And here’s my official announcement…

For three and a half years I haven’t felt I was anywhere near cutting my dreads.

That’s changed now.

I don’t mean the time is NOW. But I feel like it’s soon.

Of course, soon could mean tomorrow or it could mean in 6 months.

I’ve learned I rarely get to choose my timing or the pace at which I transition.

And I can’t explain it right now (although I’m sure I will in the future). I just feel like I’m starting a new growth process, one of letting go.

There I said it. I’m at the beginning of the end of this life-changing journey.

To be continued…

I feel like I’ve been here before, this familiar but different place. It’s transition, known and unknown to us.

We’ve already said our goodbyes a year ago, but only for the year. It was difficult but exciting. And now we’re embarking for the last time and with no plans for return. And it’s not exactly difficult but the excitement is not quite the same.

There’s no fanfare, no newness to our departure this time. And yet this time it feels more like goodbye to us.

Just a few weeks ago I recorded my grandparent’s talking about their childhood, how they met and their life together. And then last night, as we joined them for dinner, I saw time fold upon itself as their past and the present showed itself to me as one carousel.

I saw Justin and I sitting across the table from our own grandchildren, looking back on our own life and all we created. I saw how quickly the seasons go round and thought thoughts that break my heart.

We’re tying up the loose ends now, packing our bicycles on the back of our new home, sending off for new birth certificates that will arrive after we are gone, receiving driving lessons from the people we love and spending our last moments with parents and grandparents.

Yes, we’ve been here before, but this is different.

I feel as though I’m moving round and round, up and down as I realize my dizzying lack of focus or productivity is really my own dragging feet and attempt at distraction, torn between the road ahead and the pain of saying goodbye again and possibly really meaning it this time.

This is life; changing, yet cyclical. Dizzying unless you take the time to really notice what passes by.

We’re aiming to make this our last week off the road. By Friday, we will be heading toward Southern California; Disneyland to be exact.

Transition is always emotionally and spiritually full. We get filled with thoughts of what needs to be done, timelines and deadlines and regret. We scurry, we ebb and flow, we forget and remember and forget again.

And we oscillate, between looking back and looking forward, and all the world conspires to compound the dichotomy of here and there by pouring on the rain, piling up the hurdles, throwing in a little more madness.

I think there are two reasons Murphy’s Law is real and true:

1. Because madness creates or attracts more madness.
2. And because life loves to test our resolve.

I used to confront these maddening times of resolve-testing with a strong mix of doubt and added resolve. Was I on the wrong path? And what did I need to change?

My approach was one of sheer will and barreling through.

Today, as I sit with a mind full of tasks and exasperating challenges, piles and piles of paperwork to scan, a fender-bender to contest and repair, and an old friend demanding more than I will give, my approach is different.

No task lists, no sense of urgency, no feeling of obligation, no impending deadline.

My approach now is one of surrender.

Of savoring.

Of slow, methodical movement.

Of earphones and blueberry muffins.

Of trust.

Of quiet and breath and acceptance.

Instead of frenetic energy, of compiling and pushing, of resistance or fixing or spiritual darting…

I’m allowing.

Allowing the emotions to sweep through me, observing the place where I am, feeling peace as things go undone, as they remain imperfect, and being whole in that imperfection.

Something funny happens when you allow your world to be imperfect and messy.

It ceases to be imperfect or messy.

Perhaps it’s the people whose lives have taken sudden new twists – people who have learned to embrace the creative possibilities of change – who stand the best chance of penetrating life’s mysteries. – Hugh Mackay

I know myself. I know that I will be stuck until I have two things: a platform to express and the validation that Where I Am is okay. This blog gives me the first; my husband and all of your deep, thoughtful and soul-dripping comments give me the second.

There are times when we need to mope and be in the thick of it (we can’t get through it without going through it). It’s where I’ve been the past few days. Then there are times when Life snorts at your experience and throws another into the mix and you have little choice but to roll with it.

Yes, just less than 24 hours after the first blow, we were dealt another. And again, in reality, it’s not a really big deal. But when you’re already neck-deep in yuck, it sure feels like a kick in the teeth.

