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)
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
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!!
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!!
Sunday, July 23, 2017
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
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
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Singing Hallelujah
In the 90s movie Dangerous Minds Michelle Pheiffer's character gets her class' attention by using the word "choose" in one of her first lessons. She later says that each person in her class has a choice, always.
The Call
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a queit word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Until it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say 'goodbye'
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say 'goodbye'
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say 'goodbye'
"You can either choose to leave here and not graduate, or you can stay and put up with me.
It may not be a choice that you like, but you do have a choice."
When all this madness happened, I was left without a choice… or at least, that is my perspective. It may seem insignificant or even purely symbolic to ask a person's opinion especially if the answer seems completely obvious, but the very action, the physicality of withholding says my decision isn't important, my voice not worth hearing. Decisions may bruise my heart, but not even asking my opinion breaks it.
Today, I made a choice, one of very few that I've been able to make over the last 16 months. Almost everything has been dictated- by people, by circumstance, by finances. This was completely and truly my choice. It's a choice that closed a circle I never wanted to close. My heart and soul flourished in South Africa… I still slip and say 'back home'. A series of what some may call serendipitous, others fate, I call God-ordained events occurred and I found what would become my tribes. Two distinct groupings of people who were destined to become so integral in my heart finding a home I can't separate, even months later, the circumstances, the people, and the places. Two years ago I had just come into a place of leadership, a leadership I'd delayed because of my family, the responsibilities of work, and my own self-doubts. One tribe I had to completely abandon, unable to contribute from such a distance. In the other, I was in the process of completing my leadership training. Today, I clicked on the "SEND" button for the final submission of my application. I've been delaying it, because, for a thousand reasons that won't really make sense to anyone else, as long as my application was outstanding, as long as I hadn't finished "my part," then I was still there, still connected, still a part of something familiar, something I was capable in, something that made me feel even marginally useful. Almost like the baby bird who knows they must leave the nest, but hangs on for one more day, one more feeding, one more warm night beneath mother's feathers. As long as I didn't complete that application, I was still a member, they were still my people, I might still be able to go home. It was my only choice for months and months, and I didn't want to finally cut the last heartstring, so I held out.
I held out through my father's funeral, I held out through a cross-continental move. I held out through a nearly-failed career change and my grandfather's funeral. I held out through my child's spirit and inquisitive nature being beaten up and held ransomed to the American School System with it's Common Core robotic disciplines. I held out through a conference back home I felt I deserve (yes, present tense) to be part of, a sort of completion of a dream I had held in my heart for so long. I held out through my friend's apology, though not needed, because I knew how he felt before he did. I've held out through birthdays and anniversaries because my heart still wants to go back and shout at the top of my lungs, "please, give me a chance to choose… give me a voice."
I have lost so much in the last 16 months. I was listening to a podcast by the person I would consider to be my pastor, although his church doesn't receive any tithe from me, nor am I a member of his congregation. He was preaching out of 1 John and talking about how we can't really get what it was like for the Jews of the first century to be booted from the synagogue. They lost their families, their jobs, their religious community and their cultural identity. I was listening while driving and the sobs racked through me, because I know what that feels like… to have it all yanked away. Walking away is different. To be left without a say, without a VOICE, it makes you doubt in a way I can't explain. And that doubt plagues and haunts not just in the far corners of your soul, but out in the open, in the daylight, in the grit of day-to-day.
Today, when I completed my application, I heard my voice, a faint whisper from a ghostly shadow, but there nonetheless, for the first time in a long time, amidst the grit of daily life. I miss my tribes. I miss my friends and my home and my familiar. I miss my heart and the sound of my own mamma bear roar.
I've been trying to get things back, put things back together, piece my life and my heart into some semblance of 'normal'. But unlike moving house and figuring out where to pack away the dishes, unpacking your life is a bit more difficult. And, in all of it, I've often felt guilt... overwhelming guilt. Guilt about the shoulders of friends back home I was still standing on, guilt that I haven't been doing "better" by them. Guilt that I have been so selfish, so Brittany-centered, so lost and tossed about. Guilt that none of this "should have been..." Should have been so massive, Should have been so traumatic... Should have been prevented. Then I heard this song, sung by artist Regina Spektor and it knit itself into a hole I haven't been able to put words into.
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a queit word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Until it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say 'goodbye'
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say 'goodbye'
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
'Til they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say 'goodbye'
I am, once again, an alien in a foreign land. To many, that may sound ludicrous because I am in fact, back on native soil, but my heart belonged somewhere else long before I ever left America. Madeline L'Engle put it best in A Wrinkle in Time when Calvin said to Meg Murray, "I've never even seen your house, and I have the funniest feeling that for the first time in my life I'm going home!" The dream that I had, that I married my future to, that I clung to for dear life as a child, is obliterated, completely gone. The last heartstring was cut this morning, and my soul is saddened by that. I came full-circle. I am now no longer an expat living where my heart thrives, but an American struggling to find my footing. Like the kids in The Chronicles of Narnia who were more alive, more at home in Narnia than England, I too was a better person away from these shores. I got a chance, for five glorious years of life and babies and friends and struggle and laundry and gardening, to be at home in my own skin, in my own heart.
