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The All Hallows Market: A Curious Day Among the Gravestones

Published on October 18, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It’s spooky season! So naturally, I headed to the graveyard for a market day.

Browsing a curious collection of curios, crystals, preserved specimens and skulls, I wandered along winding paths lined with vendors offering their strange wares among the gravestones. It may seem odd to set up a market in a cemetery, or even a bit disrespectful to disturb the peace of the dead with the living, but I like to think they rather enjoy their visitors. Besides, everyone was respectful of the graves, staying on the paths as they browsed.

Funds from the vendor fees go straight towards the preservation of Mount Bethel Cemetery, the oldest burial ground in continual use in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Dating back to 1730, it is the final resting place of more than ten thousand of the borough’s former residents, including many significant figures from its rich history. Some of its oldest gravestones date back to the eighteenth century, including a legible marker from 1758 belonging to William Campbell, a trapper said to have carved his own headstone after contracting rabies from his dog. There’s plenty of history among these gravestones, if you know where to look.

The event, called The All Hallows Market, was organised by the Curiosity Shop of Columbia, known for its rather particular selection of shop pieces, ranging from taxidermied bats to antiques. Naturally, a market organised by a shop like that was never going to be your typical Saturday shopping trip.

And thank goodness for that.

The vendors offered an eclectic assortment of wares inspired by Victorian fashion, steampunk, pagan traditions and modern Gothic aesthetics. There were curiosities for collectors, treasures for the unusual-minded and plenty of things that wouldn’t look out of place in a witch’s parlour or a Victorian naturalist’s study. It was the sort of gathering where a skull could be a decorative object, a preserved specimen could be a conversation starter, and nobody would bat an eye at either.

For anyone who loves Halloween, it was a little slice of seasonal heaven.

The day itself seemed determined to cooperate. The weather was warm, but there was a distinct scent of autumn in the air. The leaves on the nearby trees had only just begun to change colour, offering the first hints of the season to come. It was that lovely in-between moment when summer hasn’t quite let go, but autumn is already waiting in the wings.

I’d started the day at one of my favourite coffee shops, where a friend joined me before we headed over to the cemetery. We were greeted by a parade of hearses, which felt like an entirely appropriate arrival for an event of this particular character. Nothing says spooky season quite like a procession of vehicles traditionally associated with the dearly departed.

One of the hearses was particularly worth investigating. Peering inside, you could see old medical equipment, adding another layer of macabre history to an already wonderfully peculiar afternoon. It was the sort of thing that made you wonder about the stories behind the objects, and perhaps whether you really wanted to know all of them.

Then there was the vendor selling an actual skeleton.

Now, dear reader, I have questions. Far too many questions. Where does one even acquire an entire skeleton for resale? What sort of paperwork might be involved? And perhaps most importantly, how does one decide that a skeleton is precisely what one’s home is missing?

I didn’t ask, but I certainly thought about it.

Not everything was quite so existentially questionable. One of my favourite booths sold steampunk journals, each with its own distinctive character. I have a particular fondness for objects that feel as though they belong to another era, or perhaps to a fictional world just waiting to be discovered. A journal is already an invitation to adventure, but a particularly unusual one practically begs you to fill its pages with something interesting.

Another vendor was selling wonderfully amusing earrings, which presented an entirely different sort of dilemma. There was a cute little ghost reading a book, an accessory that felt almost suspiciously tailored to my interests. Then there were the toe bones of a raccoon.

Yes, dear reader. Raccoon toe bones.

There is a very particular sort of shopping decision that can only happen at a market like this. Do you choose the adorable ghost engrossed in literature, or do you embrace the sheer absurdity of wearing a raccoon’s toe bones as jewellery? Both have their merits. Both would make excellent conversation starters. And both are considerably more interesting than another pair of ordinary earrings.

I debated the options, because of course I did. Sometimes the hardest part of an adventure is deciding which peculiar little treasure deserves to come home with you.

There was even a pop-up tattoo booth for anyone feeling particularly adventurous. I considered the idea in the abstract, as one does when faced with an opportunity to do something unusual. But a spontaneous tattoo is a rather more permanent souvenir than most of the things one finds at a market, and I’m not quite ready to add that particular experience to my bucket list. If I ever do, I suspect it will require a little more thought than a spur-of-the-moment decision among the gravestones.

