The route through the park certainly wasn’t much of a shortcut, so it didn’t really save me time. And, there would be the hot sun shining down on me. Maybe mosquitoes. Not to mention that my low heels would probably annoy me, as they’d sink into the soft ground.

Nonetheless, in a heartbeat it was clear that the only thing I could do, should do, was to take off my shoes and walk barefoot through the park. I immediately slipped out of my shoes and into the grass.

As I walked, somehow the birds sang louder, the grass seemed greener, and the breeze blew a bit more freely. For those few moments, I took a break from the whirlwind of my life.

And, I broke some sort of unwritten rule. Yes, I was taking a rebellious stand against the tyranny of the sidewalk. Exhilarating, in a miniscule sort of way.

After my walk, my exhilaration stayed with me throughout the day. Everything I did seemed just a bit more true, more real.

Now… how should this post end? Is the point that I should take time out when I can? That I’m learning to act in the moment? That these beautiful spring moments may rush by before I notice them?

I have no idea.

I just really liked walking barefoot in the park.

And for today, that’s enough.

I know this, I really do.

This fact looms in my mind every time I think about something I’d like to share with the world.

And then I look around and see how much STUFF is out there. Online spaces are full of people writing their personal diatribes, reviews, opinions, Top 5 lists, stories, random posts, videos, and advice. Good stuff, but it’s noisy out there.

Almost invariably, this stops me in my tracks. I stop writing and feel an overwhelming sense to listen more, learn more, and know more. The next hour or two is then spent reading others’ stuff, clarifying my own thoughts, and figuring out how what I’ve learned applies in my life.

It’s at this point that I’m happy to know I’m not adding to all the stuff in the world. Like the abundance we have in physical stuff, we are bombarded by digital stuff. Perhaps A&E should develop a new series about digital hoarders – those of us with more RSS feeds and Facebook friend updates than we can ever hope to read.

(For those who ask me  – quite regularly in fact – why I don’t follow more people on Twitter, this is the reason: I actually want to read all of their updates. To know these people. To spend time listening to what they have to say.)

This probably limits my “personal brand.” I certainly can’t be called an active blogger and I don’t have thousands of loyal fans commenting on my every post.

At the same time, I’m not alone. Plenty of us share ourselves in online spaces. We learn more every day. We are inspired by others’ incredible insights. And we use those insights to form our perspectives, get work done, and manage our lives. We can participate in different ways, which is good.

Still, I have this nagging feeling that I should blog more. Perhaps at some point I will.

In the meantime, know that I’m listening. Building. Acting. Doing.

And, when I feel inclined, I’ll add more stuff in the world – when I have something to share that adds value. Not more noise.

On the bright side, during this time, grad school has started and my business, Sagefisher, continues to grow. More on those later.

For now, I also wanted to share something that I rarely talk about, and even more rarely write about: My life with lupus.

In case you’re not familiar, lupus is an autoimmune disease – one where the immune system gets, shall we say, a bit confused. Instead of doing its job by fighting off diseases, the immune system in someone with lupus starts attacking various parts of the body, as if they were a disease. For me, my immune system seems to have an obsession with my kidneys, which apparently look rather sinister to my immune system.

This struggle, with my own body, is one I’ve lived with for the last twenty years.

In recent months I’ve started to talk a lot more about my disease, my journey, and what I can do to help others who live with lupus. In fact, I’m now on the board of the Lupus Foundation of Minnesota, and for the first time in twenty years, I’ve written my story for their most recent newsletter.

What does all this mean to me? First, I feel like I’m being more open, more transparent about who I am. That’s a great feeling, especially since a big part of my business is to tout the benefits of transparency. Also, I’m thrilled to be taking steps to help other people (especially women, who are impacted by lupus nine times more often than men).

Most importantly, though, I feel like this is major progress toward a personal goal of mine: to integrate all the parts of my world into one cohesive life. Long ago, I kept my world compartmentalized – my work was quite distinct from my family, which I kept separated from my social life and my personal relationship with God. Then about ten years ago, I started thinking about all the interconnectedness of these parts, and actively trying to lead (what I call) One Life.

But, there was one exception. My lupus always seemed too risky. Too personal to share, outside of a very close circle of friends and family. And so, my One Life goal never really felt real to me.

Now, I feel like I’ve taken my first big, risky step toward One Life.

Now it’s real.

Like many, I could relate to his stories, his characters. Right now, though, I’ll share just the moment when I felt that John Hughes really knew me personally, understood me. (No, really.)

