On our second to last day in Ireland, my father and I negotiated the Ireland busing system, and purchased two tickets to Ardee,  a small village about an hour and a half north of Dublin. The bus would apparently stop a five minute walk outside of the main town – and another bus would be returning to the same location at 6pm. We nervously boarded the bus out of Dublin.

Ardee, Ireland was where my great, great, great grandfather John Malone lived before leaving for America. The namesake of the Malone family, my Father’s Mother’s family – and the eldest relative I have any knowledge of. And I know little more than that he came from Ardee. According to my father, he came to the States, fought in the Civil War and earned enough funds to have his wife join him. How much of that story is true, and how much are details from novels that got wrapped up in truth I have no idea – but in town we discovered two Malone’s – including a business with the name – so it’s safe to say that there’s some truth to the story.

In Ardee there are two 13th Century castles that greet you at either end of the main street. Walking up and examining those castles and the grounds surrounding them – I felt as if I were looking through a telescope into space, gazing at star light from a distant past. There is no doubt that John Malone – my Father’s Mother’s Father’s Father’s Father looked upon those very same walls – and walked those very same grounds. Beyond him though – I can see no further.

In fact, it’s funny how little we know about where we come from.  When a child is born, we often say “he has his mother’s nose” or “she looks just like her dad” – and that’s understandable.  The two parent represent the DNA mixture that produced this child.  Everything this child is, has come from them.  But that doesn’t really tell us much – seeing as how the child’s parents are results of the same process via their parents.  Suddenly you have four grandparents that are the DNA culprits behind this new-born.  However, right behind them are eight great-grandparents who might have something to do with this as well.

Sadly, this is where the “you know whose eyes those are” game wears off.  Humans simply don’t live to a point where we get many great-great-great anythings.  But if we did – and I could look all the way back to John Malone in Ardee, Ireland – there are 31 other individuals, including his wife (my great-great-great grandmother) where my DNA directly comes from.

I can account for two of those 32 great-great-great grandparents – and I know for a fact the Spies branch was not in Ardee, Ireland.  The rest are a mystery – as are their 64 parents who also hold the answers to my DNA riddle – albeit the waters are getting a bit muddied.

In fact, the only thing I really know about most of the people that came before me was that they were healthy enough, smart enough, and lucky enough to reach the age of procreation, and at least one of the children they created was capable of doing the same.  If any of them were unable to perform this task, I simply would never have existed.  Seriously though – what are the odds that around 1850, sixty-four unique individuals, in at least three different countries, would survive long enough to meet and produce children capable of doing the same so that I could carry those same genetic codes some century and a half later.  The numbers begin to grow exponentially beyond there.  If we say the average age of procreation for a male is 25 (and this would vary wildly in different cultures, but even so, I’m still seven years late), we can estimate that while America was declaring its independence in 1776, there were approximately 248 people walking around with all the ingredients that make up me.

As Louis XIV reigned supreme from the Palace at Versailles in the 1680’s, nearly 4000 individuals with a part of me walked the Earth.  And in 1492, as Columbus set foot in the Americas, over half a million of my direct ancestors, awaited his discovery. As did their million parents… and possibly two million grand-parents.

When those castles were put up in the 13th Century in Ardee Ireland, over 520 million individuals, and their billion-plus parents walked the Earth.

NOW WAIT A SECOND… were there even a billion people alive in the 13th Century?  No… no there weren’t.  So what happened?  Well… the lines cross.  Where, we have no idea, but no doubt they must – in fact they do for everyone.  They simply have to.  If you think it’s sticky in the 13th Century?  By 1100 there would be over 33 Billion ancestors walking the planet at the same moment if our family tree didn’t start reconnecting some of its limbs.  I’m not talking about kissing cousins – it’s quite possible many of these re-connections occurred without knowledge.  After a few centuries, the chances of finding a mate who DID NOT have shared DNA traits would be nearly impossible, especially when considering how little people traveled up until a century ago.

I recall my mother telling a story of how her parents were forbidden to marry, because one was Catholic and one was Protestant – a scenario played out many times for Irish immigrants in NY, some of which were from Northern Ireland, some from the southern region.  Rather than looking towards their parents for identity, had they only seen their true heritage, looked a few centuries more back – clearly their bloodlines ran parallel – clearly they already shared not so distant relatives.

