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I discovered my process in my mid-thirties. My process is a wave. A powerful wave, one that slams down on the seabed and thunders ashore, rather than gently caressing the sand. It is a thing of great energy, with its own rhythm, regardless of my wants, needs, or reality.

The Wave begins with a great intake of energy, sucking everything to it, building, gathering force. I am at my most unpleasant during this time.

I stalk the house. I’m impatient, restless, and anxious. I don’t sleep very well. I feel as though something is always on my mind, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’m distracted and wracked with self-doubt. I want to write, but I’m not ready to. I plan and organize, rather than producing, which amps up my anxiety.

I don’t have the luxury of writing in rhythm with my process; few writers do. Deadlines are what help shape writers’ processes, but they remain unfeelingly fixed, and the Building phase is always the worst one to push through. Burgeoning writers frequently give up during this part of the cycle. They don’t yet recognize it for what it is, and they haven’t yet learned to just get it done, to get words on paper whatever the cost. (Great is the enemy of good during this phase, and experienced writers are not immune to the danger.)

Eventually, the Wave crests to a breaking point, and that’s when I’m ready to write. This is the ‘lightning strike’ writers talk about, and – obviously – it’s my favourite part of the process. I write hard. I write well. I’m in rhythm. My mind bursts with ideas, and the notepads I’ve stashed (my purse, the car, my bedside table, pockets, the coffee table, the kitchen, etc.) fill up with ideas, often in the middle of the night. (I still don’t sleep well during this time).

I can write for long stretches of time, breaking for sleep, food, or exercise. I am productive, and that helps keep the anxiety quietened and the restlessness at bay. My forearms swell from overuse and my writing callous (from holding a pencil / pen) puffs up to the size of a pea. I feel happily preoccupied with my work.

And then the Wave is spent. It washes up the shore, thinning out, spilling energy, until it’s reached its limit and begins to recede. Now I can sleep. I also feel drained, unfocused, foggy. I can still work, but prefer concrete tasks (doing laundry, conducting interviews, responding to emails, organizing) to creative ones. I gravitate to activities with a clear end, something I can tick off a list. I read a lot during this time; it helps me recharge.

The length of the Wave cycle changes every time. The Breaking cycle usually lasts two to three months. Its length and intensity determine the Thinning and Building times (as I’ve taken to referring to them in my strange little mind). The bigger and more gnarly the Breaking, the longer it takes me to recover and regenerate.

In the writing of my current book, I’ve gone through two massive Breaking cycles, and fought to maintain productivity through the Thinning and Building cycles, further complicated by the pandemic, and the fatigue and anxiety it carries.

The pandemic lengthened the Thinning cycle I was in. It lasted so long I’m almost welcoming of the twitchy, unsettled, self-damning feelings that are rising now – a sure sign that I’m entering a Building phase. Hopefully this phase won’t last long, because one more Breaking should see me through to the first draft of this book being finished, which is something I’m very much looking forward to – not just because I want it done, but because it’s something good, and I am eager to see a complete first draft of this amazing odyssey, years in the making.

Wish me luck, spare a kind thought for Chris (he puts up with a lot when I cycle through the Building part of the process, even though I try to protect him from it), and I hope all of you are keeping well.

****
Once upon a time, when I first moved to New Zealand in 2004, I wrote a weekly email to my close family and friends, cleverly titled The Weekly. It was my way of sharing the details of my new and day-to-day life with people I loved who were back in the States. I continued The Weekly for many years: sometimes it was a breathless paragraph; sometimes a lengthy ramble (or vent).

I am currently writing hard to finish the book resulting from our extraordinary assignment, but I’ve been toying with the idea of reinstating The Weekly for a while now. I think I’ll give it a try, although it may be brief and breathless for now, and the writing will be far from perfect. So, check back around this time every week if you’re keen to be part of The Weekly II. I’d love to have you along for the ride.

The post The Wave Builds appeared first on Carrie Ink.

This year was meant to be spent in the company of friends, but the pandemic changed that plan, as it has so many others. And that’s okay.

Collectively, as one blue/green planet, we’ve experienced a reset, whether we’ve wanted to or not. In a piece for the New Yorker, George Saunders described it this way:

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that the world is like a sleeping tiger and we tend to live our lives there on its back. … And now and then that tiger wakes up. And that is terrifying. Sometimes it wakes up and someone we love dies. Or someone breaks our heart. Or there’s a pandemic. But this is far from the first time that tiger has come awake. He/she has been doing it since the beginning of time and will never stop doing it.”