In the end, I left empty-handed.

Not because I wasn’t interested. Quite the opposite. There were plenty of things I could have happily brought home, from the steampunk journals to the ghost earrings and, purely for the conversation it would generate, perhaps even the raccoon toe bones.

But I didn’t need to own any of them to enjoy them. The afternoon had given me plenty to take home already: the sight of hearses lining the entrance, the wonderfully strange assortment of vendors, the questions raised by an entire skeleton for sale, and the memory of debating jewellery made from the toes of a raccoon.

Sometimes the best souvenir is the story you get to tell afterwards.

And that’s part of what I love about these sorts of adventures. You don’t have to travel far, spend a fortune or even come home with anything in your shopping bag to have a worthwhile afternoon. Sometimes all you need is a nearby event, a friend who is willing to indulge your interests, and a willingness to follow your curiosity somewhere a little unusual.

A market in a cemetery might not be everyone’s idea of a perfect autumn outing. But between the strange treasures, the hearses, the changing leaves and the history beneath our feet, it was exactly the sort of wonderfully peculiar adventure that makes life a little more interesting.

Besides, if the dead really are watching, I hope they appreciated the company.

Happy spooky season, dear reader. May your autumn be filled with curious places, unexpected adventures and just the right amount of the macabre.

Oktoberfest in My Own Backyard

Published on October 4, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It was the accordion music pumped from the stage that sealed the deal. A crowd gathered on the dance floor, raising a hundred glasses in unison as we chanted, “Zicke-Zacke, Zicke-Zacke, Oi, Oi, Oi!” and drank as one.

Beer sloshed over the edges of full mugs as they clanged together. Schnitzel and wurst were piled high on plates next to potato salad, kraut and red cabbage. The crowd was squeezed together underneath the tents, and strangers squished themselves onto the long benches of the impromptu beer halls. For those left with standing room only, they found themselves dancing and swaying with the music, whether it was a polka or a rendition of “Thunderbird.” For a few hours, everyone was friends. It was a barely controlled, perpetual party on the edge of a mountain range.

No, dear reader, I did not book a flight to Germany for Oktoberfest. I did, however, do the next best thing by attending one of the top Oktoberfests this side of the Atlantic, conveniently located only 45 minutes from my house.

The Reading Liederkranz is known for putting on one heck of a party. It is consistently ranked among the top four Oktoberfests in America and has snagged the number one spot twice. What makes it so good isn’t necessarily the sheer size, though it boasts that it is the largest in Pennsylvania, but rather its adherence to authenticity. At least as much as one can get in the United States.

Rather than being put on by a beer corporation or local tourism bureau looking to cash in, it is hosted by a German social club. This means they are dedicated to preserving their German heritage, as they have been since the late 1800s. They are descendants of German settlers, committed to maintaining their culture. The celebrations open with the tapping of the beer by local officials. German bands are brought in to play, and many of the members show up wearing authentic lederhosen and dirndls.

The food is certainly worth celebrating as well. It held up to my memories of Bavarian food from my brief sojourn there during my study abroad. And, of course, there is the beer. It flows from every corner of the festivities, with generous pours.

I went on a Friday evening with my sister. Unlike Oktoberfest in Bavaria, the Reading Oktoberfest is a bit more truncated, with only a few days beginning in September and running into the first weekend of October. We met at one of the free parking lots to take the shuttle up to the Liederkranz, which sits near the summit of Mount Washington, although it’s technically more of a hill. We arrived right around 5:00 pm, when the food vendors were opening and before the crowd could fill up.

The first thing we did was just wander around to take it all in. For me, it was like taking a plane ride back to Germany, with the exception that almost no one spoke German, an oversight if you ask me.

For my sister, it was like stepping into a whole other world. When I just seemed to know exactly what to do when prompted, such as calling out “Oi, Oi, Oi!” or knowing to drink when they said “Prost,” she just looked semi-confused. Half the fun was sharing my love of German culture with her and teaching her things about it that I had forgotten weren’t self-evident to an American unfamiliar with it.