Religious zealots of all persuasion would have you believe some God placed us here with intent – a perfect spot for a perfect species.  I for one find that to be a bit contrary to the facts.  I see a species poorly prepared for this environment, that has some how managed to survive and pass on its code and its knowledge to future generations, time and again.  On a planet that is 70% covered by water we can not breath within or in most cases drink – cut off by distance and the need for oxygen from all other planets – with less hearing capacity than a common hound and lacking the capacity to see the majority of the light spectrum – we seem an unlikely success story.  But I am just that.  As are you.  The DNA prize of countless humans who struggled to survive childhood, found a mate, and were able to produce at least one child capable of doing the same.

I have two wonderful parents who I love – and it’s great when I see a part of me in them.  But it’s also good to remember that I am not just of them – I am of the the same DNA as everyone else.  The same as you – the same as all those who have come before, and that next generation just beginning the journey.  And even this great species we call our own, is merely one branch of an even grander tree.  I guess the question becomes – what aren’t you like?  And if any of those million of connections had never occurred, would you still exist? How radically do you alter the distant future with every choice you make?

After a few hours and a handful of pubs, my father and I made our way out of the town center and back to the main road to wait for the bus.  As promised, at six o’clock it came around the corner and picked us up.  We boarded the bus and left the town of Ardee with far less trepidation than I imagine John Malone had when he set off for American a century and a half ago.  That decision, and the many before and after it are part of an endless list of reasons I exist in the first place.  I for one am glad he made the trip.

This episode is actually a composite of two design reviews we had over the past couple weeks. I love my clients – but sometimes you really just have to smile and keep your mouth shut.

For the heck of it, we’ve now recreated these conversations in this 4-minute animation.

On the far end of the Dingle Peninsula of Ireland, out past the quaint little fishing village that is its namesake, are a series of stone bee-hive shaped dwellings in a circular formation, surrounded by a stone-wall and sitting on the side of a hillside overlooking Dingle Bay and further out over the Atlantic Ocean. Archeologists believe the structures were created as early as 2000BC, and were still in use until approximately 1200AD. The primitive structures are nothing more than piled rocks – no mortar or supports – just flat rocks in a round, piled slightly off-kilter so they come to a curved dome of sorts with just enough space at the top to allow some light into the space within. Crawling through the opening I found myself back in time – staring at a space that probably hadn’t changed much since the original proprietors decided to move on. No marble statues or painted portraits here – just a dirt floor, a small outcropping for a fire, and the uneasy feeling one gets when recognizing the roof above you is nothing but a pile of unsecured rocks held together by little more than gravity. Upon dipping your head out the entry and back into the light of day – you stare out at the silhouettes of the mountains on the far shore rising from the waters below – and your eyes touch the same sight those original residents must have encountered each day of their quiet, and I imagine, exhausting lives.

At one point there were 40,000 residents on the Dingle Peninsula, but when the soil could no longer provide, the famine arrived and the population either escaped or perished. Even today there are only about 10,000 folks who call this unique landscape home. Many of the original homes from that period remain. Abandoned, slowly fading monuments of a desperate time.

One can’t help but feel the passage of time everywhere in Ireland. The countryside is littered with old stone ruins, grave markings and endless stonewalls and hedgerows defining borders that have been passed down through the centuries. Newer buildings share the streets with 300 year-old pubs, and every town has some point of interest that sheds light on a forgotten era.

There is a voice inside that loves to feel that the current moment is the most important – and that your efforts and challenges are of immense consequence and importance. Look at the face of the average person on the street and they are most often in a stressful hurry – quite convinced of what they need or must accomplish – and doing their best to lay claim to whatever objects, property or individuals they feel belong to them. While far more relaxed than most, I too often find myself stressing about The Interactive Dept. – worrying about where the next project will come from – what the long-term course of our business will look like – how I can pay off the tax-man and sill manage to purchase a home some day. All the personal concerns of family and friendships, health and fitness, and even now, while riding a train to Dublin, where the next vacation might be.