Yesterday we got a notice that we are not allowed to park Benny in front of my parent’s house. We had 72 hours to move. 72 hours to do what we wanted another two weeks to accomplish.

Oh trust me, I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry and throw a fit and curse the neighbor who complained. But I kept my composure…there were people present after all. Instead, I acquiesced to the moment, scraped my heart off the floor and allowed the experience to propel me.

Movement through madness is a healing salve.

As your kind words poured in, we packed up our household and moved it all into my parent’s garage. As your comments brought me to tears, we moved our clothing into their spare room. As I absorbed your love and your Truth, we got Benny ready to move - without us.

I felt a little like a person getting ready to take her dog to the pound. Guilty and apologetic and tearful. We are attached after all, Benny and I. He’s my Dream-maker, my first liberator, and moving on from that grips at my chest.

Last night, with Zeb at a sleepover with his Gramma, Justin and I slept in Benny for the last time. And as we laughed and reminisced, in my heart I started to let go of my fear.

With the threat of entrapment still lingering over my dreams, watching Benny lumbering behind me down the road and leaving him behind at my father-in-law’s home for the time being took a lot of deep breaths. It was scary. On one hand it’s a necessary step. In order to get the new rig, we have to let the old one go.

But in letting Benny go I was relinquishing my freedom. For awhile at least, I have no means of escape. He’s my last tangible tie to life on the road. And that, my friends, takes a large heaping of Trust.

I’m breathing deep. I’m trusting my dreams are real and valid and happening. I’m trusting our perseverance and ingenuity to keep us from stagnancy in this place we so badly don’t want to be. I’m (just barely, mostly unwillingly, hardly contentedly) trusting the timing of it all. And I’m trusting we are loved and not alone in this, too. I’m not alone in this.

Alone is a scary place to be. But I know it’s a place I choose. I push companionship away when I hurt. I hurt myself deeper, really. But I am loved and blessed. Justin knows me. He knows to hold me when I tell him I want to be alone. He gives me the space to Be and the space to grow, a space that just happens to be within his arms. And my once battered heart is reminded again that it’s a safe place to be.

Life is challenging me, offering a long-avoided opportunity to heal. It’s requesting I stretch in order to grow. These are my growing pains. This is my growth spurt. As hard as it is to say at times, I know this place is good.

One of my closest friends is also the mom of one of Zeb’s closest friends and when we went to pick Zeb up from their sleepover, we did our best to say goodbye to Elizabeth before she heads out of town tomorrow. She was one of the first real-life unschooling moms I met and her gentle, affirming interactions with her son helped propel my embrace of unschooling. She is an amazing, open and authentic person and her approach to life is so mindful and inspiring. She is always the person I call when I need someone to truly hear me but she has an amazing way of helping me see things clearer, as well. Never judgmental, always thoughtful and always in my heart. I love you, Elizabeth.

Then we got news that Zeb’s very best friend won’t be able to see Zeb before we go. It broke my heart to tell Zeb and it crushed him when I couldn’t offer an explanation. His friend will be sorely missed.

Then it was time to send off my grandparents. They have a one-way ticket and their sister’s estate to care for and as much as we all wish Death could work around our schedules, it’s never quite that convenient. While we are hoping to remain in Vegas until they return, we didn’t want to risk missing them and so we helped send them off tonight. It was very difficult to feel rushed; my grandma and I held each other for as long as we could hold back tears. I can’t describe how difficult it is to feel as if I’m losing any time with them at all and yet not have the time I’d like to really say goodbye see you soon.

The goodbyes are the worst part and this is only the beginning. Justin has a breakfast date with his dad tomorrow, we still have a going away party on Saturday and we’re planning a Life Learner sleepover on Sunday. I’m sure every one of those events will be difficult in its own way.

I’m so ready to leave Las Vegas, I just don’t know how to leave the people I love.

It wasn’t all sad news today, however. Justin received the veggie oil tank a day early and they will begin the final steps of the install tomorrow (if only he had time to keep up with his blog!). I got a wonderful, albeit also bittersweet, email from a friend and former client whom I hope to see this weekend (why we were never closer or found more time to hang out, I’m not sure). And now Zeb and I have our vintage suitcase packed with a few days worth of belongings and are spending the time at my mom’s.

