Financial Times recently posted a story extolling the virtues of extended time off, paid sabbaticals, completely unplugging, and taking strategic distance from your work to help you get better focus and perspective. The article offers many role models who are richer (in all ways) because of their commitment to balance.

Much credit goes to the founder of the Strategic Coach program, Dan Sullivan, who helps entrepreneurs grow their businesses and leverage the benefits of free time—while taking off 155 days each year himself. As he sagely states,

Taking time off refreshes the brain but it also simplifies your brain.”

It’s a great read, so go there! Meantime, here are a few quotes that stack up like persuasive testimonials from entrepreneurs who have learned to accomplish more by working less…

• “The fewer days I work, the greater my measurable economic results.”

• “The person should completely disconnect during the sabbatical…No checking email. No calls. Total sabbatical.”

• The sabbatical “was great for me, and great for the company to run without me for six weeks.”

• “I delegated more and I told the people in the office that if I called on a free day they were to hang up the phone on me.”

• “I now have a fairly full life. I do a lot of community work, I travel and I have a great family life. I wouldn’t have that if I hadn’t found the ability to take free days.”

There’s much more to say and consider from this article. But alas, this writer is on vacation, and is about to exceed the 55-minute-per-day limit on screen time. So why not join me? Peruse the story, put your screen to sleep, and go outside and refresh your viewpoint and outlook!

A provocative blog post recently crossed my desk, written by a woman named Satori who exhorts her readers to “Do yourself a favor and buy that damn plane ticket already!” A photographer by trade and a traveler by passion, Satori spells out and debunks the five excuses that keep dreamers asleep and stuck:

1. Traveling is too expensive!
2. It’s way to0 dangerous to travel.
3. I don’t have friends who can travel with me. And I don’t want to travel alone.
4. But I can’t just quit my job. What happens if I can’t find a job when I get back?
5. I’m not sure if I can take that risk.

It’s a good read. And the comebacks and questions to the excuses make a convincing case that, by golly, a guy could actually get up and, like, go for it!

• The more you travel, the easier (and more addictive) it gets

I’ve tried, myself, to address the obstacles and Big Buts that keep people from busting a major move to another country or culture.

And let’s face it, I’m lucky. My resume of journeys might get trumped and trampled on by countless others, but I’ve had five big career breaks—with highlights including one year off, going RTW, heading out alone and (with 1, 2, and 3) taking my kids, replete with homeschooling (I got a B), and much more.

But more important than the prolonged trips—and perhaps a side effect of them—is the way that travel has become almost second-nature to me. Oh sure, those damn excuses still pop up powerfully at times. But they rarely get in the way any more than that dazed shopper you must navigate around in the grocery store.

So spring break getaways become a virtual given; after all, winter bites in Minnesota. Holidays away happen almost routinely; after all, what better gift than to celebrate somewhere exotic? Flying off to meet up with faraway friends has become an annual event. And summer vacations are a must—and usually don’t call for airfare, rental cars, pricey hotels or much planning. Yet there ain’t nothin’ better.

• But the “Big One” always lingers…

Yet every seven (make that five) years of so, a bona fide BreakAway is in order. I feel it in my bones, and it kicks my body and brain so powerfully that those damn excuses become easier to knock down than a row of dominoes. In fact, the next big trip simmers in my thoughts daily already—even though the last one (to Europe with the kids) ended only and exactly one year ago.

Call me cocky. Call me spoiled. Call me stubborn. Or just call me lucky (as I already admitted). But maybe you are too, right? Satori is, whoever she is.

Thanks for the insights and insights, Satori.

Happy sails…

Travel is never a matter of money but of courage.  I spent a large part of my youth traveling the world as a hippie. And what money did I have then? None. I barely had enough to pay for my fare. But I still consider those to have been the best years of my youth.The great lessons I learned has been precisely those that my journeys had taught me.”

-Paulo Coelho

Earlier this week I visited an earth angel who was part of the village who helped raise my children when they were young, and I asked her how her recent one-week vacation was.

Oh, fine, fine,” she replied, “It became a staycation so I finally got both bathrooms painted; I had some fun but it was mostly hard work!”

Indeed. If we all had enough time off, wouldn’t it be great to take summer vakay, a winter getaway, and still have PTO left to tend to ill kinfolk and home improvement?

But the fact is: Most don’t. So the sacred one week off—even per year—has become evermore elusive. Short and close is in. Staycations tried a paradigm-shifting run.