Naturally, we had to sample the food and have a beer before being thoroughly entertained by the band that was playing. I had the schnitzel platter, whereas she had a “Beyond Wurst” and potato pancakes with applesauce, as she doesn’t eat pork. We split an apple strudel with ice cream for dessert. The beer we chose was an apple cider beer, as my sister is also not that fond of beer. I suppose it’s not much of a surprise why she wasn’t overly familiar with German culture prior to this outing. I probably drank most of the beer, but she had some as well.

Of course, this particular Oktoberfest cannot compare to the one in Munich. A small social club simply cannot compete with a city hosting over 7 million people. It was much closer to the “quieter” celebrations of the rest of Bavaria, which is precisely why I enjoyed it.

I am not someone who enjoys huge crowds and, while I love German culture, I’m also not a huge beer drinker. I enjoy a party, but I went to a dry campus on purpose in college. So, to be honest, I wasn’t sure I would actually ever want to go to Oktoberfest in Germany. It would be extremely expensive to go and discover that I actually do not want to spend hours drinking beer, eating food, riding random attractions, singing loudly in a huge crowd and being part of one of the world’s largest parties.

As it turns out, it probably would not be on my Bucket List to do.

I enjoyed my time, but not for more than a few hours. I certainly wouldn’t want to go for a whole week or more. Besides, there are many other places I would want to go in Germany other than a beer tent. If I happened to be travelling around that time and happened to have a day to pop in, I could see going. Although the sheer logistics of trying to get in would probably make it a pass, and I’d instead opt for a smaller celebration nearby.

Which I only really learned by trying out a scaled-down version of it in my own backyard.

And honestly, that might be one of my favourite things about the Bucket List Life. Sometimes you don’t have to travel halfway around the world to discover whether something belongs on your list. You can find a smaller version nearby, try it for yourself and discover that the experience you imagined might not actually be the experience you wanted.

If you’re looking for your own Oktoberfest next year, I’d recommend doing a little digging before simply buying tickets to the biggest event you can find. If authenticity is what you’re after, skip the corporate-sponsored celebrations and look for a local Liederkranz, German social club or German cultural organisation. These smaller celebrations are often rooted in the communities that are actually preserving the traditions, rather than simply recreating the aesthetic of them.

You might not get seven million people, a giant midway or enough beer to fill a swimming pool. What you might get is an accordion band, a plate of schnitzel, someone teaching you when to yell “Oi, Oi, Oi!” and a table full of strangers who are suddenly your friends.

And really, isn’t that what a good Oktoberfest is supposed to be?

The Autumn We Almost Lost

Published on September 20, 2026September 20, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

There are some things that feel so thoroughly associated with autumn that we hardly think of them as special anymore.

Pumpkin patches. Hayrides. Apple picking. The crispness in the air. Rows of trees heavy with fruit. We see these things every year, or at least we expect to.

After an unusually warm growing season followed by a late frost in the spring, much of the apple harvest in our region was lost. Something I had always thought of as an almost ubiquitous autumn activity suddenly became a rather rare treat. There were fewer apples to pick, and suddenly the ones hanging from the trees felt a little more precious.

This year, however, apple picking was a rather different affair.

In fact, there was not a single apple orchard in the whole county offering apple picking. In order to find one, we had to look further afield, across the river to Flinchbaugh’s Orchard and Farm Market, to make the most of what remained. I had checked their Facebook page and discovered that this past weekend was possibly the only weekend they would be offering apple picking. A rare treat indeed.

So, on a Saturday morning, my sister and I set out on a small journey to the farm. It’s a quaint market full of fresh local produce on the inside and a sprawling flower market outside. At this time of year, it was overflowing with pumpkins. Food trucks were parked outside, and the smell of fresh apple cider donuts wafted through the air.

After purchasing our tickets and bag for apples, we climbed aboard a wagon for a tour of the farm, riding past fields of sunflowers, wildflowers, pumpkins and, eventually, the apple orchards. The orderly rows of trees stretched out before us, their branches holding clusters of apples together in little golden bunches.