It was early 1987 and, like every other high school student on the planet, I had seen pretty much every John Hughes movie upon its release. Some Kind of Wonderful was about to arrive in theatres, and I planned to see that one too.

Coming home from school this particular day, I was elated to find a mysterious package addressed to me. Of course, I wasted no time: inside I found a John Hughes marketing kit — posters, buttons, “inside” info, some free music (cassettes? 45s? I can’t recall) and other movie paraphernalia. I pored over my new treasures all that evening.

The enclosed cover letter told me that I had been chosen to receive this kit because (well I don’t know what the letter really said; I was fifteen, so to me, I understood only that) I was the coolest teenager in the whole world, John Hughes knew that, and if I did a really good job making his upcoming movies successful, he’d give me a part in his next movie.

Yeah, pretty sure it was something like that.

As the evening wore on, I began to consider that all my friends probably received the same package, so I shouldn’t get too excited about it. Nevertheless, the next morning I pinned the Some Kind of Wonderful button on my backpack and went to school.

At my locker before the first bell, a friend asked me where I got the button. I, of course, was giddy that she had to ask. That day, I quickly learned that no one I knew had received this promo kit. I was truly destined to be the next Molly Ringwald. (Ok, probably more like Ally Sheedy. And not the made-over one.)

I walked on air for the next several weeks. The poster of Eric Stoltz and Mary Stuart Masterson on my wall was enough to pick me up from my deepest moments of teenage angst. My knowledge of details about a movie that was still filming (She’s Having a Baby) made me smile to myself at odd times during the day. No wonder my classmates thought me so odd.

Still, I did my best for Mr. Hughes, telling as many friends as would listen that these were the greatest movies of our time.

Years later, having seen Some Kind of Wonderful countless times, it remains my favorite John Hughes film. The recording of “This Woman’s Work” (featured in She’s Having a Baby) created in me a lifelong admiration for Kate Bush. If I really think about it, perhaps my love of marketing began the day I opened that package.

John Hughes never knocked on my door to offer me that movie role. Until yesterday, a tiny part of me held out hope that he still might.

And so, goodbye Mr. Hughes, with a belated but heartfelt thank you for the gift you sent me 22 years ago.

I gave answers like, “I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m going to a training about how to run for political office.”

Or, “I’ll be learning about how to campaign for office. But, I’m not planning to run for anything.”

After an incredible weekend spent with amazing women from around Minnesota and across the U.S., I’m still in a bit of shock about who I met, what I learned, and where it may take me.

I saw women from all backgrounds, some who hold office now, others who insist they’ll never run. Some college students, others who, within a decade, will be retiring from lifelong careers. Women interested in municipal government in their towns, tribal council in their villages, state congressional seats. And a few who long to be president.

During the weekend, these women learned how to raise funds, select staff, and run their campaigns. Most importantly, they learned to tell their stories, honestly, clearly, concisely.

This last skill is the one that still has my head spinning. These women told their stories – in heartfelt conversations, speeches, and even songs – of moments that changed them. Of personal heartache, refugee camps, homelessness,  violence. And, of survival and perseverance.

They told why they wanted to lead, why they could – and would – make a difference in the world around them.

I have no doubt that they will.

This experience has inspired me, slowly bringing me to the understanding that I, too, have a story to tell. That I want to make a difference. To lead a “political life.”

Not the politics that focuses on deceit, broken promises, and bureaucracy. But the kind that makes real change. That creates a society where  lives are better because I got involved in creating a solution for the world around me.

My story is still unfolding. I don’t have one clear mission for what I want to accomplish in the political arena.

But, I’m not going to make excuses anymore. I want to get involved. Whether this means running for office, supporting others who do, or involving myself in the issues of my communitiy, I want to lead a political life.

On Thursday, I visited Becky* and her family, who live a couple hours’ drive outside of Minneapolis, on a communal farm. Hers and four other families live in a “fellowship,” where they live simply, share what they have, homeschool their kids, and spend a lot of time in worship.

Becky – who now goes by her given name, Rebekah – has two children. Malachi, nicknamed Chi, is twelve and little Calla is six. (Becky’s husband Greg wasn’t home so I didn’t get a chance to meet him.) The kids are beautiful, polite, sweet. They told me about their lives, and their love of the fellowship’s animals: horses, chickens, and sheep, among others.

Soon after arriving at Becky’s house, we meandered to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Becky makes many meals from scratch, both giving to and taking from the fellowship’s communal cupboard. For lunch, she used ingredients from bulk containers – a gallon of honey, a quart of mustard – to make dressing for our chicken salad. (The chickens had been raised by the fellowship last year.) Our dessert, fruit with yogurt sauce, included homemade yogurt from another fellowship member.

