At the same time, this was a friend in need. And, I’m a grownup, I can handle myself. So, I reciprocated and we began to catch up on the missing decades of our disparate lives. I was shocked to learn how different we are now, how the strange twists and turns of life have taken us in such distant directions. There’s no longer a romantic attraction for me, just a deep sense of trust, borne of the strong bond from our youth.

Before I even had time to process our newfound friendship, it dissipated as quickly as it had formed. After our initial intense and frequent discussions, silence. I’ve not heard from him in weeks.

My defense mechanisms immediately kicked in: Dammit, I thought, this is crap. I feel wronged. I don’t deserve this. I don’t want to spend my energy worrying about this guy. I need to erase his contact info and block him from contacting me again.

As I opened my online journal to write out these frustrations, I was struck by one of my unpublished blog posts, written about six months ago. It was about my journey (incidentally, my past 500 days have sucked, really bad) and how my extroverted energy has succumbed to an overwhelming desire to be quiet and alone with my thoughts. Many wonderful and caring friends have continued to reach out and call on me, but I have the capacity to respond to only a tiny portion of their outreach.

The things that give me joy – family, work, prayer – take up virtually all of my daily effort. There is precious little of me left for interacting with friends. And while this dynamic may pass with time, for now I’m incredibly grateful for those who have understood me and chosen to be patient while I go through this most difficult stage in life.

I can’t express how much it means to me that my friends are there, waiting in the wings for me, checking in every now and then, with no expectation of reciprocity. They know I’ll interact as I’m ready. And I know that I couldn’t live without their patience and unconditional love.

Then, all at once, it hit me: what a hypocrite! Here I am, so thankful for the enduring friendships that have graced my path, but – in an instant – I’m ready to give up on a friend who needs me but isn’t presently interacting with me.

So, to all who keep sticking by my side: I’m grateful beyond words for you and all you do. I’m slowly learning to live the lessons you teach me every day.

And, to my ex: I’m so sorry, my friend, for nearly giving up on you. No matter how you’re doing right now, know that I’m here when you’re ready to reach out. Those who love me the most have taught me what it means to be a friend. I’ll do my best to live by their example.

I’ve thought about abandoning this name, since the era of screen names continues to wane. Still, the name has sentimental value for me. It reminds me of my journey. Of lessons that I’ve learned. And that I am loved.

And so the name remains.

For the curious ones who haven’t yet asked, I’ll explain the story. But telling the story of lovelyginger requires telling the story of David.

David was my Ancient Hebrew Studies professor at the University of Wisconsin. Among other fascinating traits (which I’ll save for another time), David spoke often of his wife, el Susan. Always clearly filled with adoration for her, he would mention the insightful comments she made and her clever turns of phrase.

I thought it slightly odd that my professor would include “el” before his wife’s name, but as a Hebrew professor, I figured that this was probably rooted in the some mysterious literary purpose known only to PhDs.

Then, one day, in response to a classmate’s question, David explained: the name was not el Susan, it was L. Susan. The L was short for Lovely, and he used the term to refer to his wife, each and every time he used her name. He wanted to remind both himself and his wife that she was beautiful. And deeply loved.

For nearly twenty years, David’s overwhelming love for his wife has made me well up with tears. His intense love for her is simply beyond words.

I’ve told the story of David many times, to friends and family and boyfriends. So often that I can’t keep track and have likely repeated myself on countless occasions.

Then in 1999, as I sat isolated and alone in my hospital bed, suffering from the most severe lupus flare of my life, my boyfriend paid me a visit. He brought with him a laptop, so I could reconnect with my friends. And he had set up a Hotmail account for me: lovelyginger.

He didn’t need to say anything more. I was forever his.

Still today, still in love with the same man, I use lovelyginger in online spaces. And each time I’m on Twitter or elsewhere, I remember that I am beautiful. And am deeply loved.

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.

Not unusual behavior for a preschooler, right?  It would seem pretty standard. Except that his five older siblings really never did this. (Yes, there are six kids in all. More on that another time. Stay with me.)

That’s right: none of the other kids ever carried a toy companion, had an imaginary friend, or created any sort of pseudo-best-friend.

But, those kids had each other. The older five kids’ ages span only seven years, so they always had playmates. As pre-schoolers, they played games together, built forts, performed plays, and were generally inseparable.

When faced with the rare moment that these kids found themselves alone, they panicked. After mere  moments on their own, we heard them say, “there’s NOTHING to do, can I have a play date?”

It was actually troublesome. In fact, during their elementary school years, I worked hard to encourage them to build playing-alone skills: teaching them how to play solitaire, buying single-player games, and arranging times for each child to spend entertaining him/ herself.

Now, there’s this littlest brother, who is seven years younger than his closest sibling. He doesn’t have the constant companionship of peers. He learned early how to entertain himself.

