Did I also write about love yesterday? Is there anything more important—will there ever be anything else at the center?

With our usual delayed precision, we drove to the airport at the last minute to do what I believe is an international tradition: to be there when the plane lands, to stand and wait right there, where you walk through the one-way door out of the secured area to those who are waiting. Just wait and stare and wait for an hour maybe. It doesn’t matter. It is about love. And that matters. A lot. 

It seems our tribe is spread out all over. We find the right people scattered around the globe, and we find that being nomadic is as much about returning as it is about leaving. Finding the right places to come back to. As much as I can be in awe with a new location and curious about what is behind the next horizon, I also realise that some places are new homes. Temporary homes. Perfect contexts. Places to return to.

Driving away from the most significant home education festival, possibly in Europe, the smiles will not leave our faces. “This is the presence and present we want for our youth, this is the base we can build a better world on.” Read on to find out what these gatherings are, and why they are so important.

Driving away from the most significant home education festival, possibly in Europe, the smiles will not leave our faces. “This is the presence and present we want for our youth, this is the base we can build a better world on.” Read on to find out what these gatherings are, and why they are so important.

Oh, this is so funny. I was writing a newsletter last week, opening with thoughts on how we in my country count the week numbers. I was mainly contemplating the problem of commitment and how that unfolds for nomads, how it is part of the freedom mantra, but also getting in the way of the very wanted and needed community. 

A morning reflection from Budapest on trusting life’s intensity, receiving what we need, and surrendering to the beauty hidden in challenges.

Barcelona wasn’t sunsets and music. It was rain—21 out of 23 days of it. It was getting sick, the dogs getting sick, and working on personal projects. It was also a marathon we didn’t run but felt deeply, long stubbern walks instead of Ubers and the metro, culinary adventures in a kitchen with a holy view.

It was working with what is, and enjoying the process. It was Real Life in the Dreamlife.

Street art is such a bold and brave form, throwing it up there in the shared space, creating a comment or a decoration or a critique or a combination for the shared culture, the shared commute, the shared conversation. Vulnerable and free, open for everyone to enjoy or hate, ready for whatever. 

Barcelona wasn’t sunsets and music. It was rain—21 out of 23 days of it. It was getting sick, the dogs getting sick, and working on personal projects. It was also a marathon we didn’t run but felt deeply, long stubbern walks instead of Ubers and the metro, culinary adventures in a kitchen with a holy view.

It was working with what is, and enjoying the process. It was Real Life in the Dreamlife.

A simple travel journal about how life is, and how it was exactly when we did a focus month in France.

In Finhan, where we live in February 2025, not much is happening. The church in the square strikes its hour, funnily enough, twice, so if you didn't quite remember to count the first time, you get another chance. Pretty nice. Pretty peaceful. Not even that to stress about. The pigeons take off poetically from the open bell tower, audibly flapping their wings across the usually completely blue sky, in the silence their shared wingbeats are a whisper of presence.

It's nice to just be.