transition – On the Horizon Line

motherhood feels like climbing mountains

I THINK I can, I THINK I can

Did you know that The Little Engine That Could can inspire tears? It did for me this morning, reading it to Talon on the couch. I choked up smack in the middle of “I THINK I can, I THINK I can, I THINK I can.”

Maybe I cried because I feel like that too-small blue engine pulling the toy-laden cars over the mountain—terrified that I will slide backwards at any moment. Or maybe it’s because I feel like the anxious toys at the bottom of the mountain—waiting for just the right engine to haul my ass to the other side of this hump.

This me (on the beach in Tonga) feels pretty far away.

It makes sense I feel a little desperate as a new mother, as the owner of a new business, as a tropical sailor landlocked in the northern mountains. That’s a lot of change in a short time. One year ago, Rob and I were in Thailand winding through villages on a small motorcycle with two outfits each, a beat-up guitar, and a lot of time to kill. Two years ago, we were wrapping up the last day of our decade-long careers at conservation non-profits in Missoula, about to embark on a year of exploration at sea.

This weekend, our baby turns seven months-old, and free-time and the sea seem like distant memories. I went from zero to 60 on the stress-meter over the past year. But what’s life without a little adrenaline? (‘Peaceful’ is one answer…)

Though this scene looks suspiciously Christmas-like, I took the photo yesterday.

Back to The Little Engine That Could. With Talon gumming away at the book cover, I had this chugging through my head.

I THINK I can wash all the dishes and vacuum the rug in between loads of diaper laundry.

I THINK I can manage all 7 contracts through my writing and communications business.

I THINK I can find time to write creatively and pitch magazines and brainstorm a novel.

I THINK I can get Talon to sleep longer than his always-only-30-minute naps.

I THINK I can teach a few yoga classes and still squeeze in a dance class.

I THINK I can hug my husband and genuinely listen when he talks to me.

I THINK I can drink a beer without falling asleep in my dinner plate.

I THINK I can shower more than once a week.

I THINK I can not kill the houseplants.

I THINK I can see my friends.

I THINK I can do it all.

But I can’t. That’s why I cried, because I realized my engine ain’t getting over this mountain in front of me. I hate backsliding. I get through each day with a lot of grit, and just enough grace to sometimes smile at passersby. I wake up each night in a sweat, my mind racing through all of the tasks I didn’t complete the day before. I’m rarely present in any given moment.

But if that damn little blue engine can make it over the mountain, so can I. It just means I have to take deeper breaths, and remind myself that I am not a superhero, and that I only need to climb one moment at a time. Some of those moments I’ll smile, and some of them I’ll grit my teeth as I chant: “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

On the Horizon Line - Brianna Randall and Rob Roberts Blog - Rock Creek Montana

Reflections on Life

Burning Down the Box

I want to burn the box. What box, you wonder? Our new house? Well, yes, some days. But I’m actually referring to the box that many middle-class Americans live within. The 9-to-5, drive-a-sedan, own-a-home box that beckons us to join the masses that do the same.

We’ve been back in the States for almost two months now. That box is firmly overhead. It feels like we suddenly mounted tricycles and are trying to stay within the lines of a track we can’t quite find. “The Loop,” one friend calls it – a circular, never-ending track of mortgage, groceries, errands, bills, and all the income, smiles and tears that makes the wheels spin.

We broke outta The Loop. Hell, we gleefully smashed it to pieces. The problem is that we didn’t leave much left to pick up when we returned. I look around now at our near-empty cupboards and our way-bigger-than-a-boat living space, and wonder what possessed me to give away my cookie sheet. The paid-off car. The speakers and stereo. The really good job. Our favorite spider plant.

But mostly, I look at what we still have and am overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff we don’t need. Why, for instance, do I have 22 tank tops when I lived in 2 for a year? How could we ever have needed pint glasses and coffee mugs and wine glasses? Sometimes I feel like all the stuff is taunting us as we struggle with merging back into The Loop.

