All babies are miracles and most parents celebrate ecstatically each and every birthday and milestone. But Addy’s arrival was more powerful for me than my other babies’ arrivals because her entry into this world signified a sign of hope in my most terrible time.

In September 2009, Kevin and I had three unbelievable news flashes: 1) We were pregnant! 2) My mom was diagnosed with lung cancer; and 3) My father-in-law, Tom, was diagnosed with colon cancer. It was a strange month. The world outside appeared to be the same, but our eyes were beginning to view it differently.

That winter, and the pregnancy that went along with it, was crazy. We spent much of the autumn in Columbus, Ohio, four hours away from our home, where Tom was getting treatments. He died in February 2010. Many spring days were spent taking care of my mother, who also began going to Columbus for treatments. I felt that I had an obligation to help my dad, who nursed my mom and expertly nagged her to eat more and to get better.

Taking care of my two parents became my entire focus. I called every day, even though I wasn’t always sure I wanted to hear the news. Each day, my mother’s voice and will became weaker. Each day, my father’s nerves got a bit more ragged.

The days built on each other, one day more and more bloated with feeling and anguish than the next. In May, I began the age-old late pregnancy game of imagining every gas pain to be labor. I couldn’t wait until this new baby joined us. I thought she might be the hopeful sign that gave new life to my mom. To all of us.

Addy was born in the early morning after a night of labor, as all my babies were. It was an easy labor, God’s way of making the miserable pregnancy (when I could barely walk from leg pain) more palatable.

To my surprise, my mom came along with my dad to the hospital room to see her new granddaughter, her namesake. She held Addy for a few minutes and the baby’s newness seemed like medicine that infused strength into Mom’s emaciated arms, shone light on the waxy pallor of her face, and gave credibility to the uncomfortable perfection of her wig.

Addy was born May 16. Mom died two months later.

But not before we had more visits, most of which found me nursing the baby on the couch in my parents’ family room, with the glaring afternoon sun heating up the space, while my mother slept fitfully on the recliner. But not before we had more talks on the phone, punctuated with long, uncomfortable silences, when my mom had to throw the receiver down to make a dash for the bathroom where she dry-heaved what tiny morsels she had in her tummy. But not before my dad begged her to try harder, to want life more than she seemed to want it. And not before I realized that when the doctors told her she was going to “get a break” from chemo, they actually meant “get a break from your suffering.” They knew it was the end. She knew it was the end. The rest of us just took some time catching up.

The beginning of the end happened one beautiful day in late June 2010. My dad called, saying that my mom had to go to the ER because the visiting nurse found her heart rate to be high. She had just eaten two bites of macaroni and cheese when the doctor called and said she should report to the emergency room. He asked me to meet them at the door to help my mom get inside while he parked the car.

Addy was only six weeks old and I had to nurse her before I left. I’ve never given bottles to my young babies so if I didn’t feed her, I would have had to take her with me. I didn’t want to take her to the emergency room.

I was late getting to the hospital and my parents were already inside, my dad standing nervously next to my tired-looking mother in a wheelchair. My dad scolded me for being late. Shame, nerves, and fear flushed my face with blood.

On the second night Mom was in the hospital, she went to sleep but didn’t wake up. After an agonizing nine days, she passed away.

The irony is, when she died, she looked as young as the newborn Addy. Her head, and much of her body, was hairless, just like Addy’s; and her skin was as smooth and unwrinkled as a piece of white silk.

In the days following her death, I sunk into a deep depression. My source had dried up. That maternal wellspring of unadulterated love and everlasting support was gone. I was alone in the world, no longer a daughter to a mother, but only a mother to four children of my own. It was my turn to lead the show. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to go on.

Baby Addy was born on a Sunday, as they say, “full of grace.” And she was my saving grace. Her entry into the world was marked by her grandmother’s exit from it. She was and remains the sign of hope for me that things will work out, even when they seem like they won’t. She represents the promise of new life when the old ones go away. And she is my reminder to focus on the positive and to cherish each day we have with love and loved ones and all the dreams we have to pursue.

Adelena Sara is three years old today. She is the first of my children to have the features of her grandma, Mammow, as they called her. Something about the shape of her teeth when she grins widely – something about the rise of her cheeks when she laughs, which she does often – reminds me of my mom. As one soul was ebbing and the other growing, I think my mother might have shared a little of herself with this new child.

The natural progression of life and death is something we all face, but this was my first lesson. I still miss my mother terribly. I still feel alone whenever I think of her absence, until I remember: she’s present in my sphere, in the very particles around me, in the light, in the sand, in the air I breathe, in the soil I walk on, in me, and in my daughter and other children. She’s here, just not in the same physical form.

As we celebrate little Addy’s birthday today with laughter and cake, I know she’s here with us, too. Dancing in the sun sparkles around us and laughing energy into our hearts.

The real shock hit us, however, when we landed in Cleveland and climbed into my brother-in-law’s van and headed out of the city toward home. No highway in Belize is bigger than two lanes. Seeing five rows of cars whizzing through the darkness was very weird.

