Rich beyond measure

I've imagined for years what it would be like to have free weekends and places to explore at the same time. I've wondered if I could get up in the morning Monday through Thursday and write or read or publish or edit, then spend Friday, Saturday, Sunday in the car with mountains in view. I've wondered if a world exists where I can do all of this and live in an apartment with a bedroom that has a door and closets that hold all the piles we used to throw on the floor for lack of alternative option.

Let me just say we've hit the jackpot here in Pullman. We are rich beyond measure in experience, passion, inspiration, work, and square footage. We are, without a doubt, living the dream.

In the last month, we've driven to Oregon three times. We have family a little south of Portland – family we never before spent a lot of time with because they lived across the country from us. Now they're a breezy 7-hour drive, part of which includes a view of Mt. Hood over the Columbia River. 

On one of those trips to Oregon, we climbed Mt. Hood. We started at midnight so we could see the sunrise at the top. This was my first technical mountain climb, which means it involved snow travel. We bought mountaineer gear a few years ago but the trip we planned was canceled. If you can't tell from the photo, I was seriously pumped. And seriously tired. I should coin a word that means both of those things at the same time.

Three cheers for work space! This is our second bedroom – a.k.a. the gear room / bike room / office. And all those boxes are books that are sad and neglected because we don't have bookshelves yet. Soon, my loves. Soon.

Painted Canyon - going West

We stopped even though it was raining. In North Dakota, where I grew up, it's as flat as you can get. The land grows more varied as you move west. Theodore Roosevelt National Park in Medora offers the first real glimpse along Interstate 94 of where we're going. As far as I could tell, the West began at Painted Canyon, so I got out of the car in the rain to see the way the grey sky couldn't diminish the varied shades of green set against red clay. It's gorgeous, but I don't want to live there. I want to keep going. I wonder if early explores thought this. If this is what it looks like here, what could be next? Let's keep going. Let's find the borders and touch the ocean. No matter what happens between now and then, here and there, it will be worth it just to see it. If we get the chance to do more than look over railings – if we can walk out there where the trails are hard to find and the goats acquiesce to our presence – we want to do it.

The move

We traveled 2,250 miles in five days. Well, I did. Ben left a month ahead of me, taking a route through South Dakota to visit family in Spearfish. I have moved 10 times in my 25 years. Seven of those moves were to different states. Half have been in my adulthood. I know what it takes to move – planning, packing, canceling, re-establishing, forwarding, loading, driving, unloading. I realized anew this year how poorly I handle logistics. I called it decision fatigue. I am overwhelmed by filing all the correct paperwork that establishes our uprooting and replanting in another city, another part of the country. This is why we bank, fix our car, order Internet, maintain cell phone contracts with large companies, I realized. Because eventually we will move and we will want to take as much with us as we can to cut down on the hand-wringing.

You think you're saving money for a moving truck, and others are willing to help puzzle all your belongings into a small truck and the bed of a pickup, saving you $200 that you have reallocated to white paint that will brighten a basement apartment that otherwise feels like someone else's house. Then you pursue residency in your new state, fearful that you will be pulled over and quizzed on the exact date and time you moved into your home to determine if you have elapsed the allowed 30 days to apply for a new drivers license and register your vehicle. Before you know it, you've bought paint and spent another $300 to become a Washingtonian.

Moving is an arduous process. You have to really want it. The internal rearranging required in a cross-country move is more familiar to me. I've practiced since I was 7 years old. Find your anchors: explore coffee shops, get a library card, call home, write it down.

We are far, far from home. But we're so happy. Far from home, all alone. But we're so happy. (Of monsters and men)



My dad drove me from point A to point B. We arrived safely. My mom helped me paint. We drove around enough to learn the main streets. Pullman is small, and everyone seems to support the university where Ben works. Shop windows, barns, and street signs root for WSU, where groups of freshmen wander the campus for orientation. Downtown has three coffee shops, each with their own vibe. We set aside our pride/souls to shop at Walmart in absence of Target. We prefer Safeway. For major shopping, we go to Idaho, where sales tax isn't 8 percent.

What other details will explain where we are? I listen to Pandora when I write, and the song that's playing at the moment is the same that inspired the name of a post I wrote about moving to Bowling Green. Everything changes – nothing changes. It's the flow of life.

We've been busy since we moved. If you follow me on Instagram, you probably saw the mountain views and the trip home. I'm going to write about each of those soon.

I don't feel at home yet. I haven't developed a great routine and I feel a little lost. I assume it's because my books are still in boxes. It'll be sorted soon.

Three miles is fine with me

The other day, Ben and I were on a run in suffocating humidity and I was giving myself a pep talk.

Now stop and take a moment because that's the whole point of this post. A milestone post. I gave myself a pep talk and I didn't have to coax myself into such a positive moment - I went there on my own.

See, I have a troubled relationship with running. I remember the summer my dad said I had to run a mile every day if I wanted to stay ready for sports. A mile felt like forever. I have a steep barrier in my mind when it comes to running.

Ben has run a few marathons and generally enjoys the pursuit so when we started dating, it was a way he wanted to spend our time. At that point, I felt so far behind him it didn't seem worth it to try to keep up. I biked along on his long runs and muddled through the short ones the best I could. But the man wanted to chat. Chat! While I was panting! 

I noticed I had an attitude quickly. More than weakness - ruthlessness. My mood synced with my body and if I felt good, I felt good. But if I felt bad... Typically the attitude is pointed at Ben. He got me into this mess. He runs too fast. Too far. Too often. Too hot. 

And he cuts me off when we turn a corner.

After awhile, I increased my mileage possibilities (10 mile race!) but without pressure, I stay in the low ranges. I thought running 10 miles would unlock this secret passion for spending hours out and about but it hasn't. 