None of the pictures look good on the wall because I don’t like looking at walls instead of horizon. The carpet seems odd because it’s not sand. The nights are too quiet to sleep without hearing roosters calling or wind in the stays. The Loop feels eerily desolate, even as our favorite friends pedal alongside.

Last weekend, I joined a few girlfriends for an overnight in the Rattlesnake National Forest. I packed a pad, a one-person tent, my ukelele and some food. Off I rode from the front yard, belly as my bowsprit. A mere six miles later, I stopped at a divine creekside camp spot. I rejoiced at how lucky we are to live so close to these familiar mountains. I felt light again. Free. Like Bri. It felt safer to have only the belongings on my back. To look at a panorama of sky instead of a landscape of unsatisfying walls.

When I turned home the next day, I felt stronger and more inspired than ever to trash the tricycle and burn down the box. The problem is that I don’t quite know what to replace them with. At seven months pregnant, I can’t exactly wander into the sunset with a backpack. Supposedly, that fabled “nesting” instinct is going to kick in soon. But right now, I long to be a gypsy still. To be the family that never has going-away or welcome-home parties because you never know if we are coming or going.

Rob and I are learning our way back home through a thicket of expectations, new and old. We prop each other up. On good days, we find morels in river bottoms and sheep skulls beneath pine logs. We appreciate the wildflowers and have dinner with friends who listen well and hug us hard.

On bad days, we try to stagger which one of us wobbles on this new track. We alternate between who wants to burn down the house and who can deal with the daily chores. We dwell too often on “should haves,” even though we know full well that “can dos” will serve us better.

Would we take our sailing trip again? Of course. Would we have done things a bit differently? No question. Hindsight is the clearest vision of all. Now we’re working on not letting it blind our way forward.

Buying a house in Missoula - On the Horizon Line Blog - Brianna Randall

Videos

We bought a house! (Anyone have a car?)

Some people might call us hasty. Others might say impetuous. We like to call ourselves decisive. Rob and I put an offer on a house exactly one week after touching down in Missoula, Montana. If all goes according to plan, we’ll move in to the new digs on May 8th, less than one month after returning to our mountain home.

Yeah, sure, we only looked at one house, total, before signing on the dotted line. But to be fair, we’ve actually had our eye on it since February, when a rainy day in New Zealand found us surfing online for real estate options in Missoula. We found it immediately: grandma’s house. A 1970s rancher that hasn’t been updated. Ever. It has wallpaper and a laundry chute and a carpeted bathroom. It’s a perfect fixer-upper for Rob, who loves nothing more than having projects to putter through. And the only home within our budget in the fabulous Rattlesnake neighborhood near downtown Missoula.

Why did we leap in and buy a house so fast? Well, Rob and I have been discussing the best way to keep our cost of living low while maintaining the quality of life we’ve enjoyed the past year. For us, the biggest monthly expense is shelter. We wanted to find a place we could settle into while not breaking the bank. Renting seemed like a less desirable option, since we’ve been homeowners for years.

Luckily for our budget, crewing on other people’s sailboats was an extremely affordable way to travel the world. We were able to use the money we saved by not buying our own sailboat to buy a new nest of our own. Sometimes I feel a little queasy about the fact that nest is landlocked. But having a lower mortgage will allow us to travel more easily when the longing for the sea strikes again.

We feel unbelievably fortunate to have found a new home. A place that we can rent out when we’re ready for the next big adventure. A place our soon-to-born son can toddle down the street safely, wander the woods at will, and walk to his grandparents’ house in a jiffy.

Now all we need is a vehicle so we don’t have to move our belongings via bike. Anyone in Missoula have an old car, van or truck they wanna sell? Give us a shout if so!

