The 3-Day: A Glimpse ...

For those who've wondered what walkers experience on the 3-Day, this video will give you a brief glimpse into what life is like for those three days. The Chicago event – my sixth – is less than a month away. And I'll tally as many contributions as I can between now and then with your generosity.

Heartfelt thanks to all those who have contributed to date. I can't wait for this year's walk! As ever, I look forward to writing my post-walk recap for all contributors.

One word of advice before watching the video: Go get a Kleenex. Or, if you're like me, grab the whole box.

If Only I Had Gone To Camp ...

Then perhaps I would have been able to repay my mom, all those years ago, for all she's done – and continues to do – for me.

Alas, I did not. And what else could possibly ever suffice?

I am in love with Billy Collins. Mom, this poem's for you.

State and Lake ...

Part of me wants to tell the world about this restaurant and part of me wants to keep it a secret so I can always get a reservation.

But here I am, telling you.

State and Lake, in The Wit Hotel, located, cleverly enough, at State and Lake, is my new favorite place in the world.

I simply cannot remember the last time I was so delighted by a restaurant.

First, a word about the atmosphere: dark.

State and Lake is dark. Once you move away from the two-story windows by the entrance, it's almost cave-like – in a good way – despite the soaring ceilings. It's a great date restaurant. The bar, with its extensive collection of seltzer bottles, is central to the space. The music was a tad loud, but I asked Will, our server, if he could turn it down just a skosh, and he quickly obliged.

I instantly fell in love with the details. Details everywhere. Well-thought-out details. The water for the table arrives in what resembles an old milk bottle. Each table features a small dish of salt and a spoon, and the pepper grinder is a funky red number, though my memory is fuzzy at the moment and I'm not sure if it's meant to look like a seltzer bottle or a fire extinguisher.

Even the candle on the table was unusual.

The menus are interesting enough to offer something for everyone yet brief enough to reassure diners that the kitchen should be capable of executing everything well. I don't trust restaurants that offer too many options.

The wine list featured a cabernet sauvignon bottled specifically for the hotel, so I ordered a glass. From the moment Will set it on the table, the aroma told me I was in for a good glass of wine. And indeed, it was lovely.

Never one to hew exactly to the menu, I opted for a side order of mushrooms as my starter. Cue more details! The mushrooms arrived in the most adorable oval cast-iron mini-Dutch oven, if you will. And here I offer my one complaint about the meal: The mushrooms could have been a bit warmer. Those in the bottom of the dish were a better temperature, but those on top were tepid. Still, they were delicious. But then, I adore mushrooms.

Will asked if we'd like bread. (I was there with my mom for a pre-Goodman dinner.) We did. The butter arrived on a little rectangular white ceramic dish, just a cube, softened. The bread arrived as a little loaf in a piece of ceramic bakeware. But it wasn't baked as a loaf. It was baked as four pieces in a little loaf pan – a la cloverleaf rolls – so that each piece could be pulled away from the rest of the loaf and resembled a chubby slice of bread. Adorable!

Mom started with the evening's soup, beef barley. We fancy ourselves beef-barley soup connoisseurs and mom reported that the soup was very good, loaded with beef and barley and vegetables, as it should be.

For her entree, she opted for the summer fruit salad, a lovely combination of watermelon and peaches and goat cheese tossed in a sherry vinaigrette and topped with a chiffonade of basil. I tried a bite of the watermelon with a bit of basil and goat cheese. The watermelon was the definition of watermelon and its cool, crisp sweetness paired with the creamy goat cheese and the hit of fresh basil was outstanding. Simple ingredients, done well.

Oh, but my entree. If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, it would be my mom's lasagna, but if I were to pick a second thing, it would be last night's entree: roasted leg of lamb, country cheese ravioli, and grilled broccoli rabe, all drizzled with a bit of lamb reduction.