Standing in that stone structure on the side of a rocky-outcrop on the Dingle Peninsula, you realize it really doesn’t matter at all. For thousands and thousands of years individuals like me in one way or another have walked this Earth, fretting their moment upon the stage, only to eventually pass on and fade from all memory like all those before them. Were the owners of these small rock dwellings good or bad? Winners or losers? Later on, some built massive castles with their wealth – others laid siege to those castles – and still others worked the land outside those castles for whomever temporarily pronounced themselves in charge. Good days, bad days – but all forgotten.

As my father and I travel on this trip, each day we try to remind ourselves we have nothing to do. We’ve intentionally planned no activities – just a few rough locations. Each morning we simply start walking and the day writes itself. Occasionally we find ourselves walking too fast, or rushing a delicious pint – and one of us will comment, “Hey, remember, we got nothing to do today.”

The sentiment, while simply a reminder of being on vacation at first has taken on larger meaning as the trip progresses. The constant reminders of just how long this game has been played, and just how short our glimpse of this amazing planet and experience is – provides solid proof that we as individuals on this planet have nothing to do ever. Everything is simply a choice – and success and failure merely an opinion of the moment.

In this modern workweek, history is easily forgotten as our time is often spent planning for the future, enthused for the next big thing, focused with the moment at hand. Multi-tasking has become the norm – and even vacations are often organized and coordinated with military precision. The thought of turning off your phone for a week seems like an impossibility. Detaching from technology and all the information it delivers brings fear that you’ll miss the boat – that opportunities will pass – that you will fail. A three-day weekend is acceptable now and again, but lets not get wild.

I whole-heartedly disagree, and recommend everyone begin to detach more. I would estimate I spend about 1-2 months a year doing little more than walking new cities or spending time with friends and family. If you can’t take three months (as I did in Spain), or two weeks as I’m doing now in Ireland, take one, or even a single day. Turn off the phone, shut-down the computer, ignore your “responsibilities” and enjoy the day without a plan of how you’ll control it. Not a Saturday – I’m talking about a Tuesday. Call out of work – lie and say you’re sick if you have to. Let the day take you. Walk out the front door and just start walking. Let the moment work its magic and accomplish nothing. Once you get a taste for it, as I have, you’ll find yourself wanting to accomplish nothing more and more. You’ll realize the world doesn’t fall apart in your absence, and after the ego comes to terms with this shocking truth, you’ll find yourself detaching more and more. You’ll realize doing nothing often feels even better than doing something – and that what at first might feel like a guilty pleasure is actually your mind saying “THANK YOU – I needed that.”

Many centuries from now, a father and son may come across your current dwelling. They might check-out your office – snap a few photos of your desk, ponder how you lived in such a way and what your days were like. They’ll be more curious about what art you made, what music you loved – then how stressful things were, or how you made the rent. Then, upon seeing a bus of senior citizens approaching, they’ll move on to the next monument, content that they have nothing to accomplish for the day.

Now I need to get back to doing nothing myself.

It’s been a rough couple weeks.

A close friend lost his sister in a car accident three weeks ago – and just when I was beginning to breath regularly again and not self-reflect the incident on my own reality and my own beloved family – I received a Facebook message from one of my closest friend’s girlfriend.

Greg. Please call me ASAP. Teyla was hit by a bus in Sydney yesterday. She is on life support at Royal Prince Albert Hospital in Sydney. I’m flying there tonight.

Teyla, whom I called Kendra (or Bendra most of the time) had been living in Australia the past three years or so, getting a Masters Degree in Nursing. She was the first friend I made in college – and the two of us along with my friend Mairin moved out to Oregon together in 2001. She was my partner in crime for living the life less ordinary – sharing my passion for non-stop traveling, meeting as many people as possible and doing all you can to make their lives (and thus your own) more fulfilling.

I immediately called Leah and received the awful news that Kendra was most likely not going to make it. It’s hard to express just how powerfully such news alters the moment – and changes your perspective on just about everything. I suddenly realized I was in Portland – and she was in Australia – and this small world became painfully enormous.