But are opinions shifting?

I suspected as much when a recent factoid arrived like a fresh breeze: 57% of Americans “agree that ‘staycations’ are a thing of the past, with nearly half also agreeing that a vacation isn’t a vacation unless you pack up and leave town.” (Source: Kelton Research).

In other words, Let’s Go!

Those 7 (or so) daze are the ones you’ll cherish, right? So why fight to get your one week of summer bliss? The reasons are endless, but some favorites include…

• Your kids will unplug, run, frolic and fish, and thank you very much (for years to come).
• You’ll catch up on sleep, if not emails (if you must).
• In many places, summer shines as the best, blessed season, with free vitamin D from above.
• You’ll take time to cook creative meals—or get happily lazy and go out.
• Strangers and old faces will appear who tell fascinating stories, and are also just delighted to be there, now, with you.
• Getting there is half the fun: Fill the road trip with songs, stops, snacks, pics, and spontaneity.
• Take time to study (worship?) the clouds, waves, breeze, rocks, birds, and bees.
• Re-connect with ever-green traditions like bonfires, hikes, rock-skipping, and floating—doesn’t really matter what you’re sitting in or on.
• Try something new that your environs offer. Sailing? Deep-sea fishing? Wakeboarding? Arts & crafts? Picking ripe berries and cooking wild mushrooms?

When the year is over and not much stands out (other that it was REALLY BUSY), you’ll thank yourselves for skipping that lame, more-of-same staycation. Rather, seek some real time to BreakAway to something so superior, like Lake Superior (as seen in this picture), where my SUV will soon be headed.

As a jumpy dad teaching his teenager to drive, I have a new respect for the complex privilege. As a recent recoverer from a head-on collision, I carry uncomfortable baggage about distracted drivers. The gentleman who crashed into my vintage BMW, you see, had simply fallen asleep at the wheel. And not for the first time.

I saw the swerves, hit my brakes, and tried to get out his way. But there was nowhere to go. Amid rush-hour traffic, it’s miracle the 2-car, head-on mash-up didn’t become a multi-car pile-up.

Get ready to see a lot more accidents, much like this one. Prepare to participate, if you like to stay connected or, worse, others do and there’s no place to hide.

• Cars (and drivers) about to get super-wired

I heard the news today, oh boy: By 2019, more than half of new cars will be wired with voice-activated computer systems that will allow drivers to text, tweet, post to FB, make dinner rezzies, and Google Lady Gaga lyrics. While exciting on the surface, an exhaustive study by AAA (who’s typically pro-auto-everything) just found that drivers tending to online antics instead of, say, stoplights, will be severely impaired.

The academician behind the research has already found that simply talking on a cell phone distracts operator attention comparable to driving with a .08 blood-alcohol level. That DWI can, of course, land you, in jail, in treatment, and carless for 6 months. Oh yes, and your insurance rates will likely triple. Assuming you live.  But surfing while driving? Knock yourself out.

• Who’s in charge here?

The federal government has urged  the car companies to proceed with caution; they won’t. The car companies insist they’re building in greater safety (are they liars? or just greedy?). The public, who already has shown precious little courtesy or common sense when it comes to abusing digitalia, will likely covet these toys like coke addicts crave nose-candy.  Never mind that AAA calls this evolution:

a looming public safety crisis.”

The “arms race” has begun.

• Unplugging: losing the marketing battle

Americans are taking fewer and shorter vacations, working longer hours, staying in touch with the office while on vacation (and everywhere else), getting less rest (and exercise), and staying plugged in most everywhere—including bed. (Have you seen the new mattresses that come wired?)

As new driving machines further rewire our brains, we can only hope that the marketing machine for unplugging and taking BreakAways gets equal time.

Don’t hold your breath. And don’t bother honking when that tweeting driver comes at you, head-on.

“Meditation goes mainstream” shouted the headline in yesterday’s local paper. Then followed a lengthy article about the many benefits (some now proven by science!) and how the practice has become embraced by employers, schools, churches, and more. What timing: I finished my approximately-annual many-month class on meditation yesterday morning.

• Not your typical hobby

Meditation, which now also goes by other names including “mindfulness stress reduction” and “relaxation response” may not rank up there with golf and gardening as pastimes where those pursuing pleasantry go. But like yoga, countless too-tense individuals have added it to their repertoire to help pursue perspective, presence, and calm.