Oh. My. God. The lamb, roasted to medium-rare perfection and sliced and plated atop a mound of the broccoli rabe, featured an exceptional crust. The broccoli rabe was cooked to exactly the right degree of crisp-tenderness.

But the country cheese ravioli. Never before have I been enchanted with ravioli. First of all, they were wee, about the size of a quarter. Each must have been filled with something like a 1/16th of a teaspoon of filling so light it was practically air.

But the pasta. How can anyone prepare pasta so delicate? And given that pasta swells with cooking, how thin must it have been before? Finished, it was practically tissue paper.

They were ethereal. They were practically memories of ravioli, so perfect and delicate they nearly dissolved on the tongue. Spectacular. I told Will I was in love with the ravioli. He said he'd tell the chef.

Will brought dessert menus, which were also appropriately brief. He recommended the devil's food cake. Mom and I never need to be coaxed into chocolate. And I still had a bit of wine.

The menu revealed that it came plated with raspberry sauce, one of Mom's all-time favorite things, and Will told us it was topped with a bit of meringue which was browned.

Really? Well, all righty, then. One dessert, two forks, please.

What arrived was not devil's food cake. What arrived may as well have been ganache, whipped and then formed into a two-layer "cake," on top of which were piped spikes of meringue that were indeed browned off almost as if toasted marshmallow. All of which sat in the middle of a plate drizzled with raspberry sauce and sprinkled with crunchy chocolaty bits and diced golden raspberries.

Mom and I managed to polish it off, but it's so insanely rich, it easily could serve four.

The check arrived when we asked for it, not before, and came tucked inside a State and Lake bi-fold business card, clipped closed with a tiny clothespin. Details! Details! Details!

Will thanked us for coming – earlier, I asked him how long they'd been open, and he said, "A month and change" – and I told him that I could not remember the last time I was delighted with a restaurant, but I was delighted with State and Lake.

Katie, the manager, came by as we were standing up, and asked us about our experience. I repeated to her what I'd just told Will, and told her that I have a friend coming into town on business in a week and that we'll be there for lunch. Katie recommended the fettucini with rock shrimp and asparagus when I return.

I may take her up on that suggestion, but only because the lamb with ravioli isn't part of the lunch menu.

Do yourself an enormous culinary favor and make your way to State and Lake. I'll probably see you there.

Still 'In Bruges' ...

I'm reposting my original post about this flick because my pal Rick watched it today and wrote tonight to tell me how much he loved it. And I want the whole world to see and appreciate it. Stop what you're doing, right now, and find it.

Ohmygod, I love this movie.

Comedy.
Pathos.
Extreme profanity.
Graphic violence.

Bits of dialogue such as "What are they doin' over there? They're filmin' somethin'. They're filmin' midgets!"

and

"You can't sell horse tranquilizers to a midget!"

No, it is not politically correct. But it is brilliant.

I knew nothing about it going into it, other than that it was well-received by critics and that Ciarán has an uncredited role in it.

Colin Farrell is great, but Ralph Fiennes is outstanding. Remember his role as the dashing count in "The English Patient"? His role as Harry in this movie is absolutely nothing like that.

And look: two movie posters. I like the top one much better than the bottom. But check out the tagline: "Shoot first. Sightsee later."

Rent it. Rent it now.

Or buy it.

Or rent it then buy it.

Either way, see it.

Unless you can't abide the sight of blood.

Then maybe not.

Maybe just listen to it, because the writing is brilliant.

Martin McDonagh, making his directorial debut, also wrote the screenplay. I bow to him.

'He's Just Not That Into You' ...

Oy.

How did this film attract so much top-tier talent?

No, wait. That's not the first question that bears asking.

The first question that bears asking is: Who thought that the book was adaptable into a movie?

Because, um, it wasn't.

I just described it to a Facebook friend as "annoying" and "contrived." That about sums it up. If ever there was a movie that could have wrapped itself up in 90 minutes, this is it. Yet somehow, it manages to be annoying and contrived for more than two hours.

