Joshua Tree: Day #1... Maybe

Things around our campsite have been intense the last 6 weeks or so.  Too many fires nearby, too many bad air days, too many kids growing too fast.  We had to replace half the sleeping bags we brought because two of my children are no longer short enough to fit into the "junior" sizing.  Things that make this mama say, "oh good grief" but don't actually make me pause.  Par for the course it seems.

We are now, currently, in Palm Springs... I think.  I know we're near Joshua Tree because we went.  I haven't been since I was a kid and it's more amazing than I remember.  Em has made friends with twin girls who are traveling with their mom and grandfather for a year.  They went to the park yesterday and came back with reports of wa-wa-waaaah.  That made me nervous.  Really nervous. So did the 105F heat yesterday.  Trekking around a desert with kids in that kind of weather is just CrazyTown.  But I sucked it up, and we drove up today hoping for at least a Junior Ranger Badge in an air conditioned welcome center, if nothing else.

We are currently planning at least two more days in the park... plus an overnight... or two.

I understand where some people see desert and piles of rocks and can be completely underwhelmed by the vastness, the sheer enormity of all the forces at work to make a place like this.  Or they get overwhelmed by the sun and the heat.  I get it.  No judgements.  Promise.

For us, however, the desert is a wild and harsh place that tests the metal, demands attention, and can render one completely breathless.  I'm generally a heat-wimp.  Most days, I get grumpy around 80F and just downright melt by 92F.  I don't know where my Northern California soccer playing former self went, but she is clearly and most assuredly gone.  Give me a chunky sweater and a cool breeze any day.  That said, it was 83F today, solid breeze but not windy, and simply delicious.  My only complaint is that we didn't have our climbing gear.  The rocks just beckoned to be clambered up!  We saw roadrunners, tracked a kangaroo rat a fair distance and generally rock-hopped around a small section of the park.  We haven't gone to 3/4 of our "must see" list because we wanted to take our time, enjoy, and come back.  A few thousand miles back, we realized we'd rather content ourselves to "come back" rather than try to kill ourselves to get the "been there" picture.  Today, was no exception.

On one of our rock-hopping romps, I left Cooper, Emmerson, and Todd to climbing while I took the smaller girls back to the air conditioned car. They're still small enough for me to get fairly nervous about overheating and sunburn.  Plus, their Junior Ranger activities take them longer. Writing is still not free-flowing at 4 and 6 years of age.  A fair distance in the direction of the car, I hear my boy child whistle for me, and I see this-- him on top of a rock formation, waving wildly.  This boy drives me to the brink of sanity more than once every. single. day.  Without exception.  But then there's this.  This absolute fabulousness of my son, conquering the world (or a pile of rocks), pleased as punch with himself and wanting nothing more than to show his mama.  Be still my heart, Kid.  You're amazing! (PS If you need a magnifying glass to spot him, no worries, he's easier to spot when in surround sound anyways!!)


On that same trek back to the car, with two very brightly red-faced girls, this happened.  This girl, my mini in so very many ways, asked what her older sister meant when she said, "I stood like Peter Pan on that rock!"  I told her about the quintessential Peter Pan 'pose' and she ran ahead and said, "Like this mama?!?"  Blue skies, clouds that were just cotton candy and feathery all day, giant Joshua Trees straight out of a Dr. Suess book and this girl.

Camping for almost 5 months has had it's moments of sheer mama torture.  The washing, the dirt, the growing out of everything... it hasn't all been awesomeness and fabulous.  This was pure wonderful and pure Harper.  A moment for the books to make all the scrubbing over a spigot worth it times a thousand.