A friend recently visited me. She gave me insight that I will forever be grateful for. She pointed out that I'm really good at being me if given half a chance. That simply inviting people to join life, mine and my family's, IS a gift. Over the last 16 months, I've fought depression, homesickness, grief, mourning, loss and crippling changes. That American adage to "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" has been so far from applicable it's not even remotely funny. Looking back, I see how I could have fared better, should have been more, coped better. But the one thing I held on to, even in all of it, was that invitation. The thing about my tribes that I've missed the most is how grounded and centered I felt in who I was, because I was surrounded by people who repeatedly and honestly pushed me to be just me. To own my own footprints- no more, no less. So many people here, especially in the church-attending communities, have brushed me off... brushed off our struggles as "hiccups" along the bumpy road of life. We've been easily discarded with cliches and maddeningly simplistic sayings. "Whenever God closes a door, He opens a window..." or "You'll never get more than you can handle..." or something equally insane. My tribes proved to me that who I am is so messy. And, the me that I like best is the me that says my mess is okay, not an incumbrance to social interaction or some dirty secret to hide in a dark corner but a venue for friendship. Come into my house, I'll cook a mean Cashew Chicken Curry for you, just push the unfolded laundry aside. Come join me for coffee, I'll try really hard not to complain too much about my kids because I'm up to my eyeballs in trying to steer them through life and I'll listen to you and we'll laugh, promise. Come over, sleep in my beds, I'll make you whole-wheat buttermilk waffles for breakfast and we can hang out in pajamas until 11, no judgements.
Last November I committed to being fully present, not spinning my wheels because it made me feel better to be "doing something" but to wait, deal with each moment as it came. I've honored that. I've chosen to stay in the weeds as long as it took to find the path again. I still wish my path was the yellow brick road I was on, leading me back home. But with every part of who I am, I know I can't go back, no matter how much I want to. My "pastor" is back in my "home" celebrating and honoring dear folks and I'm crushingly sad about it, but I made a choice even in the midst of that reality… a choice to say goodbye, because it's the right thing to do. I don't know what's next, and I know good things will come of all this. But please don't think, in your naiveness of my great and big God, that this was ever a Plan A… He's working things into a "good" but there was a fight, a massive, all-consuming fight for each person to have free-will. It cost Him His Son, and He will always allow people to have the power to weald their wills, even when it means that there's collateral damage. Even as I stand amidst a broken heart that is the definition of collateral damage that could have really, really used close friends, familiar and comforting settings over the losses of this last year, I stand as the psalmist, the songwriter… singing Hallelujah. Because I don't have to say goodbye forever. I can cut the heartstrings, remember the memories, and come when they call... and answering the call to remember friends, places, spiritual awakenings and life-altering moments of truth, just as in the darkest of emotional holes you can fall down into, in ALL of them, there is always the choice to sing "hallelujah."
Sunday, January 18, 2015
How Do You...??
I was asked today by fellow mamma-in-the-trenches How far apart are they? So I responded with their respective gaps: 15 months, 18 months, and 19 months. Her response was exactly what I expected. HOW?!?!
I know what she was saying. I know exactly what she meant. She's up to her eyeballs in books and milestones and uncertainty about how to not drown in work and gas pains and sleepless nights and the strange but all-too-familiar urge to obsess about poop. Yep. I knew what she meant... because I was exactly like her a not too many years back.
So I told her exactly what was on my heart. You can do this. You too can choose. There is no glass ceiling, no shame in wanting only one or wanting half a dozen (or more!). Motherhood is like shoes, it comes in every shape, size, and color.
I stumbled upon this blog this week. I loved how she put it:
Every child has the potential to do something great in the world. So please, give the
mother of these children the support and encouragement she needs whether it is her first child or her ninth. Because your last child deserves just as much excitement as your first.
I love that. I was trying to explain all this, in a friendly, non-overwhelming way to this buddy of mine when I saw the deer-in-headlights look getting more and more pronounced. I stopped. There is a point at which, with a new babe in arms, you just can't remember what it feels like to have a deep, unencumbered breath of air that fills your lungs, refreshing your very soul. Everything, everything seems overwhelming. The next diaper change, the next feed. The brand of laundry detergent or the cause for a child's incessant screaming. It's all so much... so much more than what you expected, what you prepared for. This poor girl was in the throws of it, and I wasn't helping.
