. He was so exhausted that first night from the long drive; he was just a sleepy lump of a love bug. Then on Saturday afternoon, he woke up. For reals. And by Sunday night, we were all terrified of this 16.6 pound ball of rage, and everyone had been bitten and everyone had bled and everyone had cried. And I mean EVERYONE.

So I did what I always do. I asked for help. From a real, live, human person.

Let’s be clear. I am not someone who has any trouble saying, “Um, excuse me? Ma’am? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING RIGHT NOW, AND I NEED YOUR HELP IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I COMPLETELY LOSE MY SHIT.” While some people may see this as a sign of weakness, I think that asking for help is one of my finest qualities. And clearly I’m good at begging for help. The booked-for-five-days trainer* read the panic and worry in my note and said, “How about I come tonight?” Cue happy tears.

Is everything perfect now? Not exactly. Do I still fear that this tiny, adorable, furry, demonic creature is going to break me? Oh, God, yes. But it is getting better. Little by little, we can all see glimpses of a wonderful life with Obi. We know how to set our boundaries, we know how to calm him down, we know how and when to get those adorable puppy cuddles that we’ve all seen on the TV. In short, we have a concrete understanding that, if we are diligent and put in the work, this, too, shall pass.

I’ve found that whatever it is we’ve faced – a flooded house, a crazy dog, a problem at work, a child who needs help, a diagnosis that rocks our world – there is always, ALWAYS someone who can help. Can they make it all go away? Sometimes. But, honestly, the best helpers are the ones that give us the tools we need, the confidence to use them, and then they let us solve it ourselves. Yup. In the end, you gotta solve it your own damn self. It’s a surprise ending in a post about asking for help, I know.

While I’m quick to ask for help, I’m fully aware that the end game is for me to say, “I got this.” And we should all be able to do both. I seek help when I need it, and then I put on my big girl panties when I’m ready ready to take the mantle back on myself. The key is to know when to do what. And if I’m not sure? You guessed it, I ask someone I trust.

So here’s some advice from someone who constantly seeks advice: build yourself a tribe, a really, really good one. Your tribe can be comprised of family, friends, and/or outside counsel. Go to them when you need them. And be there for them when they need you. What goes around comes around, and you always get what you give. Be an active participant in your community, whatever that means to you, and the benefits you reap will last a lifetime.  It truly does take a village. Not just to raise a child, but to raise a fully-functioning, emotional, strong, empathetic, kind and capable adult.

And, in the meantime, if that village can teach Cujo not to attack the couch? Well, even better.

XO

*Trainer Kelley Fallon has a business called A Well Behaved Dog in Marin, and while our puppy was Lucifer, she was an angel. She taught us in one hour how to regain control of our home, to show Obi that WE are the Jedi Masters, and he is but the Padawan. In dog speak, we are the pack leaders, and Obi is our follower. The kids learned it all even better than the adults (no surprise there…), and after she left, our youngest said, “Instead of crying because we’ve been bitten, now we’re crying tears of joy!” You can find Kelley here. 

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]]>Puppies are Cute….and Completely NutsfamilyfriendshipgratitudeMarin CountyPatti C YogaPatti CoccioloPatti Cocciolo Yogathe holidaysWellnessyogaYoga in Marin Countyparentingparenthoodkidsboysgrowing upletting gostar warscarbon freezingdarth vaderhan solomindfulnessbeing in the momentyoga momPatti CoccioloTue, 26 Jan 2016 05:02:50 +0000http://www.pccwriter.com/thegoodness/2016/1/25/carbon-freezing-my-current-parenting-plan525710e1e4b0bc15a1f9aefd:52578b57e4b08eec93bbb916:56a6864569492e8102bbed0c

Y’all. My boys are nine and eleven now. NINE and ELEVEN. I could easily write 10,000 words on how I can’t believe this is even possible, but here’s the thing. While I loved them to bits when they were babies, with their little squidgy legs and the snuggliness of carrying them anywhere and everywhere, I am really, REALLY loving where we are right this very minute. They are old enough to be fully-functioning, totally interesting humans. They read novels, enjoy travel, hike for miles, and, sometimes, take the garbage cans to the curb. They have opinions on anything and everything, and their humor is sharp, smart and dry as a bone.

But for all this independence, age-appropriate maturity, and relative big-ness, they are still so freaking little. They still love to snuggle, they still sleep with stuffed animals, and they still, (when we’re really lucky…) refer to me as “Mama” and my husband as “Dada.” They think my dancing is awesome and their dad’s magic tricks are cool. They are just as happy hanging out with their family as they are with their friends. They don’t demand “space,” they don’t claim I’m “ruining their lives,” and they don’t slam doors. No one has gone Emo. Yet. Writer Julianna Miner referred to this time as "The Sweet Spot," and I couldn’t agree more.