We stopped quickly and shoved takeout gyros in our mouths while hurrying home. It was late. We were tired and hungry. That was the first time I ate in the car since last November. I felt over-full and slightly queasy.

Getting back to our neighborhood and house, however, was the biggest shock of all. After coming from a land of small houses in Belize, many of which are wooden shacks or small cement structures, our neighborhood struck us as extremely polished and manicured. We pulled into our driveway as if in a dream.

We opened the garage door with the opener and walked into the garage. Our garage is the same size as our little blue house in San Ignacio. Then… we walked into the “game room.” I loved our game room, and still do, to tell you the truth. But it was just such a wake-up call to realize we have a space for playing that is bigger than most Belizeans have for living. We are blessed to have the house we have and blessed to live in a neighborhood like this. But we can’t help but think: do we need this much house? Do we need this much mortgage? Most Belizeans don’t even have a mortgage. They live in smaller houses but they have freedom from monthly debt. Who’s the poor person in this scenario?

My brother and his wife had been living in our house but they’d already gone so the place was dark. We snuck in, feeling like impostors. It took me 10 minutes to realize I’d been whispering. The house was quiet, still, and… cold. After a winter of consistent 100 degree days, we had to turn the furnace on. Can you say, “Wake up call??” Shivering, we put the kids to bed, camp-out style, on the couches and a mattress in the living room (we’d moved things around for my brother’s family) and said good night.

We walked very far away to find our own bed.

As I went to sleep, I struggled not to let myself be sad. I knew I was tired and not likely to have the most positive thoughts. This was the beginning of a new era for our family. I had no time for looking back.

Some of the other difficult aspects of coming back to our home have been:

• finding food that isn’t packed with chemicals;
• shopping in stores as big as a whole village and only accessible by driving great distances;
• figuring out the best time to get together with friends who are very busy;
• being very busy ourselves;
• having people pull out their cell phones to check them even if our conversation is only 1-2 minutes long;
• traffic;
• constant noise in public (when have you ever not heard the radio over the sound system in a store?);
• the smell of chemicals on lawns while we take our walk (including our own – no eco-saints here…).

Everyone told us reentry back into the United States would be hard. It has been strange. But the difficult moments have been balanced with the good things from home:

• familiar surroundings, habits, and customs – we no longer have to figure every little detail out of life;
• loved ones and friends at an arm’s distance away;
• our home, which is stocked with the things that help us feel comfortable (i.e., a fully-stocked kitchen for cooking);
• places to walk, run, and bike easily with kids, and a cooler environment to do it in, which is something we appreciate after going for months not having much of an exercise plan.

With a mindset for looking forward, making positive changes, and maximizing the lessons we learned in Belize, we are happy to be back. I do believe I want to be more selective about the parts of the culture I choose to invite into my life. The busy schedule? No. The corporate food? No. The putting off dreams until retirement and focusing more on stuff than experience? No and NO.

It’s quickly becoming apparent to us that we simply pick and choose what we want from our culture – and leave the rest.

While we were away, taking a step back from everything that was normal for us, our whole family had time to talk about our path forward. Even our kids got a chance to consider life choices in a way they wouldn’t have been able to if we’d never broken free.

[REMINDER: You can read about all our changes in my book, which I'll launch next month - Exit Normal: How We Escaped With Our Family and Changed Our Life. Check out ExitNormal.com for more information or to receive updates.]

As a family, we decided to refine our Family Vision. As we digest our experience in Belize,our conversations inevitably lead to what our future looks like.

Here’s what we’ve come up with so far:

• We want to get rid of things we don’t need or want anymore. The physical clutter of things made us feel extremely overwhelmed upon returning to our house. We’re planning a huge garage sale!
• We’re making plans for another trip. We want to see so much, including more of our own country that we haven’t gotten a chance to explore yet.
• We want to choose our activities with wisdom and clarity and only take part in organized activities that feed our souls. To that end, I’ve asked each kid to think long and hard about the sports and other activities they want to join. (No choice is made in a vacuum. If you say yes to one activity, you’re necessarily saying no to something else.)
• We plan to seek deeper connections with our friends and family. Life is too short to put anything in front of people.
• We want to explore those things we’re curious about and delve deeper into the riches of learning.

As we readjust to “normal” life, we’ll most likely have some rough patches. After all, I haven’t visited a Wal-Mart yet! The time away, however, has given us a clearer focus of the direction we want to be heading.

When we left for our family sabbatical, we thought we were heading out for an adventure but we had no idea it would change our life so completely. We need to follow the path that is right for us, though. We truly believe that. As a family, we’re heading into some uncharted waters but we’re all heading there with curiosity and joy – and we’re heading there together.

And if travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end. — Pico lyer

After six months in Belize, we’re going home. Today is our last full day. Kevin and I have changed so much that we’re not sure how we’ll fit into the old life we created for ourselves back in the States. We haven’t had time to figure that part out yet!

