autumn – Nomad's Land

Mountain

I stepped out of the car, inhaled the fresh mountain air, and experienced the tingly joy of the crisp molecules filling each tiny alveoli in my lungs. I surveyed the autumn colors on the trees surrounding the cabin and I heard the unexpectedly loud roar of the water from the creek behind the cabin.

In this moment, despite the global pandemic, a tense election, and depressing news each night, all was right in the world.

When we first drove down to Florida last year, we were surprised and inspired by the beauty of the Appalachian mountains running through Tennessee. I vowed we would return with the girls.

We found a breathtaking spot in the mountains of Northern Georgia; a little town by the name of Helen. This trip was a risk. We decided to make the drive with the girls, which was 10 hours from Florida with good traffic.

I’ve learned from parenting to go into things, especially vacations, with really low expectations. There will be whining. Someone will get carsick and puke. Despite perfect planning, someone won’t be pleased with our choice of activity for the day. And it’s a guaranteed fact that despite being labeled a vacation, it will not be relaxing.

But for some reason, the stars aligned and the girls traveled perfectly. I guess I packed enough stickers. And Benadryl.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve developed a love for road tripping. Which is always surprising to me, probably because when we were younger, 3 hour car rides felt like an eternal hell.

Road trips carry with them a serenity that the hustle and bustle of the airport does not. When you fly, you are literally catapulted through the air at 500 mph and come to a screeching halt when you reach your destination. Driving on the other hand is much slower, but allows you to take in the views and stop when you feel inspired. It has a calming, almost meditative impact.

My breathing slowed as I took in the giant loblolly pine trees lining the road, occasionally dotted by bright red sumacs. We drove through cotton fields which were stunningly beautiful, and I wondered, if that land could talk, what it would say.

The town of Helen, Georgia is quaint. There are no fast food places or chain stores. The internet sucks. I was delighted to find myself free from the pull of my phone, the news, and social media happenings.

We stayed at a little cabin about 5 minutes from downtown Helen. It was everything we needed for the trip. It had a fireplace, at which, I taught the girls the Minnesotan skill of sitting close to warm your back. There were bunk beds: an extremely exciting fact for Avery and Alice. Out back, there was a fire pit overlooking the river.

Coming from a gated community of perfectly manicured lawns, this cabin was a great reminder that things don’t need to be perfect to bring joy. Unruly bushes, un-raked leaves, dirty windows, moss covered deck; none took away from the charm, or the breath of fresh air that this cabin held.

We drank endless cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows, warmed ourselves by the fireplace, had bonfires, struggled to get thumbs into mittens, explored, ate s’mores, got marshmallow stuck in our hair (Chad didn’t have this problem), and took in the vast beauty of the mountains.

We let our guards down and giggled as a family as picky eater, Alice, shocked us all and ate a dried cricket that I had purchased for my Dad as a gag gift. She then went on to eat two more, as Chad stared at me in horror, wondering what sort of mother would let her child eat crickets. They are a great source of protein, okay?

Not as addicting as Sour Cream & Onion Chips

I faced my fear of heights and went on the “Mountain Coaster”, that took Avery and I screaming down the side of the mountain. For Avery, the screams were of pure joy. For me; pure terror as I saw my life flash before my eyes.

On the last night of our trip, I dreamed I was a high school senior, coming to terms with the fact that I had to leave my cross country team. “But all that I know and love is over. How can my life move on?” I asked, with tears in my eyes.

It was a familiar scene that comes into play at most major life changes. Most recently, I commiserated to Chad that life couldn’t get better than holding a fresh baby in my arms. I wouldn’t be able to top it. I was going to get old, become a grandparent, and die. The best parts of life were over, I concluded.

Little did I know what was ahead.

As Chad reminded me as we drove through the mountains to visit a nearby town, “You gotta drive up the mountain to get the good views.”

And I think this perfectly summarizes life.

Mountain driving is terrifying, especially if you have a fear of heights. There are plenty of places you could easily die. There are some stretches of road that you have to pray your car up, and other stretches that you too easily careen down, giving your car’s brakes the workout of a lifetime.

2020 certainly hasn’t been easy. The pandemic has changed a whole lot. We know a couple people who died of COVID. We know many people who lost a family member during COVID times and were unable to say goodbye, or attend a funeral for closure.

The holidays are going to be different this year. It feels weird and uncomfortable; sad and strange.

And yet, time will continue to pass. Eventually there will be a vaccine that comes out. Hopefully it will be effective, and life will go back to some semblance of normal.