Kodachrome ...

I have 20 rolls of Kodachrome if any photographers out there are looking for a stash to shoot without getting raked over the coals by retailers who are suddenly charging a mint for the stuff. You can have all 20 rolls for $200, exactly what I paid for it.

Expiration dates are 08/2010 and 09/2010, FYI.

Just Because It Made Me Laugh Out Loud ...

Lip Service ...

Sleep is fickle.

Lately and for many months, I've gotten into the bad habit of allowing myself to fall asleep on the couch. When I rouse myself and head to bed, I often find myself wide awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep but having little success.

The other night, lying there, I started to think about the men I've kissed.

Now, I have no idea if the handful of men I've dated read my blog, and of course I won't use their names. I don't want to offend anyone. But some kissing practices simply must be stopped. This post is just my way of doing my small part of behalf of womankind to end our collective liplock suffering.

The thing is, kissing is fundamental. Some people's lips simply seem to fit together, others don't. Kissing, in that way, is an early indicator of compatibility.

The following categories are presented in no particular order. That said, any man who may recognize himself herein should not despair. Women, very often, are willing teachers. Which isn't to say that there aren't women out there who are bad kissers. I'm sure there are. But I've never kissed another woman, so this post is about men.

✓ The Static Tongue — Why, yes, you do have a tongue in your mouth. What's that, you say? You'd like to use it as part of your kissing technique? OK. The key, then, becomes to use it. Actively. Simply sticking your tongue out of your mouth (speaking collectively here) and into ours doesn't leave us with many options now, does it? What are we supposed to do with it once it arrives?

✓ The Slobberer — Swallow first, please. No, we don't want to kiss cottonmouths, but we don't need all your saliva. We have our own, thanks.

✓ The "ChapStick? What's ChapStick?" — You know how you love kissing someone with really soft lips? So do we.

✓ The Too-Much-Mouth — Gentlemen. Please. Let us do something. When you (again, speaking collectively here) put your entire mouth over ours, it ceases to be kissing. It becomes CPR. The following graphical depiction (from mingle2.com) is exaggerated, but also amusing (to those of us who have been on the receiving end of such treatment):



Ladies, others you'd like to add?

Men, you're welcome to share your peeves in the comments, too, of course.

'New In Town' ...

Gee, I wonder if the exacting would-be executive from sun-and-sea Miami and the widower union rep who's moved to the frozen fields of Minnesota will wind up together?

And I wonder if the screenwriter was consuming a lot of Snack Pack whilst pounding out this script and therein found the inspiration to make tapioca a plot point?

And I wonder why Renee Zellweger squints so much?

Briefly ...

This is a fun bit o' news for those who've read The Girls From Ames: The other day, on the spur of the moment, I invited my friend Jeff, author of The Girls From Ames, and his wife, Sherry, to join my 4th of July festivities. Later that afternoon, he called to catch up – he'd been busy polishing the manuscript for Sully's book – and asked, "Guess where I'll be on the 4th?"

Where?

"Grand marshal of the parade in Ames, Iowa."

I LOVE that!

"They asked me if I wanted a convertible or a pickup truck. I went with the pickup truck," he said.

"Sure," I replied. "It's more Ames-esque. Convertibles are too politician-y."

"Or too astronaut-y," he said, which made me chuckle.

Evanesced ...

I rise from trumpets and roses
Escape the embrace of imagined
solitary comfort
To join the living, the fully alive,
if unaware, beyond
I enter, my eyes wide open
A world where beginnings sometime
have ends or linger or grow
until they are unaware they
have begun and simply are
My life, full and round and good

One evening, years ago, those words decided to make themselves known to me, and so I wrote them down.

Some moments in our lives are fleeting. Others linger at length. Months. Years.

And while all moments connect to one another and shape-shiftingly form themselves into what we call a life, some are superficial while others burrow deep into our souls.