People will ask, “So, how was the trip?” or “Are you glad to be home?” And I won’t know what to say. A few words exchanged in polite conversation just won’t do this incredible journey justice. Even though I just finished my book, Exit Normal: How We Escaped With Our Family and Changed Our Life, and have it shipped off to the editor and graphic designer, I don’t have my elevator pitch prepared. I can’t say, “No, actually, I’m NOT glad to be home,” because that might offend people I care about. I’m so glad to see friends and family – yes! But what I do know is I’m not quite ready to end this amazing, soul-driven, inspired way of life.

The truth? The truth is I don’t know how I’ll feel to be home. I don’t know how I’ll fit back into things. I don’t know how to describe our trip. When we “exited normal” last fall, we thought we’d sneak away, have an isolated but wonderful experience for us and our kids, and then slide right back into everything just as it was when we left, with fading smiles on our faces, basking in the afterglow of a sweet dream. But now it’s quickly becoming apparent we might never be able to go back to it, at least not in the same way.

This family sabbatical has been nothing short of a whole family paradigm shift.

It’s been like a near-death experience for us – like the instant you survive a near-miss car wreck, or are told you escaped a bad diagnosis, or find you just lost someone dear to you. It just leaves you speechless, like everything is in slow motion. You’re immediately changed. After the bewilderment and panic wears off, the feelings ebb into a changed reality. Colors are brilliant, everything crystallizes, you’re paying close attention, and you suddenly don’t want the things that were so important to you just seconds before. Patterns begin to emerge from what was unrecognizable, and it’s all coupled with an intense urgency to “get it right” from now on. You’re struck with the compelling depth of your now, instead of just getting through, waiting for the weekend.

I admit I haven’t missed the rush or the shopping or the packed schedule of our “old” life. So much time for such non-essentials. I’ve enjoyed living simply here, almost elementally. I’ve relished having time and awareness to make real, honest connections with people I would have otherwise never met. I’ve adored spending hours and hours every day with my children and husband. But somehow, in the midst of all of these I’ve been able to be creative and productive in my career as well. And I absolutely loved choosing activities every day that fed my soul without the agonizing stress of prioritizing this-versus-that in my to-do list and the feelings of inadequacy when you realize you just can’t do it all.

Change is coming. I’m not certain how it will look exactly but I can feel it coming. Or, maybe I should restate that. Change is ME, and it’s already here. But the face of that change isn’t recognizable yet. Like a vague scene from a dream. The fog hasn’t lifted yet, but you can tell it’s going to be amazing when it does. Our family now has an almost palpable sense that something’s coming and it’s going to be good.

Going home represents commercial vistas full of fast food restaurants and strip plazas instead of the simple structures and natural landscapes of Belize. Food shopping back at home means going into a glaringly-lit warehouse full of millions of (often suspiciously prepackaged and overly perfect) food choices, whereas here it means heading to a local market or grabbing a few basic whole products from a small open shop. Going home brings to mind a tight schedule instead of a dream-directed schedule. Going home feels like we are separating into six different paths instead of spending most of our days together as a family.

At home, people have known me for awhile. They will expect they know me still and expect me to fit back into the neat little box. But I hardly know myself. It’s like I’ve been sleeping for so many years, zombie-like in my following of the culture and what was expected of me. I wasn’t raised to step out of line or groomed by my education to think radically. Suddenly, through this travel experience, I have been given new eyes. I’ve traveled long enough to get out of my comfort zone, long enough to break free of old paradigms, long enough to forget about old habits and espouse new ones. We’ve been away from the old culture long enough to forget about missing it. For example, we have hot water in the kitchen tap here on the last little leg of our journey. Hot water for the first time since we left the States in November. When I discovered this, I said nonchalantly, “Eh, that’s nice.” Hot water is no longer a necessity. It’s a lovely little touch to make life easier, but I can live without it, especially if the air I breathe is fresh and the thoughts around me are stimulating and the time I have with my kids, my husband, and myself is pure and plentiful.

We aren’t from Belize. But we don’t know how we’ll fit into our old life back home. We’re gypsies, stuck between two worlds, moving across a long bridge between the two wondering what’s next. The way forward for us is not necessarily in the straight line we’ve always followed in the past. My heart’s in my throat as I write this. Something is stirring deep inside and won’t let me rest. Won’t let either of us rest. Even the kids feel the magnitude of the impending transformation.

We’ve finished our family sabbatical in Belize. And tomorrow we’re flying back to everything we knew to be normal. So often I fire up my laptop in the morning to see I’ve received a software update while I was sleeping. While we were away, our family’s outlook has been updated. I hope the new release reveals what Normal 2.0 is for us now…

As a foreigner in Belize, we feel as if everyone is (potentially) out to get us. Or, at the very least, curious, wondering what we’re doing here. We do get stared at quite a lot. We feel like we stand out since we are very white people in a very brown country. Also, since we don’t know very many people, we don’t know who we can trust. We’re not overly concerned, but we’d be foolish not to consider our personal safety as we and the kids walk around town.

As I keep repeating, “No matter where you are in the world, you have to watch your back.”

Despite the fall-out from 9/11, I was lulled in recent years into thinking we didn’t have to watch our backs in our native U.S. This is the country of our birth and upbringing. The place where we understand the rules and laws. The nation of relative peace and harmony.