After lunch, we moved to the living room and continued our conversation. Becky showed off her family’s new television, a 19″ tube television connected to a VCR. Videotapes sat in a cupboard – Daniel Boone, Old Yeller, My Friend Flicka, and other staples of a bygone era. I learned that twelve-year-old Chi has already become enamored with the TV, wanting to watch it more often than his parents find appropriate.

I didn’t see much of Chi – he was outside in the barn for most of the afternoon. Beautiful Calla stayed in the house with us, often carrying one of the family’s two-week-old kittens. She talked of her favorite TV show, Daniel Boone, and showed off her homemade rifle, made from a long tree branch, with a bit of hardware fashioned into a trigger and scope.

Throughout the day, Becky talked of her lifestyle. She loves that her kids have “a wholesome life.” She learned to cook (”something I’m not very good at,” she said) from other ladies in the fellowship. She teaches her children, occasionally expressing doubt about her own abilities as a teacher. And she apologetically talked of her longtime friends’ assessment of her lifestyle as being like Little House on the Prairie.

Of course, the elements of this life are so different than my family’s. My kids are techies; each has an ipod (including the four-year-old) and they all love video games. On busy nights, they heat up Easy Mac for dinner — in a microwave that I’m sure would seem quite foreign to Calla. They participate in school activities and sports. They ride city buses.

What may seem odd is that, to me at least, Becky’s life and mine didn’t feel all that different. We agree on the virtues of a simple life. For her, this is an everyday experience; for me, this is cabin life. Our families are both strong in our faith. The expressions of our faith are very different, but our desire to serve God is the same.

Still, there is a part of me that worries about Becky. She has grown quieter, more subdued than she was years ago — probably more notable to me, as I’ve grown louder and bolder with time. Her laugh is a mere chuckle. Her smile is shy. And her voice is soft.

I pray that she has not given up a part of herself as she strives to be a good wife and mother. I pray that her passing comment about her less-than-perfect marriage is a reflection of the idiosyncrasies in every marriage and not a mournful regret. I pray that her children will grow up to be strong and ready to experience the larger world, full of bureaucracies, health insurance, taxes and YouTube.

And most of all, I pray that the last 20 years of life have given her fulfillment and joy. Because while I understand the appeal of living in a bygone era, I hope that she has received as much as she has given.

* Not their real names. I didn’t ask permission to write about them.

This month has been jammed full of me trying to figure stuff out – my business, my educational plans, my philanthropic efforts, and my family. And, it is indeed slowly coming together. In fact, so much has come together that this post can’t very well describe it all.

Instead, here are a few random thoughts from this month of May:

• Titles are entertaining. Starting my own business means that I need to assign myself a title, something that I am not enjoying. What I am enjoying, however, is that I now notice and appreciate everyone else’s titles. At Shell Oil, there is a position called “Game Changer.” Now that is a title. On a lighter note, Amanda Brinkman is the “Chief Gardener” at Carrot. And, my newly-deemed favorite title, from our friends at NATO, is “Supreme Allied Commander.” All this hasn’t really helped me give myself a title, but it sure is fun.
• Public transit is awesome. When I was at Best Buy, I was provided a free MetroPass, which gave me limitless access to the Twin Cities’ bus system. I used this benefit quite frequently. Now, I still regularly ride the bus, even though I have to pay bus fare. At some point, I’ll blog about all the reasons that the bus system is so great, but for now, just know that my adoration of public transit is not impacted by the price I pay for it.
• I’m an extrovert. Yes, I knew this already. So did you. But in this month of setting my own pace, defining my schedule, building my daily agendas, my extroverted tendencies have become glaringly apparent. The days that are filled with meetings and conference calls are my good days. Days when I resolve to “get work done” – at my desk, solitary – are huge drainers for me.

Tomorrow will start the month of June.

By month’s end, I will have defined a business rhythm that starts each day by engaging with others so that I can keep my energy high. I will have continued to ride the bus around town, even if fares are raised again. And, I will have chosen some title for myself, even if I don’t have the courage to print “Supreme Commander” on my business cards.

As in, am I sure that I’m ready to depart from the company where I’ve worked for so long? Am I sure that I want to take this big a risk? Am I sure that I’m ready to leave behind the career that I’ve built here?

More than ever, I am sure.

In the past few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time connecting with dear friends, old and new. The conversations often start with that familiar “are you sure” discussion, and, somewhere in the middle, they fundamentally change. The concerned looks change to excitement. The worried questions change to congratulations. And the conversations end with the same, somewhat surprised, comment: “You look really happy.”