And, just as early in life, he created a best friend, in Cha-Cha The Monkey, to accompany him.

All this has me thinking about what social creatures we all are. This isn’t a revolutionary concept; there are many scientific studies that reinforce this theme.

But, to see our social nature play out in such real ways, every day, confirms for me that I must continue to focus on the right things.

Our lives, our world, and our experiences are meant to be shared. God has created a place where we depend on one another. Where we yearn to share our lives. Where we expect to give and receive. And where, if we foster our relationships, lives will be forever better.

So, I thank you for being part of my life. Your presence here, in my social circle, is appreciated. Your companionship is treasured. Thank you.

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.

First, of course, the schools that my kids attend play a huge role in my life. The schedules, curriculum and teacher personalities impact not only our annual vacation planning but also our daily and weekly priorities. School days define bedtimes and mealtimes, vacation plans, and free time. Our lives are, month by month, ruled by the education system, in one way or another.

Second, our house is across the street from a school. With a home office, this fact certainly adds some structure to my daily routine. Right now, kids are at recess. For me, this means I’m likely overdue for lunch. And, that I won’t get any work done while kids whoop and holler nearby.

Finally, I’m in school myself, working on my MBA. I’ve long wanted a graduate degree, partially because these studies are relevant to my career, but also because I just like school. Yes, it’s horribly cliche, but I really do love learning.

I do hope that my kids have the same love of learning, and that the school routines and structures don’t overshadow the real reason for school: To figure out how to learn. It’s not about what they’re learning — they’ll forget the specific lessons soon enough. Instead, they need to understand the ways they learn, what excites them, and which topics fuel their hunger to know more.

These are the real lessons of school.

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’ve attended the EAA event countless times, having grown up in an aviation family and, more recently, being married to a private pilot. It’s always a fun time, becoming gradually more interesting to me as I’ve learned about it. At the same time, I am not one who, personally, has my heart set on flying. I don’t yearn for the freedom of flight. I don’t have an aching desire to soar above the clouds. So EAA has been fun, but has not been a particular passion of mine.

This year, however, EAA held a few surprises for me, ones that changed my perspective.

During the morning of my first day at the show, I met John, an airplane salesperson. Upon hearing about my background and my interest in helping companies better connect with their female consumer base, he said something that would change the rest of my EAA experience: “The aviation industry needs your help.”

At once, and for the rest of the weekend, I saw the show with new eyes. Everything felt even more familiar to me: the vendors speaking to male customers and virtually ignoring female ones. The testosterone-drenched marketing efforts. The awkward attempts to integrate and appreciate women in this decidedly man’s world.

It all seemed so similar to what I’ve experienced first-hand, working in the electronics industry. All the times in my career when I was the only woman on staff.  When I went out of my way to be “one of the guys.” When I began researching and teaching men about the power of the female consumer.

Everything I saw here had a direct parallel to my life’s experience.

Later that same day, EAA held its daily airshow – featuring an all-female cast of pilots, skydivers, wingwalkers and aerobatic performers – a first in the airshow’s 56-year history. But, the show’s impact was lessened by its bookend male acts, its fumbling commentator, and its patronizing soundtrack (you guessed it: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”).

The organization was clearly making an effort; they just didn’t know how to do this right. At the end of the day, these amazing women pilots had showcased not their accomplishments, only their novelty. The entire episode felt more like a sideshow than the day’s main event.

In the evening, a “Women in Aviation” panel discussion continued the day’s theme. Female aviators described their passion for flying and told of the experiences that brought them here. As I watched, I saw women doing all they could to fit into a man’s world. When a couple of the panelists commented that they are “not typical women” and that they “can’t cook at all,” I could relate.

For me, it was never a conscious decision, just an instinct: over the years, I had modified my words and actions – slowly becoming one of the guys by drawing a distinction between me and the girls. I highlighted certain aspects of myself (I’m not into scrapbooking) while ignoring other parts (I love baking). To be one of the guys, I learned golf, smoked cigars, and took training to install car stereos. I was busy showing and telling that I could be accepted because I wasn’t a typical girl.

Only recently have I figured out that it’s not me who had to change, it’s the industry around me. That I could do more for the business, and for women, by working for both, instead of choosing one over the other.  That being boldly who I am – both typically feminine and uniquely me – will create positive change in the industry and in society.

In recent years, the electronics industry has started to consider the impact that women have. They’re seeing the opportunity, making gradual changes, and reaping the benefits of creating solutions for the other 51% of the population.

The aviation world is not there. But it’s moving.

I’ve decided to take a more active role, to help coax it in the right direction. My life has given me great insight into worlds like this one. I can help this industry.

And all the women who love to fly.

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.