Let’s just call it an antidote to the many pressures to work and stay wired 24/7.

• Many paths lead there

The class I take meets for two hours, but features meditation for only a small part of the time. The rest of the time fills with directed conversation, readings, writing, and all kinds of exercises (mostly not physical). Our teacher comes from a long and strong Buddhist background. Our sessions might be called Zen Lite.

Indeed, sometimes the two hours pass with lightness—laughter and silliness. But often, people open up and you gradually learn why they are there. And it’s not always the CEUs; our circle always includes Kleenex alongside the flowers.

The list reads rather like a therapist’s calling card. Depression. Anxiety. Abuse. Perfectionism. Insomnia. Unemployment or financial failure. Divorce or estrangement. Serious injury. Chronic pain. Chem-dep or recovery. Death of a child, parent, or spouse. Fill in the blank.

Meditation and the other things we experience must help. Because rarely is anyone absent or late. No one leaves early. And like me, many people come back for more now and then.

• “In whatever form…”

It’s true: Many meditation styles have exacting rules on nuances like sitting positions, music or silence, light or dark, short or long, morning or evening, and so on. Fortunately, at least for us “advanced” students, our homework now suggests daily meditation “in whatever form.”

That means the practice might be done most anywhere, any time. It might be sitting in that pretzel position. Or it might be in a comfortable chair. Maybe it’s walking, or even lying down. In fact, she often uses my kayaking as an example. (Please don’t tell her I often wear headphones blasting Led Zeppelin.)

Meditation can go by many names, but my favorite is Relaxation. It’s what the locals practice like a religion on Caribbean islands. It’s what fans most crave when they watch a long baseball game. It’s why most everyone wants a back yard, patio, or park bench to hunker down on. It’s why some folks fish.

Whatever you call it, it’s what the world needs now.

In a Zenny mindfulness class I’m taking, a woman explained the mantra she asks herself whenever she senses her brain wandering cluelessly:

“Am I present?”

Most people anymore might prefer to ask themselves,

“Am I connected?”

Whatever happened to watching waves? Or a simple sporting event, for that matter? When did it become virtually de rigueur to be playing with your device(s) while chatting, studying, walking, eating, and (yes) pooping?

Last Sunday, I found myself slapping my forehead in shock and awe as this mass addiction played out. Here are just 5.5 of those scenes.

• Basketball refs on break. During halftime, two refs strutted to their chairs to rest—and picked up their cell phones and started tapping even before grabbing their Gatorade.
• Sidetracked driver. I was driving at 40 mph, and a car languidly pulled out of a coffee shop parking lot right in front of me. She didn’t see me, didn’t signal, and motored ahead way too slowly—only to swerve off on a freeway entrance ramp while executing a horrendous merge. When I passed her, there she was, blithely chatting on her cell phone and gesturing away. Dangerously not present.
• Three at a time. I watched some young girls having a playdate. Teddy bears? American Girl? Barbie?  Sometimes, we hope. But Babs has some pretty tough competition when the girls are watching TV— and simultaneously playing on an iPad and a handheld device.
• Preoccupied coach. Picture a soccer tournament with 10-year-old girls playing hard on a wet, windy day. Impressive stuff, except for their coach, who got at least six phone calls during the game—and took turns yelling at her team and into her iPhone.
• Sunday supper. When entering a restaurant, I noticed a family sitting at a table waiting for their food. In the old days, this might have been a chance to catch up, plan summer, or just yuck it up. In these new days, the gathering instead offered a fine chance to … stare solo at mobile phone screens and occasionally click them.
• Yes, pooping. Back at that basketball tournament, the one men’s bathroom stayed busy. I ducked in to pee. But all the urinals were occupied. So I proceeded to the toilet stalls, opened two doors, and on both sat roundballers texting away while taking care of business. (I don’t know why they left the doors unlocked.)

May you live in techy times, my friends, and find much productivity, creativity, and connectivity with your tools and toys.

May you also remember to set them down now and than and ask yourself, “Am I present?”

The unusually cold May-Day skies were crying today—the last day I had the pleasure of teaching at College of Visual Arts (CVA).

After 89 years, this St. Paul arts school on historic Summit Avenue is shutting its doors. The grand mansion that has educated thousands of young artists has run out of time.

Life happens. And sh*t happens (never mind that I preach to my classes to avoid unsavory language in their college writing). Scores of students who thought they had their college career mapped out now face what makeyourbreakaway calls the Unplanned Career Break.