Since we’ve been on our family sabbatical in Belize, however, our nation has suffered unspeakable horrors at Sandy Hook Elementary School and most recently at the Boston Marathon. We’ve been threatened by North Korea. Our own hometown saw a school shooting and other violence fairly close to our home. Even the explosion at a Texas fertilizer plant rocked our idea of security. Every time I turn around, someone is predicting mayhem and financial ruin for all of us.

I will admit to you: I’m frightened. Sometimes it feels like life is precarious and out-of-control. We’re all just fragile teacups perched at the edge of a table.

But were any of us ever really safe? Throughout history, people have faced all kinds of peril: from disease and injuries, from war and injustice, and through greed and hatred. We don’t have to search too hard to find evil. (Especially if we’re looking for it.)

I don’t know what we should believe in the media, which feeds us a steady diet of fear. And fear is a controlling agent. If we’re afraid, we’re timid and easily led. There’s sometimes a gap in news coverage that doesn’t make sense. For the first time in my life, I wonder who’s protecting us. Our government? Our employers? Our industry? My views about personal security have been turned upside down.

I refuse to be controlled by bad news. I remind myself daily to look forward to my family’s future with hope and joy and to look for hope and joy in every moment. I pray for those hurt in Boston and Sandy Hook. I send positivity and hope to anyone hurt or abused, including our soldiers fighting for our country across the world.

But I can’t allow the bad news being pumped from media outlets to take over my consciousness.

_____________________________________________________________________

I choose hope. I choose peace. I choose love. And I choose not to let the evil forces alive in our world take my sense of security and peaceful awareness. I refuse to be led by fear.

There is good news in the world, even if it’s underreported. I must stop letting the media color my view of life. I’m alive and healthy and so is my family. We’re happier than ever before. We’re a team, my husband and I and these four curious, growing, joyful kids. We’re following our dreams, learning, and teaching each other how to stay open-minded, ask intelligent questions, and focus on the positive. Sometimes, in a world that seems out of control, this is all we can do.

In a time of darkness, may we all focus on the goodness in humanity. I wish peace and light to all of you. Let’s keep looking up! 

A Belizean friend invited us today to the pool at the resort where she works, so we went up the hill to have lunch and a swim. We took her two children along with us and had lots of fun playing in the water. We don’t normally go to pools here since all the hotels charge $5 (or more) per person to swim. Too expensive for a family of six. So we relegate pools to “special occasion” category and make heavy use of the rivers.

The kids have learned that “pools are for tourists.”

These kids have been so wonderful. Resilient, cheerful, supportive, and curious about everything. Though we may have dragged them to a foreign land, they have adapted to the new culture with grace and maturity, more than I ever expected they could. Each day they wake up with smiles. Each day they brighten my day with questions about the world around them. If I feel like I changed on this trip, I am absolutely certain they have changed.

At going-on-12 and going-on-11, my boys are shockingly tall these days. I’m surprised every time they come up next to me and I find they’re nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with me. I’m shocked at their growth rate but not at their overwhelming sweetness, which amazes me each day.

They don’t have the easiest time in school. Going-on-11 and going-on-12 are tough ages, no matter what culture you’re in. I sense girls ‘like’ them but show their affection through teasing, which is confusing to any boy, especially when half the teasing is done in either Creole or Spanish. The boys in their classes are mostly cool with them but social cues are different. At home, the sporty boy was the most popular. Here, it’s the boy who can put you in a choke-hold (or get out of your choke-hold). Suffice it to say, the boys have learned to earn respect (despite their gringo status).

My going-on-8-year-old daughter has made lots of friends in her class. Just as at home, she writes sweet notes to her teacher and receives them in reply. She’s doing well in her studies and walks downtown with her brothers to get her lunch ($1 worth of panades, which the owner of the lunch stand, Mickey’s, passes across the counter without a word since Laura has a standing order). She walks the half-mile to and from school every day, mostly in the blazing hot sun. The heat of the sun can be seen in the pinkness of her cheeks.

Laura is a sensitive kid and surprises me with her mommy-like ability to take care of her little sister with no complaints. She even taught our nearly-3-year-old to “read” an entire book, “Little Mommy.” She plays House and School like a champ and is always ready to go when fun is to be had. She’s the one we will nickname “Never Say Die Hedderman.”

And Addy. The tiniest among us but, like a Maltese dog, a tiny body with a huge heart. A few days ago, as we were exploring a gorgeous part of the river (Rio On Pools) that features natural pools and water falls, Addy plodded along, holding our hands. She never complained about not being allowed to jump into the deeper pools like her older sibs. Instead, she just watched and laughed and played in shallow pools. Once, Kevin took her down a natural water slide. At the end, she got a snootful of river water, but she only laughed it off. “It tastes like RIVER,” she told me.

Addy is our last baby. That day at Rio On Pools, I told her, “You’re a rockin’ cool baby, do you know that?” So now she tells people that: “Me a rockin’ cool baby.” Before long, she’ll be as old as the oldest…

And before much longer than that, they’ll all be grown and gone.