As we rode towards the orchard, we passed the machinery being used to gather the commercial harvest. Two men working nearby paused to politely tip their hats as we passed. There was something wonderfully old-fashioned about the gesture, even as enormous modern equipment rumbled through the rows. Bees hummed lazily between the trees, gathering their own harvest as we gathered ours.

These were Golden Delicious, but they were unlike the Golden Delicious I usually pick up at the supermarket. These apples were honey-sweet and bursting with flavour. Crisp, fresh and still warm with the lingering memory of the sun, they tasted like the season itself.

Perhaps knowing how easily the harvest could have been lost made them taste even better.

And then there was the cat.

Oh, the cat.

An orange cat had apparently appointed himself official ambassador of the apple orchard. He was wonderfully friendly, purring loudly as he made his rounds among the visitors. Clearly accustomed to attention, he seemed determined to ensure that no one left the orchard without first receiving an appropriate amount of feline hospitality.

Naturally, we obliged.

After gathering our apples, we wandered into the pumpkin patch.

If the apple orchard was orderly, the pumpkin patch was anything but. The neat rows of trees gave way to a glorious mess of pumpkins, flowers and grasses. Round orange pumpkins appeared wherever you looked, tucked among the vegetation as though they had simply sprung from the earth wherever they pleased. Grasshoppers chirped and sprang out of our way as we tromped through the patch in search of the perfect pumpkin.

It felt less like walking through a cultivated field and more like wandering into autumn itself.

Perhaps that is what I enjoyed most about the day. None of it was particularly extraordinary. We picked apples. We hunted for pumpkins. We rode on a wagon. We took pictures among the wildflowers. We breathed in the crisp autumn air.

And yet this year, the ordinary didn’t feel quite so ordinary.

The apples reminded me that abundance is not guaranteed. A warm winter, a badly timed frost, too much rain or too little can change what a farm is able to produce. Something that seems inevitable when you see it stacked by the dozens in a supermarket can become surprisingly precious when you watch an entire harvest disappear.

Maybe that is one of the pleasures of paying attention. We think we know what a season will bring because we have experienced it before. But every year is slightly different. Some things flourish. Some disappear. Some return unexpectedly. And sometimes the thing you assumed would always be there becomes the thing you are most grateful to have.

This year, I got to pick my own apples.

They were delicious.

There was a pumpkin patch full of flowers and grasshoppers, a wagon ride through the farm, wildflowers waiting to be photographed, bees humming through the orchard and a very affectionate orange cat making his rounds.

It was an ordinary autumn afternoon.

But this year, it was extraordinary.

The Troll Market: A Bazaar of Forgotten Treasures

Published on September 13, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It’s spoken of in whispers, its location known only to those who have been. Tucked away down an alley and deeper further in lies a strange bazaar of collected treasures forged from the four corners of the forgotten world. Dragon eyes and swords, magic potions and scrolls, artefacts and antiques stacked to the ceiling. The seemingly endless maze of shelves goes on almost impossibly deep until one is left questioning the physics of the shop. Surely it must end eventually. Every shelf overflows with objects ranging in price from a few cents to a deal you wish you’d never struck. Beware, all sales are final.

Now, could I order a handcrafted scroll off Etsy? Absolutely. But there is just something so much more fun about visiting the Troll Market. I lied about not knowing the location unless you’ve already been. It is easily found via GPS and a quick Google search, but it is better to have someone who has already been show you exactly where it’s semi-hidden in the city. So it was that I had my work partner show me exactly where it was on an unexpected autumn afternoon. We had some time in our schedule to lurk about in the market, and so we made our way there. After parking on the main street, she led me down an alley and up a few stairs to a long hallway, where hanging over the door at the end was a sign proclaiming loudly, “The Troll Market.”

If you’re someone who grew up reading fantasy novels and dreaming of visiting such places as The Floating Market from Neverwhere or the Bizarre Bazaar from A Darker Shade of Magic, then Lancaster’s Troll Market feels straight out of a book, complete with atmospheric music to make your shopping experience an epic adventure. The range of objects, from the practical (car diffusers and organic toothbrushes) to the exotic (owl pellets and fossils), from the beautiful (earrings and tiaras) to the whimsical (ceramic monks), truly blew my mind. It seemed that there was something for any potential whim. My favourite find was a pair of origami dragon earrings.