I packed every single thing that is currently traveling the country in our mini van.  Amongst the items, I brought with  me a whole crate of books and scraps of things I wanted to do this summer and fall.  Things I've put off because of work and life and mending.  I let myself fall into the trap of thinking this was "camping" in this one small, tiny way.  In every other aspect, I remembered that this was life for us, not camping.  But I somehow thought I'd have time on my hands to read a book, do some writing, maybe a craft or two.  I should have known better, I know.  There's no place in this world for a mama to accomplish things! *eye roll* Besides finishing the last 25% of art projects and handicrafts the kids leave, there's been no time for any of my crate.  Most of the time, I don't even get a moment to remember to take pretty pictures of anything but the kids.  Today, while on our hike in Hidden Valley, though, I took a few minutes.  I took pictures of this amazing charred tree.  I'm sure the thing has been the centerpiece for too many mass-produced pictures that find their way to Costco and World Market, but I couldn't help myself, it was beautiful.  Even at the wrong time of day, with harsh overhead direct sun, it was still stunning.  That might be a metaphor for the last little bit, even in the not-so-awesome-circumstances, it's still been stunning.  Maybe.  

Something-Or-Other Rosa

Internet!  What is this glorious thing called the internet?!?!

The trip East, which was beautiful but planned on the fly and therefore, harder on the packer of the family than the four year old who just looked out the window.  We now have bear stories, freezing stories, glacier stories, three wildfire stories and a half dozen bad-air-quality stories.  There's the river story and the time Todd and I were so excited to take the kids to the Yogi Bear Jellystone Campground (which was seriously amazing!) only to realize our kids have no idea who Yogi Bear is.  Oops.  We now have a serious collection of Junior Ranger Badges and there are multiple plans for "when we go back" and the "next National Park" depending on who you are talking to.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed by the trifecta of power, internet AND cell service, I'll tell a funny story... cause we have definitely had a few of those, just to get back into the groove.

We stopped somewhere in New Mexico... maybe Arizona??  I'm a little fuzzy on the details but I know the State Park had the name "Rosa" in it.  I bet a more tech-savy person would know how to look up her husband's Instagram whatever and find that information.  Alas, I'm not her.  We started the day on the war path to buy a bus (totally different story) but there was a rain delay getting out of the house which made us question the intelligence of bus-buying in the middle of Oklahoma when we were already driving two cars.  Amidst a torrential middle-America rain storm, we said our (late) goodbyes to our nephew and carried the kids out to the car (no wet feet in an itty bitty little Honda thank you very much!) and were off.  It was a long day made longer by the rain and the late start, so by the time we got to whatever state in the Southwest we were in, I was cranky.  Todd had taken the movie away from two kids and of this I swear, if you are not the parent administering the punishment, there should be some form of instant rewind or mute button by the parent who IS administering the punishment.... I know I'm not the only one who has dealt with this scenario.

Normal driving days in a tiny Honda with four kids, one mama and too many bumper stickers is about 6 hours.  Driving.  Not road time.  Add in another 1-3hrs for potty, gas, food and some form of play that doesn't involve the side of a highway (safety first now).  So an 8 hour day.  If you're smart about it, you wake said children up, so that a few hours in, they nap, even the older ones who are too "sophisticated" for naps.  This particular day had nearly 9 hours of drive time.  Nine.  That's a big number.  Factor in 7 of those minus any form of entertainment save me, car BINGO, and quiet time books and you can see where this day could be headed.  We pulled into the campsite and the first thing I realized was that there would be large amounts of bugs.  My windshield told the whole story. We were right near some reservoir and you could feel a storm coming in so the air just hung heavy and all I could think was "Please dear Lord in the Heavens above don't let the river come rushing through at 0'dark-thiry again." (Again, another story for another time.)  The bugs, however, were loving the heat and humidity.  Some might say they were downright giddy.

The kids came tumbling out of the car in fits of wails and squacks.  They are always completely useless to me when they squack.  Useless to everyone really.  And it's not like I could blame them, I wanted to beat something with a stick or eat a whole pan of brownies and lay comatosed in front of an AC unit!  Todd, who had the luxury of satellite radio, a quiet car, and plush cushy seats was in a slightly better mood than the rest of us but when they've reached that point of crazy, any sane person just backs away slowly.  Which is what he did.

