Deep down, I am not a risk taker. But, pushed a bit, I am willing to step out of my comfort zone. Of course, I have my limits. For example, I don’t think I will ever have the courage to step off of a platform and bungee jump. But, in New Zealand, wrapped up in a “sleeping bag” with someone I knew on each side of me, I did allow myself to be hoisted 200 ft up in the air only to free fall and swing up and down until gravity took over. Naturally, I wasn’t the one who pulled the rip cord. Someone else did. But I have to admit that the ride was pretty exhilarating. I also didn’t pull the rip cord for this journey. In fact, a year long trip around the world wasn’t my idea at all. But thankfully, I am married to someone who was willing to, almost needed to, separate from our comfortable routine. Thankfully, I was next to him when he pulled the rip cord and holding on for dear life, I was able to appreciate the ride that followed.

On our 3rd day in Iceland, just 2 days before heading home, we scheduled a day of “adventure” — the kids’ favorite kind of travel day, but not necessarily my favorite. (Might be obvious, but I’m a bit more comfortable with a museum or city-tour itinerary.) On this particular day, we were to go caving and mountain biking. What exactly that meant, I did not know. But, from what I had seen of Iceland so far, I assumed it would involve thick soft green moss, natural rock formations, vast farmlands, glassy water and most likely, some ice. And this it did. What I wasn’t expecting was what happened in the cave. Equipped with helmets and headlamps, we began our descent into the cave that had, hundreds of years before, been formed by a lava flow. The hardened lava rocks under our feet were a bit unstable, some of the rocks slippery, and the cave was dark. It didn’t take long for me to realize the importance of our helmets and our headlamps. As we crouched beneath the sometimes low “ceiling,” the only parts of the cave that were illuminated were those reflecting the light we carried with us on our heads. So, as you can imagine, when our guide instructed us to take a seat, turn out our lights and be still, we all hesitated. But, one by one, the lights went out and we were in complete darkness. Deep in the cave, there was not a single stray beam of light sneaking it’s way in from above. In fact, I spent the first few minutes performing a simple experiment — could I tell the difference between my vision with my eyes closed versus open? Concluding that I could not perceive a single difference between the “nothing” that I saw with them open and with them closed, I began to truly experience the cave. I could now hear melting ice as it dripped and hit the rocks below; I was aware of the exact temperature and precise location of some of these drops as they landed on my scalp; I could hear the breath of Greg and the kids as if they were sitting next to me and not 8 feet away; the ice and rock now cracked as it settled into the earth; the lava rock that I was sitting on became sharper; my feet were suddenly colder and more damp then they had been just seconds before; and the dampness of the cave now had a smell and a taste. Four of my senses were on high alert now that my sight was removed. It was only then that I fully experienced the cave.

Just as it took removing my sense of sight to allow me to fully experience the cave, the 11 months of my personal “journey to discover” was only successful because of the “removal” of all that was familiar, comfortable and routine. My mind was open and ready to absorb. All of my senses were amplified. I was noticing and paying attention to the smallest details of my interactions with my family. And I was taking the time to appreciate the beauty of the world around me.

Was Greg hugging me more tightly at night? Was Nico reaching for my hand more often? Was Reese offering up more unsolicited hugs? Was Luke telling me he loved me more frequently? Or was I now more present and engaged? It may have been a bit of both, but it felt so very different. The effect of their affections went deeper. I leaned in more fully. And I took time to notice the effect my actions had on them. How did they respond to a simple smile across the breakfast (or lunch or dinner) table, an arm around their shoulder or waist while walking through ancient Roman ruins, the tight holding of a hand with 3 squeezes meaning “I love you,” an extra long hug and kiss on the cheek at bedtime? I watched them smile back, stand a bit taller. I watched their faces brighten. I felt them leaning into me. And I felt us growing closer.

And what about the incredible world that we were exploring together? Our brains were bombarded with history, geography, religion, culture, and fun fact after fun fact. We were meeting interesting people daily and opening our hearts to them. As I walked through theses magical days with my family, I found beauty in the extraordinary — Machu Picchu, the Galapagos Islands, Angkor Wat, the Great Wall, Petra, the Taj Mahal, the Great Barrier Reef, the Alhambra, the Colosseum, the Acropolis…and more. And I found beauty in the ordinary — women and men washing or bathing in the Kerala backwaters of India, the smiling faces of Nepalese children playing in the dirt by the side of the road, the Myanmar landscape blanketed with golden pagodas, the vast fields of thick moss covered lava in Iceland, the intense concentration and peaceful chanting of the monks of Bhutan. I am hopeful that the 20,000+ pictures I took will stir the memories that, in the moment, I tried so hard to absorb into my heart and sole.

As I settled into the routine of our nomadic life, the smaller details began to stand out. I found myself taking countless pictures of laundry hanging out to dry. It became kind of an obsession — country after country — whether it was hanging outside of a Naples apartment window or strung across from one building to another in Dubrovnik. It was a little window into the lives of these people. For some, it was the day they washed their darks, for another their whites. Or it may have been the day they washed the sheets and towels. I could tell if the household had infants or children, boys or girls. And then, last week, as I was hanging my own laundry out to dry in Croatia, I found myself focusing on the strength and mechanics of the clothes pins, the wind whipping through the bathing suits and towels that I had just hung, the warmth of the sun that was to assist the wind in the task of drying. Even the simple task hanging my clothes, piece by piece, had become beautiful to me too.

As we sit in the airport, 7 hours from arriving home, I am overcome with conflicting emotions — excitement, anxiety, gratitude, and others that I can’t quite name. Tears are close to the surface as I try to put the past 11 months into words. I don’t want to this journey end. I don’t want to let it go. How can I hold onto what I have learned and keep learning? How can I stay connected to Greg and my children? How can I live life simply and minimize my to-do list? How can I continue to find beauty in the ordinary? Will I appreciate and and stay present in each “routine” moment, like I did as I hung each piece of clothing out to dry? As I return to all that is familiar, I am hopeful that my senses stay heightened and that my mind remains open to the bigger world around me. I am hopeful that I can continue to feel this overwhelming gratitude for Greg, for my children, for my home, for my country, and for my family and my friends that have shared this journey with me from afar. Pulling the rip-cord to take this journey and removing the comfort of all that was familiar was indeed terrifying, but I would do it again tomorrow.