West of the Moon

Hello friends and family! This is our last full week in Kansas City, and we are using it to cross the last T’s and dot the last I’s, the most enjoyable of which will be Arthur’s birthday party this Friday. This is a test post just to make sure everyone who wants to follow this blog will be able to do so. I hope you’ve found your way here and will be able to find your way back easier next time.

As a reminder, we’ll have email, Facebook, Teams, Zoom, Skype, and texting and calling available as we travel, so if you ever want to get in touch with us personally, please do take advantage of the marvels of modern technology and give us a buzz!

Oh, by the way, in case you are wondering about the website domain name, I was inspired by my favorite fairytale, East of the Sun and West of the Moon. It doesn’t have the remotest thing to do with taking a family trip, except that the princess does seem to travel quite a ways to get where she is going.

Finally, I’d like to share a segment from an essay written by G.K. Chesterton. His perspectives on travel seem at times paradoxical, but, like the rest of his writing, they are true for all that. The quotation I want to share is from an essay of his entitled “The Riddle of the Ivy.” I have been meditating on it as we prepare to venture forth and, at the same time, I feel myself becoming excited for our return home.

I am glad that we have taken this opportunity to take ourselves purposefully out of our normal environment. One of our sons is just beginning to talk about Mine Craft as the favorite thing going on at school, something really cool and meaningful. Our 5 year old daughter is already responding to a materialistic culture that has begun informing her idea of beauty. Before we allow them to settle so easily into the rut that society is happy to keep them in for the rest of their lives, we desire to lift them out and let them see different stars, hear different birds, learn different ways to say “Hello,” and find different kinds of beautiful.

The ultimate aim isn’t for them to become cynics, detached from their friends or community. The aim is to allow them to see that they don’t have to take everything already in their lives for granted. You don’t need to live by the ocean, but you should know there is an ocean, and if can dip your toes into it, then you are among a small percentage of blessed individuals who have gotten to see the biggest thing in the world. If, after that, you go back to fields and forests, you will see them as fields and forests, and not assume that these are the only colors that paint the whole world.

Now, without further ado, G. K. Chesterton, in “The Riddle of the Ivy.”

More than a month ago, when I was leaving London for a holiday,
a friend walked into my flat in Battersea and found me surrounded
with half-packed luggage.

“You seem to be off on your travels,” he said. “Where are you going?”

With a strap between my teeth I replied, “To Battersea.”

“The wit of your remark,” he said, “wholly escapes me.”

“I am going to Battersea,” I repeated, “to Battersea via Paris, Belfort,
Heidelberg, and Frankfort. My remark contained no wit. It contained
simply the truth. I am going to wander over the whole world until once more I find Battersea. Somewhere in the seas of sunset or of sunrise, somewhere in the ultimate archipelago of the earth, there is one little island which I wish to find: an island with low green hills and great white cliffs. Travellers tell me that it is called England (Scotch
travellers tell me that it is called Britain), and there is a rumour
that somewhere in the heart of it there is a beautiful place called Battersea.”

“I suppose it is unnecessary to tell you,” said my friend,
with an air of intellectual compassion, “that this is Battersea?”

“It is quite unnecessary,” I said, “and it is spiritually untrue.
I cannot see any Battersea here; I cannot see any London or
any England. I cannot see that door. I cannot see that chair:
because a cloud of sleep and custom has come across my eyes.
The only way to get back to them is to go somewhere else; and that
is the real object of travel and the real pleasure of holidays.
Do you suppose that I go to France in order to see France? Do you suppose that I go to Germany in order to see Germany? I shall enjoy them both; but it is not them that I am seeking. I am seeking Battersea.
The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land;
it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.
Now I warn you that this Gladstone bag is compact and heavy,
and that if you utter that word ‘paradox’ I shall hurl it at your head.
I did not make the world, and I did not make it paradoxical.
It is not my fault, it is the truth, that the only way to go
to England is to go away from it.”

But when, after only a month’s travelling, I did come back
to England, I was startled to find that I had told the exact truth.
England did break on me at once beautifully new and beautifully old.

Lest we get too serious, check out these rockstars.