For now, we just need to focus on getting up the mountain. And while the view on the journey up can’t compete with that of the top, there is plenty of surrounding beauty.

So wherever you are on your mountain, stop for a second to take in the view. To soak in the great miracle that is life. Things aren’t perfect, but as the cabin reminded us: things don’t need to be perfect to bring joy.

Wishing you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving,

Laura

Letting go, Letting in

Everyone from a state that experiences winter knows that in the autumn, the leaves fall off trees. Right? Right.

But have you ever wondered why the leaves fall off? Or what prompts them to begin falling in the first place?

It all begins with a cascade of hormonal changes in the tree. Chlorophyll declines, as do auxins, signaling to the tree that it is time to begin the act of self preservation: cutting all unnecessary energy expenditures that could be fatal in the frigid winter. With shorter days and less daylight, leaves are no longer worth the energy they require to maintain.

The leaves change color as they lose the chlorophyll that normally keeps them green. As they lose their chlorophyll, the tree stops receiving signals that the leaves are healthy and cuts them loose.

This, my friend, is the science of beautiful fall colors and large leaf piles.

The afternoon sun back-lit a blue Ford truck loaded to the brim with items that had filled our Minnesota house. I brushed the dust off my pants, half relieved that we had managed to complete the task, half anxious at the thought of parting with these goods.

We were in Iowa, and had just spent the morning sorting through our belongings that had been in storage for a little over a year. When we came to Florida, we only brought two car loads full. We had rented a fully furnished condo, and by fully furnished, I mean down to towels, kitchenware, even Christmas decorations.

And now here we were, back to look at the objects that made up most of our daily life back in Minnesota. Objects that we had packed up, not knowing where we would land or when we would see them again.

We did just fine without our “stuff”. Thrived, actually. But the moment I saw our boxes, I couldn’t wait to rip them open and soak in the presence of inanimate objects. Objects that I couldn’t even remember.

Mainly I loved looking at everything because it stirred old memories that my brain had filed in the deep abyss of unnecessary memories.

I hugged a quilt that my Dad’s employee had made as a gift for Avery prior to her birth. The quilt remained on her bed from the moment we weren’t concerned about SIDS all the way up until we left Minnesota.

I found the 3 candles that I bought right before Chad and I got married. I purchased these candles to decorate our little downtown Minneapolis apartment prior to our wedding so when we returned home from our honeymoon, it would look Christmassy.

The scent of these candles evokes immediate thoughts of fireplaces with cackling fires, cozy sweaters, and the excitement of Christmas preparations.

We went through each box to determine what would be helpful in our new home; more so, what we couldn’t bear to part with. As for the rest, we cut it loose, knowing that its baggage outweighed the benefit.

We pared down our belongings from a trailer-full to 17 boxes that we mailed to Florida.

It was another goodbye. It was a goodbye that was easier than hugging family and friends goodbye, but a tough one, nonetheless.

Having a trailer full of things in storage back in Iowa had been like a security blanket. Mentally, I was able to tell myself that there was still a good chance that we would return home, and settle down in the Midwest, close to family.

The goodbye to our stuff was a goodbye to a hope for a future in the Midwest; an alternative life path that always played in the back of my brain.

These leaves were no longer helping us. Instead, they were an energy expenditure that was no longer beneficial for us to cling on to.

After shipping off the last of our things in storage, we drove from Iowa to Minnesota to celebrate my brother’s wedding.

I soaked in the beauty of a Minnesota fall. The leaves were a magnificent array of colors. The air had a crisp feel to it.

I moaned. Chad raised an eyebrow. “I just wish we could live here in the fall, it is so gorgeous.” To which he retorted, “Yeah, but it only lasts 3 weeks and then the leaves are gone and it’s negative 30 out.”

Certainly, he has a point. The tree’s do lose their beautiful leaves. And it is sad. They hunker down for a bleak winter, looking rather barren without their leaves. But by spring, they wake up from their dormancy and create buds, flowers, and leaves.

Maybe the trees have something to teach on letting go. They do it every year, saying goodbye to the leaves that make up a large part of their appearance- of how we identify them- of who they are.

Sometimes we have to let go to survive. Sometimes, a part of us that was once helpful and healthy is no longer, so despite our positive memories, we must cut it loose.

Sometimes we have to let go to create space for what can be, and what will be. We have to let go to find space to more tightly hold on to the things we love.

Happy Fall, y’all,

Laura