Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to live, and how I want to die.

During a few evenings at my parents’ house, we’ve been reading stories written by my grandparents. I never knew much about their lives before, but I learned that they pulled a 21-foot trailer to Alaska from Montana with a station wagon, with two small children. They were comfortable through the winter in the trailer that they described as “cozy,” and after all of that, still liked each other enough to create four more children. The way they described that phase of their life together, just made it sound fun.

On the other side of my family, my grandmother was an artist and my grandfather an overlandimg photographer. He overlanded in his converted van “before overlanding was a thing,” as my dad put it.

And here I am, 70 years later, wasting my life on a screen. Here I am, tolerating my kids instead of enjoying them.

I’ve been realizing lately, that how you spend your time is how you spend your life. Or as Mumford and Sons sings, “the way you invest your love, you invest your life.” Or as the Killers sing, “it’s some kind of sin to live your whole life on a ‘might’ve been’,” and these sentiments have really been getting to me lately.

This past year, my husband turned 40 and I turned 32, and neither of us had a very easy time adjusting to our new ages. It’s like the race against the clock really started to pick up intensity, and we had to do something to slow it down. The kids are growing fast, and it’s not as easy to carry them around as it once was.

What a terrifying thought, that these little ones could be getting so big. I keep waiting for the day they’ll fit into their baby clothes again, but instead I find myself buying them bigger and bigger clothes.

I guess all of this is to say, that it’s finally hit us that life is short. It’s finally hit us that we are the examples our children will follow. It’s finally hit us that we don’t want to raise children who don’t know how to laugh or feel free.

I wish I could tie this up in an eloquent and concise way, but I don’t think I can—it’s late, and I’m tired, and it’s better to write something imperfect than nothing at all.

So I’ll put it this way: I want the way I spend my time and spend my life to reflect what I truly love. If you looked at my last few years, you might think I love my phone more than I love engaging with my family, and what a heartbreaking thought that is.

You might think I love being lazy more than I love challenging myself or learning or trying, to do anything.

How pitiful and terrible of a legacy would that be, for my children to inherit?

This urgency is the motive behind any and all future decisions we may make as a family—to ensure that our children grow up knowing that they are our love, to retire the sentiment of, “I almost did, but then I didn’t,” and to build a life that our children are grateful to inherit.

Last week, while we were out for a walk, my dad asked my favorite question—the one he used to always ask.

“What’s on your mind?” He said.

“Which part?” I asked.

“The heavy part,” he said.

When I was a teenager and trying to navigate young love and define my life’s purpose and was searching for meaning and acceptance and belonging, we would take walks together up our favorite hill.

It would usually happen that finally, by the time we got to the top of the hill, I’d be able say out loud the thing he knew was hiding under all of the other, smaller things.

This time, I didn’t have anything.

“Oh, come on!” He teased me.

For a moment, I savored the feeling of having frozen legs and chilled cheeks. Being cold and comfortable and smiling was one of the things that I was wishing for, not too long ago.

“I was actually smiling, right before you asked me that,” I poked back.

“Well,” he resigned, “if you don’t have anything, that’s fine. But if you do, that’s okay, too.”

My dad has always been my quietest confidante, so I braced myself to tell him the truth. The sky before us and all around us was expansive and ever-changing. We were walking a road in a straight line to nowhere, so I figured I had time.

“I was just thinking how nice it was to just have a thought that made me smile. It seems like lately, so much of my brain has been filled up with trying to calculate my way through the heavy stuff, I haven’t really felt like I have any energy left over to be happy about things. So, it was pretty nice, it felt pretty good to just be able to smile at the thought of something.”

“And what was the thought that made you smile?” He asked.

“I can’t tell you that!” I teased. Quickly, I thought better of keeping secrets from my dad. “But it starts with N and ends with -orway!”

“Noooorrr-way! Norway? No, way! You know, your great-grandparents were Norwegian.”

