Logistics

For many, the news that we're off the proverbial roller coaster of life may sound a bit shocking.  Believe me, it's been a long, deliberate path.  I never anticipated it all to happen so smoothly or so quickly, but it did, and I couldn't be happier about it all.  Now, nearly a month in, I'm still beyond glad I said "enough" to the unimportant and decided to recalibrate back to us, our family, the heartbeat that is us. 

We have a fridge.  We have a freezer.  We even splurged on a big Coleman ice cooler as well.  I have two sets of proper metal shelves, and some pretty and well-loved cookware.  Because we're staying on the West Coast, and because it is fire season, there isn't as much cast iron as I would like, but I have my InstantPot and my tea kettle (I know, I'm a pretty lucky girl).  At no point in all the decision making was there a moment where I felt like I was being "deprived."  Believe me, this doesn't work if anyone is grumpy about the choices.  Both Todd and I are "outdoorsy" people.  My Christmas Wish List always has items from REI and  LL Bean (my world changed when I encountered their organic flannel sheets, just saying).  There might be a smattering of books in there too, but there's never going to be a desire for fancy shoes, designer jeans, or even products for skin/hair/whatever.  It's just not me.  I was the kid who spilled a big bowl of rolly-polly bugs on my grandmother's livingroom floor.  I gave massive rocks to relatives because I was convinced they were the most beautiful things ever.  I know I'm an odd duck.  I know this type of hiatus isn't for everyone.  I also know, for me, it is.

Our tent, which I insisted on bringing from South Africa, is either 160 sq. ft. or 180 sq. ft. (depending on who you're talking to) and has a 9-10ft clearance inside depending on the slope of the site.  It has four rooms.  It's technically a tent, but I call it my tiny house.  Yes, we're still sleeping on the floor, but my "floor" is covered in inches of padding, nearly 8 inches of latex foam topped by organic wool and cotton, covered in real sheets from LL Bean.  No self-respecting Californian who lives outside of LA County would call what we're doing 'roughing it'.  For me, 5th wheel trailers, pop-up tents and RVs require too much driver learning.  Everything we have fits in the back of our beat-up mini van.  The kids and I fit in our Honda hybrid and we're off.  It feels safer this way, no chance of everyone being stranded without cell reception and no way of getting help while driving from place to place.  And, I love this tent.  I love that I have memories in this tent that predate my last two kids.  I love that this tent has campsites and friends I'll most likely never see again all wrapped up in the double-walled durable canvas sides.  

We also stay (mostly) at campgrounds with full amenities-- water, electricity, tables, bathrooms, pool, game lodges, etc.  The last camp grounds even had complimentary s'mores nights, movie nights, and other activities for the kids.  We've been enjoying meeting new friends, chatting with various characters from all walks of life and manner of places.  Some are full-time travelers, others are on the road for a bit, and some of the more boisterous ones are up for a weekend.  We've had a good time with all so far (except the one night with the bears, but that's a different story altogether).  We have a general idea of where we'd like to go and when, dictated mostly by catching up with friends, going places I've wanted to share with the others, and generally staying out of the middle of the California fire/miserable-summer season.  Currently, we're staying up at Seal Beach (near Newport) in Oregon.  We're a footpath from the beach, and the kids are loving the tide pools, the drift wood, and the neighbor kids.  The wind has kicked up the last two days, but that's being sea-side if you ask me. 

I spent a few weeks stockpiling items in a large tote for when the kids are "bored" or needing a break from unfettered play.  I have all manner of things in there including art supplies, tangrams, origami, and handicrafts.  I also packed games (so very many games) and a wooden crate of books.  I think, even if we stayed out here for three months of straight rain, we'd still have more activities to do than time to do them all in. 

Moving from site to site isn't as seamless as I'd like, but the last move was under heavy air quality advisories because of a nearby fire and the kids' in-flight entertainment (aka a cheap DVD) wasn't working.  If those are the worst issues, I'd still call it a win.  On the drive from Tahoe National Forest to the Oregon Coast, we stopped and saw Uncle David and Aunt Connie, Mt. Shasta, and some elk.  It was about as picturesque as the opening scene from The Sound of Music, and because we move every week or two, the kids actually really need the rest in the car.  Time to rest  their skin from the relentless sunshine, rest for their weary bodies that have played hard, rest for their mama who could use a bit of quiet and some NPR.