• Get outta here

It happens all the time. Folks get fired. Others face layoffs. Spouses flee. Families lose homes or must suddenly move away with little or no notice. Usually, such bombshells bring nasty ramifications, and some are just plain tragic.

But sometimes, a gnarly twist of fate can spiral into a hopeful destiny. After a semester of angst, all my students are either graduating or moving on to other colleges—new worlds of possibilities and promise. They’re too smart, too creative, and too resilient to let bad news stop their progress for long.

Heck, when I got fired once, I took the summer off. That summer became seven months long and was graced with sunshine, lake time, family and friends—and freedom from relentless stress that had been hitting 11 on the intense-ometer. That experience became my first Career Break, and the start of a paradigm shift of how I’d like to live and work. How I’d like to spend my time.

Soon after that unplanned Sabbatical came a new life partner, home, and career. Life since has been bursting with blessings, yet never without rude surprises. Sh*t still happens. Yet wonders always await. We can’t control which one shows up next.

• The only constant is change

When the news of CVA’s closing hit the streets, a sizeable community of teachers, students, staff, alumni, and supporters went into collective shock. The Powers That Be had concocted their scheme in absolute secret. Soon came the rage, the rallies, and an impressive attempt to save the school. But, no.

There are always more tears, I’ve been told. Some soon-to-be unemployeds are rightfully fretful. And some stakeholders are still raw with anger. But that’s not what I saw in my classroom today.

Students grinned, jotted me thank you notes, shook my hand, and told me to stay in touch. When I asked them about their plans for the summer, talents, and future education, each one offered a confident answer. They took their last test with focus and ease, and nary a hint of cheating. They posed for pictures in the hallway and lingered as if fully mindful that this is the final finals—that they are living history.

Indeed, it’s been like watching a surreal movie, I’ve been saying since the first scene—in which the faculty meeting that normally kicks off the semester morphed into a tense presentation by strangers in suits about “fiscal failure,” a “teachout” with a competing arts school, and “winding down assets.”

But it’s not a movie; you can’t make this stuff up. It just happens. Fortunately, there is no end to this story.

• To be continued…

That’s why the seniors chose for their theme, “To be continued…”  The senior gallery exhibit holds that title; ellipses in the school-color red are all over t-shirts, stickers, and FaceBook. Now that (pardon the pun) is classy!

I’m not here to teach,” I always say on the first day of class, “I’m here to learn.”

To the students and many good people who sustained 89 years of success at CVA: Thanks for all you taught me. And Godspeed.
Now carry on…

Let’s face it, nobody’s going to the bank preaching the gospel of career breaks; they just haven’t swept our cultural consciousness (yet!)…

That said, I hope and believe that most folks find a way to get their yayas out now and again.

So I’m introducing a new series that salutes and comments on various forms of leisure. Even when some of those releases seem peculiar to the rest of us.

• Today, we take Harley Davidson for a ride.

That rough, tough, renegade brand of mega-motorcycles screams independence, ruggedness, and machismo louder than 100 Harleys on the open highway, right?

Well, maybe. Yet a handful of impressions and experiences make this bike-skeptic question that. Like, there was that time when I was about 10 and a (truly nasty) biker gang was passing through the lake region where my family was vacationing. I ended up walking by dozens of them, and some made sexual slurs at me. That’s intimidating and mean, sure. But, really? These scary, dangerous dudes had to resort to bullying a pre-pubescent boy? I was frightened, for sure. But not impressed.

These days, large Harley stores—you see them outside of many towns—look rather like bricky Wal-Marts. One rarely sees much activity there. I’ve read that Harley makes more money on clothes and stuff than on actual bikes now. That makes sense. Doesn’t it seem you see way more Harley regalia than actual motorcycles?

Harley Davidson has gone from symbolizing unconventional free-spiritedness to a sort of clipped-wing conformity. It’s hit-the-road, fantasy fashion statements for folks who are stuck in their recliner watching football and working on their beer guts (if we pass by the actual biker gangs).

The people I do know who own Harleys (and wear the attire) go for a ride, oh, maybe once a month, in the warm months. They do sometimes ride to that huge Sturgis rally though—in their pickups and motor homes and SUVs that tow their bikes behind until they get to a nearby truck stop and then—SHAZAMM!—they ditch their comfort and climb on their uber-bike. Is that hot, or what?

