The sun breaks past the horizon in a slow blaze of glory; not Bon Jovi rock 'n' roll (because that should be saved for when the highway's zipping by beneath you) - more like an easy hallelujah, a yoga-ish, granola fed, give peace a chance kind of glory. You're somewhere quiet. The kids are still sleeping in their bunks and you're cozied up to your lover, sipping a French press from ceramic, back doors open to reveal the breathtaking vista where you laid down anchor by shifting into Park the night before. Early fog curls up from the dewy ground and you are home...

It takes a certain kind of person to embrace the whole #VanLife dream. You either get it or you don't. I get it. And not in a naive, look-at-the-pretty-Instagram-post, kind of way. I get it in a gritty, from-the-top-of-my-head-to-the-soles-of-my-feet kind of way. Some of us are just born with a little wanderlust. Some of us live for bare feet and loose schedules and see-ya-when-I-see-ya.

I've got hippie in my blood, and I've always said I was born into the wrong decade.



No, I don't want to lock myself in and hot box it until I can't see straight. I don't want dreadlocks, and I certainly have no plans to go vegan. But I do want to simplify. I want to slow down. And even if I'm not a place in my life (or my parenting) where I can do a full-time van existence, I feel happy with the compromise we've landed at.

We will be fair-weather vanlifers. For now.

For years I've said my retirement plan involves living in a van. Sell everything. Hit the road. Home is where you park it, and all that jazz. Maybe one of the kids will buy the ol' homestead and keep it in the family (just like we bought it from my parents eight years ago) — and we'll pop around to park in the driveway and visit the grandkids in the summer. Wintertime? We'll be bombing around the beaches of Mexico, getting our sun on!