The tiger wakes up. But then it lies back down again.

We’re scared, we cope, we adjust, and – once the tiger settles – we move on. And so it has ever been, throughout history. Although our individual tiger-riding experiences are unique, sometimes the tiger takes us all for a ride, and that shared trauma is important. Why? Because it resets things – collectively. There are opportunities to do things differently. To re-evaluate what we value. To look through the world with new eyes.

(Saunders also writes about the importance of having “… writers to observe it and (later) make some sort of sense of it, or at least bear witness to it. It’s good for the world for a writer to bear witness, and it’s good for the writer, too. Especially if she can bear witness with love and humor and, despite it all, some fondness for the world, just as it is manifesting, warts and all.” See last week’s Weekly for suggestions on how you can chronicle this crazy time.)

One of my favourite things about traveling is it subconsciously provides a reset. The sensory overload of seeing, smelling, tasting, hearing, and touching new things can’t help but affect us. Sometimes travel challenges us, or gifts us with a revelation. Other times it’s a slow burn, a gathering of otherworldly experiences that chip away and shape the stone of our minds, without us even realizing it’s happening. This is not a new sentiment. Travelers have written about it (and better than I) since we set our sights on new horizons; it’s why we explore.

Regular contact with friends and family was difficult during the time we were on the road. I missed both their milestones and minutiae, and one of my (many, many) resets from our grand adventure was realizing how important that is to me. I was looking forward to celebrating my birthday with friends.

And then Covid-19 sailed in and meted out its own re-calibration, and I ended up celebrating my birthday on the phone to my friends and family. However, the pandemic had a gift for me: I experienced a flash – swift, clear, and sharp – where I realized that all of my friends and family are (for now) safe and healthy. How fortunate I am. The greatest treasures we have are loved ones, health, and time – everything else is color. And right now, at this birthday, I am in possession of all. I really couldn’t ask for more, and I would have swept right past that realization on any different day in any different time.

Perhaps I’m becoming more sentimental in my older age. It’s certainly possible, especially since I don’t feel the wiser. Or perhaps the elevated point of view from riding the biggest tiger of my lifetime has forced me to raise my eyes and see things differently. Who’s to say?

In any case, hold on tight, and let’s hope the tiger tires from its sprint soon. I wish you well.

****
Once upon a time, when I first moved to New Zealand in 2004, I wrote a weekly email to my close family and friends, cleverly titled The Weekly. It was my way of sharing the details of my new and day-to-day life with people I loved who were back in the States. I continued The Weekly for many years: sometimes it was a breathless paragraph; sometimes a lengthy ramble (or vent).

I am currently writing nine hours a day to finish the book resulting from our extraordinary assignment, but I’ve been toying with the idea of reinstating The Weekly for a while now. I think I’ll give it a try, although it may be brief and breathless for now, and the writing will be far from perfect. So, check back around this time every week if you’re keen to be part of The Weekly II. I’d love to have you along for the ride.

The post Riding the Tiger appeared first on Carrie Ink.

I’m self-isolating. I’m wishing karmic wealth for essential workers. I’m checking in with family and friends as my deadlines allow. I’m chronicling. And the one thing I can do, is encourage you to become chroniclers, as well.

Writing has long kept me sane. It is my way of making sense of the world, especially when my mind is spiking in different directions.

It is also my way of remembering details that are important to me. When Chris (my husband) and I were on a 14-month assignment for National Geographic last year, traveling to 50 destinations in 35 countries, I kept a logbook. I knew details and moments would quickly blur together, and so every night before bed, I would jot down what happened that day. Sometimes I would paste in plane tickets, dive shop stickers, national park passes, or newspaper clippings.

That logbook is our most valuable souvenir. It is a record of our experience.

We should all be keeping pandemic logbooks. Whether you’re self-isolating solo or bubbling with your family, chronicling your experience is important.

First, it will help you make sense of, and remember, your experience. Perhaps not now, but in time. Here are my suggestions for getting started:

1) Choose a notebook. I used to favour exquisite leather journals, but I’ve found yearly day-planners work surprisingly well, as they contain well-defined daily boxes and are easier to write in. If this is a family chronicle, list the names and ages of the archivists, and perhaps ask your kids to decorate the notebook.

2) Keep a routine. Write at the same time every day, even if you’re only jotting down a line or two. (I found that right before bed works best for me.)

3) Start with just the facts, ma’am. You’re an archivist; a chronicler. Focus on the facts first: what happened today?

