We are living in a bus.

Any fears of being too confined, feeling claustrophobic, not getting along in such tight quarters, they’ve all been left on the side of winding Bucks County road, somewhere on the trails forged by Washington and the Liberty bell protectors and plotters of the Fried Rebellion.

We wake to the sounds of birds and smells of campfire, we fall asleep to the light show of lightning bugs that have found their way inside one of our 12 open windows or 3 emergency doors. We are living simply, an open book. Our bus is already a popular tour stop along the tractor rides a worker leads on weekends. We walk outside to whoops and hollers on Saturday, bird chirps on Tuesday.

Each time we get rid of something we once held tight, something “that might be worth something”, we feel richer. All that we love soon finds its place here on our tiny rolling home or it doesn’t belong. We let go, of things and expectations and the notion of “just what you’re supposed to do.” There are no “shoulds” in our current life, only “wills”.

Our bus is parked in a wooded campground outside Quakertown, PA, where revolutionaries hid the Liberty Bell from British capture during the war for independence. We celebrate our own independence and fall in love with America all over again, holding our own freedoms tighter than anything that takes up space or weighs us down.

We feel lighter, wealthier, more loving and alive, all because we moved onto a bus. But it’s not just a bus, it’s a dream home, and how many of us can say they built their dream home? Ours just happens to be made of steel, and sits on a six-pack of 25-inch wheels. But it’s a beautiful home containing just what we love, and while the outside sweeps by, vistas of maintains and sunsets and the occasional Chinese restaurant parking lot, we will wake up with one another, in our dream home, ready to roll or go nowhere at all.

We are living in a bus. And life is good.