As the emotional dust began to settle in my mind – I began typing Kendra’s name into Facebook – and pulled up her profile. What I found there has been a source of comfort and insight the likes of which I never would have expected from a website. And that’s because Facebook and social media in general are more than just webpages and iPhone apps – they are becoming the virtual reflection of our relationships. What I found on Kendra’s profiles was the shared anguish of hundreds of people whose lives she’d touched. There were cousins, her sister, Leah, friends from college, co-workers, neighbors and all her new-found friends in Australia. What had been a profile she once controlled had become a shared vigil as we all hoped and prayed and wished for her recovery. It became a place to share news of what was happening to someone we loved who was so far away. As others discovered the tragic news from status updates of friends, the vigil grew.

When the sad day arrived that Kendra was taken off life-support, the vigil became a memorial, and more photos and heart-ache poured out upon its pages. People wrote good-bye messages to Kendra – but in reality they wrote those letters to everyone – sharing their unique moments and personal sorrow with the collective.

This was a stark comparison to my first experience with death and social media. In April of 2006 my good friend from growing-up, Lucas, lost his younger brother. Tim passed away in the evening – and news reached me several days later. I was completely devastated, but I credit that event with a complete shift in my life that led to a 30-day train trip across the US and Canada shortly thereafter, followed by the endless travel and the awakening that my experience, even if I lived it in full would be too short if I wasted a single moment. Events like these reminds you that the “average lifespan” is not a guarantee – nor enough time in its own right.

Some time later I pulled up Tim’s MySpace profile – and do so even to this day. As opposed to Kendra’s, Tim must have had comments locked, because it is frozen in time from the day he left. No good-byes or well-wishes from friends, just his life as it was the day he left. It acts as some sort of modern-day tombstone – a place I can return to and reflect on his young life – and all the talent and beauty he left behind. Unlike a tombstone it does not stand silent – instead it tells me of the songs and music and books he read – of the friends he had and the thoughts and opinions he shared. You never die on social media – according to MySpace Tim is 28 now – and part of me prefers that virtual illusion over the reality. I have no doubt that I will continue to return to Kendra’s profile as well, and leave comments as the years go by. It will be no substitute for the plans we had – but it can be a source of comfort when the inevitable presence of her absence is felt.

A day after Kendra’s passing I received two messages from individuals I had never met. They had known Kendra though and she had clearly told them about me – and through Facebook they decided to contact me to make sure I was doing okay. I was unbelievably touched. This is a direct result of the power of social media. I can’t imagine how long it would have taken the news to get out to me in Oregon from Australia without Facebook – and I most certainly wouldn’t have been consoled by an Aussie who never met me.

You are not alone – you never were in fact. More people love you then the mind is capable of recognizing – and any fears or personal defeats don’t have to be fought alone. Social media unlocks the promise of a community somehow lost over the last century. While advances in transportation and urbanization have allowed us to go further and live more dispersed lives – up until recently, it has seemingly only broken the social bonds of family and friendship. With Facebook and the social media revolution however, I believe the pendulum has begun to swing back. Both tragedy and personal triumphs can be shared. Rather than having a couple of friends that you do your best to stay in touch with, you can now be connected to an entire community of people, and easily keep up with the events in their lives, as they share in yours. While many folks worry about privacy concerns, I am convinced “privacy” is an out-dated concept, the result of isolation and fear of the potential harm strangers bring. The more we get used to sharing our lives with others online, the more we will realize how much in common we have – and the more we will begin to cooperate in the success of others – and collectively mourn our tragedies. New “communities” are forming – that will be larger and more connected than traditional communities ever were.

We need not fear social media. What we should be more concerned about is loosing the connections with those around us. Stay connected.

The photograph taped to the dashboard caught my eye the second I entered the cab.  A beautiful African women in traditional clothes, sitting gracefully with a large book spread-open upon her lap and a smile that filled the car.  I assumed by her apparent age and the drivers age – that it might be his daughter.  I was soon to learn it was his fiance.

“She nearly died two days ago.  I saved her life.  She was dead – she died and came back,” he said with a voice both thick with accent and emotion when I inquired who she was.

“She died and came back?”