This time away with them is precious. I am captivated by these four. I will never, ever regret taking this journey.

I can hear the boisterous revelry of the Easter fair in the park across from our little blue house. People are celebrating resurrection. But for now… now, I’m just waiting. And thinking.

Number four will recover and become her joyful little self again. Any illness or injury our family goes through reminds me how well we usually are. Instead of feeling terribly upset that something small goes wrong, I am immensely grateful for all the times everything goes right.

I think of all the people in the world who truly suffer. People are dying. People are starving. Some are fighting for their basic rights as humans. Others live under the menacing cloud of war. Some have been pushed from their homeland and must start their lives again in a new, frightening place. For some, the pain is less visible. They are persecuted for simply being who they are: too brown, too poor, too old, too female, too gay. For these marginalized people my heart bleeds because their pain is just as significant as those suffering physically.

As I watch over my youngest child as she sleeps off her illness, I spend the time thinking about how this trip has changed us in ways we didn’t even expect. Many looking from the outside in would see a family living “the life,” a family who is “lucky.” We’ve heard the phrase, “It must be nice” way too many times.

A traveling friend of mine said recently that people looking from the outside in would see the wonderful things she’s been able to accomplish but not see the real her, the one who is still searching for her own personal truths. No matter how much of a “perfect life” it seems she has, she is “still searching.”

The year 2010 was a pivotal time in our lives and marked the beginning of a new era of searching for me and my husband. We began to realize we were merely existing instead of truly living. In the midst of our own terrible grief over losing two parents prematurely to cancer, we knew that now was the time to step up and get to the dreams we’d been putting off until ‘later.’ Who knows if later will ever come?

Kevin and I, together, decided we would begin moving toward “the perfect life” for us. Right now, part of our perfect life is travel. We wanted to explore the world, other cultures, beautiful vistas – and ourselves, away from our regular life. We had to back up to see what that regular life was to us. In our home and life in the U.S., we were standing so close to what we had that the whole thing was blurry. We needed space.

As any true traveler knows, real travel is a way to break yourself out of, as one of my readers coined, “the tyranny of the predictable.” I was intrigued by this phrase. He had hit upon exactly the reason we are able to figure things out while we’re living here in Belize, away from our regular life back home.

True travel is not all ice cream cones and long walks on the beach. True travel gets us out of our comfort zone. True travel is challenging, forcing us to face our fears, to learn, and to grow. It is less of a luxury and more of an education, which is something I didn’t expect to think.

On this trip, I’ve learned to let go of my expectations of what will happen next and just enjoy. And to live in the moment, not taking anything for granted. 

I’ve also learned:

1. to walk a simple path, focusing on every beautiful moment,
2. to make good choices for me and my family instead of just following along with the ideal version of someone else’s life,
3. to focus on the positive,
4. to have gratitude for every good thing in our lives, and
5. to discover the best path for our family and then take action to jump on that path.

We six are looking ahead with hope – to a perfect life being made more perfect, day by day.

Number four has awakened – with a smile on her face.

Happy Easter, everyone! I wish you peace, hope, happiness, and “the perfect life” for you.

What does your perfect life look like? 

We’ll call my emailer “Jon.” Jon wrote me a friendly note saying he admired our story and agreed with all the benefits of travel and soaking up a unique culture with our kids. He said  that he himself would love to move to a foreign country with his family. He (part of him, I think) wanted to get away from the craziness that was his life back home.

Jon closed his email, saying he had to get back to work. I could almost feel the deep sad sigh interwoven into his words. Dream time over. Back to the rat race. 

In a later email exchange, Jon brought up an interesting question about traveling long-term with your kids and how that might affect their future. If parents take their families on the road for any length of time, he said, it might distract their kids from the path of success.

A traveling child, for instance, wouldn’t have the opportunities he would have if he was settled in his home environment. Especially if that home environment was a place like the United States.

For example, since our kids are now here in Belize on our family sabbatical, they aren’t taking part in wrestling, basketball, or soccer. My daughter didn’t take a ballet class or gymnastics or join the church choir.

But they have: experienced a developing country first-hand, created all of their own handmade Christmas presents, befriended Belizean children, experienced discrimination, learned how to kayak, learned how to fix a flat tire, discovered how to take care of themselves and each other, witnessed a duck being killed for dinner, gained a sense of cultural awareness, understood about limited resources, learned how to appreciate what they have, found their voice, lost their shyness, and realized they can – really – do ANYTHING.

Jon asks, “Dropping out of all this and moving to another country for a few years risks derailing my kids from the path to success (at least the path as defined in mainstream, upscale life in the U.S.). How will I feel if, after a few years in another country,  one of my kids decides that heading off to med school or biz school is not such a good idea after all, and hanging out on the beach and eating mangoes and grilled fish is a pretty good life?”

I wrote him back the following words:

Hi Jon,

You mean eating mangoes and grilled fish and hanging out on the beach all day is NOT a good life? Ha ha, ask the guy eating mangoes at the beach and see what he says. Here’s the thing that struck me as I read your words: who’s to say what the path to success looks like? Mainstream/upscale folks may be just as misguided as anyone else these days. What is success? I believe that definition comes from within, not from the culture that surrounds me.