And the days keep counting down…

I lost it yesterday. We were trying to pack up the weekend leftovers and searching out the remnants of our keepers. I couldn’t find something and when I asked my husband if he’d seen it he said something that felt an awful lot like an accusation. I went to playful whack him, but it came out a whole lot more angrier than that. I think I shocked myself as much as I shocked him.

That’s when I realized I’m bordering on losing it. I went upstairs, laid down on the floor and took a four hour nap. When I woke up I went out to the RV and slept all night.

I’ve spent the entire morning in a very hot, very long bath trying to figure out where all the emotion came from. And I realized the estate sale was what I was holding in my mind as the last Big Thing to do before we leave. I was holding it all together to get through it, essentially putting off my own processing and acclimation and emotions until they now feel like they’re pouring out.

I feel a bit like I’m detoxing. My allergies have been horrendous, my head pounding and my body hurting. And my mind is so discombobulated I can hardly think straight. And when I look around there is still more to do than I imagined.

I’ve spent the last two nights sleeping in the RV. The first night was tough; I felt both safer and less safe. Safer because the area feels cozy, almost womb-like and I could hear any potential danger. Less safe because it felt we were so close to the outside world with only a few inches separating us from said potential danger.

Why I’ve even felt so concerned with “potential danger” is still unknown. I assume it goes back to that perceived sense of security we gain from a home. But on the other hand, living in a home with wheels means feeling unsafe is less likely – if we perceive danger, we can simply move on.

Zeb had a few rough days before and during the sale. I needed more help than he was able to manage and I had to remind myself that this isn’t his job. Since then he’s been able to balance helping out with enough downtime to still process and adjust.

Justin is still working on Benny’s veggie oil conversion with Sara’s husband, Matt and it’s taking much longer than anticipated. They are still waiting on parts to ship and we may not even be ready to roll out by Monday. Justin is also taking care of anything big, so that I can relax a bit today (it’s a pretty good man that sees my outburst as a cry for help).

I’m know there is a lesson in all this about “expectations” and “letting go”. Again. Because that seems to be the lesson of my life, doesn’t it? I need to take a really deep breath and stay in this moment. I need to let go of the expectation of things going a certain way or happening by a certain date. I need to chill and realize we’re not in a hurry. If I can’t do it now, how will I do it on the road?

Thank goodness for family. If it wasn’t for my sister and my mom, I’m pretty sure we would’ve been overrun. All things considered (including only 45 minutes of sleep and too much theft), we did really great! I loved watching things that we once enjoyed go to someone who’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.

I failed to get a photo of Zeb and his lemonade and homemade cookie stand. But let me tell you, he’s rolling in the dough (haha very punny). Great customer service, that kid, but he pays his staff lousy.

Now we’re packing things up for a local women’s shelter, cleaning the house and helping my sister and her family (including that ridiculously cute kid up there) move in. One of our dogs has moved in with Justin’s mom where he will be spoiled with affection; the other is very old and (cue violins) when talking to my sister about my concern over introducing her into a new environment she took pity on her and offered to keep her here!

I’m exhausted, sore all over and getting more nervous by the moment. And that sleeping situation? I’ve found a foam pad makes a great substitute when you’ve sold your mattress but aren’t quite ready to say goodbye to your bedroom.

It’s well past midnight and in a few short hours I’ll have been up nearly 24 hours, most of those spent working hard on the house in preparation for the sale tomorrow (er, today). My eyes are itching, my nose running and my throat congested from the dust we’ve stirred up, and while I should be sleeping I can’t because my husband convinced me I’d be needing some caffeine to keep me going. So, although I’m physically exhausted, I just can’t fall asleep.

We were suppose to sleep in the RV tonight for the first time, but we’re not. Instead we’re sleeping on our soon-to-be-sold mattress, bare of any sheets and with whatever blankets we hadn’t already placed in Benny’s care, too tired to retrieve. And if I’m honest with myself I must admit I’m a bit nervous to do otherwise. It’s not the RV I’m nervous about – it’s more the giant step of making it official. I’m not sure what it is about this bed, in this room, in this house that is holding onto me. But there is a small part of me that is nervous to say goodbye. So I suppose I’m hanging on a bit longer, at least until this mattress is gone and my options are whittled down to the floor.