As our conversation went on, we talked about Swedish versus Norwegian (as my father is the resident expert in the Swedish language and in his prime has successfully facilitated conversations in elementary Swedish with native speakers of Norwegian). We stopped and turned to marvel at the sky, we looked for badgers, and jabbered away about faith and politics and influence, shouting to rival the howling wind as we walked the long straight road, back home.

By the time we arrived home, it was cold and dark, and we decided that if I really want to go viral, I need to change the name of my blog to Socially Martyred so I can brag online about being kicked out of Facebook groups for laugh-reacting at the wrong time.

I’m not changing the name of the blog, but I will tell you that since that conversation, I’ve been feeling much lighter. There’s something about being able to speak, to understand and to be understood, and to laugh without penalty, that makes me feel so sparkly—like I could almost forget how cold and dark and flat and void, the night is.

The trouble with being a verbal processor with lots of ideas is that it’s hard to tell if your idea is good or not, without asking for input.

And then after you’ve told someone your bright idea, it’s like the shine wears off and you’re left with just another dull idea.

The way people react (or don’t) may determine whether you follow through or not.

Sharing your thoughts and ideas is a proofing ground; a necessary step before anything can take shape.

But getting feedback on your thoughts and ideas is so intoxicating that you don’t actually have to carry anything out, because it feels so good just to talk about your plans.

But if it just feels good to talk about your plans and ideas, and the conversation provides the fulfillment you’re looking for, there’s not much impetus to follow through and make anything happen.

If you don’t feel the need to make things happen in order to be fulfilled, you may feel the same way that I find myself feeling, all too often.

Like maybe I’m all talk, and no action. Maybe my words are empty and aren’t to be trusted.

Actions speak louder than words, but my actions are silent while my lips chatter away.

Maybe… if I want to ensure that I follow through on something, I shouldn’t proof the plan in advance. Maybe I should skip the discussion phase and go straight to action.

Act first, share later.

But what if keeping my thoughts and plans close to my vest feels like keeping a secret, and keeping a secret feels electric? Or like live worms burgeoning out of their can? What if it feels physically uncomfortable to hold it in?

Once words have been spoken, they can’t be retracted. After years of saying, “maybe not,” “never mind,” or “it didn’t work out,” I’ve come to the realization that saying nothing is far more prudent than saying something, just for the dopamine of the conversation.

So I vowed to keep my cards close.

But I just had to test out how it would feel to say something to someone other than my husband, who will indulge all of my wildest dreams and would carry me through any threshold with joy.

“I asked for a cottage in Norway for my birthday this year,” I told my sister. “I didn’t get it. But maybe next year.”

I just had to know how it would feel to say out loud. How it would feel to field a reaction. I swear, conversation is some kind of a high, when you’re a verbal processor.

“We’re Norwegian,” she said.

“I know,” I replied. “Isn’t that cool? It’s in our blood.”

“Don’t they have long days there?” She asked.

“Midnight Sun in the summer and polar nights in the winter. Northern lights.” I was glowing.

My sister, ever the pragmatist, asked, “but isn’t that…weird?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but I think it’s kind of cool. Like, I think you get a different type of harmony with nature and that’s really interesting.”

The next day, I showed her fiancé the real estate listing. “Look at my cottage,” I told him. “Isn’t it cute?”

“What’s the weather like there?” He asked.

I noticed that those minor conversations were enough to take the edge off the excitement that was bursting inside me. I quit pestering my husband about my cottage so much.

For a verbal processor, nothing becomes real until you speak of it. After you speak of it, you have the clarity of mind to decide whether you want to make it become real, or not.

I always thought I was lazy, too easily discouraged, took things too personally, or any number of other character flaws, because of the way I would react (or not) after sharing my many ideas with many people.

But today I realized, I’ve said so many things for so many years, that no one takes me seriously anymore, anyway. So what do I have to lose?

“I’m becoming a wildlife photographer,” I told my mom. “Maybe I’ll put this on my blog,” I told my dad. “We’re hoping to get back to Spain in the spring,” I told a friend. All true, but vague enough to be dismissed as hot air.