In other words, Harley seems anymore like a brand that doesn’t have a lot of “there” there. Still, my I tip my leather cap to them for creating such an American myth. I love that they’re made in Milwaukee, a cool town I once lived in. And I can even say that my dad used to ride one—until, legend has it, he wrecked it in a head-on collision.

In closing, I do hope Harley fans are having fun in Hog heaven. And yet I ask, have you ever seen a Harley-head smile?

A meager 6-day BreakAway was all the Gods were willing to offer in atonement for this heinous, interminable winter. And though I really shouldn’t complain, I will—as the retreat became Dickensian in a fractional way: 5/6 the best of times, 1/6 the worst:  after I brought home a case of severe E. coli (along with some charming souvenirs).

I’ve spent many moments trying to pinpoint what food (or water or ice) item made my body go much further south than Mazatlan. But I blame myself.

This winter-blues daddy-o has taken the M train at least 6-8 times now with nary a scary fart. So it’s no surprise that my one-time divine canons of foreign-country travel hygiene washed away years ago, while even Guidebook 101 common sense seemed superfluous.

All to say, I had a great time. Travel is MUCH more fun (and relaxing) when you don’t worry about the dangers that lurk around every corner, cocina, and ceviche. So in celebration of that free-spiritedness we all crave—that may work forever or fail you at any moment—here are some ways to throw caution to the ill wind and maybe, just maybe, make yourself sick in Mexico.

• Drink the water. Oh sure, you could always buy your own bottle. But doesn’t every hacienda worth its peso already purify their own?
• Underhydrate. I always—always!—carry water and sip. But I guess I took a vacation from that practice, too.
• Drink too much. Their wine lists are lousy. And I don’t love most Mexican beer. But smiling Mexicanos kept bringing me more anyway.
• Eat raw fish. Tuna? Mahi? Scallops? Shrimp? Sure. They’re abundant.  And so fresh they don’t need flame. Throw in a few more I can’t pronounce. Refrigerators are cool, but not always visible there.
• Eat whole fish. Nothing better. Just keep scraping that flesh right off the bone and eat everything but the eyeballs.
• Eat big salads. Finally! Some eateries are serving ample, fancy veggies. Some say skip the salad course when south of the border, but, naaaaahhh…
• Take leftovers home. Why not? They might be your lunch sitting poolside tomorrow!
• Buy pre-prepared meals at the OXXO (think 7-11). They look pretty good. They’re cheap. And God knows you don’t go to Mexico to cook!
• Eat ingredients that generally disagree with you. I hate onions and garlic. And they hate me. In Mexico, everything includes onions and garlic.
• Get tons of sun. Mexico has an endless source. And they share. We vacationers are just making up for lost shine.
• Skip washing your hands or using antiseptic. What if the water’s not pure? BYO Purell! (If you think of it.)
• Shake hands a lot. Donald Trump doesn’t do it, and calls it barbaric. For the rest of us, though, it’s typically just low-risk politeness.
• Eat and drink at several venues a day. After all, you can’t cross a street without stumbling into another bar—and many are truly alluring.
• Use toilets anywhere and everywhere. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
• Sleep erratically. Those waves are LOUD! Anyway, who goes to the coast to spend those precious hours in bed?
• Repeat daily. (And nightly.)

Funny thing is, at about the time that Mr. Belly started mumbling, we were sitting in Mazatlan’s best restaurant, Topolo, eating a divine invention that included about five pounds of chopped raw ahi, wasabi, ginger, avocado, capers, cuke—and NO onion or garlic! It went perfectly with Negra Modelo.

Some sad, aging woman was quizzing the waiter about their water and ice and all, “I was just sick for a week!” Moments later, an email arrived from an elder rellie who wondered if he should come to Maz for a golf gathering, “Or is there too much food-borne illness?”

I pooh-poohed such paranoia, slurped some more silky tuna, and ordered another cerveza. The rest is a blur, though I remember a delirious 103-degree fever followed by the worst travel day ever.

Back home on the still-snow-covered tundra, Mr. Belly is gradually moving beyond Gatorade and rice. Meanwhile, Mr. Heart can’t wait to get Back to Mexico.

It’s never too late!

Look! Hark! Flickr has (finally!) uploaded the Tuscany 2012 mix!

Click and find yourself in Barga, Lucca, Pisa, Viareggio and more!

Be reminded of the dolce far niente…

Ciao!