This is it. Our things are slowing making their way out our doors and soon so shall we. We’ll leave behind the garden we worked so hard on, the dogs we love (they have been rehomed to family, so at least we’ll see them again), our home for the last five years. I’ll take one last photo of the door marked with my child’s measurements before we close it behind us for good.

I guess it’s natural for a bit of fear. Or apprehension? I’m honestly not sure anymore what this is I’m feeling. I’m so excited for the adventure and opportunities before us, but unsure what to expect.

Traveling full-time for an undetermined amount of time brings with it a certain lack of stability. Can we find a way to feel at peace on the road? Might it not be possible to feel a security that comes from within…or at least from the people we choose to travel with? These are the things I wonder at 2am.

I hope so. I hope that *we* become each others security, rather than the false sense we derive from the “sticks and stuff” we surround ourselves with.

As I look around at all our things tagged and arranged, it’s impossible for me to not feel a bit detached from it. I’m in disbelief at what begins to look like “junk” – odds and ends and sometimes, even trash; we’ve thrown out boxes of trash. Broken, ripped, or simply objects without use. How did we have so much trash in our home, hiding beneath beds, or in attics and cupboards? It’s ridiculous! It’s utterly insane to see the shit we’ve piled into this house, things we didn’t know we had or have no idea where they came from. And we didn’t even feel like we had that much!

I’ll be happy when this is over, when our connections and communications are restored and we can breath easier (quite literally *cough*) for the next week and enjoy the company of friends and family and each other. It’s hard to stay connected when you can barely think, let alone talk or collaborate. All we’ve managed is to chug along, happy just to remember to eat.

But this phase is soon to be over…and that’s when the giant question mark begins. Is it any wonder I want to sleep in my queen size bed one last time; I need a bit of familiarity while our entire lives and relationships undergo this transformation.

Moving, traveling or any other major changes and transitions are hard enough for kids, but for a highly-sensitive child, they really start to feel impossible. In my last post I explained our biggest part of helping him transition – the emotional aspect. But there are others things we’re trying to do to help him, as well. If you’ve read either The Highly Sensitive Person or The Highly Sensitive Child and my thoughts on it, you’ll have a better understanding of where we’re coming from.

Our main concerns are unfamiliarity, overstimulation and nearly constant transitioning during travel, all of which are skills he’s still learning.

Packing and Sorting

We have pretty limited space in a 22 ft RV. But since Zeb forms deep attachments to things that he loves, there are serious accommodations we’re making for him.

He’s surprisingly willing to let go of a lot of things. But there are some things he really wants to take: Yu-Gi-Oh cards, a few Ren Fair items, his bike and most importantly (and space-consuming) his LEGO collection. If you’ve seen what was once called his bedroom you’d understand the challenge; it’s so full of Lego creations and layouts that it’s referred to as The Lego Studio. (No joke. He will correct you if you call it a bedroom. He takes his passions seriously.)

First, and most obviously, while packing up the house we’re saving his room for last. No cleaning, no sorting, no packing, no moving of his things until the last possible moment. While the rest of the house is in various states of disarray, he continues to have a steady, quiet place to center himself and escape the stimulation. (More on this in a minute.) Several days before it’s time to tackle his room, we’ll give him a heads up so he can have plenty of time to prepare himself for it.

We’ve allotted the two bench seats in the dining area of the RV as his own to be used as “toy boxes”. They will undoubtedly be filled with as many Legos as possible. There will also be a few totes above the cab for anything else he’d like to take. Justin and I are condensing our own things as much as possible and finding creative places to store things, so that Zeb can take as many of his familiar things as possible.

Familiarity is the key here. We want him to have resources that give him time to center himself on the road, especially as he can’t do that very well in unfamiliar and overstimulating surroundings. We’re hoping being surrounded by his favorite things will smooth the transition. (If necessary, we’ll find space in the trailer we’ll be towing for anything we can’t fit in the RV.)