At that same moment, another girl came up to ask me a question. One of the most heartbreaking losses in leaving South Africa was the loss of my credibility. This may seem frivolous to some but it was extremely important to me. I had a few mommy groups I was active in and I had slowly but surely been fostered, guided and matured as a mom, enough to feel like I not only had legs to stand on but that those legs could and would help support other moms. Therein was my credibility. Here, no one has seen me with only one babe struggling to carry her around a growing belly. No one has seen me battle thrush for two and half months with a boy who didn't stop screaming until after his first birthday. Here, people only see a mom who can manage four kids in a grocery store, even once or twice without any meltdowns, on her own. What used to be credibility...relevance really, and give others the option to come and chat about the brutality of kids and trying to drink a cup of hot coffee is now something that makes people feel they have to compare.
It often makes me want to shout from the rooftops: Be you a mother of one for fifty years or a mother of three or a dozen or a mother for only four minutes, YOU ARE A MOTHER!
Same title. No pay raises.
The quantity doesn't add up to the mothering equivalent of a promotion, it's just a different department. Much the same way when a child moves from one stage to the next, the mother's job doesn't get easier, she just moves to a different division within the parenting warehouse: Out of Destination Diapers and into Trial by Toilet Training.
What if we were all on the same team? What if we all realized we were connected, integrated, vital in the success of our own families, kids, selves? What would happen if my parenting success was only graded on how well the next mamma two houses over scores on her parenting exam?
I miss my friends. I miss having people who know how hard I fought to get my family, my kids, myself to where we are. I miss being looked at in the eyes, not with judgement OR condolences, but just seen for what I am giving my life to right now- motherhood. No judgement heaped on top of that title, not degrading what I do below it. Just me, doing what I do with hundreds of thousands of other women doing what they do. Maybe someday I'll have my street cred back, maybe I'll be able to help support others, which was such a blessing to me. Maybe. Someday. A mamma can dream, even in the land of "pull yourself up by your boot straps" and fierce independence and mantras that you can "have it all"... even here, I can dream I suppose.
I know what she was saying. I know exactly what she meant. She's up to her eyeballs in books and milestones and uncertainty about how to not drown in work and gas pains and sleepless nights and the strange but all-too-familiar urge to obsess about poop. Yep. I knew what she meant... because I was exactly like her a not too many years back.
So I told her exactly what was on my heart. You can do this. You too can choose. There is no glass ceiling, no shame in wanting only one or wanting half a dozen (or more!). Motherhood is like shoes, it comes in every shape, size, and color.
I stumbled upon this blog this week. I loved how she put it:
Every child has the potential to do something great in the world. So please, give the
mother of these children the support and encouragement she needs whether it is her first child or her ninth. Because your last child deserves just as much excitement as your first.
I love that. I was trying to explain all this, in a friendly, non-overwhelming way to this buddy of mine when I saw the deer-in-headlights look getting more and more pronounced. I stopped. There is a point at which, with a new babe in arms, you just can't remember what it feels like to have a deep, unencumbered breath of air that fills your lungs, refreshing your very soul. Everything, everything seems overwhelming. The next diaper change, the next feed. The brand of laundry detergent or the cause for a child's incessant screaming. It's all so much... so much more than what you expected, what you prepared for. This poor girl was in the throws of it, and I wasn't helping.
At that same moment, another girl came up to ask me a question. One of the most heartbreaking losses in leaving South Africa was the loss of my credibility. This may seem frivolous to some but it was extremely important to me. I had a few mommy groups I was active in and I had slowly but surely been fostered, guided and matured as a mom, enough to feel like I not only had legs to stand on but that those legs could and would help support other moms. Therein was my credibility. Here, no one has seen me with only one babe struggling to carry her around a growing belly. No one has seen me battle thrush for two and half months with a boy who didn't stop screaming until after his first birthday. Here, people only see a mom who can manage four kids in a grocery store, even once or twice without any meltdowns, on her own. What used to be credibility...relevance really, and give others the option to come and chat about the brutality of kids and trying to drink a cup of hot coffee is now something that makes people feel they have to compare.
It often makes me want to shout from the rooftops: Be you a mother of one for fifty years or a mother of three or a dozen or a mother for only four minutes, YOU ARE A MOTHER!
Same title. No pay raises.
The quantity doesn't add up to the mothering equivalent of a promotion, it's just a different department. Much the same way when a child moves from one stage to the next, the mother's job doesn't get easier, she just moves to a different division within the parenting warehouse: Out of Destination Diapers and into Trial by Toilet Training.
What if we were all on the same team? What if we all realized we were connected, integrated, vital in the success of our own families, kids, selves? What would happen if my parenting success was only graded on how well the next mamma two houses over scores on her parenting exam?
I miss my friends. I miss having people who know how hard I fought to get my family, my kids, myself to where we are. I miss being looked at in the eyes, not with judgement OR condolences, but just seen for what I am giving my life to right now- motherhood. No judgement heaped on top of that title, not degrading what I do below it. Just me, doing what I do with hundreds of thousands of other women doing what they do. Maybe someday I'll have my street cred back, maybe I'll be able to help support others, which was such a blessing to me. Maybe. Someday. A mamma can dream, even in the land of "pull yourself up by your boot straps" and fierce independence and mantras that you can "have it all"... even here, I can dream I suppose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)