Bachelorette Party in Bend - On the Horizon Line Blog - brianna randall

Family and Friends, Pregnancy

Penis Paraphernalia and Pregnant Women

Blow up dicks aren’t typically a decoration associated with pregnant women. Yet I recently found my 5-month pregnant self wading gleefully through cock-and-ball straws, shot skis filled with tequila, and naked hot-tubbers drinking sangria. Even more startling, the scene transpired only a few days after my re-entry to America after a year spent sailing abroad.

I parachuted back to the Pacific Northwest, landing straight into a full-scale bachelorette party for one of my best friends. We jammed 11 women – 3 of whom were pregnant – into a cabin near Bend, along with some stringed instruments, a stocked costume box, plenty of penis paraphernalia, and enough liquor to kill a couple of cows.

Sure, penis paraphernalia is one of the last things I’m craving midway though my second-trimester. But I’d been looking forward to this female festival for weeks, ever since I’d realized we could time our return to surprise my friend. The giggles and raunchy jokes were nectar for my estrogen-starved senses after spending 24/7 with only my husband.

Rob was chomping at the bit to see his boyfriends, too, ready to chainsaw some trees, traipse along streams, and make unwise, testosterone-based decisions. One of the main reasons we decided to put our travels on hiatus was because we missed our people. One year away from friends and family starts to leave a gap in your heart. My husband and I were both aching to fill the hole. I started closing that gap during the raucous weekend in Bend.

I danced and tossed rings at the blow-up dick with the best of ‘em. I mastered the two minute dip-in/dip-out of the hot tub. I matched the sangria drinkers glass for glass with soda water. I put on wigs and hoop skirts, and reminisced with the bride-to-be about past boyfriends. I stayed up way past my usual bedtime.

And when the partying got too intense, I retreated to a quieter corner with the other two pregnant friends to talk about stretch marks and labor positions over hot tea. It was the first time I got to share revelations about growing a person inside of me with other pregnant women. A special treat, in this unlikely setting.

The penis-paraphernalia girl party eased my transition back into “real life” here in the States. It was the perfect mix of old jokes and new adventures, favorite costumes and changing bodies. I’ll be as big as a house when we all reconnect at the wedding in July. Meanwhile, Rob and I are ready to leap into the next trimester – and the next adventure – here in Montana, fortified by the friendships we missed while away.

Spring traveling through the Northwest US - On the Horizon Line Travel Blog - Brianna Randall and Rob Roberts

Reflections on Life, Traveling

Melding Back Into Missoula

Transitions can be exciting or scary, slow or abrupt. But rarely are they comfortable. As Rob and I transition back into “real life” on land here in Missoula, Montana, we are attempting to accept the discomfort that comes with change. Our life is full of unknowns right now: where will we live? What will we do next? Who do we want to be when we grow up?

Luckily, even while immersed in the unknown, it feels good to be surrounded by familiar sights and our favorite people. Our transition back to the States was buffered by spending two weeks wandering the Northwest before settling back in Montana. We reconnected with friends from Bellingham to Bend, stopping in Seattle, Portland and Mosier in between.

We saw balsam root flowers springing up along the Columbia River, and mushrooms poking out amid the cedar forests near Canada. We played with doggies and goats and chickens, told stories, caught up. And we bought warm clothes at Goodwill to ease our heat-soaked bodies into the cold northern spring.

Now, vacation is over. By choice, for sure, although the ending is no less poignant. Rob and I are both ready to delve into new projects, new passions, new challenges. We’ve been back home for a week now, living in my parents’ very comfortable house and reacquainting ourselves with Missoula. When we get overwhelmed by all the “to do’s” in front of us — find a house, a car, insurance, income — we call a friend we haven’t seen in over a year and go for a walk in the hills.

It’s almost too easy to slip back into old habits. But that slip seems to make the transition even harder, as we struggle to hold on to those hard-earned travel lessons. We are working to find the balance between embracing our old lifestyle and carving out a new one that accommodates our expanded horizons. Mostly, we’re just taking the good advice of a wise friend: be kind to ourselves, and forgive ourselves when we hit rough spots on the road as meld back into our home.