His comfort during all of this is just as, if not more, important as ours.

Keeping It Together

Saying he doesn’t handle overstimulation well would be an understatement. It’s a challenge for me with a lifetime of highly-sensitive practice. What I don’t want him to become reliant on is shutting down. It’s coping, not avoiding, that are lasting skills.

But there is only so much a 10 year old can handle, so it’s still our job to maintain some semblance of a routine. Um, yeah. Not easy right now. But crucial to his well-being. So we still gather for dinner. We carve out time for movie nights. We read together before bed. We force ourselves to meet with friends, have dinner with family, play games.

We listen to music during the hectic days. We clean the kitchen daily. We clean the house weekly. We keep plenty of snacks and simple lunches around so that he can help himself whenever he wants something.

Part of his coping mechanism needs a bit of avoidance and I have to remind myself that during these extenuating circumstances avoidance isn’t just normal, it’s necessary. He spends a large amount of his day in his room, playing computer games and Legos and talking on the phone with friends. He even locks his door as a way to ensure fewer abrupt intrusions into his “safe zone”. When he’s not in his room, he’s playing video games or watching Netflix in the living room. It’s constant. It’s sometimes annoying. But I’m reminding myself that it is not only temporary, it’s necessary to his ability to handle everything right now. (He’s also trying to enjoy the things we won’t have in the RV – like rentals or Wii games…or privacy. Just another way he’s transitioning from one place to another.)

Transitioning On The Road

This is something I’ve thought a lot about. It will take a lot of experimenting to find ways to avoid overstimulation, maintain some amount of privacy and respect boundaries in such a small space. And considering how many places we want to visit and things we want to experience on the road, the constant transitioning will certainly be trying.

One serious plus to traveling in the RV is that no matter how our outside environment changes, we’ll always have the same comfortable place to retreat to. Not long ago, I spoke to a self-proclaimed “mild agoraphobic”  who traveled in an RV full-time; she said she had no problem traveling because she was essentially always home! We’re hoping Zeb will find similar comfort during the constant change of scenery.

Here are some ideas I’ve had and that we’ll try implementing:

• Fewer timelines: I already know it’s going to be a challenge for Justin and I to remember to slow down. But having Zeb be our main guiding force as to how long we stay or how quickly we move on will help. If he’s overwhelmed or overstimulated, we’ll settle in for a bit. If he’s uncomfortable where we are, we’ll head out.
• Finding peaceful places: We hope to avoid the energy of busy campsites and RV parks as much as possible. We want to find quiet, beautiful places to stay or boondock. Places with views or trails will likely be important so that anytime one of us needs privacy, we have options for hiking or just sitting outside.
• Headphones: With three laptops, numerous computer games, a passion for YouTube and a small space, I’m going to be encouraging headphones quite a lot to help keep things less stimulating (quiet) for everyone.
• Staying connected: Keeping him in touch with family and friends is a must. We plan to shift to one cell phone with unlimited minutes (or a “family circle”), and we’ll have mobile internet, as well as Skype. We’ll also be visiting many, many family and friends around the country.
• Familiar places: Not only will our RV be filled with familiar and comforting things, we’re also attempting to create familiarity wherever we go. We’ll have a membership to nationwide children’s museums, on the rare occasion we eat out it will likely be a national chain with an environment and menu he is familiar with, and we plan to stop to visit family we’ve stayed with, as well as places we’ve seen before. Apart from farmer’s markets, we’re also hoping to find Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods as often as possible so that we can find familiar foods.
• Giving him the reigns: We all feel best when things don’t feel completely out of our control. As much as possible, and as much as he desires, we’ll have him decide things like which road to take, which city to explore, what to have for dinner, where to stay, etc. I want him to feel like an active, important part of this adventure, not a bystander being dragged behind our crazy ideas. As we look for a new community, his input will likewise be essential.

For those wondering about my own sensitivities and the moving/traveling, the easy explanation is that I enjoy change more than most people and I’m also much more adept at knowing what I need and taking plenty of “time outs” away from everything to regroup when necessary. Also a few of the suggestions above are just as much for my benefit as Zeb’s (headphones, peaceful environments…not to mention helping him will really help us all). How I’ll actually do on the road, however, is anyone’s guess.

