June seems a distant memory. There's a saying that stories only happen to those who can tell them. I'm not sure that's true, but this summer is so full of "stories" I've gotten a bit overwhelmed. I still haven't told the bear story... or Deception Pass... or the River Runs Through Our Tent story. I haven't sat down for the dull moments that capture parts of my heart and fill my cup full of happy. My kids have milked goats and hiked on glaciers, we've seen bald eagles, golden eagles, outran two forest fires, had an epic water fight, and driven through 19 states (I'm iffy on that number, I think it's higher)... yet no stories.
It's not for lack of fodder, there's plenty of that. It's because even here, on the road, with life stripped down to what fits into a minivan and a Honda Insight, things get crazy. Pressures and expectations weigh in. Today, as we got back onto the highway, for the first time in weeks following the sign that read "west," I felt myself take a deep breath. It wasn't because California has my heart (it doesn't but I like it more than others if I'm honest). I took a deep breath because for the first time in weeks, expectations and "plans" were once again fluid, back in the realm of mine.
On paper, taking to the road can seem romantic and fabulous, but for me, the thing that's far more appealing is to be expectation and obligation free. To know that I need to get done today what I determine to get done, nothing more, nothing less. I have four kids, so there's never going to be an obligation free time. And I wouldn't ever want that. But there's a very large difference between having a to-do list that includes a few meals, some clean-up, and keeping the zoo animals from killing each other and a to-do list that is more 'traditional'... work, meals, cleaning, washing, practice, ballet, commuting, checking in with kids and partner.
I'm such a terribly slow person, my personal time-frames are so warped because of that, and it makes me so very much a cultivator of moments. I settle into watching my babes together (those rare times when they're being absolute angels to each other) rather than taking a quick picture or noticing and moving on. It's why I don't drink hot coffee anymore, I don't want the distraction of even worrying about my coffee getting cold to distract from the possibility of the day and all it might hold for me. I snuggle into a great moment. Sit along side it, silently share a sunset because moments can last hours in my opinion. There's this great phrase in a particular translation of a verse in the New Testament-- a slave to hope.
I've often mused that I think my evangelical tradition did a grave disservice to my generation by putting such a heavy emphasis on where you'll go after you die because by default, if that's the question, then that means that temporal, right now, here, today, moments, aren't as important as THEN... somewhere out there, down the line, at those Pearly Gates. I'm not arguing theology or anything crazy like that, I'm simply saying I wish there was a second narrative, another story besides just that one. I wish there had been validation for pausing in moments, for sitting and enjoying a stream, watching the lightning bugs for hours, laughing at a child with a muddy bum at 5 am during an unexpected rainstorm (while you're camping and caught unprepared). Not just noting a marvelous moment and moving along the conveyor belt of life, but deeply settling into the moment, fully occupying that space. Pulling up a chair and bearing witness rather than making a footnote.
I got on the interstate today, under a sign that read "west" and claimed, even if just a centimeter more, my rooting as a slave to hope... completely and foundationally chained to the idea of hope for the possibilities of today, hope for the potential of right now, hope that there's more than expectations and obligations, hope for myself and my babes, hope that the loudest narratives isn't the only narrative, hope that bearing witness is just as valid because God is just as present in this moment as Love will be at those Pearly Gates. I'm utterly enslaved to that idea that there's more to look for then someday... that the One who Was and Is and Is to Come is just as present today as He will be on that day.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Lightning
Yesterday was packing day. That means the kids and Todd get to play at the pool, usually miniature golf and any other camp games (horse shoes, shuffle board, whatever happens to be around). It's usually a day of putting things to right. Loads of laundry (which means scraps and bits of reading time for me) and general cleaning everything out, packing away, and loading the car.
I like moving day. I wouldn't say I look forward to it, but usually by the time we leave a place, I'm ready for another spot, another adventure, another arch nemesis (dust at one, mud from the lake at the next, the frigid coastal wind... every place has something). Yesterday though, I was dragging my feet, not ready to leave the Pacific Northwest. The schedule, the itinerary for next few weeks hasn't been in my wheel-house of 'normal' for a good long while. Even when we're "camping" (it's closer to tiny-house moving in my opinion), I've got all my things. I get to spread my kitchen the way I want, decide on bedtimes and adventures. I like being without obligations and unfettered from anyone else's schedule but my own (heavily influence by the kids). Today started the first of many days in which we're in a place for sleeping, then on to the next. If we're not driving (which there will be loads of that) then we're staying with friends or family.