Then, this week I attended an event downtown, a presentation in the series “Conversations about the Future of Advertising.” I met amazing people there. I learned a lot. And – surprise – I talked a lot too. All the random thoughts about where I want to take my career came together as I talked with others.

For me, the conversations were enlightening, energizing, and a whole bunch of other e-words that befit a dialogue about social media and online advertising. I absolutely couldn’t get enough of it — both the possibilities and the challenges that lie ahead in this space.

I left knowing, without a doubt, that this is my future. This is where I belong. This is where I will forge my own future.

You’ll hear more from me soon, as I assemble my thoughts into a coherent strategy.

Until then, just know that I’m content. Excited even.

And yes, I am sure.

For many people, I’m guessing this wouldn’t be a very big deal. For me, on the other hand, it was a pretty significant lifestyle change. A good experiment for me.

Now I’m back, so can share what I did and why.

Recently I left Best Buy after spending 18 years there. It’s been quite a ride this past year, as I struggled to figure out whether my personal career goals would align with the company’s direction. Now I know, for certain, that I will follow my dreams elsewhere.

Before I knew for sure whether I’d return to Best Buy, I wanted to take some time “off.” That is, without the regular Best Buy updates that I receive, and treasure, from my online community of friends. And without the self-imposed pressure to provide everyone with the latest updates from me.

You see, up until this month, my personal identity has been intermingled with the identity of the company. My work at Best Buy said a lot about me – that I am dedicated to my career. That I’m extroverted. Into technology. Kinda geeky. Energetic.

This provided a great introduction as I met new people — by saying I worked at Best Buy, I had an immediate conversation starter. The conversation itself varied. Sometimes, it was a discussion about our latest stock performance or company announcement. Other times, it was a story about a recent experience at a store, whether positive or negative. And – in Minnesota at least – it sometimes prompted a discussion about development along I-494, where Best Buy’s huge corporate campus looms large.

Even with old friends, these same conversations are common. Hugs are often followed by discussions about the latest buzz at Best Buy. Or maybe the latest gadget. Or my latest job responsibilities.

So now, I spent a bit of time figuring out what exactly I will say going forward. I’m still passionate about my career, love people, into tech, and have a ton of energy. But now I can’t encapsulate that into two words.My instant conversation starter won’t be there.

During my time “off,” I spent time with family and friends. I met new people and caught up with old friends. I read books. I cleaned the basement (or started to, anyway). I returned to some of my great loves: workouts, baking, and even a bit of oil painting.

And I missed all of you.

I haven’t really figured out my new conversation starters yet. I don’t yet have my business plan figured out for the next phase of my career. And my basement still needs work.

But, I’m inviting you back into sharing my journey. I took the time I needed to look inside. So now I’m back. Ready for new beginnings.

For those of you who read my blog regularly, you know that I’m in the process of interviewing for a new role, where I could potentially do the work I love at the company I love. This decision is due within a week or so. In the meantime, time marches on and, as of today, my previous role is no more.

So, my files are clean, my desk is empty, and my goodbyes are in progress. I do all this, knowing that my future here is still a “maybe,” these goodbyes may not be for long, and I may come back to work here in a matter of weeks.

I predicted that today would be surreal. That I’d have mixed emotions and feel a ton of uncertainty around what to tell all those who are asking about my future.

At least, those were my predictions last week. Then I experienced the last 72 hours.

On Saturday, I went to Fargo to help a friend’s grandmother move into an apartment, so she can be near family as she undergoes cancer treatment. We moved and unpacked boxes that contained memories of the last 25 years of her life. Life in another state. Life with her husand. And life after him.

Then yesterday I stayed in Fargo, helping to make 500,000 sandbags to keep the highest river level on record from devastating even more of the Red River Valley community.  I heard stories from the residents, watched military missions carried out, and even personally rode through some less-than-safe areas where water flowed freely over the roads.

Having arrived back home safely, I spent a few hours this morning working from my house, tying up loose ends for work. Until I started to smell smoke in the air. Outside, I found that our whole neighborhood smells like a bonfire and limited visibility makes the air look a duststorm. A nearby condo building is on fire and crews have worked for hours to put out the blaze.

Now, as I look to all this week’s uncertainty surrounding my future, I can’t help but think differently than I did last week. After all, my health is solid. My house is intact. My family is safe. My friends provide me unending support. And the next chapter of my career is about to begin. If that chapter is not at Best Buy, then I have a severance package that will make the transition less stressful. I could even – maybe – have a job at Best Buy after all.

Given all I’ve seen, this “maybe” is not so bad.