Note: All of this was written before we left for Death Valley on Sunday. We just got back this afternoon from a two day trip and as soon as I’ve cleaned up, I’ll blog about how our ideals stacked up to actuality, what we need to work on and a whole lot of other thoughts on our first *successful* Maiden Voyage.

Read more: Highly Sensitive Transitioning: Before The Move

When we first started discussing the decision to travel full-time and eventually settle outside of Vegas, we included Zeb. How could we not? He’s one-third of our family and his experience will be as life-changing as ours.

So, we sat down. We talked over our situation and our choices as best we could without overwhelming him or stressing out an easily-stressed soul. We told him every pro and con of full-time RVing we could think of, we gave him a timeline for being on the road but were honest that it could change, we discussed the potential challenges. And we asked what he thought.

He was hesitant, for sure. Thoughtful and questioning. But after some time, and a promise we’d make room for his Legos, he told us it would work for him.

And then he was excited…for about a week. That’s when his real transitioning began.

Zeb is an emotional, highly-sensitive child. He creates strong attachments to animals, friends and family, as well as things that hold special significance. For years he kept his school reports and certificates on his walls because it reminded him of *something* good from those difficult years. So it’s really no wonder that this transition – away from loved ones, best friends, his hometown, all that he knows, even his pets – would hit him hard.

All at once he was torn between sadness and anger. This isn’t to say he wasn’t simultaneously excited. But he realized how much he would miss his friends and family. He worried that he’d be bored. Truthfully, I think he was a bit afraid of such a Huge Unknown. In his ten years, he’s experienced some pretty difficult stuff and it’s left him leaning heavily toward the hesitant side of life. Now here we were, and he was feeling as if the security we’ve built for ourselves was being stripped away. It’s a big world out there and it’s already proven to sometimes be scary.

This went on for awhile. Some days  – many days – I didn’t handle it well. Truthfully, my own excitement was building and I was feeling resentful for his raining over my parade. I didn’t want to be pulled into the emotional upset and away from the budding joy. Internally, I didn’t think I had the energy to handle it.

On those days I tried to rationalize with him, remind him how much fun we’d have, how many more friends we’ll see and make, how many things we’ll have the opportunity to do. I took lots of deep breaths and left the room countless times. It’s not that I didn’t understand him. It’s that I was too wrapped up in my own expectations to react to his needs.

He doesn’t need to be rationalized with or reminded that he had once agreed. He needs to mourn what we are leaving behind, so that he can be prepared to move ahead.

Zeb has always needed a slow transition. He’s slow to get out of bed, slow to stop one thing and start another. We work with this by giving him plenty of notice before we leave, before we eat, before company comes.

And this anger and sadness was the beginning phase of a very big transition. All he needed from me was a place to vent, some validation over what will surely suck and some patience. So I finally stopped rationalizing or talking him out of his emotions. I stopped trying to fix it. (Wait. I thought I learned this one already?)

I allowed myself to be his emotional punching bag.

He needed a safe place to let it all out. And with lots of deep breaths and quiet reminders to myself to keep my mouth shut, I became that place. Sometimes he yelled, other times he cried. Sometimes he questioned and voiced concern. Some days he talked excitedly and made plans. At one point he blamed us for ruining his life and called us names, hating us with conviction. And that’s about when I was suddenly able to see past my own expectations and look with compassion on my son who was grieving a loss in advance.

And as soon as I managed to stay present and compassionate during his storm, it passed. In a matter of an hour he went from total meltdown to cuddling in our arms. In the end he gave us a look that resembled a Thank You, a hug that said I Love You Too and he was off to conquer the day without the heavy emotional load dragging him down.

I’m not about to assume we’ve seen the end. He’s not that kind of kid. And he still has his moments of fear amid the moments of excitement, although they aren’t as explosive now. But if I can remember to breath and not take it personally, I know we’ll get through them, too.

There is plenty more to say on the subject of transitioning/moving/traveling with a highly-sensitive child. You could probably consider this Part One.