This is why I want to take a page from one of the iconic villains of our time and freeze both my children in carbonite.

That’s right, I want to follow the excellent parenting model set by Darth Vader.

Okay, I know this is problematic. First of all, that carbon-freeze monolith-thingy looks really heavy. And the boys won’t be able to play baseball, fence or participate in the school musical. But still.  It might allow me to hold on to this time just a little longer, to delay the inevitable for just a bit.

But here’s the thing with the inevitable: it will come no matter what. Ugh.

So here’s my real plan. I plan to enjoy every single second of this time. I plan to be as present as humanly possible, and revel in every hug, every kiss. I plan to curl up on the sofa and watch as many movies as a family of four physically can. I plan to smell their hair and the backs of their necks as often as I am able, without it turning weird. I plan to snuggle them up every single night, even if they’ve already put themselves to bed and been asleep for hours. I will wring every last drop out of this time, with the full, bittersweet knowledge that something else is coming, whether anyone wants it to or not. And I plan to experience it all so fully and so completely that it will fill up my emotional memory banks to their maximum capacity. That way, I can recall any piece of it, anytime I need to.

I know adolescence has its own beauty. I’ve seen it first hand. But a teenager’s job, literally their biological imperative, is to separate from their parents. Yes, this can be done in about a million different ways, from sweet to sour, but the end result is still the same. And that is a harsh reality for those left behind. My husband and I have always joked that, "One day these kids will grow up, and hopefully, they will leave,” but that joke is a lot funnier when your kids are four than when they’re eleven-going-on-seventeen. I can actually imagine it now. I can see my boys’ faces superimposed on the bodies of my friends’ kids who are in high school, or leaving for their college semester abroad, or moving into their first apartments.

So, until that time comes, look for us to travel as a tight pack of four. We are a friendly pack, and we play well with others, but when we retreat to our den, you might not hear from us for a while. We will let our boys go, little by little, as the time dictates (we’re not completely crazy, after all…), but we sure as hell aren’t going to rush it. In true yogi form, we are going to be in the moment, for every, precious, fleeting moment we are given.

And later, when they turn into giant, stinky, hairy, hormonal monsters, we’ll come up with a new plan, a different plan, a plan that likely involves separate dwellings and a Costco-sized crate of deodorant.

But for now, it’s all sweetness, all snuggles, all Mama and Dada, and all the goodness of nine and eleven.

NINE and ELEVEN, y’all.

XO

This is always the craziest time of the year. Whatever holiday you celebrate (or even you don’t have a holiday to celebrate), there is a frenzied energy in the air. People are rushing about, work is nuts, kids are bonkers, and if you happen to turn on the news, Peace on Earth is not exactly happening right now.

But, at least for me, the real madness is in all the preparation and anticipation. At this point, it’s just smooth sailing: the shopping is done, the cards mailed, and even the Christmas Eve dinner has been prepared and enjoyed. Everyone is where they are supposed to be, safe and sound. My 87- year old mother flew across the country all by her lonesome, and is safely tucked in my younger son’s bed, napping away. My sister and her family are in St. Louis, to welcome home her first grandchild, born in the wee hours of December 21. The rest of my family and friends are scattered across the globe, but happily nestled in with loved ones. To put it simply, at this moment, all is good.

So, in this moment of all good-ness, I’m taking a little time for some major gratitude. I’m grateful we’re back under our own roof (finally!), grateful that we’re healthy, grateful that we have food in our bellies and love in our hearts. I’m grateful for family, grateful for friends, and grateful for this life we’ve been given to live together. I’m grateful to be married to my best friend, and grateful for our boys, who are the greatest blessing we have ever known.

I’m also grateful for all of you who are with me on this journey. Grateful for your kind eyes and even kinder comments, grateful for your support and all of your encouragement. But most of all, I’m just grateful that we’re all in this together. Whether we are friends in the flesh or just friends on this feed, you mean more to me than I can ever express.

My holiday wish for you is to take a moment or two of your own. And as you reflect on the year, instead of making a list of all that went wrong, or of all you would change if you could, choose to make a list of all that you’re grateful for. Even in the worst years, there is at least one thing to be grateful for, even if it’s for the lessons you’re learning that you don’t yet understand. And if you have a glass of buttermilk and channel the great Bing Crosby, you might even fall asleep counting your blessings. My guess is that the dreams you'll dream will be the sweetest you have ever known.