As I wrestle with the balance between speaking and silence, I am becoming careful to only say what I mean. For others, it’s up to them to believe me or not. And for me, it’s an opportunity to practice following through with the things I purport.

Whereas I used to gab openly and mindlessly for fear of silence, I am now more at peace with silence than I am with being a person who expresses every whim in hopes of receiving some kind of validation.

As for long days spent fishing and raising sheep in Nordic fjords? Time will tell. Now that the shine has worn off of the secret, I can decide more objectively if I want to pursue that lifestyle or not. Maybe I’ll decide to grow tomatoes in Sicily instead.

And as for the other things I mentioned, albeit veiled in a guise of flippancy, the seeds have already been sown. Right now, they are being watered and coddled until their roots and tender shoots are sturdy enough to withstand the weather. How high they grow, when they blossom, and what fruit they yield, we await with eager anticipation.

But the ground has been cleared, and the garden planted. The rest is up to nature. And now, time will tell.

Here I am, again. Back in my parents’ basement. Laying on the bed from six years ago, from our Sellwood house.

Six years ago, we were here. We had a van in the shop. There’s another van in the shop now, but it’s not ours.

There’s a baby asleep on my chest now, she fell asleep on me with no milk and no fussing—just exhaustion, after a long-winded conversation about the pillows on the bed and the dots on her socks.

You’re far away, now.

The last time we were here, we’d just had her. We were “finished” with Thailand. And the time before that, we’d just had him. And the time before that, we just had a van and one-way plane tickets and there was no baby. Except there was, but we didn’t get to keep it.

Every time we’re here, we settle right back in, right away. I can hear our son in the next room, playing happily with his grandma while his sister sleeps. He’s asking for Clifford stories.

I guess this is the closest thing we have to home, the only place in the world that we feel like we belong when you’re not with us. When you’re with us, we can be anywhere. When you’re not, we can only be here.

Before we left, I told you I couldn’t wait to wake up in my parents’ house every day for a month straight. There’s a quiet comfort knowing your mom will be up before you, and your parents will get out of bed for you in the night if you need them.

Thirty years later, the house may have changed, but home hasn’t.

x

On the phone this morning, you asked me if I’d had time to start thinking about anything yet. The only thing I was thinking about at that time was a shower and another cup of coffee.

The dreams glide past quietly like sailboats on a sunny day; if you don’t look out the window, you wouldn’t even know they’re there. They don’t announce their comings and goings with guttural and demanding groans like the other thoughts do.

The feeling is that of being newly pregnant with a baby, although I’m sure I’m not. The feminine urge to build a nest and decorate it and feed everyone in it, is almost overwhelming. The feminine urge to make home everywhere we go, even if I still don’t wake up before the kids.

Recently, my suspicions were confirmed—a few generations back, my ancestry is Norwegian. Maybe that’s why my little cottage still calls me. Sunny days, a few sheep, and laying on our own grass.

x

I don’t know how we’d do it, but I’m not figuring that out right now. For now I’m just pausing in the silence, disrupted only by the ticking of a faraway clock and the occasional whistle of wind or whir of a heater.

The goal of the upcoming year is to menstruate again (TMI), and the goal of the past year was to do just a little bit better, every day. I can’t say whether I did or not, but now, reflecting on the past year, I can say that I tried.

I remembered to rest, and left guilt behind. I learned to embroider, and even picked it up a few times after putting it down, an accomplishment in and of itself. I mended clothes and hats instead of replacing them, tandem with my effort to harness spending and practice saving. Instead of reacting to occasional expenses with nausea or hives, I planned ahead and was prepared. While I didn’t make it to longtime friends’ weddings or on spontaneous Japan trips, I did get to celebrate family milestones and be home for a couple of occasions within the same year.

Twice this week, I washed, dried, and folded laundry, all within the same day. In Thailand, I actually grew to love the process of hanging our clothes to dry, taking the opportunity to bask in the sun as I slowly and meditatively hang each piece, one by one, in the most perfect gradient I can figure.

