Three days of west coast camping paradise - crashing surf, moody mists, crackling fires, tide pools bursting with life. Three days with the best Texan friends imaginable, eating and exploring and laughing away two years of missing each other. And after these three days, both our boys said their favourite thing today was... coming home.
Did they forget the 150-year-old Spruce tree, the translucent space-alien water skeeter, the bear who rifled through our neighbour's food bags, the half-eaten salmon in the tide pool? Did splashing at the top of the waterfall, building a sand mandala, and even eating bubble gum ice cream mean nothing?
Truth is, I felt the same. Everything we did was magical and I wouldn't trade the past three days for anything. But coming home feels so different than it used to. In the past phases our our lives, we'd get back to the city limits and feel the pressure of the city and our life in it: the noisy lights and smelly sounds, the Things to Do list, the vanishing stars. Each traffic light and each step up to our front door took us further and further from that brief moment of paradise we'd just been living. The relaxation and centred connection we'd established would drain away and leave us with a pile of sandy clothes and tired kids.
Tonight the clothes are just as sandy and we still had to whip up a quick dinner, but none of the trip's magic has worn off. The glow I felt at the fire last night is the same warm twilight I enjoyed as I put the chickens to sleep. The connection to the dolphins and mussels, bears and cougars continued as I sang to my bottle-sucking cows. And the deep contented sleep of the quiet campsite will soon be re-enacted under the star-filled skies of our farm. The coast was different and inspiring and magical, but in an augmenting continuum rather than an abrupt and abbreviated departure.
When we got home, the first thing Zekiah did was run to tell the neighbours about the trip, while Galen did what I always used to do - express it on the piano. My reconnection was to go feed the cows then pick greens for dinner. The moment my sandy feet stepped onto our grassy soil, the two succulent realities merged and Home felt that much sweeter.
Write to Renew - One of our previous graduates, the talented Jay Nahani, is leading us in a Write to Renew workshop June 14th. For writers and non-writers alike, this one-d...