Back when I was on FB, it was pretty easy to make the decision only to connect with people I knew in real life. On IG, it’s a little easier to slowly add folks who have interesting style, pursuits, or perspectives. So there are quite a few people on my feed who I don’t know personally.
That’s a little weird for me. I like that I can connect and be inspired creatively by these folks, but sometimes they share their opinions and then I quietly set my phone down and have an existential crisis.
Several days after we got to Rwanda, we woke up at 4 a.m. and loaded ourselves into a safari truck with our hosts.
I posted a pretty emotional piece about my feelings around eliminating my comfort foods due to food sensitivities diagnosed by a blood spot test through my naturopathic doctor.
Now that I’ve been home from our trip at the beginning of the month, I wanted to come in with a little update in this evolving situation.
Most of the books I read this summer were just OK. There were a few that were interesting, or had good descriptions, but nothing that set me back on my heels. When I read one that made me laugh out loud the whole way through it, I had to mention it here.
I spent my childhood going on camping trips. In my memory, we went several times every summer. The cool nights, the many rainy afternoons spent in our tents reading books or playing cards, and peering out the window of the camper to see a skunk making its way across the campsite loom large in recollection.
As an adult, every camping trip I’ve taken until now has been with my parents. They’ve provided an extra tent for our growing family, blankets when someone forgot a sleeping bag, and logistical support with meals. I’ve never had to fully plan and execute a trip by myself.
Then, friends of our invited us to go camping with them this summer. We’re now quickly approaching the weekend in question, and at 40, I’m making my first solo camping trip with my family, but without my parents.