Some aspects of our lives are so indelible, so inherent, that it simply seems impossible that they will ever go away.

Take any other pound of flesh, but spare the heart. Even battered, it beats and holds dear that which we cannot bear to leave behind.

But nature abhors the status quo. Love arrives as a vapor and one day burns away. And while there may be private tears, the moments tick past, silently, and the day arrives when it's done.

No fanfare. No drama. No tearful goodbye.

Just the gradual fade of a bittersweet melody as a new song begins to swell.

To My Art's Content ...

Art and me, we have a funny relationship. And I don't mean "ha-ha" funny.

My definition of art is: "If I can do it, it's not art."

Except that I'm not so useless with pencil. I can sketch OK. Depending. Not everything comes out looking like the scrawl of a serial killer.

When I first moved into my house, I was sitting, oh, about where I'm sitting right now – I've moved in the meantime, I promise – and looking at a little palm my mom had bought for me for my first apartment, which was now sitting in my first (and to date, only) house.

And so I started to draw it. On off-white construction paper. I've since bought an acid-free sketch pad, but I'm rarely overcome with the urge to sketch these days.

Anyhoo, I started to draw my little palm but then thought, "Well, the palm needs to be, you know, like, in something. I can't just have a levitating palm." So, I figured rocks made sense. River rocks. Pretty, smooth river rocks. So I drew some of those, too. Played around with shading. Whatever.

Sometime after I was done with it, mom saw it and – as moms are wont to do – really liked it, so for the next Mother's Day that rolled around, I framed it very crudely, figuring it was only a temporary thing, and gave it to her.

Mom, who isn't at all fussy, liked that I'd used kraft paper as the backing instead of getting a mat cut, and so it's been hanging in her house, as is, ever since.

Here's a not-altogether-awful image of it, as captured by my camera phone. You can see mom's reflection in the glass. I believe she was making us sandwiches for lunch!



And then there's one of my all-time favorite paintings, "The Lovers" by Rene Magritte. I love how realistically he paints the folds in the fabric covering their faces.



And then there's this.

Henri Matisse had talent, I grant you. Many of his paintings are very vivid and evocative. But I'm sorry. Give me a pair of safety scissors and some construction paper and I can knock this out for you, too. I've had Matisse lovers glare at me for suggesting that he was anything short of a genius, but first of all, art is subjective. We don't all have to like the same things. And second of all, c'mon. Sorry. In my view, this is not the work of an artistic genius. This is the work of a kindergartner. Well, OK, maybe a first-grader. Those "stars" might be a little tricky to cut out with safety scissors. Some more-developed manual dexterity might be called for there.

Art in my house runs toward "muted." I don't like lots of color.

I wrote this blog post a couple years ago about creativity (and I read it a little while ago and I must say, I was having a lot of fun, penning that piece) and included a picture of the art that hangs in my dining area.



It's huge, about 60 inches wide. It's not worth a lot, but it's worth about 10 times what I paid for it. Heh. I love an art bargain!

Which leads me to the point of this post. Yes, all the way down here.

Today, at long, long, long last, I took a piece in to get framed that I bought, oh, seven years ago? Maybe longer? I dunno. The point is, I saw it, I loved it, I bought it, I meant to get it framed properly, and then, well, I didn't. I found it in a cheesy antique store in a frame that Walgreens would be embarrassed to sell. But I loved it instantly and it was, if memory serves, around $25. This is it.



The day I bought it, I brought it home, did a little poking around online, and found that another copy of it is part of the collection of the National Gallery of Art. Cool.

And then, tonight, I found another copy of it, a pencil-signed copy, like mine, for sale online for $1,250! Woo hoo! Art bargain, part deux!

It will be ready next Tuesday, my pretty little signed drypoint etching. I opted for the museum glass. And an aged-looking frame (that almost looks dirty) with egg-and-dart carving, and a mat that matches the "dusty" effect in the frame's detail. I think it'll look really spectacular when it's all put together.

