For years we lived outside of a small town, in a small
canyon in a cozy yurt and RV. Our three small children had their grandparents a
holler away and we had tea almost every afternoon with my mom. We picked our
fruit from the endless trees my dad had planted when I was a child, and played
outside all the time. I rearranged the yurt and RV constantly, trying to find a
comfort of home and a sense of calm space. The yurt and RV were extreme opposites;
the round wood and canvas room verses a rectangular plastic box. It would
frustrate me to no end, but the mountains around us made it hard to want to
move.
When our youngest was three we realized our need for a more
cohesive space and packed up our things to moved into town. It took about a
year and a half before we were truly settled in a wonderful home. The home was
everything I could have wanted, it was the dream I’d had for so many years—a
run down gem on a half acre with so much potential I had to hold in my squeals
of delight. That was a sweet time, willing our home to life, daydreaming of the
next project, and loving that house like a baby. It was my baby; I still tell
people that house was my baby. If you were there you would understand why.
During that patch of life we held a small homeschool program
with a dear, dear friend of ours. It was “school house in the woods” like with
the big boys (older brothers) outside learning at the long table while I sat
inside with the middle size girls sewing, knitting and learning cursive. The
littlest ones would spend their morning doing outdoor games or nature projects
with my husband. Then we would swap and the littles would come to me and the
middles would go out to the table and the big boys would play basketball or
some capture the flag like game with my husband. It sounds dreamy to me when I
write about it, and there certainly was a lot of dreamy aspects—the charm
factor always took my breath away—but the day to day, even if it was part time,
wore patients thin and we realized after two years we were complete in our adventure.
It was that next summer that we almost became involved in a
restaurant endeavor. A project that, although had roots to our family in a way
no other restaurant could, would have been such a commitment the idea now makes
me exhale a sigh of relief. It could have been amazing, and I don’t believe it
would have gone sour, but the up hill battle it would have taken to get there
was little shy of needing and army. With that prospect looming over our heads
we decided to head north and visit our friends and a town we had planned on
moving to for over ten years. It had always been a back of the mind thought, a
conversation we would have and then leave, re-kindle and then drop. We drove
for two days and arrived at dusk to play Frisbee in the park with our friends.
As we progressed up the I5 the pine trees began to make their presence and the
curves of the Oregon highway felt like we were heading home. (Interlude: we did
live in oregon for a very short spell eleven years before).
Our trip was wonderful; picnics at parks and time with
amazing friends. We returned home with mixed feelings but a definite weight of
intention on the side of moving. For the sake of it, I googled schools and
found one that to me was a perfect fit. After a phone call to the office I
learned they had room for all three kids. This was remarkable as charter
schools are always jam-packed and waitlists can take forever. To me this was
the sign and we rallied our selves to be ready to move.
Only weeks later we were packed, squeezed and piled into our
cars. We drove north again, but this time knowing a new home was waiting for
us. It was a shock to us all, the extremeness of the turn around, the rush to
be ready, the heaviness of leaving family and friends behind. I would think
often of how pioneers must have felt, leaving their homes to go to unknown
territory, probably to never see their family or friends again. It made me feel
better; I knew it was only a few tanks of gas and a gruesome amount of hours
for us to be home, hugging my mom or my dad and smelling that mountain sage
air.
Portland is a fabulous city. We found a culture that we are
at least remotely in tune with. Of course anywhere and everywhere has its
reality, but we feel a sense of home we have been yearning for and struggled to
locate.
I feel settled, minus feeling squeezed for a need for more
yard, and happy to be here.
Wasabi Honey Bee has been a project I have kept for years.
It is part journal, part letter to friends, part connection to the world. I
hope to keep it as a window and continue to log bits and pieces of what’s
happening.
Thanks for reading!
Marica
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