– What are the numbers? It may sound morbid, but I’m tracking reported case numbers here in New Zealand. I remember when we were at eight. Eight confirmed cases. It wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like years. I want to remember how swiftly this thing moved.

– What are the headlines? What’s dominating the news, both at home and abroad?

– What else is happening in the world? Spring? Autumn? Birthdays? Good news events?

4) Document details. Broad strokes never capture what happened; details tell the story.

– What did you do today? What is your routine under lockdown? (Chart the course of a normal day from getting up to going to bed.) What are you watching / bingeing / reading / listening to / baking? If you go to the grocery store or pharmacy, what was that experience like and how is it differing from normal?

– What is catching your eye and capturing your attention? Who do you find yourself missing? What do you find yourself focusing on – a bird? A story about a man hoarding hand sanitizer? Where are your thoughts taking you today? What are your kids missing about school or pre-lockdown life?

5) Tell the stories. These are some of my favouite parts of our logbook: the inside jokes between me and Chris; funny or poignant moments that will never make the published book; a description of an event. These moments tend to vanish from memory unless prompted to recall, so capture them: write them down.

Chronicle the funny things your children, sister, or partner said; the flat-share inside joke; something that happened during a work Zoom meeting; an oddball habit your pet has. Think of your logbook as a jar for saving memories, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. You’ll be so thankful you did.

6) Add emotion, but only if you feel like it. This is a logbook. It doesn’t need to be a journal, a memoir, or a blog. It doesn’t need to be maudlin or overflowing with sentiment like gratitude, fear, or hope. If you’re like me, you’re probably ricocheting from one emotion to the next, and generally feeling fatigued and overwhelmed. So, don’t make your life more difficult than it already is: chronicle the facts, the details, the stories.

Trust me: what you’re feeling? It will be glaringly apparent when you re-read your logbook later on. What you selected to write down that day, how short (or long) your entry is – details like these will shine a light on your state of mind, how you were feeling, without you actually having to write that feeling down. Plus, what you wrote down will trigger memories of how you felt at the time. You don’t need to add anything extra if you don’t feel like it: the emotion will be there when you’re ready to revisit it.

The second reason chronicling your experience is important is because this is an extraordinary moment in time. Even if your world is falling apart and this is not a time that you want to remember, you are valuable. Your experience is valuable. And it is uniquely yours.

It’s difficult to untangle things now, while we’re living it, but later on, years from now, you (or someone yet to be born) will find this fascinating.

Every night before I begin the day’s entry, Chris and I are re-reading our logbook from last year’s trip, remembering where we were and what we were doing. This time last year, for example, we were diving New Zealand’s Poor Knights Islands, surrounded by schools of candy-pink mau mau fish, and looking for the bronze whaler sharks that frequent the area. On the boat ride back, we came across hundreds of bottlenose and common dolphins and Bryde’s and pilot whales, breaching and swimming hard, churning up the water. It was one of those moments. I wrote it down so we wouldn’t forget.

****

Once upon a time, when I first moved to New Zealand in 2004, I wrote a weekly email to my close family and friends, cleverly titled The Weekly. It was my way of sharing the details of my new and day-to-day life with people I loved who were back in the States. I continued The Weekly for many years: sometimes it was a breathless paragraph; sometimes a lengthy ramble (or vent).

I am currently writing nine hours a day to finish the book resulting from our extraordinary assignment, but I’ve been toying with the idea of reinstating The Weekly for a while now. I think I’ll give it a try, although it may be brief and breathless for a while, and the writing will be far from perfect. So, check back around this time every week if you’re keen to be part of The Weekly reincarnated. I’d love to have you along for the ride.

The post The Chronicles of Covid-19 appeared first on Carrie Ink.

I’m angry. Angry to the point of having headaches. To the point of not sleeping. I’m fed up with a world that seems hell-bent on destroying everything beautiful and possible, and for what? Greed? Fear?

Judge Brett Kavanaugh never should have been nominated to the Supreme Court, much less appointed. Even if we shelve the allegations of sexual misconduct leveled at him (which we shouldn’t; those should have been thoroughly examined), it was a hasty and botched attempt to push through a man who lied under oath and proved himself to be wildly partisan and temperamental.

This is our best and brightest?

The highest court in the land deserves better. And U.S. citizens deserve better than senators who dismiss their protests as the grousing of “these people“.

We’re your constituents, jackass. You’ll get my respect when we have yours.

On the heels of a political process intended to win at the great cost of dividing a nation even further, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) released its report on climate change.