Now I really need to do something with that watercolor that looks like a portrait of Leonardo DaVinci ...

Coarse Correction ...

As John Lennon so sagely said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

I'm a planner. I like plans. I like plotting. I like to-do lists. I like crossing things off of to-do lists.

I'm also a very detail-minded person. Big pictures are nice 'n' all, but little touches are big with me. I love it when someone notices a detail I've put into place.

Of course, we can plan all we want. Cosmically, plans mean bupkus. Some come to pass. Many others do not. Life often gets in the way.

Life, I recognize, is exactly what's supposed to happen, whether or not it follows the plans we've made. And eventually, the day comes when we see events in a larger context and the reasons for everything become clear.

But in the moment? Not so much.

And so I recently made some plans and they were really good plans. And I had a really good time executing the foundation plans on which the experiential plans were to rest.

I am a wiz at concocting visions of what should be and then manifesting those visions.

I am not a wiz at making the universe bend to my will to ensure that my vision is realized by everyone else involved.

So my recent plans went unrealized, unfulfilled.

And I was disappointed, to be sure, by the circumstances but also grateful for the reminder that while there is a lot I can control, there is also a lot I cannot.

"Everything is going to happen the way it's supposed to," I told myself last night, trying to drift off to sleep.

And then my brain pulled that phrase into an acronym: EIGTHTWIST. "Eight twist!" I thought, and turned on the light and fetched the bound book I keep on my bedside table for jotting late-night thoughts or dreams before they vanish into the waking world. "No, Beth," I said, looking at the page. "That's not how 'eight' is spelled."

Hey, I was trying to fall asleep. Cut my brain some slack.

But the notion of "eight twist" led me to draw the infinity symbol in my book.

Everything is going to happen exactly the way it's supposed to, indeed.

On The Heels Of 100,000 ...

Sometime before the 4th of July, my blog's odometer will click past 100,000.

I've had more than 100,000 visitors since I began blathering in March 2005 and 1,395 posts ago. (This is post 1,396.) I didn't have a counter on this blog for quite some time, so I actually passed 100,000 some time ago, I'm sure. But the numbers that count are the numbers you can see.

So here I am, still prattling on after all these years. More than four years. Years that have contained a few sage moments, I suppose, but for the most part have been full of banalities. Does the world really need to know how much I hated "Nacho Libre"? Probably not.

Of course, 100,000 is a precious number, precious as in "adorable." Plenty of sites garner that much traffic in a few hours, not a few years. But I don't advertise my blog anywhere. I'm not a prolific commenter, so people aren't linking back to my site that way. It would be interesting, though, to know how many people have found my blog by entering "mike rowe gay" into search engines. Mike and his "Is he or isn't he?"-ness remain the most popular reason people arrive at Finding My Voice.

And now that I've mentioned him again, this blog will turn up as yet another search result.

So let's give Mike a hand, shall we? And a little love, because he's pretty. (L.A. Dave interviewed Mike a year or two ago and told Mike about my blog's Mike-centric hits. So in the event that Mike runs across this post in a vanity search: Hi, Mike! I hope to run into you in a bar someday. I know what I'm supposed to say. But I don't drink beer, so here's hoping you'll bend the rules.)

My posts are becoming slightly less frequent. I'm off my pace of posting once a day. I have friends with blogs who only post when they feel they have something truly blog-worthy to say. But me, I've always felt like this site was a bit like my kitchen, and if people are stopping by, well, it's just not hospitable to not have something to offer them. If you stopped by my actual kitchen, I'd at least offer coffee. And if I had a freshly baked good on hand, I'd offer that to you, too.

So perhaps I'll up the ante on posting and resume my blathering. Or maybe the time is nigh to craft a farewell post and say so long to this little corner of cyberspace.

But I'd leave the site up, for all those Internet travelers who need a place to land when they search for the truth about Mike Rowe.

