Farewell, for a Moment

We’re living in a facade of inconceivable madness.

That’s a great intro. A great way to convince those who may be on the fence that, yes, indeed, life is a vapor meandering into the sky, leaving no trace, no trail that we can follow. The meaning of it all? Too far beyond our grasp to hope to understand, but our minds healthy enough to think we might do well to pursue the notion.

Depending on which color pin you vote for, you believe that one of the last two presidents of the United States of America was some gambut of evil, insane and downright terrible. Or you believe that one of them simply did the job the best they could.

We pay taxes for roads, for gasoline and sugar, football stadiums, permitting offices and for corn syrup. We do it with a blind eye, never really seeing the line item but most of us knowing it’s there. Wrapped up into a big annual budget that one side or the other will tell us is too large or too small, isn’t tough enough on security or is too lenient toward the poor. We accept it, groceries and soccer games to attend to. A honey-do list replaces freedom, a trip to the dentist more immediately necessary than a ballot cast. We spend billions on things we don’t need–not really–but have found ourselves appeased by. Then we strike down any thought of healthcare for all or pittance for the homeless. We turn our heads to an endless war in the Middle East, shout standing over any kneeled protest our love for our soldiers, and then leave them to die–to live in the streets–when they return from their duty short a limb, a few years, and their ability to reason on terms we find quite comfortable in our excused-from-the-madness reality.

I thought I found an answer to this all. And, I did.

Removal.

Get yourself away. Far, far away, from all of it.

Ditch the apartment, the home, the car payment, the 7am school time. Definitely the 9 to 5. “What extracurricular activities are your kids participating in?” someone might ask me.

“Life,” I might reply. “As in nature, real world experience, and time with their parents.”

“Don’t you think they’ll be lacking in education?” they might respond.

“Don’t you think schools are a terrible place?” I would likely state.

“How will they learn?”

“Without bullets or bullies.”

“Won’t they miss out?” They’d pause. “Surely, they’ll miss out.”

“Only on desktops and number 2 pencils,” I’d assure. “But on mountain tops climbed and make-shift teepees built? On colors of skin and hands to be shaken? On diligence at a passion and dismissal of the mundane?” I could go further.

But a conversation like this can go one of two ways.

“You’re wrong,” or, “I love that.”

You won’t likely change the expression provided, only flare the against or stoke the for. Either way, a fire burns a little brighter.

I no longer want to be a piece of that flame, not here anyway. This magazine has always stood on the side of encouraging folks to live the life they wish. To show what we have done, yes, but tell the stories of many other families, couples and solo acts as well. This magazine has had one sole mission: “Help people understand that they can live a life that makes them happy, enthusiastic about waking up each day, traveling and being with the ones you love not as a hobby, or as something that happens after the rest of the day is done, but as your actual, entire life.”

This is no longer a message I find necessary to spread. Thousands of people are living in vans and RVs, or otherwise well on their particular dream these days. The world doesn’t need another article about ten great ways to hit the road, or how to live simply through travel.

And so, Wand’rly will evolve along with this community that has become a subculture, and you’ll hear more and more from others who are living this life.

Thanks for hanging around, for your good words, and your support. To be absolutely clear, the magazine doesn’t end here. I just won’t be the primary creator of content.

This isn’t the end of us, either, as a traveling family or a man writing his particular views, stringing along syllables into hopefully some coherent message of hope. Quite the contrary. Just a new phase in a month’s worth of moons, none of us sure when the last full will set. I encourage you to stick around for what the next generation of writers here on the mag will bring.

PS. I’m writing a book on life in North America, as a family man, and what this road has taught me. Interested in learning more? Follow me on Instagram, where I’ll have more to say on the subject soon.