Speaking of Thailand, I completed our family’s most organized, least haphazard move, to date. On a couple of occasions, I’ve seized the opportunity to extend help to others, after mastering the art of graciously accepting the helping hands so often extended to me.

Something I’ve gotten really good at is doing very hard things. So much so, that I, too, have become hard. My crier is still broken and only my yeller works (although it has been getting a rest, as of late).

Almost as if she heard me writing about yelling and crying, our daughter is awake and exercising her uncanny ability to do both, simultaneously. She settles back on my chest, tucked under a flowered blanket after a brief but fervent attempt to test her mother’s resolve.

We can do hard things and we should and we must, but I fear we (or I) have been so fixated on doing hard things, that anything less has begun to feel wasteful. But after years of hard, I am ready to try something else.

Karen searched my head for grays, and they’re not here yet. But my skin is aged and dry, with deep, pensive lines. I am freshly 32, but in many ways, I have turned to stone. My body has forgotten how to move, and has only become a weight to carry. My face is flat and dull, eyes searching for a spark of life. If I only look long enough, maybe something on the phone will give me what I’m looking for.

Heavy and sluggish as it may be, I am ready to move my body willingly again, so it can move me with ease. I am ready to race my kids around the yard, catch them as they splash in the fjord, and carry them up the mountains on my shoulders. I want to lift our boy without gasping at the weight of him. Our daughter needs to learn how to harness her strong spirit, and our kids deserve to see their mother smile.

My dad always says that his mom wasn’t nice, but she had a special way of making each of the six kids feel like they were her favorite. I guess we’ll never know who the favorite really was, but I’m afraid my kids will have the opposite problem—stuck one day trying to figure out who their mother disliked the most.

Halfway through the year I started reading and just a month or two ago I started writing, and if I read really quickly I may be able to finish a book during the calendar year of 2025—even if it is a book that I originally began sixteen years ago. I made close relationships with some really nice friends and snapped a few highly mediocre photos, both of which are skills I’d like to continue to practice and grow.

After so many years on “hard mode,” mostly a result of the choices we elected to make, we’re ready for a change of pace. Maybe we signed up for hard mode, and maybe it was fun for a while, but I think I’m done with that now. I want to live in sunlight and harmony. I want to put on my boots—not to climb out of pits of despair, but to climb mountains and see views. I had a dream of finding a puffin’s nest, and now, I think we must.

Everything we consume—from our water to our content to our words—should give life. Anything else is a waste of time. Everything we do should spark joy or spurn curiosity—anything else is pointless. And I don’t mean to neglect the mundane, I mean to delight and take joy in the simple and the commonplace and the necessary and the productive, as well as the grandeur.

Our boy is curled up beside me, and our girl is in the crook of my elbow. Last night as I lay awake, the melody of their little snores comforted me. Now, as they sleep again, I am their warmth and safety and comfort. They stir and sigh, quietly satisfied. I think we’re just about ready, now.

PART ONE

So many times I’ve stood

on the brink of something

with butterflies

on the edge, clammy.

She looks and looks

but never jumps

Dreams and dreams

but never does

The cliff comes again

and again, once again

The water is clear

and she knows how to swim.

Light as air

There they go

And heavy as clay

There she stays

PART TWO

I thought she would

but she never did.

Maybe she would only be brave,

as a kid.

Looking and dreaming

but never leaping;

I can assure you,

it’s for a very good reason.

So I don’t get my hair wet

and because I have kids—

They shouldn’t be orphaned

over something their mother did.

I slowly back away

and there the butterflies go,

migrating south

to someone not so slow.

PART THREE

I thought she never would

but finally she did.

There’s not much time

when those kids will be kids.

I want them to shout

and I want them to gallop

on down the trail and leap

through sunset meadows

in the midnight sun

and to never forget

to always float away

under the puffy clouds.

But it starts with a jump,

so a single step forward she takes.

One flash, and one splash.

