This week, we didn’t go anywhere. No long drives, no scenic campsites, no chasing the sun with our solar panel. We parked ourselves in place, but it turns out, even stillness brings its own kind of movement.
We didn’t move much, but a lot still happened. First off, we met a new furry friend named Yuri, the most adorable, fluffy energy-ball we didn’t know we needed. Then it was time to take care of Timmy (our trusty minivan) — oil change, a bit of sprucing up, and finally, a proper cap for our rebellious solar shower. Small wins, but satisfying ones.
We tried new things, like cramming into an escape room with other three teenagers, where we failed gloriously (zero escape, 100% laughter). Turns out, I quite enjoy detective-style games. Definitely something I’d try again, maybe next time with a better “plan” than just vibes and chaos.
Then came my first ever fishing experience in the Red River, and guess what? Double fish on the first try! A beginner’s luck kind of moment that still has me grinning.
And of course… food. Lots of it. Good food has a way of stitching simple days together like comfort in edible form.
But even in these small joys, the world around us felt… loud.
I woke up one morning to news of a plane crash in India. Then headlines of escalated attacks between Israel and Iran. Protests swelling in the US. All in one week. It’s hard not to feel the heartbreak, the pain of people I don’t know but somehow still feel deeply connected to. The world feels fragile. And sad.
So I sat with this question: How do we keep seeking peace when the world feels like it’s falling apart?
What can I do in my tiny space, my temporary home on wheels, to make this place a little better?
I don’t really have an answer yet. Or maybe I do, but it doesn’t feel whole. It’s a journey, really, this dance between the inner world and the outer one. Between quiet joy and shared grief. Between living simply, and feeling deeply.
Finding balance between presence and pain, gratitude and grief might just be the lifelong quest. And that’s okay.
For now, I hold onto this: We rest. We notice. We care. We try.
And even in stillness, we move.