Much love to you all, and I’ll see you here in 2016!

XO

The other day, a friend of mine who is not so much with the Instagram, was surprised to learn that I post and write about makeup on my account there. You see, dear readers, she sees me every day and witnesses, in-person, the very scant amount of visible cosmetics I wear on the daily. In fact, to further confess, even when I do wear makeup, unless I’m doing a bold, red lip (I have decided that this is the one real and true symbol of chic adulthood….), I kinda don’t want it to even look like I’m wearing makeup. I just want to look like a fresher, more well-rested, more yoga-ed up version of myself. My goal is never to have someone compliment my masterful application of blush and/or highlighter. Rather, I would much prefer someone to say, “You look amazing! Did you just come back from a week at a spa?“

So, in one way, it is kind of funny that I post about makeup. But here’s the deal. I don’t post, write about, or espouse just any old concoction that make its way into my bathroom. I have three criteria for each and every product I post – no exceptions:

1.     It has to be a product I have used over a long period of time.

2.     It has to be a product I really love and would advise my best girlfriends to use.

3.     It has to be SAFE.

And I have to say, number three is the biggie, y’all, and it’s the only reason I bother posting about beauty products at all. Here’s why those seemingly frivolous posts about lip gloss are majorly, majorly serious to me: I want women (and men) to stop poisoning themselves with toxic, cancer-related chemicals, just to look their best. We don’t have to risk our health to look pretty. And when you think about it, how ridiculous is it to make ourselves sick in an effort to make ourselves look well?

(And PS, this is not totally our fault. There should be protections in place to keep toxic, cancer-related products off our shelves, and away from our bodies. However, as we see every day with the food industry, the companies with the most lobbying money and power are the ones who get heard, not necessarily the folks working to make products safer, or, at the very least, pushing for proper labeling so that consumers can make the choice themselves. This story is a long, sad one that needs its own research and time, and probably its own post. That said, we are living in the information age, and we can educate ourselves. And fortunately, as personal missions align with popular demand, companies are popping up every day that believe that beauty can be beneficial, and that, dare I say it, safe can be sexy.)

My first beauty posts were all skincare related, as I am a skincare first, makeup second kind of girl. When I found True Nature Botanicals, a high-end, non-toxic brand, with a mission I believe in and made by people I adore, I felt compelled to spread the word to anyone and everyone who would listen. I started with my friends and family, and then, as I found a smart, thriving and welcoming green beauty community on Instagram, I started posting pics and reviews there, too. I even did ten days of pretending to be a green beauty blogger, and I was thrilled to hear that so many flesh and blood friends, as well as friends of the cyber variety, were reading the posts and making changes in their lives. Igniting even a small spark of change is as gratifying to me as teaching a well-balanced yoga class or writing a paragraph or two I feel proud of.  And it's helping people change their lives for the better. For reals.

Now, I’ve found that once you enter into the world of green beauty and start doing your research, there’s really no going back. What started with skin care, eventually led to me throwing out anything and everything toxic from my makeup, my bodycare and my haircare, too. Gorgeous, expensive lipsticks went in the trash when I saw their ratings on the Environmental Working Group’s Skin Deep database. After all, anything in a lip color that’s not absorbed into the skin is quite literally eaten with our food throughout the day. Who wants tube after tube of toxic chemicals mixed in with their organic kale salad? Not me. I must admit that I did keep the gorgeous tins I bought in Paris at the Guerlain boutique, but the meteorites that came inside them? Into the garbage - along with various compacts from Dior, Chanel and Bobbi Brown. All of it, GONE. Aveeno body lotion was replaced with a gorgeous blend of essential oils from Kahina Giving Beauty, and today, in the place once occupied by my once-beloved Oribe haircare is a rotation of shampoos and conditioners from True Nature Botanicals, Evolvh, and the incredible Josh Rosebrook.

So, while it is true that I am not a total makeup addict, with a 10-step face-of-the-day situation, I do use beauty products every single day, as I'm sure most of you do, too. And if I feel strongly enough to spread the word on more nutritious food choices or the immense benefits of yoga and fitness, why not share another way to live a healthier life? And if just one person makes just one change, isn’t that worth it? I think so.