“Limiting global warming to 1.5ºC would require rapid, farreaching and unprecedented changes in all aspects of society,” the IPCC said in a new assessment. With clear benefits to people and natural ecosystems, limiting global warming to 1.5ºC compared to 2ºC could go hand in hand with ensuring a more sustainable and equitable society, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) said on Monday.

After consulting the world’s best scientists and examining all of the evidence and information available, the IPCC has concluded we need to take drastic and immediate steps to avoid catastrophe – as in, the exponential slide toward the destruction of our planet.

This is our life-support system they’re talking about. Half a degree is the difference between life as we (almost) know it, and apocalyptic changes.

And the response of the general public? Many people rallied. Most people seemed to put their heads in the sand, either not reading the report or washing their hands of our collective future, despairing that there seems to be nothing we can do, so why bother trying? And then there are the people who deny climate change altogether, classifying it as “weather” and “normal patterns”.

“But the special horror of the present world is that the whole damned things is one bag. There is nowhere to fly to.” J. R. R. Tolkien.

How right he is. We will all find out very soon that borders mean little and we are all nestled in the same basket.

The thing that kills me, that keeps me up at night, is that it could have been very different. Last week, Chris and I visited the Oceanographic Museum in Monaco, a champion for marine conservation since its creation in 1910.

In 1902, eight years before this beautiful museum was even built, Albert I of Monaco said: “The duty of oceanography is to detect the hazards caused in all countries by the overexploitation, whether poorly regulated or improperly monitored, of the resources of the sea.” 

1902.

Many people, including Theodore Roosevelt, early on saw the necessity for preserving and protecting wild places, and the creatures that call those places home. They are everything from our lungs to our beating heart, and once gone, they are gone forever.

And it still *can* be different. Every day makes a difference. And it is what we choose to do today that counts.

Taking action is the only solution to anger and despair, and if the IPCC report (and Kavanaugh confirmation) tells us anything, it is that we can no longer afford apathy.

Vote. That’s a great place to start. Vote for representatives who acknowledge climate change and demand we make changes, representatives who support conservation. Politics follows trends: if environmentalism is essential for holding office, they will fall into line. Right now, they are being paid more to ignore it. We need to make that costly for them.

Do whatever you can today to minimize your single-use plastics and energy consumption. Educate yourself, even if the reading is grim, and try to spread the word. Support science and scientific and conservation projects.

We can all do our part, and the collective “we” is greater than any political party or special interest group.

Let’s wake up and save this planet of ours. It’s beautiful. Unique. Precious. It’s looked after us for generations. Time to return the favor.

The post Fed Up appeared first on Carrie Ink.

Clinging to a rock wall opens up opportunities to assess your choices. And to make choices: choose your direction. Choose to forge ahead. Choose to give up. Choose to freeze and hope the moment passes.

I’m a forge-ahead kind of person, often at my peril. From a young age, I’ve gone after what I want. Stubbornly. Sometimes foolheartedly. I’ve aimed for the stars and I’ve even caught a few.

The problem is that my tenacity was rewarded. Once you’ve caught a star, you want another. You also realize that falling hurts, but isn’t fatal. The reward outweighs the risk.

And so I search for the next toe-hold, whether that leads me forwards or back, trying to wise up about my decision-making, grateful I have the choices that I do.

I believe it’s better to try. Maybe everything. End up with nothing.

The post Risk-taking. appeared first on Carrie Ink.

Chris and I have both spent time in Greece in our younger years.

When Chris was between six and nine years old, he spent about two collective years in the Greek Islands, particularly on the island of Patmos, renowned for its Cave of the Apocalypse, where legend tells that St. John the Theologian wrote the Book of Revelations.

For Chris, Patmos was a different kind of revelation. It was here his fascination with the sea began, and he remembers running down the dirt track to swim in its sapphire depths daily. He stayed in a tiny hut without neighbors, power, or running water. (Water needed to be fetched from the local well.) He fell in love with Greek food, particularly the cheese and a casserole-like dish called pastichio.

There’s something about these places that we walk and love as children that get under the skin. They are comforting to return to. Familiar. Family. The moment we arrived in Athens, Chris both relaxed and sparked alive. It was a type of homecoming for him.

On our first day on Alonissos, we followed the old donkey trail connecting the main town of Patitiri with the Old Town, which used to be the main town until a 1965 earthquake shook the houses to their bones. About halfway along the trail, Chris suddenly realized he had walked this track before as a child. He remembered the view. He remembered a swaying sea of wildflowers.

