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A week, in this place, and I have lost all sense of time. It stands still, moves back, lurches forward. I am forced to constantly find my bearings.

Chautauqua, N.Y., is like no other place I have ever been. I am in the place that gave birth to a movement of traveling tent shows that moved across America in the early 20th century; its purpose to bring culture and ideas, spirituality and enlightenment. Today is no different.

Except, I am here.

I keep thinking if I close my eyes tightly enough, when I open them I'll be awash in crinoline, my $4 latte replaced by a .25 cent milkshake. That is the effect it has on me as I walk down the brick walkways, past the gingerbread cottages lined with Brown Eyed Susans and hydrangeas. People sitting on wrap-around porches at all hours of the day and night. Unlocked doors and unattended children. How many yesterdays is that? I don't want to count that high.

We have come here, my friends and I, to reconnect - with each other, with ourselves, with something lost we are hoping to find. We are on a holiday of the spirit. And, I'm not sure any of us are entirely prepared.

"Those things really disturb me," my one friend says. She motions toward a motorized scooter with an octogenarian in tow. They are everywhere, scooters and octogenarians alike.

Clearly, we are not the prime demographic attending the daily lectures at Chautauqua. Then, again, I prefer to be in bed by 9 p.m. and within walking distance of a serviceable bathroom at all times. Old is a relative term.

Meanwhile, I have my own anxieties. While it's all very ecumenical here, spirituality made institutional leaves me bereft. I have never been one to go to church. But, walking within the grounds of the institution I'm confronted by one denominational house after another. Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Catholics, they're all here. From a distance, they remind me of fraternity houses on a college campus until I see the cross near the front door and realize there's probably not a keg in the basement. The thought leaves me the tiniest bit queasy in the way that taxi cabs that smell of curry or bouts of cognitive dissonance do.

The Pursuit of Happiness: that is the theme this week - officially by way of the speaker series and unofficially as far as we are concerned. We listen to a Supreme Court justice, a classics professor, social scientists who have advised presidents, a neurobiologist and a smattering of religious scholars. Each tackles the issue from a different vantage point, every one seems to come to the same conclusion.

Happiness is not pleasure. It is not a sudden burst of dopamine after winning the lottery or tucking into a piece of chocolate cake. Defining happiness is far more complex and achieving it these days seemingly far more elusive.

It requires intention. Engaging in something bigger than ourselves. Getting out of our own heads. Entertaining the notion that connection cannot only be by series of texts, emails, pings and blips on a screen.

We reap what we sow.

I watch the people stream into the amphitheater to listen to another speaker, so many frail of body but strong of spirit. And, I am struck by the fact that I am the one who needs buttressing. For, I feel time moving inside of me - generations past and generations to come. My knees buckle at the weight. At the end of this week, I know two things: that I am not nearly as strong or as weak as I think I am, and that I am part of something more.

Something more.

- Jen Havice

Jen Havice is a blogger, writer and social media consultant. When not helping small businesses navigate the social networking jungle at Make Mention Media, she writes social commentary and humor on her website, When Pigs Fly. She and her husband along with two big dogs and an even larger horse call Minneapolis home.