Psst! He's not gay.

Moody ...

The morning light is moody, diffuse, as though the day has retreated under the covers.

I like damp, grey days. Perhaps not as many as we've been having of late, but in general, I like them.

I like the increased vibrancy of the greenery outside. My view is very verdant.

I like the motion of the trees and the way my curtains billow with the breeze.

I like the persistent sleepyheadedness that encourages me to set down my book and close my eyes.

And, for breakfast, I like the prospect of the toast made with the bread I baked yesterday, on a morning very much like today's.

15 Books ...

This is one of many lists I've created on Facebook. I suspect that most of my readers here are also friends there, so this may be information duplication for many of you, but for those who haven't seen it before ...

These are the instructions that came with the list: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.

1. "Bread and Jam for Frances" by Russell Hoban – My favorite children's book.

2. "Winnie-The-Pooh" by A. A. Milne – "Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin." My Aunt Chick (and the rest of her family) gave me a slipcased set of Pooh books for my birthday one year. I still have them.

3. "Charlotte's Web" by E.B. White – I promise that this list will not be solely children's books.

4. "The Tiny One" by Eliza MInot – Minot's debut novel. I was completely captivated by her power of description. Sometimes I read it out loud. I love the cadence in the language she uses. She tells the whole story from the perspective of a young girl and the voice is just perfect, exactly the way I think a child would perceive the events unfolding around her.

5. "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Arthur Golden – I remember not wanting it to end. I would have read the end papers if there had been anything on them. Or an index. I would have read an index.

6. "Animal Dreams" by Barbara Kingsolver – This should probably be the first book on the list, as it's the one I cite most often as my favorite book. It contains my all-time favorite sentence in a work of fiction. No, I won't tell you what it is. Read the book and see if you can guess it.

7. "The Power of One" by Bryce Courtenay – I cite this as my second-favorite book. Again, masterful powers of description. Don't see the movie first.

8. "On Writing" by Stephen King – [Just in case he runs across this list whilst vanity Googling: Hi, Uncle Stevie!] Second only to "The Elements of Style" when it comes to books on writing. But so different from "The Elements of Style" that it stands alone.

9. "The Seat of the Soul" – I read the entire book out loud to myself, a highlighter in one hand, a pen in the other. I highlighted and underlined and wrote notes to myself in the margins. I really should read it again. I'm sure I'd take away entirely new messages today.

10. "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho – I don't think I've ever heard anyone tell me that they read it and didn't love it. The ultimate parable.

11. "Ernest Hemingway" by Kenneth Lynn – The best biography I've ever read.

12. "Never Come Morning" by Nelson Algren – Nelson figures very prominently in my life, but this novel figures most prominently of all. He had a way with words that still stuns me.

13. "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" by C.S. Lewis – Just popped into my head. I love it. I pull it off the shelf and read it from time to time.

14. "Crime and Punishment" by Fyodor Dostoevsky – C'mon, get happy! But seriously, I read it in high school and was blown away. Definitely one I need to read again as an adult.

15. "The Fourth K" by Mario Puzo – To date, the worst book I've ever read. So I felt compelled to put it on the list. But now I feel like I've wasted a slot. So I'm going to add a No. 16.

16. "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime" by Mark Haddon – Utterly charming. I devoured it and then regretted not taking more time to savor it.

I'm sure there are a zillion more I could add to the list, but I'll (kind of) stick to the limit. But 15 minutes from now, I'd probably revise this.

The Healing Power Of Toast ...

On Saturday, my cousin Patty, in town from New York, presented me with these:



Bandages shaped like toast! (Matt, Pat, are you ordering some yet?!)

I put one on, despite having no injury. It's better than a temporary tattoo! Hell, it's better than a permanent tattoo! The color is very lifelike, golden-brown and buttery.

Patty suggested that I wear it on my upper arm, like a nicotine patch, and if anyone asks, I can tell them I'm trying to cut back on toast.

