From my kitchen window, I can glimpse the creek. It's odd, because it is February's end, not early April, and this time of year our creeks and streams would normally be encased in ice, hidden from all views, including mine, as I tackle a small mountain of dishes.
The crashing high waters of our only seasonally temperamental 10 Mile threaten another early spring. But these days we bury the worry of a changing climate with a stoic calmness. Best not to confuse weather with climate, after all. Better to just be grateful for warmth, and not to focus on the absurdity of yet another missing winter. We did get some snow, after all - we can see it now, transformed, rushing headlong towards the Catskill Creek, and then the great Hudson.
Can you hear my struggle?
So we are planning another trip. The "why" of it is what I want to share here.
Last time, we traveled in our vintage RV - a carefully chosen description for our Breaking Bad era motorhome - to Colorado and back. Six kids and my husband I planned a cross country trip - coast to coast, looking for signs of resilience - avoiding highways and boondocking in Walmart parking lots. It was a great adventure, of the kind that terrifies you and thrills you. The kind, too, that turns dads into MacGyvers, in the eyes of their kids; the kind that can turn a beat up old RV into a Tardis. You get brave, though not fearless; generous, and wide-eyed, and thoughtful.
And when all that starts to wear off, you do it again. Because it is hard, sometimes, in a big family with a small house, when it's winter, when money is scarce, when your country chooses badly and you start to not recognize your neighbors, when you start to lose the joy. When you stare out your kitchen window and are torn between feeling overwhelmed by the beauty of early spring waters and overwhelmed by our precarious place on the planet.
We don't have months, this time. Just a few weeks at the end of June. Mere weeks together till Jason returns to work and our adventures are leashed by where an aging conversion van can transport us. We have one more this time. Raven, our baby, now two, with eyes like an anime character, smiles up at me, paint covered from this morning's impromptu art, in pajama bottoms and a pink flowered muscle shirt. Two days before Raven's birthday, we welcomed Aspen Sage. So this trip will be a near carbon copy of our last trip, baby wise. Seven kids this time. A lucky number.
This time, though, we are trading a motor for pedals. RV bunks for tents. Sightseeing from the comfort of a waterproof, high speed steed, for exploration on the seat of a bike. For months now, I have been telling friends that we were planning to bike the Erie Canalway, with little response. Only recently did I realize most aren't familiar with our state's 400 miles trail from Albany to Buffalo. When pressed, they admit they think I may be overreaching.
Sure, we aren't experienced cyclists, exactly. But long summer days are spent biking from one end of our village to the other. And decent bikes are pretty cheap. Kids, as it turns out, will happily trade comfort for ice cream. So will I, actually.
So even when the world seems dark, and it feels like we are rapidly exhausting the very last of the universe's generosity, you still get to strew joy in your wake. You must, actually. Because you get to choose the things that make you whole. Like the indescribable joy of spending time together, having adventures, of deeply inhaling the thrill of your kin during the short years you have with them. This, this is why we are still determined. Determined to love, to grow, to learn. And to thrive.
So join us, even if it isn't the Erie. Go plan an adventure. Go listen close to the world beckoning. Go practice being brave. We'll meet you there.
The crashing high waters of our only seasonally temperamental 10 Mile threaten another early spring. But these days we bury the worry of a changing climate with a stoic calmness. Best not to confuse weather with climate, after all. Better to just be grateful for warmth, and not to focus on the absurdity of yet another missing winter. We did get some snow, after all - we can see it now, transformed, rushing headlong towards the Catskill Creek, and then the great Hudson.
Can you hear my struggle?
So we are planning another trip. The "why" of it is what I want to share here.
Last time, we traveled in our vintage RV - a carefully chosen description for our Breaking Bad era motorhome - to Colorado and back. Six kids and my husband I planned a cross country trip - coast to coast, looking for signs of resilience - avoiding highways and boondocking in Walmart parking lots. It was a great adventure, of the kind that terrifies you and thrills you. The kind, too, that turns dads into MacGyvers, in the eyes of their kids; the kind that can turn a beat up old RV into a Tardis. You get brave, though not fearless; generous, and wide-eyed, and thoughtful.
And when all that starts to wear off, you do it again. Because it is hard, sometimes, in a big family with a small house, when it's winter, when money is scarce, when your country chooses badly and you start to not recognize your neighbors, when you start to lose the joy. When you stare out your kitchen window and are torn between feeling overwhelmed by the beauty of early spring waters and overwhelmed by our precarious place on the planet.
We don't have months, this time. Just a few weeks at the end of June. Mere weeks together till Jason returns to work and our adventures are leashed by where an aging conversion van can transport us. We have one more this time. Raven, our baby, now two, with eyes like an anime character, smiles up at me, paint covered from this morning's impromptu art, in pajama bottoms and a pink flowered muscle shirt. Two days before Raven's birthday, we welcomed Aspen Sage. So this trip will be a near carbon copy of our last trip, baby wise. Seven kids this time. A lucky number.
This time, though, we are trading a motor for pedals. RV bunks for tents. Sightseeing from the comfort of a waterproof, high speed steed, for exploration on the seat of a bike. For months now, I have been telling friends that we were planning to bike the Erie Canalway, with little response. Only recently did I realize most aren't familiar with our state's 400 miles trail from Albany to Buffalo. When pressed, they admit they think I may be overreaching.
Sure, we aren't experienced cyclists, exactly. But long summer days are spent biking from one end of our village to the other. And decent bikes are pretty cheap. Kids, as it turns out, will happily trade comfort for ice cream. So will I, actually.
So even when the world seems dark, and it feels like we are rapidly exhausting the very last of the universe's generosity, you still get to strew joy in your wake. You must, actually. Because you get to choose the things that make you whole. Like the indescribable joy of spending time together, having adventures, of deeply inhaling the thrill of your kin during the short years you have with them. This, this is why we are still determined. Determined to love, to grow, to learn. And to thrive.
So join us, even if it isn't the Erie. Go plan an adventure. Go listen close to the world beckoning. Go practice being brave. We'll meet you there.