Anyhoo, I hope you find all of this compelling enough to really look at what’s in the products you’re putting on your own gorgeous bodies.  And maybe you’ll decide treat yourself and your loved ones to a little green goodness this holiday season. Here are some great places to start:

Credo Beauty

Spirit Beauty Lounge

The Choosy Chick

If you’re interested in this green beauty thing and you’re not already following me on Instagram, look for me there as @the_goodness_. As for other great, green, beauty accounts to follow there, I worship at the beautifully pedicured feet of @thegreenproductjunkie and green retailers like @thechoosychick. I also love the accounts from two of my favorite green beauty brands, Kari Gran (@karigranskin) and RMS Beauty (@RMSBeauty). Also, @organicbunny throws a truth bomb like no one else – she does a ton of research and really lets you know why so-called “conventional” beauty products are made from some of the ugliest compounds you can put on your person. She also shines a light on great product swaps, and is clearly much, much better at real makeup application than I ever will be.

Oh, and one last thing: no one pays me anything to write about their products. And while every once in a blue moon someone kind sends me something to try, I only write about products I use over a long period of time and really love. So if you see it here or on my Insta, you know it’s something I really and truly recommend – after 20 years in advertising, I can spot a shill a mile away, and I’m sure you can, too.

Until next time, y’all.

XO

A few months ago, I wrote a piece called, “Life is But a Dream,” all about my dear friend Julie Mikos Houlihan, her business, The Healing Farm, and how her hard work and dedication is making her dream a reality.

Well, Julie’s about to take another huge step, and I am beyond thrilled to be a small part of it. On Sunday, October 25, The Healing Farm will host its first-ever, joint wellness retreat with the Marin Agricultural Land Trust (MALT): Yoga and Wellness on The Ranch. In case you don’t know, MALT is an incredible non-profit that protects Marin County, California’s farmland, allowing family farms and ranches to remain agricultural endeavors in perpetuity. Yup, as in forever.

Given the beauty of the Marin County landscape and the importance of this land to a clean and healthy food supply, it makes perfect sense that MALT and The Healing Farm team up.  The Healing Farm’s purpose is to spread the principles of practical wellness, in a peaceful, natural, outdoor setting. “Practical wellness” is the idea that what you learn on a retreat should become a part of your everyday life - that it should come home with you. (The exact opposite of Vegas, dontchaknow…) Julie and The Healing Farm strive to give you the tools you need to feel your best every single day, whether it’s incorporating a new, healthy recipe, looking at how you move your body, or helping you find that five minutes a day that can truly change your life. It’s not about an overhaul; it’s about the little steps we can all take to truly transform health and well-being. Sounds pretty darn good, doesn’t it?

The Wellness and Yoga on the Ranch event is a great, one-day immersion into all that makes both MALT and The Healing Farm so special. We’ll spend the day at the gorgeous Stemple Creek Ranch in Tomales, CA. Stemple Creek is a family ranch, operating on land that’s been owned for generations by the Poncia family. Today, Loren Poncia and his wife Lisa run the family business. They are dedicated to ranching in a way that produces the healthiest and best-tasting grass fed and finished meat, while working with Mother Nature to keep both the land and the animals happy and healthy. I’ve tasted their steak, hamburger and jerky, and I can honestly say theirs is the best beef I’ve ever had. The connection between the care they take with their process and the quality of product they put out is indisputable.

Our retreat day will led by Julie, with two sessions from keynote speaker, Jennifer Cooper, of Flow Physical Therapy. Jennifer is a PT and wellness expert who will give us tips on how to incorporate both healthy eating habits and therapeutic movement into each and every day. We’ll also enjoy two great farm-prepared meals, and then, after a little quiet time to enjoy the beauty of the ranch, I’ll end the day by leading a 90-minute, all-levels yoga session next to the Poncia’s big red barn.

If this sounds like the greatest day ever, you’re totally right.

To register for the retreat or to learn more about the day, check out this link on MALT’s website. And if you have any questions at all, don’t hesitate to contact me here through patticocciolo.com. It’s going to be a great day – come and join us!

XO

On my half-marathon training schedule, last Thursday called for a series of 400-meter sprints. So, I headed to the flattest, straightest part of the running path - a stretch that runs right along the creek, with a gorgeous view of Mt. Tamalpais. It’s also a stretch that just happens to be across the street from our local hospital.

That was around 9 am.

24 hours later, I was looking out at the same exact view, but with a completely different perspective - I was a patient in that hospital. And instead of looking across the creek at Mt. Tam from the edge of the running path, I was taking in the view from the window of my hospital room. What a difference a day makes, indeed.

Here’s what went down. Just a few hours after a great run, I was at home, doubled over with abdominal pain. And while I really, really wanted to believe I had indigestion, something was telling me that this was no food poisoning. Something was telling me that I needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible. No matter how incredibly inconvenient all of this seemed at the time.