Yesterday, I did my normal moving-day thing. I swept and cleaned, but this time I wiped down the tent, I packed it with greater care, because it's going away until the end of August. Many of you out there can't imagine living in 180 sq. ft. with four small kids, but I personally selected every piece that's in that 180 sq. ft. and, well, I get attached easily. It's been five years since I was without my own space traveling cross-country. Mind you, I've done it three separate times with the church and another one in there on our own, with various numbers and ages of kids. It has been done, and I'm personally over it. It's a deep sigh. The deep sigh only a good teacher in the middle of state mandated testing can understand. It's a depths-of-your-soul resignation to the seemingly endless tedium when there are so many other things which could occupy that space of time.
We left Western Washington this morning, with all her splendor shrouded in a thickening veil of smoke and soot from a fire raging in British Colombia. We expected it to get better as we drove east, having preselected a very scenic and off-the-beaten-path byway, but most of the majesty was tented, hidden from view. At one point, visibility was half a mile, if that. The fire made it easy to insist on coming back, and that's when I began to think through why I've been so reluctant to change gears from our previous planned gypsy path to another gypsy path. I'm not sure I've come to any good reason, other than we're coming and going, too quickly for more than a check mark on a laundry list of things to see, places to go.
I loved watching the movie Bucket List. I genuinely have always found Jack Nicholson to be hilarious and Morgan Freedman is just spectacular. Maybe if I knew I was dying, I'd have a different thought, but I remember at the end of the movie realizing that I am not a "bucket list" type of person. I do not now nor do I think I ever will have a list of things I wish to check off. I'm a priority person to my bones. I have a list of priorities that are so marrow-deep within me that there's no compromising. That list of priorities has enabled me to be free, in the moment, to enjoy a place, a person, an event, whatever. For example, I'm not a planner. The idea of planning anything doesn't terrify me, it just makes me weary to my core. Yet I have a high priority on people, specifically my people. So when my little brother up and married on a Thursday and called me about it afterwards, I vowed to throw he and his wife a beautiful welcome-to-our-crazy-crew shower... and when she got pregnant and (finally) allowed me to throw said shower, I enjoyed every minute of it. For me, it's not the action, it's the motivation that always matters. The motivation for the shower-- my love of a baby brother and his wife. The planning and preparing? Take it or leave it. It's why I bake, never cater. It's why I love having large groups at my house, but not "host". To some, that may feel like semantics, but to me, it's vastly different.
We've been motivated by a deep sense of priority to family and being outdoors together and in what John Muir calls the glorious cathedrals. One of my favorite quotes by him:
We've been out of step with our own priorities, those priorities of pray and play, beauty and bread together. I rather incredulously insisted we recalibrate, refocus. This current leg of the journey, packing most of our gear until we're back in California the end of next month; it's bittersweet. I'm excited to change plans, see people who weren't on our radar because they were all too far away. I'm excited about family and celebrations. I'm not excited to feel this heavy pressure of checking places off a bucket list. Glacier National Park. Check. Wenatchee State Park. Check. Snoqualmie National Forest. Check.
Today, as we were driving in what I can only imagine is a stunning valley (air quality from the BC fire) on the far reaches of apple country in Washington State, a golden eagle swooped down and made a u-turn right in front and above our car. We were all so excited, and I was breathing a deep breath of appreciation when Cooper emphatically calls from the back, "Golden Eagle. Whew! Glad I've seen one of those now too. What eagles are left Em?"
For a few weeks now, we'll be checking things off lists. Our tents are packed and we're in pop-up tent contraptions; we are stripped down to a bare-bones basics. I much prefer this type of camping, because it actually is camping. But as we head east, and look forward to all the Midwest will bring, tucked into the back of my mind is a stubborn, almost toddler insistence that soon, very soon, I'll get my way. Soon, very soon, we won't be a family who sees a golden eagle in majestic flight and drive on. Soon, we will stop for a while. We'll talk about eagles and their life cycles, we'll try and catch more glimpses. We'll have a conversation about conservation and threats to that particular species. Because somewhere in those tight-fited regions of my mind, I know where I want to steer my zoo, and check lists are near the direction, but in the completely wrong spirit.