Shortly after that moment, we encountered a British expatriate who had been living in Alonissos on and off for 40 years. He was resting on the stone wall in the shade, next to a stand featuring a stack of carefully placed books – copies of his memoirs of his time in Greece. Chris and I began paging through the book, and Chris discovered a picture of the trail, hemmed in by wildflowers, taken right around the time that he would have visited the island. For him, it was like walking into a memory.

For me, Greece was another revelation altogether. I spent a month here when I was 19, traveling to Athens, Crete, Nafplio, Olympia, and Delphi. It was my first big overseas trip on my own, and my memories involve a lot of getting myself in and out of trouble.

Like most impressionable youngsters on their first eye-opening journey, I became obsessed with Greece for a while. I memorized the mythology. I poured over maps. I read a lot of Homer, Socrates, and Plato. But it was the writings of author Nikos Kazantzakis that spoke most clearly to me. The Last Temptation of Christ (1955) is still one of my all-time favorites. I am not a religious person, but Kazantzakis’ portrait of Jesus Christ is one I could identify with. And, perhaps, if religion was more aligned with that portrayal, I might have believed differently. It’s difficult to say.

Regardless, this bold and unusual depiction landed the deeply religious Kazantzakis’ in the hot seat with the Greek Orthodox Church, who campaigned to to excommunicate him. He responded with grace, and stuck to his art. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been.

For me, Greece doesn’t bring feelings of peace or familiarity, but of wakefulness. I remember the feeling of sparking with ideas, bright and prickly.

And so it continues. Chris and I came across ideas here that we are keen to pursue. We met a collection of wonderful new friends we very much hope to see again in the future. And, of course, we ate our weight in the local cuisine.

A wonderful adventure, proving once again the world is good despite my sighs.

The post A Place of Revelations appeared first on Carrie Ink.

I try on different countries the way I try on clothes. I like to slip on destinations, wear them around for a while, imagine what my life would be like were I a part of this place, if it were a part of me.

It’s a tricky thing, holiday daydreaming.

I know first-hand how difficult it can be to make another country your home. I moved to New Zealand almost 15 years ago, and that was no easy feat. Every day-to-day activity takes more time, is that little bit harder, because it is unfamiliar. It wears you down unbelievably quickly, as does the newness and strangeness of the world around you. I never realized how much information we assimilate as children until I moved to New Zealand. Suddenly, I no longer knew the names of the trees; I didn’t recognize the bird-song. I learned them, sure, but I didn’t know them. They’re not part of my blood.

When we travel, that newness is inspiring. When you call a new place home, it can be isolating.

I still holiday daydream, but I do so cautiously. Chris and I fell in love with the Croatian islands of Hvar, and especially Vis, beautiful seaside towns with cobblestones polished brightly from thousands upon thousands of footsteps; stone buildings with old women leaning out the wooden shutters (“the world’s best security system”, one local told me) talking across narrow alleyways; that sapphire blue of the Adriatic, an ocean that feels as old and well-used as the Appalachian Mountains. We talked about living here, perhaps for a summer, with Chris off diving and me writing next to one of those wooden-shuttered windows, open to the sea breeze and noise rising up from the street. It’s a pleasant picture, and one I tried on with relish. Perhaps we’ll even give it a try one day, spend time here, even though I know the reality will be nothing like my daydreaming. It will be more wonderful and challenging than my daydreams could do credit. These things always are.

At the same time as I was Hvar-dreaming, I was finishing up Ernest Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa. I struggle with Hemingway. I either love his writing (like The Old Man and the Sea) or I flounder in the story (For Whom the Bell Tolls).

The Green Hills of Africa is Hemingway’s account of big game hunting in Africa, at a time when Africa was at the height of turn-of-the-century romantic nostalgia, an incredibly difficult and rewarding place for foreigners to travel and live. Hemingway writes about the landscape, the characters, and the animals (even though he’s hunting them) with vivid detail and reverence, and it’s beautiful to read. It’s a book that filled me with wanderlust and the smells I remember from my visits to Botswana, Namibia, and Zimbabwe.

Hemingway tried on Tanzania and found that it suited him. I suspect he left his heart there, to roam wild even after he had left. Most people associate him with Spain, with Cuba, with the Florida Keys, but he writes about Africa as a love letter. There are photographs of him, hard and fit (most likely due to his bout of dysentery), grinning and at peace. He is magnificent.

