I started to build a small house. At the time few Americans were building small houses, and I thought it'd be helpful to chronicle the construction for others, or maybe for me, or maybe for everyone. And for a little while, I did just that.
Later, I moved out of my expensive apartment and into my small house—itself a part of America's first tiny house community—and found myself with a little money and a burning desire to travel. I hadn't seen the world and I heard there was a lot of world to see out there, so I packed a few things and climbed aboard my scooter and set off across North America in search of the adventures our world used to be made of.
Somewhere along the way—somewhere along that journey, in fact—this ceased to be a blog about a little house. I discovered that the little house wasn't an ends, but a means: a means to live a clutter-free life and a debt-free life—and later, a carbon-free life—a house that wouldn't tie me down with financial and physical and mental burdens, but would propel me out into the world and be there whenever I got back to it.
And so I started writing about travel. Not how to travel or where to travel or when to travel, but why to travel, and I wrote long, impassioned, very rambly anedote-riddled pieces about the joy and freedom and adventure I'd found on the road, the simplicity of doing with less and appreciating more. I got home and I pledged to never work more than nine months per year again, and since the age of 23 I've done just that: summers riding the rails of Europe, winters bumping along the ridges of Namibia, India, or Nepal.
As life became simpler, travel became simpler, too. I carried less and moved more slowly. I fell in love with a bicycle and traveled with it to Morocco; later I fell in love with a girl and traveled with the both of them to Iceland. I discovered happiness on quiet coasts and realized tranquility actually came pretty easy in this frantic, complicated world. The few things I'd accumulated (or held onto) since building that little house—a tent, some savings, a few panniers, that bicycle, that girl—were all I really wanted or needed, and the rest—sixty-four inch televisions, career ambitions, the false trappings of modern life—held no appeal.
I'm planning a great escape. More on that soon, but for now, this little blog will be going through another shift. It's not that I won't be writing about the tiny house or the droning details of my various adventures (insofar as I've been writing much of anything, lately); it's just that I'll be writing (or trying to) about other things: about getting from trapped to untrapped, inhibited to uninhibited, about the big changes I've made-but-haven't-actually-yet-written-about that have helped me live a more intentional life. It'll be a medley of musings you may love or hate, however you've ended up here, but the good news is that all the old posts will still be right down in the archives.