Tired.  Sweaty.  Hot.  Grumpy beyond words and realizing that the only meal I have to make requires rice.  Rice requires my InstantPot.  My InstantPot requires electricity.  This is me, standing on the brink of complete implosion of the whole lot of us, with my pot and I did what any other mama in my shoes would have done.  I grabbed the kids, lied through my teeth that we were going on an "adventure" and we proceeded to hunt out a fully-equipped RV site that had the necessary electricity for the 12 minutes I needed for my rice.  As we headed back to the site peppered by screams and whines of not having a "single good adventure!" we just kept marching.  Past the site, past the cars, down to the water or river or reservoir or whatever it was that drew people out to the middle of that hot, dry, gnat-swarming area.  We marched with purpose and with gusto because I was afraid if we slowed, even a half step, we wouldn't make it before the gravitational force would suck us all down into the black hole.  When we reached the water's edge, after many attempts to get down in an orderly fashion, the kids indignantly looked around for their bathing suits.

Eyes big and sad, as if to say they couldn't fly to Neverland for lack of simple fairy dust, I started unceremoniously taking their clothes off.  At some point, Todd tried to join in on our March of Misery but had left for actual swimming things (he's so practical like that sometimes).   I knew better.  I knew, deep in my mama-bones, that if we tried to do things "appropriately" or "civilized" that my children would burst at the seams and all would be lost.  They deserved better.  It wasn't their fault rain had chased us through three states and made a long driving day longer.  It wasn't their fault we got off late.  It wasn't their fault that it was blazing hot and they were acting, well, like kids who had been stuck in a car all day.  Civility and clothing aside, we jumped into the mostly murky water and bit by bit, savored the taste of forbidden.  I even had an English lesson with the kids.  We learned the various ways to use and describe "skinny dipping" and how sometimes it's with underroos and sometimes, not.  They were completely not okay with the second portion of that description and none could fathom why ANYONE would want to swim completely naked.  It was at that very moment that Todd rejoined us, baffled but totally game for whatever mischief we were in. I love this man.  He just rolls with my nutty because on some level, he knows my nutty is usually okay.

 

On this particular occasion, as with many others, he not only rolled with the whims of his wife, he threw himself, headlong into the challenge of helping the kids shed a day's worth of cramped disappointments and half the state of Texas.  How I'll never know, but he even got Harper, who (much like her mama) doesn't like swimming in anything that might be misconstrued as "mucky" to cross the channel to the other side.

All in their underwear.

Sometimes, the days are just freaking long.  Sometimes, there's no end in sight... no end to the rain, the screaming, the whining for food or water or air that someone else isn't breathing on you. Sometimes, you need to make rice and you don't have a straightforward way to do it.  Those are the days when you just need to break the rules.  This particular spot, Something-Or-Other Rosa, somewhere in the Southwest, is still talked about amongst the kids.  We've seen Four National Parks, two National Forests, a National Recreation Area, gotten three Junior Ranger badges and witness a fire being put out on a hill from a Target Parking lot in Burbank.  This place, they still talk about. They watched their first thunderstorm roll in, two actually, and were mesmerized by lightning bolts. The sunset just before the storm was glorious, and some odd refraction behind it even more stunning.

 

They were eaten by mosquitos and two had slightly major battle scars from a round with the Playground (Playground-2, Leslie Zoo-0) and yet they still talk about going back to this place.

 

This happened.

And this happened.

And in the middle of the night, between blazing hot and freezing desert cold, we all woke up and saw more stars than any of us have ever seen before... cause when you're in the middle of Nowhere, between Texas and California, after a miserable day that seems like it just won't give up being super-duper-uber-fabulously long... sometimes, you teach your kids to skinny dip and you see stars and enjoy the magic of childhood.

West

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.

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:

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. 

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:
 

"Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood." 
-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'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."

-J.M. Barry

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.

"Sunsets, like childhood, are viewed with wonder not just because they are beautiful but because they are fleeting." 

-Richard Paul Evans (The Gift)

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