The water is clear and I know how to swim.

“I saw an octopus while I was driving my airplane,” my son whispered as he fell asleep.

These are the moments I don’t want to miss.

His head lays on my belly, his favorite pillow, and he falls asleep with my left hand in his right.

How precious it is to be the one who makes him feel better. And, in his own words, just a few minutes ago, “I always make you feel better,” after giving me a hug and a kiss, just because.

He stirs softly now, as he settles into a deep sleep. His sister fell asleep on me, just an hour before, after practicing her new favorite phrase, “I love you.” They’re both dreaming now. Happy kids.

God, do not let these moments pass me by.

They say you reap what you sow. I’m tired of reaping boredom and frustration, so I guess it’s time to start sowing different seeds.

If I sow rest, what will I reap? If I sow gratitude, when will I reap? If I sow seeds of eye contact and amusement, what will I reap?

Could it be, that I would reap energy and vigor and contentment and peace and laughter and connection?

And if I lived an invigorating life full of thankfulness and belonging, would I be… happy?

If we sowed generosity instead of withholding, and grace instead of blame, who would we become? Would we be gracious and generous? Would we be able to lead by example?

What if we chose curiosity and understanding? Would we live in harmony? What if we chose adventure? Would we live in boldness?

What if we smiled? What if we cried? What if we felt the chill in our teeth or the wind on our cheeks or let our nose hairs freeze?

What if we gave a voice to the tiniest monsters eating us alive? What would we reap? Would we live? Would we survive? Would we be known, and belong? Would we then be free?

And if then, what would we be? Who would we be? What could we become?

Would our eyes light up? Would they sparkle? Would we glow? Would our children find their youth? Could we rest in the sound of their laughter?

Would we bask in the midnight sun? Or would we just wither away in solitude, lighted only by a faint blue glow?

It’s been 13 years since the adventure of my life began.

It’s been six years since our adventures converged.

I’m sickened by how fast the time goes.

Terrified.

Devastated.

And disappointed.

I’m sick of it.

We’re too electric to be this numb.

My dad asked me today, “How does it feel to be 32?”

“Bad,” I said. He laughed. Taylor Swift hasn’t written a hit about turning 32 yet.

But when I was 32, I got to watch my child learn to ride a big kid bike.

When I was 32, I got to make my toddler laugh until her stomach hurt.

When I was 32, I got to plan and anticipate all of the adventures that this year will hold. I got to dream of all of the places I want to visit, who I get to see, and what I can learn.

And it feels different. Maybe, because I’m sowing different seeds. Seeds of wonder, of possibility, of adventure, of hope, of discovery and joy and fullness and exploration.

And those are all things, I can’t wait to reap.

It dawned upon me that the word for face in Thai is the same as the word season, and the same as the word for describing a feeling: nâa, son jai. Nâa glua. Nâa nǒw.

I don’t know if that’s exactly precise or not, tonally, but I can make sense of putting on an expression and calling it a feeling, or giving a season a face.

x

When I think about the faces my seasons have worn, I think about the faces I have put on throughout my life. The lives I have lived. I’ve been a gardener, a competitive powerlifter, a helper, a crutch, and a hindrance.

In my youth, I had a season of adventure where I wore a face called Fearless, ready to embrace the world, and waking up at dawn and walking miles to make mud bricks in Liberia. There was some mundane life in there, but that was 8 or 9 months of Real Adventure. Eat, Pray, Love plus A Walk to Remember minus the divorce and the terminal illness.

The Lost in the World face, during a season of feeling alone and rejected in the wake of heartbreak. And funny enough, I have never used the term “heartbreak” to describe my own love life, as I made a vow to myself 15 years ago that I would never get my heart broken, and instead must be the one to do the breaking. But years of being lost led to so much pain and brokenness and it is heartbreaking to be the one who does the breaking; even if you think it won’t, it will leave you with a broken heart.

x

It feels like a relief to realize and express that, and I can feel my body dumping the emotion. My daughter is sitting on my lap, and it feels like I could collapse. One less emotion to be in denial of.

