Before we left for our big adventure—our self-mandated sabbaticals, our three month trip across Europe—I read the book Four Thousand Weeks. It’s a time-management book and its preface is that a research group asked people how many weeks they thought the average person lived. Many people guessed about 100,000 weeks, when asked on the spot. Spoiler: It’s actually an average of 4,000 weeks. WTF. It feels so short! All of it. This life. Only 4,000 weeks… and I’m like… a lot of the way through mine.
As I ached about Evan and I quitting our jobs and exploding our life, I counted up the weeks we were planning to be gone. Eleven weeks. Out of 4,000, this would be only 11. Is that worth exploding your life? For only eleven weeks?
And then we landed in London and did a whole-ass bike tour in Ireland and I thought, wow, we still have so much time left. eleven weeks is so long!
Each week, I’d think, okay, this is week four out of eleven… 4/11… five out of eleven… 5/11… six… 6/11… seven… 7/11… and so on. And now we’re here. We’ll be in Seattle before the weekend comes. This is eleven out of eleven. We’re here. This is it. 11/11. A whole fraction. Pieces put together to make a whole. It is done. We’re here… at the end of it all.
While I could put a price-tag on this trip, because my credit card has been keeping good track, I am having a hard time expressing what this trip has been worth to me. I have gained so much (and not just weight) through this trip. My soul needed to have the reset button held down for much longer than you would think. If my bank account and my daughter’s schools would allow it, I would love to travel like this for twice… three times?… as long.
It’s not that it’s all been happy, incredible days. It’s more that I’ve been with the person I’ve chosen to do my whole-ass life with and we are DOING LIFE together. It’s more that I’ve been with friends all over Europe and especially my best friend in the world—Lisa.
Lisa and I talk in a half-coded language that consists of some deep inside jokes and also the most obscure Office quotes. Evan constantly looks at us and says, “I have no idea what’s going on. I am so glad you two have each other.” And then Lisa and I giggle uncontrollably.
So many days have been incredible, but last week, I had—hands down—the worst day of the trip. It was a bad day and I appreciate the universe making/letting the bad things all land on one day to get the out of the way. I quietly excused myself from being with my family and Lisa’s family—all together—and went and laid in bed to cry. Evan came in to check on me and I asked for tissues and water. About 20 minutes after he left the room, Lisa crawled into bed with me and rubbed my back and told me that while I could totally wallow if I wanted, she thought we should go outside and see some beautiful parts of London* together.
What a gift. To be with the two people in the world who love me most (non-blood relation category) and who I love the most (same category) during this time—for better or for worse. To have this love regularly in the same rooms this summer has meant everything. I kept thinking about how rare and wonderful it is to feel truly known. It’s a gift that will sit in my chest for a long long time.
I thought that with all the time in the world, traveling the world, I would build my dream daily routine: wake up early, exercise, meditate, write… then be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when my family woke up. This never happened. I mean, maybe once or twice? I felt amazing every time I meditated; loved every time I ran or did a workout or went to that one yoga class in France where I didn’t understand a word; and have been very happy with the writing I’ve done on this trip—both for myself and for you here. (p.s. pretty fucking proud of myself for doing eleven Messayists through this time. go me!) But all of that was sporadic as hell and did not a routine make.
But Marcelline and Evan and I made our own routine—naturally, together. We were there for each other—in person, in body—as our home. Marcelline slept in eighteen different beds on this trip. What an absolute trooper. Our family has found familiarity in each other, in what we have for breakfast, in how we talk to each other, in how we prioritize swimming pools and playgrounds during the day, in how we eat dinner. Every night, at dinner, before we go to one of eighteen different beds, we ask each other, “What was your favorite part of the day?” A moment of reflection and of appreciation and sometimes of telling each other something we noticed or experienced that we forgot to mention before. This part of dinner sometimes became my favorite part of the day.
Around week ten, in Paris, I was—once again, yet understandably—going over what our travel plans were with Marcie. “We’re in Paris now and then we get on a train and go to London and then we get on a plane and go home to Seattle.”
I asked her if she could remember the places we’ve been. She recounted them like this, “London… Paris… France… London… Switzerland… Italy like Luca… and London!” She really loves being in London with her pal, Auden. (she forgot the Azores of Portugal and Ireland, but she did great.)
Me: So, Marcie, what was your favorite part of our big adventure?
Marcelline: Ummmmm… you!
And my heart just simultaneously melted and bursted. I fear that maybe I wasn’t present enough in my daughter’s life before this trip. Is her favorite part truly that I was there? Did it even matter that we were in Paris? In Switzerland? I think it didn’t. I think it just mattered that we were together. (but I’m not going to press the question or even ask again… especially because since asking her this, Evan and I took Marcelline to see Frozen at the theatre.)
I don’t know how to end this news(love)letter. Just like I don’t know how to end this Sabbatical Summer. How do I end something that gave me so much and make sure I carry on the gifts of time, love, and connection it gave me? I think part of it is that I don’t know what’s next, so I don’t know how to say goodbye. I don’t know how to put a bow on this.
How do I end a rambling writing that was supposed to be a Field Report of an indescribable time? Shit, is the magic of this summer running out? Is that why I can’t write right now??! No. Please, no.
Here’s what I’ll say. I loved these eleven weeks. If you can swing it, I highly recommend quitting your job and traveling a well-friended continent with your toddler for at least eleven weeks. 11/11, would recommend.
Thank you so much for being here. Through the last eleven weeks, through the last decade, through this one news(love)letter. I’ll stick the landing better next time—I think.
xxo,
Rachel.
Welcome home. This was a wonderful gift to yourselves.