As the package reveals, a toy surprise is included. Mine is a tiny non-posable, non-action figure of a dude wearing grey pants, a white shirt, a skinny tie, and glasses. He looks a bit like Harry Potter, without the scar. But he's very fun. As I exclaimed to Patty, "Now I have a man in my life!"

The 3-Day: Just Breathe ...

This morning, I read this post by fellow 3-Day Ambassador Dawn Rennert. Dawn regularly posts about the 3-Day, which is very helpful of her. First-time walkers want to arm themselves with as much information as possible before the event.

In her post, Dawn mentions that the friend who was going to walk with her has opted out of the event. This isn't uncommon. Right about now, about six weeks out from the beginning of the walking season, people begin to question whether they'll be able to raise enough funds or whether they've trained sufficiently and many arrive at the decision to not walk.

I posted a comment in which I said that while I'm sorry her friend won't be walking, I'm willing to wager that one of the people Dawn finds herself standing next to at Opening Ceremonies will end up being the person she walks with for the entire weekend, and odds are good that they'll stay good friends.

Forming friendships is a big part of the 3-Day.

As I wrote that comment, I found myself welling up. It's a pretty good bet that if I'm writing about the 3-Day, I'm crying, too. It's such an emotional experience that I can't help but remember all the feelings I feel every year and the tears start to flow.

Oh, also: I'm a total sap.

Many of you might be able to retain your composure with much more ease.

But writing that comment to Dawn made me think about all the other walkers who might be getting nervous, who might be thinking, "Oh, man, what did I get myself into?!"

In years past, I've hosted and co-hosted informational meetings for first-time walkers. Reassurance from someone who has done the walk and who can answer questions about what to expect seems to assuage a lot of anxiety.

And so this is an open post to all first-time walkers who might be wondering whether it was wise to take up this challenge:

Yes, it was.

I am not overstating anything when I say that the 3-Day will change your life in ways you cannot begin to imagine.

If you're nervous, that's perfectly normal. You're embarking on a substantial journey. Sixty miles is certainly nothing to sneeze at, but electing to participate in a 3-Day isn't just about walking from Point A to Point D. It's about stepping well outside your comfort zone, especially if you're doing the walk "alone."

Of course, there's no such thing as doing the walk "alone." From the moment you arrive at Opening Ceremonies, you'll be surrounded by more than 2,000 other walkers. Once you drop your luggage off at your gear truck, take in the sea of pink that you'll see swelling near the stage and know this: One of those people is about to become one of your best friends.

Last year, I met Mary on the coach from the hotel to Opening Ceremonies. She had expected to walk with a friend, but that friend decided against walking. Mary, undaunted, showed up by herself.

As we were chatting, Amy arrived at our sides. Amy, too, was doing the event by herself. And so there we were, three walking Musketeers, sans muskets.

Mary eventually paired up with another walker, who was walking at her same pace. That left Amy and me to walk together. And we did, for the remainder of the weekend.

And we've been in touch ever since. And this August, we'll reunite and do it all over again.

The 3-Day coaches do a great job of doling out information about the events, but talk to veteran walkers, too. (Anyone who's done the event once is a veteran walker in my book. They can provide first-hand accounts of what to expect, which can be an invaluable balm to soothe cases of nerves.)

If anyone has any questions – and no question is silly – feel free to post it in the comments and I'll share my take on it.

This will be my sixth event. At this point, I've seen it all.

And yet, every year, I'm amazed all over again.

Here's a starter tip: Stash a pocket pack of Kleenex in your waistpack and several more in your luggage. If you're anything like me, you'll need Kleenex several times throughout the 3-Day. And when you line up for Closing Ceremonies, hold a pack above your head and watch how fast people ask you for 'em.

Nothing compares to a 3-Day. You're about to experience more love and kindness than you can imagine. As my friend Devereaux says, "I want to live in the 3-Day universe."

See you there.