I remember the first time I expressed the feeling of disappointment. I was doing some kind of transcendental meditation and I was trying to name the the feeling that was blocking my space. It felt too simple to just be disappointed, but I found myself thinking things like, “I’m disappointed that my brother died. I’m disappointed that I hurt That Person in That Way. I’m disappointed,” and it turns out disappointment is a profound experience of its own. Even now, years later, I’m flooded with relief, acknowledging the disappointment in my space, years and years later.

x

I’m trying to hold my tongue as my four year old dances around with my nutcracker collection and sings his made up songs and tries to coax his sister into letting him pinch her pointer finger in the soldier’s wooden teeth. In this season, my face is Perpetual Vacancy.

When I’m not medicating with coffee and wasabi peas, I’m medicating with Candace Owens and an indica, and I think they both do about the same for the mood in the house.

Everyone medicates with something, whether it’s scrolling or scripture or sour candy, and frankly, there’s a vice for every season. I’d like to be a person whose wellbeing comes from early mornings and recitations of psalms, but maybe that will be a later season. For now, I’ll just have another pineapple jam biscuit.

x

In this season, I’ve fallen in love with hanging the laundry out to dry, and that feels like growth because I never thought I would ever love anything having to do with laundry.

But what I need, is a splash. I need to outrun my skin. I need to dangle on the face of a rock.

In Spain, I self-medicated with cold plunges and swims and saltwater floats and wave jumping, along the coastline of the Basque Country. I wanted to be better for my family, a day at a time, and I was practicing very basic stewardship things like staying on top of the laundry cycle (at which I miserably failed), and using the groceries we bought, and mending, and budgeting. I grew a lot there, too, but renting a flat with an ocean view wasn’t freedom.

x

We’re reading Pilgrim’s Progress (another exercise in virtue in the virtue of finishing what I start, and in fact, Pilgrim’s Progress is one of many books that I’ve begun and abandoned somewhere along the way) and we have the goal of finishing it before we go home for Christmas. I have a pair of jammies to mend, and bags to pack. We put up Christmas decorations. We know we’re not staying here, and we’d rather skip through this part, pause during the visit home, and then fast forward until spring.

But part of our journey and part of our practice, is being where we are. Enjoying what we can, and letting the story unfold instead of rushing to the next act.

x

Right now, we’re in a Clifford season. A cold season, a dry season. Watermelon season and gooseberry season. We’re in Nutcracker season, and preparation season. We have holidays to celebrate. We have friends and families to visit. We have bikes to ride and pools to cannonball into and curtains to make.

x

I used to like to watch Dead Poet Society and it would make me ache with yearning for freedom and independence. I wanted to suck the marrow out of life. I wanted every last bit of succulence. Blue skies and car rides. I daydreamed of splashing into natural pools (but somehow managed to skip the butterflies of the jump), and camping in wildflower meadows. I wanted to see the twinkle in a stranger’s eyes, but neglected relationships with friends and family.

x

You could pick pieces of my story and decide that That Girl has really figured out what it means to suck the marrow out of life, but I would call it Hardly Even a Real Adventure. Being the one who has lived it, along with the help of a few more, it’s felt stagnant and stale and at some times bitter and for much of the time, has felt like it is withering away. Like the essence of our life has been wasted. But we’ve been busy packing and moving and buying houses and starting businesses and doing whatever other Serious Things we can think of and calibrating our lives through the lens of God’s Will and I just wonder if it’s all so serious after all.