That’s when my incredible village sprang into action. Dear friends came to our house to stay with our nervous and worried boys. Another close friend took me to the ER and stayed with me for hours, well past her bedtime. And all of this was orchestrated from afar by my sweet husband, who was out of town, working. (I stand by my belief that he had the worst of it all that night...) And all the while, I kept praying, “Please let this be the most embarrassing night of my life. Please let this be the night I got everyone worked up because I had gas.”

At 11 pm, the ER doctor told me my white blood cell count was sky high. At 11:30 pm, a ridiculously handsome nurse took me upstairs for a CAT scan. At 12 am, my new surgeon, Dr. Levin, removed my about-to-rupture appendix. At 1 am, I called my husband and texted my village that all was well, and that I was going to be just fine, and that everyone should stop worrying and get some sleep. At 2 am, my husband texted me, “PUT THE PHONE DOWN!”

And, finally, at 9 am, I was in my hospital room, watching other people run the path by the creek, as I had so blithely done just 24 hours before.  

Wowza.

This was six days ago, and I already feel so much better. And I can promise you I will never again take running on that path or going to yoga class for granted. But for the next month or two while I fully recover, I’ll be without my favorite mentally distracting, overtly physical, moving meditation practices of running and asana.

So, now I have a brand new practice. One with less fire, but one with much more depth. One that involves sitting still and letting people help, both MAJOR challenges for me. It’s a practice that, at it’s core, is the acknowledgment that the only way I can regain strength is to surrender to weakness.

This new practice scares the heck out of me, honestly.

Only time will tell how well I do. It’s challenging, but there are already some great rewards. And in the last week, I’ve learned three important things that I feel fairly qualified to share with you now:

1.     Listen to your body. Seriously.

2.     Slow the fuck down.

3.     Let people bring you food.

I’m sure this list will only get longer, but this seems like a pretty darn good start.

And my mantra for the duration of this new practice? Gratitude. I know that word can sound trite, especially in this world of hipster-new-age-faux-spiritual-mindful-wellness-ness. But it’s really the only thing that matters. I am beyond grateful for my family, for my friends, for my home and, most importantly, for my life. It’s just that simple.

Are there far more serious ailments than appendicitis? Hell, yes. Am I beyond blessed to have the worst already behind me? More than I can ever express. But my hope is that a small emergency like mine can translate. That a practice that serves in times of health can evolve and adapt when health is compromised. And that gratitude can be a tonic that soothes even the most intractable affliction.

And until I know for sure that these things will happen? Well, I’ll just recommend going back to number three on my list above: Let people bring you food. Especially if the food offered is Chinese Chicken Salad from Comforts in San Anselmo. ‘Cause what kind of fool says no to Comforts’ Chinese Chicken Salad? Not this one, that’s for sure.

XO

P

Here’s roughly the conversation my husband overheard about 10 seconds before he took the photograph:

“Hey. I remember you.”

“I remember you, too.”

“Want to go up to the Archery Range?”

“Okay. Bye, Dad!”

This conversation, and the moment my husband captured on film immediately afterward, are the very essence of camp. You make friends, you have a blast together for a few weeks, and then you go away for a year. But as soon as you see each other again, you just pick right up where you left off.

My camp friends and I did this every year for the eight years. Then our camp closed, we grew up, and started living lives of our own, all over the country. Then, about 25 years after we last said goodbye as girls at camp, we were reunited when we took our sons to their own camp last year. And you know what? It doesn’t matter if it’s one year, or five years, or even twenty-five years, you still pick up right where you left off.  That, to me, is the sign of a true friendship, one that will stand the test of time.

Will my boy’s camp friendships last into his adulthood? Who knows. But what I do know is that the more times he and his friends raid the Trading Post, the more sock wars they wage, and the more sitting around and laughing about nothing that they do, the more likely it is those memories will be gleefully recalled whenever the boys get together again - no matter how much time has passed.

People ask me all the time why I send my boys away to sleep away camp, and the truth is that there are a hundred million reasons that are hard to understand, if you haven’t experienced them yourself. But of all the reasons, the most important to me is this: I want them to learn how to build relationships and make friendships on their own – without the bonds of parents, of school, of sports, of location, of background. That’s why I send my kids to camp. What skill is more important than learning to get along with anyone and everyone? All on your own? I kinda can’t think of one.

So, yes, it’s fun to learn archery, and it’s cool to know how to ride a horse. But to be able navigate a group of people and make your own way, before you’re even eleven? And have a blast doing it? Now, that’s really something, y’all.