I think about the same things you mention below: getting our kids onto the ‘right’ path to success through sports, activities, grades, relationships. But I would argue that taking at least a short break from said path (and this could be even as short as 3 months away, although I would definitely recommend 6 months to a year to get the full effect) can open both your eyes and your kids’ eyes to a whole new world. Moving for several years is a different matter and will more than likely redirect your family to a whole new existence.

[Redirection is good if it is necessary. Maybe it's not necessary for one family and the sabbatical ends up being a lovely retreat to unwind and spend time together. Maybe it is necessary for another family and immense lessons are learned on the journey away. In other words, maybe the journey will take you where you need to go.]

My oldest son, who is a great debater, would always say, ‘When I become an attorney…’ But since this trip, he’s realized the plethora of options available to him. While he doesn’t see himself becoming a surf instructor and living in a cabana with no windows or furniture [not that that's a BAD thing], he does think that travel photography might be an interesting alternative.

The key lesson here for me is: we’ve gotten him out of the attitude of ‘I should be a [insert fancy title here] because all my friends are headed that way. I should excel at [insert sport/activity here] because that will get me to the fancy title.’ And we’ve gotten him to a place where he can think for himself. And see that there ARE alternatives.

Getting away from the Type A existence back home – even for a short while – is giving our kids a whole new way of viewing themselves and the world. And a little break from what they know to be normal is not going to get them off the track – it’s only going to showcase the options – and strengthen their character in the long run. I wouldn’t want them to ever go with the flow, whatever that means, without some critical examination of their own needs, desires, and aptitudes.

Wow, I guess I’ll get off my soapbox. I’m not sure why I’m so passionate about this. Everyone around me seems to be well able to go with the flow, but I feel like I’m dancing to the wrong tune. Your email hit on exactly the crux of the matter and got me thinking. Thanks for the conversation and for revving me up – I have a book to finish on exactly this topic!

Take care,

Domini

I realize travel is not for everyone and that many people thrive in the comfort zone of their home. I would encourage even these parents, however, to take a short retreat with their kids of at least 1-2 months to fully get away from their normal habits, which so often include busy days with little mindfulness and schedules over-packed with activities.

My new friend Jon was in no way rude or implying we’re doing the wrong thing in traveling with our family. He was only voicing a very valid concern that many families have when considering long-term travel with their children. What if taking them away on a counter-cultural journey means we somehow bar their entry back into the culture from which we seemingly fled?

But… what if nothing bad happens? What if you’re only rewarded with the biggest bunch of benefits you ever could have imagined?

The kids and Kevin and I spent our afternoon at Clarissa Falls. To get there, we drove a mere five miles outside of San Ignacio on the main road to Guatemala, turned right and drove about a mile down a lovely dirt road with sweeping views of mountains, palm trees, and pasture land.

This river day with my family was just what my soul needed.

The past couple of weeks have gone at lightening-fast speed. Just as I did at home in my old hectic life, lately I have found myself spinning around in circles, doing five things at once and doing absolutely nothing well.

I would go to bed feeling no accomplishments and wake up feeling sluggish. Coffee, more coffee. Certainly that would jump-start my system and give me some clarity.

But, no. Coffee wasn’t doing it for me. As I worked on edits of my book and some other writing, my brain felt like mush. I was stagnating. I couldn’t spit out an interesting thought to save my life.

Then yesterday I downloaded a book, The Art of Mindfulness, by one of my favorite writers/teachers, Thich Nhat Hahn. I only had to read about 10 pages in to feel refreshed and enlightened.

Actually, I only had to read the first line to be reminded what was wrong with me.

He says, “Imagine the power of our actions if each one contained one hundred percent of our attention.”

A few pages later, he goes on: “The practice of mindfulness requires only that whatever you do, you do with your whole being.”

Like a kid, I suppose.

“The practice of mindfulness requires ONLY that whatever you do, you do with your whole being.”

That was it! I haven’t been feeling good about my work. I haven’t been feeling good about the quality time I’d been giving my children or husband or friends. I haven’t been accomplishing anything. Instead, I felt like I was backsliding in productivity, in relationships, and in happiness.

Immediately after my eyes brushed across the words in this book, I knew why. I wasn’t doing ANYTHING with my whole being. I was only dancing around my daily activities and conversations, without really noticing any of it as it was unfolding.

My son Andy would try to tell me about his day at school and I would be thinking about a certain paragraph I was working on in my book. I would be walking up the hill from dropping the kids at school and, instead of enjoying the breeze and the smiles of the people passing me, I would be mired in my own thoughts, wondering why so-and-so hasn’t emailed me back yet. I spent many meals sitting at my laptop, “working,” which really meant answering an email while jotting notes for a project while checking Facebook while half-listening to my husband from across the room. Maybe even while listening to Dave Matthews the whole time.

I need more mindfulness in my life. This was part of the reason for coming to Belize on this family sabbatical in the first place – to find more simplicity. To step back from our ‘regular life’ enough that we could refresh ourselves, reenergize our lives, and rebuild our priorities.