We leave Croatia tomorrow to try Greece on for size, a country Chris spent a lot of his childhood in. He remembers Alonissos filled with wildflowers. He remembers the sea, and the taste of the food. (He’s been looking forward to the food since before we left.) He’s interested to see if the place is how he remembers it.

I will be, too – I haven’t been back since I was 19 years old. That was many lifetimes ago.

The post Trying It On For Size appeared first on Carrie Ink.

Chris and I visited the 5,000-year-old village of Skara Brae, revealed in an 1850 storm, a Neolithic collection of subterranean homes complete with stone furniture: a shared hearth. A bed frame. A dresser for storing prized possessions. At any given time, perhaps 50 to 100 people lived here over a stretch of 600 years. I wonder about the lives that unfolded here. Did the girls play their own version of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not with wind-flattened flowers? What did these people worry about? What brought them joy, or caused them to laugh? Why did they eventually leave this place?

We visited the Ring of Brodgar (pictured), a stone circle that pre-dates Stonehenge by 500 years. Was this a meeting place? Was it used for ceremonies? Is it connected in some way to Stonehenge? Whomever erected the stones chose a reflective place: surrounded by heather, with sweeping views of water in every direction, the stones pull you toward them, around them. They don’t allow you to stand still.

And while Chris was diving WWI and WWII wrecks in Scapa Flow, an ancient and wondrous natural harbor, I was visiting the museum in Stromness, which houses a peculiar and oddly nostalgic collection of knickknacks from around the world, sent back by Orcadian sailors who were obviously thinking of the people they loved back home.

I was thinking of the people I loved back home, thinking about the structure and branching of families, wishing I could share this beautiful and patient place with them. And I was thinking about my grandmother, of Scottish ancestry, who I said goodbye to last week. She died while I was here. She was ready to go, to pass through the veil or gather at the stones or do whatever it is we do when we leave this life.

What a tapestry we have woven throughout this history of ours. What a story, a cast of characters, a bittersweet plot ever-unfolding. I was hyper-aware of it here.

I’m sad to be leaving the Orkney Islands behind. Time. I didn’t have enough of it.

The post There Is No Present Like the Time appeared first on Carrie Ink.

It is the nature of choices that one precludes another. I resent this because there is nothing more frustrating to me than a path not taken, but I’m coming to terms with the rhythm of decisions: everything comes with a cost.

Chris and I are about to embark on the European leg of our year-long National Geographic assignment. We’ve been to 20 of our 50 destinations so far; the next month-and-a-half in Europe will put us over the halfway mark.

Our original intention was to travel for a continuous year, with a three-week break at the end of October to visit National Geographic headquarters, to see family and friends, do laundry, and catch up on sleep.

However, we made the choice to hop off the road a bit early to visit my 96-year-old grandmother, who was hospitalized. (She would like to assure everyone she’s doing “just fine, and not to worry”.)

This time with family has caused me to reflect on choices made. This year-long adventure is a dream come true. Chris and I plotted and planned and talked about little else for two years before proposing our idea to National Geographic, and suddenly – whoosh. Within a year we’re in the dream. And it’s an extraordinary journey, more than we could have hoped for.

But this year-long adventure is also harder than we could have imagined. Assignments, by their nature, are challenging. They’re supposed to be at this level. If they were easy, the test and subsequent achievement would be anemic.

It’s supposed to be hard. It’s what makes it fun. It’s what makes it worth pursuing. But it does come with a cost.

Aside from these (now two) fleeting visits, we won’t spend any time with our family and friends this year, which I find essential for calibration. Friends and family are good for the soul. We don’t have a home. We’re skating perilously close to the edge of a razor-thin budget. We won’t have a day off in an entire year. That’s the cost of our choice.

The reward is an adventure, and what an adventure: a new place every week. Friends yet to be made. A world unfolding before us, both on land and under the water. We’ve seen tawny nurse sharks battle with moray eels. We’ve seen the seabed 540 feet below the surface. We’ve visited ancient cultures and been welcomed into homes. It’s a whirlwind, and we’re using those stories to create something special. We can’t wait to share it with the world.

Take what you want, says God, and pay for it.

I said goodbye to my grandmother a few hours ago, hence the reflective, slightly maudlin tone to this first blog. They will lighten up, I promise. I also promise to be honest, true to the journey, and I will do my best to have one waiting for you to enjoy with your Monday morning coffee each week.

My grandmother told me she was “pleased and proud” Chris and I were off exploring the world. “Now, do your best to make it a better place,” she added.

We’ll do our best, Grandma.

The post Back on the Road appeared first on Carrie Ink.