“She was dead – she was on the stretcher being taken to the morgue – and then she coughed and the doctor said ‘this woman is still alive.. quick… return her to the hospital.‘”

The woman in the photograph, his fiance, lives in Ghana and judging by the photograph was the epitome of youth and health.  However, earlier in the week she had complained to him via the telephone of a headache and he had told her to see a doctor.  Check-ups are not the sort of thing most can afford in Ghana – but he wired her money and insisted she visit the doctor.  However, before she could make an appointment she collapsed in the street. As no ambulance was available – her friend using the money he had wired was able to pay a man with a van to take her to the hospital where by all accounts she was declared dead.

“He would not take her until they paid him.  What kind of man is this who would not take a dying women to the hospital?  This is the way we live?”

“Disgusting,” I replied, trying to grasp the story he was rapidly unfolding for me.

“I saved her life,” he said again – his glassy eyes piercing mine through the reflection of the rear-view mirror. “If I was not her fiance, she would have died in the street. Her parents have no money – and if she was married to one of the local men – they have no money. I have the money,” he said proudly.  “They told the doctors she has a fiance in America and so they took her in.”

In the end, it turns out she is anemic and had no blood in her system.  “A heart with no blood can not beat.”  Several blood transfusions later and she was now doing well. But blood does not come cheap in Ghana. Her bill totaled in the millions for the local currency – clearly wrought with inflation. $300 US dollars – which according to him is more than the average person in Ghana would make in a year.  Her parents have no work and no money.  She supports them with the small income she makes from selling clothes that he purchased in bulk and had shipped to her.

“She must be so grateful to you,” I said studying the coarse lines of his face – the subtle in-and-out of his wide nostrils – the thickness of his neck – the indent on his right ear – the dark coarse hair that faded to white at the edges.

“Oh yes. She has called me three times in the last day just to thank me.  Her parents are so thankful she is engaged to me.  But I am thankful that she lives with them.  I had sent money and told her to move to my home in Ghana. I have a beautiful home but it is far from town and she did not want to be there all by herself.  If she had listened to me, she would have died in my house alone.  And then I would be blamed for her death.  And not being there to defend myself people would talk.  They would not learn about her anemia, but say that my home was cursed.”

“Instead you’re a hero.”

“Yes.  Instead I am the hero. I saved her life.  If she was not engaged to a man who is in America the doctors would not have seen her.  ‘Her fiance is in America‘  her parents told the hospital, so they knew she had money. And if she was here, in America, I would not have been able to afford to help her.”

“You’d be paying for the rest of your life,” I smiled into the mirror.

“Yes,” he burst out laughing and embraced the steering wheel.  “I’d be paying forever. Instead I paid $300 and saved her. A large amount in Ghana, but here, not so much.”

“Amazing,” I said darting my eyes from the mirror to the photograph and back.

“When will you return to Ghana?” I inquired.

“I am hoping in February.”

“It will be good to see her I bet,” I said while reflecting on the scale of their long-distance relationship.

“Yes, very much so.  I hope she remembers though.  A woman can forget.  When a man is not around, a woman can forget.”

“You saved her life – I don’t think she’ll forget that.”

“A woman can forget.  And it is wrong to remind them.”

“Yeah, you gotta save that one,” I joked.

“YES!” He burst out laughing again, bear-hugging the steering wheel with his massive frame.

“When she says a few years from now, ‘you never did anything nice for me’,” I continued joking.

“Yes, yes,” he roared.  “I did nothing?  I saved your life! I paid for the blood that is inside you.”

We both laughed hysterically.  “Save that one,” I joked again as the cab pulled up in front of Union Station and a light rain streaked the windows I’d ignored the entire ride- focused only on the photograph taped to the dashboard and his eyes reflecting in the mirror.

The stories people share far surpass those of any TV program or movie. This is why I travel – this is why I talk with everyone I meet.  This is what I am living for.

Somewhere in Washington DC there is a cab driver who is engaged to a beautiful woman in Ghana who died and came back on Wednesday. He spends his days driving passengers around who are likely convinced they are doing better than him and for a moment perhaps, ponder whether it is his daughter or wife in the photograph, but choose not to ask.  And the small tips and salary he makes, he sends back to Ghana, where he is a wealthy man. A man with a large home and a beautiful fiance. A man who saves lives.