I like moving day. I wouldn't say I look forward to it, but usually by the time we leave a place, I'm ready for another spot, another adventure, another arch nemesis (dust at one, mud from the lake at the next, the frigid coastal wind... every place has something). Yesterday though, I was dragging my feet, not ready to leave the Pacific Northwest. The schedule, the itinerary for next few weeks hasn't been in my wheel-house of 'normal' for a good long while. Even when we're "camping" (it's closer to tiny-house moving in my opinion), I've got all my things. I get to spread my kitchen the way I want, decide on bedtimes and adventures. I like being without obligations and unfettered from anyone else's schedule but my own (heavily influence by the kids). Today started the first of many days in which we're in a place for sleeping, then on to the next. If we're not driving (which there will be loads of that) then we're staying with friends or family.
Yesterday, I did my normal moving-day thing. I swept and cleaned, but this time I wiped down the tent, I packed it with greater care, because it's going away until the end of August. Many of you out there can't imagine living in 180 sq. ft. with four small kids, but I personally selected every piece that's in that 180 sq. ft. and, well, I get attached easily. It's been five years since I was without my own space traveling cross-country. Mind you, I've done it three separate times with the church and another one in there on our own, with various numbers and ages of kids. It has been done, and I'm personally over it. It's a deep sigh. The deep sigh only a good teacher in the middle of state mandated testing can understand. It's a depths-of-your-soul resignation to the seemingly endless tedium when there are so many other things which could occupy that space of time.
We left Western Washington this morning, with all her splendor shrouded in a thickening veil of smoke and soot from a fire raging in British Colombia. We expected it to get better as we drove east, having preselected a very scenic and off-the-beaten-path byway, but most of the majesty was tented, hidden from view. At one point, visibility was half a mile, if that. The fire made it easy to insist on coming back, and that's when I began to think through why I've been so reluctant to change gears from our previous planned gypsy path to another gypsy path. I'm not sure I've come to any good reason, other than we're coming and going, too quickly for more than a check mark on a laundry list of things to see, places to go.
I loved watching the movie Bucket List. I genuinely have always found Jack Nicholson to be hilarious and Morgan Freedman is just spectacular. Maybe if I knew I was dying, I'd have a different thought, but I remember at the end of the movie realizing that I am not a "bucket list" type of person. I do not now nor do I think I ever will have a list of things I wish to check off. I'm a priority person to my bones. I have a list of priorities that are so marrow-deep within me that there's no compromising. That list of priorities has enabled me to be free, in the moment, to enjoy a place, a person, an event, whatever. For example, I'm not a planner. The idea of planning anything doesn't terrify me, it just makes me weary to my core. Yet I have a high priority on people, specifically my people. So when my little brother up and married on a Thursday and called me about it afterwards, I vowed to throw he and his wife a beautiful welcome-to-our-crazy-crew shower... and when she got pregnant and (finally) allowed me to throw said shower, I enjoyed every minute of it. For me, it's not the action, it's the motivation that always matters. The motivation for the shower-- my love of a baby brother and his wife. The planning and preparing? Take it or leave it. It's why I bake, never cater. It's why I love having large groups at my house, but not "host". To some, that may feel like semantics, but to me, it's vastly different.
We've been motivated by a deep sense of priority to family and being outdoors together and in what John Muir calls the glorious cathedrals. One of my favorite quotes by him:
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.
We've been out of step with our own priorities, those priorities of pray and play, beauty and bread together. I rather incredulously insisted we recalibrate, refocus. This current leg of the journey, packing most of our gear until we're back in California the end of next month; it's bittersweet. I'm excited to change plans, see people who weren't on our radar because they were all too far away. I'm excited about family and celebrations. I'm not excited to feel this heavy pressure of checking places off a bucket list. Glacier National Park. Check. Wenatchee State Park. Check. Snoqualmie National Forest. Check.
Today, as we were driving in what I can only imagine is a stunning valley (air quality from the BC fire) on the far reaches of apple country in Washington State, a golden eagle swooped down and made a u-turn right in front and above our car. We were all so excited, and I was breathing a deep breath of appreciation when Cooper emphatically calls from the back, "Golden Eagle. Whew! Glad I've seen one of those now too. What eagles are left Em?"
For a few weeks now, we'll be checking things off lists. Our tents are packed and we're in pop-up tent contraptions; we are stripped down to a bare-bones basics. I much prefer this type of camping, because it actually is camping. But as we head east, and look forward to all the Midwest will bring, tucked into the back of my mind is a stubborn, almost toddler insistence that soon, very soon, I'll get my way. Soon, very soon, we won't be a family who sees a golden eagle in majestic flight and drive on. Soon, we will stop for a while. We'll talk about eagles and their life cycles, we'll try and catch more glimpses. We'll have a conversation about conservation and threats to that particular species. Because somewhere in those tight-fited regions of my mind, I know where I want to steer my zoo, and check lists are near the direction, but in the completely wrong spirit.
Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.
-Mark Twain
I'm not ready to settle for just the thunder... not yet anyways. I'll wait a bit, see some beautiful places and beloved people, and when that's all done, I'll come back to our priorities, and we'll watch as the sky is ablaze in the lightning storms.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Ticking Crocodile
I've been quiet for a bit. Partly because we've been up to so many grand adventures and partly because there's been behind-the-scenes life happening beyond us. Our course has changed, in two slightly big ways and I'm reframing. We're cutting our time in Washington and the Pacific Northwest short, but I know we'll be back. This place, this small corner of the world, has a wild and gentle tug. It is much like the unfettered 3 year old who boldly takes your hand with dirt-smudged face and a chubby hand gripping a worn book and looks up at you expectantly. It's irresistible.
We'll be traveling back east to celebrate creation, life, and beauty in another way, but this blog, this tiny spot in the blogosphere, isn't about storing vacation photos and stories. It's never been about making people jealous or to endorse a city or trip or country. This blog from its inception has been about giving voice and a bit of grit to the communal experiment of this little family.
Last night, as I was sitting on my aunt and uncle's deck in Western Washington looking out at a truly breathtaking view of Mt. Baker and the Twin Sisters, my attention was drawn not to the stunning natural beauty as the mountains wrapped themselves in the glorious oranges and pinks of sunset, but to the living room. To my babes huddled together completely mesmerized by a picture in an old National Geographic.
There was so much beauty on that couch.
That's why we're here. Not because it's logistically the easiest option, but because in this stripped-down landscape, those moments to BE are built right into the day-to-day system. I was introduced to this when I was 20, in the home of a Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, where his words were displayed and they stopped me in my tracks:
So far, sticks have become fairy wands and a professor's pointer, all in the span of 30 minutes. Siblings are teachers and queens, friends and mortal enemies. I want, someday when they read Matched, for my kids to emphatically agree with it's author when she says,
Selfishly, very selfishly, I also want a front-row seat to their Neverland adventures. J.M. Barry was many things,for me, truth telling poet chief among them. I want to witness when my kids land "on the magic shores children at play are forever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more."
I'm not chasing my kids back into childhood. Every time I have one of those moments where I realize my babe is getting bigger, I'm so excited for them. That doesn't mean I'm not desperate to keep them out, wild and free in the garden as long as they can, so they don't miss even one lightning bug, not one single shooting star. And even if I can't land with them, I want them to have a ticketed passenger on the seat next to them.
"I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us."
Let him chase you my babies... for this game of chase, if your Mama has her say about it, will be a truly grand and memorable adventure.
We'll be traveling back east to celebrate creation, life, and beauty in another way, but this blog, this tiny spot in the blogosphere, isn't about storing vacation photos and stories. It's never been about making people jealous or to endorse a city or trip or country. This blog from its inception has been about giving voice and a bit of grit to the communal experiment of this little family.
Last night, as I was sitting on my aunt and uncle's deck in Western Washington looking out at a truly breathtaking view of Mt. Baker and the Twin Sisters, my attention was drawn not to the stunning natural beauty as the mountains wrapped themselves in the glorious oranges and pinks of sunset, but to the living room. To my babes huddled together completely mesmerized by a picture in an old National Geographic.
There was so much beauty on that couch.
That's why we're here. Not because it's logistically the easiest option, but because in this stripped-down landscape, those moments to BE are built right into the day-to-day system. I was introduced to this when I was 20, in the home of a Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, where his words were displayed and they stopped me in my tracks:
"Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood."
-Pablo Neruda
-Pablo Neruda
So far, sticks have become fairy wands and a professor's pointer, all in the span of 30 minutes. Siblings are teachers and queens, friends and mortal enemies. I want, someday when they read Matched, for my kids to emphatically agree with it's author when she says,
"growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled."
-Ally Condie
Selfishly, very selfishly, I also want a front-row seat to their Neverland adventures. J.M. Barry was many things,for me, truth telling poet chief among them. I want to witness when my kids land "on the magic shores children at play are forever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more."
"I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us."
-J.M. Barry
"Sunsets, like childhood, are viewed with wonder not just because they are beautiful but because they are fleeting."
-Richard Paul Evans (The Gift)
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