Maybe it’s not, and maybe I should leave the Serious Things to the Serious People, one of whom I am not.

x

My daughter lays next to me, and she is a force to be reckoned with.

x

A few days ago I decided to practice smiling and it felt like an epiphany when I realized it’s okay to be happy about the moon and how little bodies run with all their might to chase birds away.

x

I don’t have a way yet to tie all of this together, but I’m thankful that I’m not the person I was ten years ago, or even seven. But I miss the person I was, thirteen or fourteen years ago. Was the Real Adventure just a season? Was the Fearless face just a mask? Did my spirit wither, paralyzed by fear on the face of a rock or indecisive at the edge of a cliff? Did the marrow dry up while I was busy being lost? Or did it dry up while I was pacing in circles, trying to prove how Serious I am?

x

Both kids are sleeping now. I love them more than anything, and the last thing I would want is for them to become the person I’ve become: hollow, indifferent, indecisive. Afraid to jump, or afraid to make a splash.

.

In a way it feels like we’re finally fulfilling our promises to each other, our commitment to our lives.

x

(this is a stylistic choice I make to separate simultaneous trains of thought)

I keep thinking I’ll just tell our story clearly and plainly, but that’s just not the outlet I need right now. I promise I’ll get more specific and more concrete with my thoughts at some point, but for now I just need to make space in my brain and in my spirit but dumping my thoughts, and that’s what this channel is. Think of this as more of a journal. Consider it art or don’t, but somewhere between spoken word and poetry and expository and narrative is what you’ll find here and I don’t want you to feel like you always have to understand everything.

x

Six years later, here we are, setting out to do the thing we always intended. Instead of choosing to dwell in the shame of wasting so much of our time (almost 100% of our life together), let’s just run forward with pursuit like we’re up against a clock.

And we are. You’re 40 now, and I’m turning 32. I don’t have any gray hair yet (which I am extremely proud of), and over the course of our time together, the kids and I have taken your hair from a speckled black to a glimmering black.

Of course, it hasn’t been a total waste of time. We have the most beautiful kids, and we have lived in 3 countries, and have built so much skill in our interpersonal relationship. I want to say it’s been a waste of life, but it hasn’t. But it’s been a total เสีย of our ชีวิตชีวา.

“Are we going to Overland?” you ask.

“Why not?”

But before we can talk any further, you’re finishing work and I’m changing diapers.

But we’re not slaving, and we’re not dragging. Each task carries momentum, and we’re pushing forward in between meltdowns and spills. Our daughter has been particularly pugnacious today, her arguments largely lacking in reason and exceeding in emotion.

We have to go in bursts, and it’s got me thinking, that when I have the urge to clean a bathroom or scrub a floor, maybe the cycle of momentum is us coming alive again. Momentum, momentum, momentum, rest, rest. It’s a welcome progression from work, work, work, rest, rest. Or more precisely, work, work, work, scroll, scroll scroll.

We’re finally putting something out into the world. We’re finally, finally, going. Doing what we set out to do. And maybe soon we’ll find ourselves in a lifestyle of go, go, go, go, rest, rest, rest.

It’s a different adventure than just living overseas. It’s a different adventure than just having kids. It’s different than raising kids overseas.

We’ve been so paralyzed by something—fear or indecision or stability—that while we made so many physical moves, the spirit of life itself was stagnant inside us. The driver of our union and the wind in our sails, still.

“Yay, Iceland!” Our son echoes me. It’s good to look back on the memories. On our first adventure. I’m filled with fondness for it; I was stuck for so long and I can’t waste more energy on feeling anything else. Am I the reason we’ve been stuck?

It doesn’t matter now, because we’re moving forward, ค่อย ๆ. We’re thawing, we’re stretching up to the sun. A seed sown long ago, thought to be dormant. Maybe the roots just needed time to develop.

x

There comes a point where you know too much, and all it does is freeze you.

As much as I am willing to cosplay as a homesteader and homeschooler, I just find, that’s not me. It’s not us. It’s somewhere parallel to our rebellion, but it’s not us.

Our rebellion is against debt cycles and “almost but didn’t” and greener grass and “I meant to but I forgot.”

x

Your lamyai are on the floor and one day they won’t be. We’re realizing that. What world will our children inherit? Debt and slavery? Or will they grow up to be curious and generous, and to know that they are limitless?

x

Let’s decide that we haven’t wasted our time. We’ve been getting ready. So, finally, after all these years, let’s go.