The effort it had taken to run an easy three miles humbles me. I mean, I'm a fit individual. I've seen acquaintances and friends pound mile after mile and I'm holding steady at three. I don't think I'm complaining. I just thought I'd see more progress over two years. 

So imagine us out in this unseasonably warm May evening that feels inhuman. It had to be 78 degrees and 80 percent humidity. Heavy stuff. And I feel pretty terrible already because I have a propensity for tight calves / Achilles and I never drink enough water. It was a quiet run for us aside from the occasional "Are you still alive?" 

So we're about halfway through our run and I'm thinking to myself, You know you can stop. You know you can walk and he can keep going and it's not a big deal. Maybe just take a break a stretch. I'm my own best friend - I'm trying to give myself a break. But then I thought about how great it would feel to not stop. I started pointing out (to myself) that my calves had kinda relaxed and it was just the heat that was getting to me. And Ben was keeping a manageable pace, so why stop now? Besides, I'd it's really the heat, stopping just means a slower way home.

And it hit me as I ran my last hill that I finally FINALLY kept running for the joy of it rather than the victory. It was out of love instead of defiance. (I am a highly competitive perfectionist people pleasing person.)

So after two years of low mileage and not meeting my goals, I've met a goal. I've become a happy runner. I run for myself even when I don't really want to run. I can talk myself out of my own funk. And I didn't even get mad at my running partner.

Progress takes many forms. 

Great news:

We’re moving! To Washington!

Ben will join the outdoor recreation staff at Washington State University in Pullman, Wa., next month, and I’ll follow him a few weeks later.

Many of the people close to us know it was a choice between moving to Washington or moving home to Minneapolis. The choice was difficult, but, once we made it, it felt right.

Nearly three years ago, we vowed to be each other’s best friend - best friends with ambitions for big adventures climbing, hiking, and biking, building memories and growing together through shared difficulty and wonder.

So when it came down to it, we opted for the place where we imagine becoming better partners. In part, that meant choosing a place with great access to the kinds of ways we want to spend our time. More than that, though, we needed the freedom to choose how we spend our time. In Washington, Ben won't be gone every weekend, and I can attempt to work for myself, eliminating the two biggest barriers we've faced the last two years.

We’re thankful for friends (family, that’s you, too) who have stuck with us while we’ve lived far away for two years. We're thankful for new friends that have made Kentucky memorable - thankful for your support and love even while we front-loaded that our stay was temporary. We’re confident that, as we met new lifelong friends here, we’ll add to our circle in another state.

I recently reflected on a few older posts, remembering this is an adventure we’ve dreamed about for years. After all the weeks / weekends Ben traveled without me … after feeling the draw of wilder places – off we go!

Well, not quite yet. But it's time to prepare.

25 pieces & the search for enough

I read this morning about a woman who narrowed her wardrobe to 25 pieces – things she wore the most, anyway, so she decided to make the commitment and give the rest away. I looked at the picture list of what she owns, intrigued by minimalist methods, and thought: No wonder she could make that choice – look at those clothes! In my mind, they're each timeless / classic / never-go-out-of-style pieces that mix cozy and stylish. All the colors go together, so she has endless pairing possibilities. Maybe I'll go buy those 25 pieces and I'll be happy with my life.

The time of my life was the summer we hiked the JMT and climbed Longs Peak, when I wore the same two outfits for 2.5 months: one for hiking, camping, climbing and one for visiting friends across the U.S. I loved the simplicity and the comfort.

But reading about this woman, I have my doubts. And, naturally, those doubts have stewed all morning. What would I need in my closet to feel like it's enough? It's not a random thought. I had several frustrating mornings this week trying to decide what to wear. And a day last week when I changed over lunch because I decided what I'd chosen for work was a mistake. The timing bothers me because I just added clothes to my closet in December, thanks to a few gifts and a shopping trip in a friend's closet. You'd think I should see endless possibilities.

Perhaps it's true – too many choices ruins your life. Fear of missing out. If I choose the same sweater twice in the same week, people will notice. It's as if they stood in my closet with me and saw all the possibilities and wonder how I could end up in the same tired outfit. (We all can agree that's absurd.)

Psychology probably explains it. Decision fatigue impedes my ability to feel satisfied with whatever I wear. But it isn't just clothes. It includes the food I eat, the way I spend my money, how I fill my time. So really the question I've pondered all morning is the same I've pondered all week: How does it change my perspective when I believe what I have is enough. No matter what it is or how many. Adding or subtracting won't change anything because it's an internal choice to be satisfied.

I feel the difference when I say I want nothing like I'm trying to convince myself, laying on guilt with, 'Geez, are you really so unsatisfied?' Lately, I've remembered that more isn't better – different isn't better. Real is better. Spending the day doing things that I enjoy: being alone & quiet, reading, cooking for others, writing, working, running, yoga, keeping up with my people – feeling content, which leads to feeling creative and free. I start my day knowing it is unlikely to progress as planned, but what happens is enough for me.

I am not what I wear, but my closet – my choices – they all reveal the level of satisfaction and respect I have for life. That's why I try to avoid random trends, I don't often buy new, and I don't follow impulses. I was reading this week about forward motion in faith. Adding self-control and godliness to virtue isn't the way to redemption (which comes before & without work), but it is a sign of it. Patience and serenity make up my progress list right now. I want the kind of stillness in my soul that feels as weightless as it sounds but is neither weak nor fragile. The kind of steadfastness contained in knowledge of God, who gives and never runs out and promises to provide for me even more than the birds or flowers.

And I guess today that feels like finding all the places I hide my worries – my closet, my pantry, my budget sheet – and embracing the answer I get when I ask How much is enough?


*The photo is completely unrelated. I found it on my computer recently and I just love it. I don't know why. I miss my camera.