And here I was, simply recreating a tiny little microcosm for myself that completely mimicked the rat race back home. Too busy. Too distracted. Too negative.

I sat on a flat stone on the banks of the beautiful Mopan River today, with Addy playing by my feet in the cool, shallow water. Every now and then, I’d snap a photo of the kids or the scenery. I had no Internet. I had nothing much to read or do. So I just sat there, sipping on a water bottle, talking to Addy as she played. Mostly I just enjoyed the view.

I must have sat for three hours on that rock.

A couple hours in, the thought occurred to me that I was sitting there by the river WITH MY WHOLE BEING. I didn’t wish myself elsewhere. I felt each breath going in and out, in and out.

A touch of a smile lit my face as I slowly noticed the world around me: the sparkling water rippling by, the roar of the small waterfalls farther out in the water, the slight breeze tinkling the leaves in the trees and rifling the damp hairs on my neck, and the fresh smell of water and earth.

The humming earth vibrated in time with my own heartbeat. The very particles of air that touched my skin seemed charged. I knew I was on the right path as I sat there, at peace with myself and my world, breathing in and breathing out. My mind did not have to stagnate. Instead it could be like the river flowing before me: constantly moving and changing, powerful, and pure.

I want to be more mindful. I want to be so mindful that I notice every beautiful nuance of this life my husband and I are creating for ourselves. And I want to be here, now, with our kids, who are growing up strong and smart and funny – and oh so fast.

I only hope we can have many more days like this one.

Sometimes, we all need to spice up our life. Fresh salsa is so extremely awesome that you’ll feel you’ve changed your life once you start with it. You’ll never be the same. And you’ll never go back to jarred again.

Even back in frigid Pennsylvania, where we had to shop in the indoor supermarket for vegetables that were shipped from across the U.S., we often made salsa.

Making salsa in Belize is so much more electrifying than it was in Pennsylvania. First, I can get my blood pumping by walking to the open-air market. And then shop for my ingredients from folks who grew the tomatoes and habaneros themselves. I can look these people in the eye as I practice my Spanish and load all of these goodies into my reusable shopping bag. And pay next to nothing for the privilege of carrying them back to my simple cement house to prepare the most deliciously hot and healthy snack ever.

I can make it every day, if I want. And no food miles guilt. The farthest these little veggies traveled is from Guatemala or Mexico.

For me, the experience of making salsa goes beyond the fun of eating it, though. When I’m standing in my kitchen, chopping and stirring, adding ingredients and tasting, I feel alive. I feel vibrant. I feel as though, in an out-of-control world, I’m in control of this – this one little bowl of food.

Every time, the salsa turns out differently:

a rich garlic-infused flavor…

a lively, tear-inducing insanity that makes you sob, “Jeez, that’s hot!” and then take another bite…

a fresh taste dominated by tomatoes and onions…

or a provocatively rich flavor that defies description and brings up endless and comical estimations of what, precisely, makes it good this time.

Tomatoes, onion, garlic, habaneros, lime juice, cilantro, pepper, salt, cumin. And a good bag of tortilla chips to pick it all up. That’s all you need for heaven in a bowl. 

But first, the preparation, which is F-U-N in itself. Each batch is different, but just as good. It’s really a recipe for living your life. If you have time to stand and chop, taste and laugh, then you are living the good life indeed.

Here are the steps to life-changing salsa:

(Before getting started, grab a couple of beverages. Because… cooking is more fun with beverages. If you don’t drink the delightful Belikins pictured here, grab whatever, even water. The kids get Fantas for special occasions. Trust me, in the tasting phase, you’ll be glad you have something wet nearby.)

1. Gather your ingredients on the counter, along with a cutting board and a sharp knife. A sharp knife is key. Not because it’s not possible with a dull knife, but it just makes you swear a whole lot less when you squish your tomatoes with a dull one. I hate squishing my tomatoes.
2. You’ll notice I don’t rely on specific amounts in my ingredient list. That’s because you can do whatever you want. This is the beauty of salsa. Every time you make it, it’s different. Beautiful in its own special way. A delight to your taste buds and a conversation starter regarding its unique flavor: “How much cilantro did you use? What color was your habanero? How MANY cloves of garlic?”
3. Dice your tomatoes. Use as many as you want. This is the base.
4. For about 5 or 6 tomatoes, I use a whole onion. White or Spanish, doesn’t really matter (and isn’t that a metaphor for cultural diversity?) But, really, as I said, this is all up to you. Do you like onion? Then use a lot. Do you not like onion? Then use a little. My mom never used recipes. I’m starting to understand why: you have more freedom without that pesky little slip of paper ordering you around! “Just add enough until it looks good,” she would have said.
5. I use 3 or 4 cloves of garlic. Because I love garlic. It keeps the vampires away and it’s  known to have other great health benefits. Garlic helps fight infection, prevent cancer, reduce blood pressure, and stimulates the immune system. And makes your breath smell yummy.
6. Habanero peppers are key. If you like a lot of spice, use a lot of peppers. If you’re a normal human being, however, be very cautious when using these little guys. Although I have no proof of this, I believe the yellow ones are the hottest, so I tend toward the orange or red. And I use about a third of one. That’s it. I chop it as fine as I can (with that sharp knife) and try not to touch my eyes (or any other sensitive body parts) for at least 24 hours.
7. The juice of half a lime. Put the other half away in the fridge for tomorrow’s batch. If you don’t have fresh limes, I suppose, in theory, you could use bottled lime juice. Or white vinegar works, too.
8.  Fresh cilantro is also key. I suppose if you don’t have it, you can shake it from a jar… but. Well. It’s not the same. Use a handful.
9. Salt, pepper, and cumin are next. Again, use to your own taste.
10. Mix it all up. And now comes the fun part: taste it! Consider the flavor. Add whatever you need to add to make it perfect. You will find that half the bowl might disappear during the taste-test step. Plan accordingly.
11. Forget about ever eating jarred salsa ever again. Ever.