In a few days, we'll pack up from the Oregon Coast and head north and a bit east, going through Seattle and hooking a right.  This isn't a vacation, where we eat and shop and do all that we can cram into our days before heading back to the "real world."  We eat like we normally would (except for the Garlic, Parmesan & Chive butter we discovered at the Farmer's Market, because that stuff is straight from heaven!), the kids play as hard as they would if we were in our house in Oakland, and we still don't really shop.  But it's a break from 'normal', and things have moved just far enough away from the day-to-day grooved tracks of life that we can't just go about each day like we did the day before, and for that awareness, I'm again and again glad for my tiny house. 

I'm having issues with uploading pictures, so I mostly gave up.  If you want to see photos of what would normally be on the blog, Todd and I are both on Facebook.  I'm also on Instagram and we have a hashtag (I still have no idea what that means other than Todd tells me to use it whenever I post) at #outoftheweedsintothewoods  Here's to intentional adventuring!!

Off. The. Ride.

Describing life in the past decade is beyond hard for me to do, but increasingly, it has felt like this one odd and depleting night from college.  I was an athlete back then and thus, part of the glorious tradition of moving back to school weeks before the rest of campus.  One night, after two practices in the August heat of the Midwest, some of my teammates decided they wanted to have some "fun."  They called around and got a group of male athletes together to take a bunch of us soccer players to a local county fair.  Back then, I still pretended to be an extrovert- always up for an outing and all that, so of course I was invited, and of course I went.  Truth was, though, I was exhausted.  I'd driven from California to Illinois, then moved my universe into a dorm room without the help and fanfare of all the "normal" move-in days.  Then started the unending round of being with people, lots and lots of people.  Practices, physical therapy, watching video and discussing strategies, then back to more practice, more physical therapy, only to do it all again at 5am the next day. 

This was my frame of mind as we drove.  Tired.  Bone tired.  And then, we got to the fair. 

You're supposed to be loud at a fair, and middle-of-nowhere Illinois farm-town was no exception.  At a fair, you're supposed to have fun, spend money, be carefree, and all that nonsense.  This is what my compatriots did.  They gleefully bought tickets to go on rides, tickets that cost money I didn't have.  Eventually, someone pressed three pink tickets into my hand, making me embarrassed and ashamed, but not wanting to let on.  We went on the giant slide, the unhygienic burlap scratching and hurting the backs of my knees which had been hopelessly sunburnt.  But I didn't want to be dead weight, disappointing the group, so I pressed on.  At each intersection, the House of Horrors, the Magic Dragon, tickets appeared in my hand because someone felt sorry for me, or thought I'd finally have fun on this one. 

It all seemed too much-- too many noises, too many lights, too much false enthusiasm, too much money.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, we came to the most terrifying ride.  The giant circle looked older than I was, and the operator looked like he hadn't seen the inside of a permanent structure since the Reagan Era.  Everyone else was going, and someone had already paid for me.  My heart sank.  I just wanted to go home, yet I knew I couldn't get there without going through this cursed ride.  The ride started in it's unrelenting circular motion, where centripetal force enacts on your body in such a way that there is no up or down, no east or west, only a desire to go home...

That moment of confusion, that whole night filled with anger at myself and false bravado, that moment has been my world.

So... I got off the ride.

I still can't tell right from left.  I'm still all over the place from the dizzying spin and my senses are still overwhelmed from all the residual unwanted stimuli, but I'm on my hands and knees in the grass and OFF.  THE.  RIDE.

There is a turn of phrase in the food service industry for when you are beyond your capacity to service your customers to your standard.  They say you're in the weeds.  I've been in the weeds, at my own version of the county fair.  This is the story about my journey out of the fair, out of the weeds.  Right now, every single system is completely overloaded and I have no idea if "home" or "peace" or "holy" (because to me, they're all the same) is left or right or right and three-quarters or maybe not quite.  But I know the closer I stay to the grass, to the earth, the less I'll wobble and stumble.  I know home isn't where I've been, so I fill my lungs with the scent of green and I follow it, crawling away from the chaos and noise, towards the fields, the trees... towards home... towards my own heart.  

"Going to the woods is going home"
                               -John Muir