Why do some moments stay with us while so much else slips away?
Published on June 14, 2026 – Narrated by Jim
“All creatures drink of joy at nature’s breast.
Just and unjust alike taste of her gift”
Selected lines from Ode to JoyWords by Friedrich Schiller and music by Ludwig van Beethoven
We noticed him just before the road curved away from the Alaskan river — a young man walking along the shoulder, carrying a small canvas rucksack. His stride was unhurried, shoulders relaxed. He appeared clean, well-shod, and healthy, moving with purpose but without urgency. He was only a few yards away, but he didn’t signal for a lift and barely glanced at us before disappearing into the misty green and gray forest.
He was on a journey. A chosen adventure. Or perhaps a challenge. Maybe a walkabout or gap year between college and career.
Whatever his story, he seemed safe and quietly content out there. We raised a salute as we rolled past in our 9,000-pound trailer, outfitted with an ice maker, Nespresso machine, bidet, and probably enough wine to survive a minor apocalypse.
The contrast between our traveling styles lingered with us more than we expected.
Looking Differently
Our home moves. Everything is either standard equipment, upgrades, or gear we stash on board. Nothing sits forgotten somewhere else — no seasonal décor in plastic bins, memory boxes, or collections. Every item serves a purpose or two or three.
Before Living in Beauty, we thought “stuff” was the answer to every issue. Furniture shaped our space. Closets encouraged consumption. Our garage, the best friend that never judged us, enabled us to build a monument to deferred decisions, unfinished projects, and the belief in “just in case.”
When our mothers died, we began looking differently at the lives we had built around so many possessions. The work of sorting through what they left behind did not ease the pain of losing them, but it changed how we looked at our own accumulation.
The things we owned started feeling less like cherished belongings and more like roommates who had quietly overstayed their welcome, taking up space and steadily carving away our weekends, finances, and attention. Our life no longer felt like the “us” we wanted to be. Suddenly, we felt strangely exposed.
RV life taught us an early lesson. In a moving home, excess reveals itself quickly. Excuses are futile. A single act of diversion at a tourist shop can become a joke sitting in the middle of the room laughing at you.
Every item must justify its weight, its volume, and the fuel required to haul it around. Beauty and The Beast are the scale of truth.
The Practice
Once a year, we put everything in our home to the test. Cabinets are emptied. Storage bays and lockers laid bare. Each item is cleaned, evaluated, and asked a simple question: How were you useful this year?
Some items present convincing emotional appeals, making us question our judgement and even our hearts. Occasionally, a one-year reprieve is granted — but that’s rare. Most are thanked for their service and “advanced” to the Salvation Army — our unofficial, off-site storage solution.
Sometimes we’re surprised by what survives. Some of our old tent-camping equipment still travels with us, while some once-“essential” items have long since been advanced.
We can be sentimental. We’re not heartless. We sometimes photograph the things we’re letting go. Some memories are easier to carry in digital form than as boxes full of old things.
What Matters
When we look back on our lives, it’s never the stuff that comes to mind first. We don’t miss furniture or appliances, or reminisce about old cameras, CD players, or outdated iPhones.
We remember the three-week bike ride through the Loire Valley of France — pedaling past vineyards, stone villages, and châteaux, stopping when we were tired, lingering when we were curious, letting the days unfold naturally as sunflower fields faded from gold to brown.
We remember morning coffee brewed on a tiny portable stove while swans moved across the lake — warming our hands on aluminum cups of broth on a cold rainy afternoon. Tearing bread and slicing cheese on a bed at a farmhouse. Tugging bars of chocolate out of bike panniers on a downhill ride into Chinon. In the evenings there was slowly poured wine, pâté from the market, and long conversations at the close of the day.
Some of our favorite meals are still the simplest ones — soup simmering on the stove, good bread, and enough time to enjoy both.
We remember hiking through Yosemite Valley, granite walls rising impossibly high, the falls breaking over rocks.
We barely remember the expensive gear we once researched so carefully for those adventures — not even the bicycles themselves. It can be a cruel, cruel world for gear.
We remember the day we first met. Carmen was wearing a sparkly blush that caught my eye. We don’t remember much of the conversation — just excuses to keep looking at each other.
Lately we’ve been returning to places we saw together for the first time, taking side trips we didn’t have time to explore before. Why not? These days we have nothing but time.
Living It
Even after ten years on the road, we still find this way of living more restorative than exhausting.
Carrying less has left more room for the moments, places, and people that matter most to us.
The soft hum of the ice maker, a frothy cappuccino, and the crunch of gravel beneath our tires remind us again and again that lightness can feel remarkably full.
You can see our exact route on this map.
*Photos in this post, unless otherwise noted, were taken and copyrighted by Living in Beauty.
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