And that’s it! You now have a bowl (or half a bowl, if you didn’t plan accordingly) of the freshest salsa to offer to your friends. Each batch is unique. Each is delicious. Each is just as fun to prepare as it is to eat.

What? You say you somehow ended up with leftover salsa? I can’t believe that could ever happen, but if it did, here’s an idea for what to do with the leftovers:

In the morning, make up some breakfast tortillas with scrambled eggs, crumbled bacon or ham, and some kind of yellow cheese. Wrap the whole kit and kaboodle in a tortilla, and then scoop some of that leftover deliciousness right on top. It’s truly the breakfast of your dreams.

Here in Belize, we are one of the few white families in a sea of beautiful brown-skinned people. You haven’t seen someone stand out in the crowd until you’ve seen my daughter – sparkling blue eyes flashing and golden blonde hair flying – running across the school yard. Just about every child in her school has brown hair, brown skin, and brown eyes.

Our family definitely stands out here in Belize.

But to me this standing out is simply the physical manifestation of how I’ve stood out for my whole life in the United States. Yes, I look the same as most of my friends and neighbors. But what looks different is my views on things and the way I live my life.

Up until recently, I stood out only in my own head. As a life-long people pleaser, I always felt guilty doing things in my own way for fear of offending someone. Silly, I know. If someone is offended because of the way I live my life, I should probably realize it’s their problem, not mine. But it always just seemed easier to go with the flow and stay quiet about the opinions or habits I didn’t think other people would understand.

Most of my life, I blended in. I lived the life that made everyone I loved happy. I played the part. And seriously deserved awards for Best Actress. I was a good girl. A good friend. A good mommy. A good daughter and wife.

And a boring, miserable excuse for a human being.

My mother’s death in 2010 was the turning point for me. My personal denouement. Her death left me floundering. When she died, I lost my daily confidante. I found that, once I couldn’t tell her what I was thinking, I no longer seemed to know what I was thinking.

Her death also made me come face-to-face with my own humanity. No one lived my mom’s dreams for her before her life ended. That was entirely up to her. And no one would force me to walk my own best path. It was all me.

2010 was a long and miserable year of holding on. In 2011, I started this blog. That helped me redefine myself in a world without my mother. The blog helped me outline my own dreams and prioritize how I wanted to live. And it helped me to understand that it didn’t really matter if I did things my own way. In fact, dancing to my own music is the only way to personal happiness.

Writing. Travel. Following bucket list items. Living authentically. And finding the confidence and courage to do them all. These were the dreams I began to cultivate.

So I moved to Belize. I moved 3,000 miles away from the life I knew. The moment I stepped onto that south-bound plane, I knew I was done living a lack-luster life, done pretending I have any interest in staying in the box. As the flight took off, my life rocketed upward. I soared, along with the plane, and haven’t come down from my high yet.

This family sabbatical in Belize is my solution to figuring out what’s next for me.

Here in Belize, I’m out of context. Everything in this new world is different from the old one. No one knows me so I’m free to start over and be the person I truly am. My old habits aren’t useful here. So I’m free to start over and develop habits that truly make me happy. I don’t have the same responsibilities here as I had for the last dozen years in my old life. Having emptied my schedule, I now have time to re-fill it with things that truly feed my soul.

My time in Belize is letting me clear everything out and start fresh. Before we left, a few people said, “Have a great vacation!” Ha! I don’t really think of this Belize trip as a “vacation.” More like a pilgrimage. A retreat. A crusade.

This break from normal life is just what I needed to redefine myself and turn inward. When I return back to my normal life, I will be more myself than ever before.

I want an awesome life. I want the day I die to be one of celebration for how many great experiences I had, how many great people I knew and loved, and how many dreams I followed.

I believe EVERY person has the power to make their life exactly as they want it. Maybe you’re lucky enough not to have to spend six months away from your home in a foreign country to figure out what makes you jump for joy. But, however you have to do it, make sure you reach inside and pull out the best that is YOU.

I wish you all an awesome life. I’d love to know I’m not the only one who feels strange stepping so far out of normal. Please comment and let me know what you’re doing to live the life of your dreams…