It was a gamer’s mecca, housing a whole room from floor to ceiling of games, including Magic: The Gathering, tucked next to an in-house tavern available for rent that looked straight out of an epic fantasy novel. Far in the back, there was almost every tabletop figure one could imagine. In another hidden spot was a room dedicated to D&D and other tabletop role-playing games. The table was naturally filled with dirt and (what I assume is fake) bones to set the right atmosphere for a campaign’s climax. Some days, one can hear live music playing from a stage in a corner. Everywhere I looked was another surprise.

Despite the plethora of items, the shop was surprisingly well organised by subject matter. The scrolls sat next to the journals, and the car diffusers were over by the soaps and perfumes. The wooden swords were comfortably nestled next to the clothing. Once one got the lay of the land, so to speak, it was easy to have a general idea of where something might be. Of course, if you were completely lost by the sheer magnitude of items, the very helpful shopkeep was there to lend a hand.

There is something wonderfully different about shopping in a place where you have no idea what you might find. Most shopping trips begin with a destination. You need a new shirt, a birthday gift, perhaps something to put on the wall. You enter the shop, find the thing, pay for it and leave. The Troll Market is not really that sort of shopping experience. It is an expedition.

You wander.

You turn a corner and discover something you had no idea you needed. You peer into a case and find something that makes you wonder who collected it, where it came from, or why anyone thought it would be a good idea to sell it. You follow one shelf only to discover that it leads to another room, which leads to another hallway, which leads to yet another collection of treasures. It is less like shopping and more like exploring a particularly eccentric museum where everything happens to be for sale.

And perhaps that is why I enjoyed it so much. There was no particular item I had gone there to find. I wasn’t shopping for a dragon, a fossil, an antique or a pair of earrings. I simply went to see what was there. In a world where so much of our shopping is done by typing exactly what we want into a search bar, there is something delightful about allowing yourself to be surprised.

This is one of the reasons I think places like the Troll Market belong on a bucket list. Not because everyone needs to own an origami dragon, a ceramic monk or a wooden sword, but because sometimes the adventure is simply going somewhere that makes you curious. You may leave with a treasure. You may leave with nothing but a story. Either way, you have spent an afternoon discovering something you didn’t know existed.

And sometimes that is enough.

After all, not every adventure needs to be grand. You don’t need a plane ticket, an exotic destination or a carefully planned itinerary. Sometimes all you need is an autumn afternoon, a friend who knows where the mysterious door is, and a willingness to see what is hiding on the other side.

So, dear reader, where might you find your own strange little bazaar? Start by looking beyond the usual shopping districts. Wander the older parts of your town, explore side streets and alleys, and keep an eye out for the unassuming doors you might normally walk right past. Search for independent shops, antique markets, oddities stores, comic and game shops, or simply ask the person who always seems to know where the interesting places are. Sometimes the best adventures are hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone curious enough to open the door.

Practical Magic: Capturing a Jar of Summer

Published on September 7, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It’s Labor Day weekend. The children have returned to school. The leaves have just begun their transition from green to yellow, red, and orange. There’s just the slightest nip in the air. Though not officially here by the calendar, autumn is announcing her impending arrival, armed with pumpkin spice everything and spooky décor.

It’s enough to make anyone feel a bit witchy. And what better way to celebrate than by creating some magic in the kitchen?

Upon my stove boils a curious concoction of preserved summer. A spell sealed away until the time is right, most likely in the midst of winter’s blast, its bright heat pushing back against a blizzard’s howl. The kitchen fills with the sweet smell of fruit and sugar as the mixture bubbles away, slowly transforming from something ordinary into something that, with a little patience and the right ingredients, will become something entirely different.

Yes, armed with a dark brew, this concoction will my guests renew!

I speak, of course, of making jellies, jams, and shrubs, of drying, pickling, canning, and all the other delightful ways humans have devised to capture the bounty of one season and carry it into another.

You will be forgiven, dear reader, if you are not familiar with all the forms of preservation previously listed. I shall assume that you are particularly unfamiliar with “shrubs.” Most people are, and no, it isn’t a bush one plants in one’s garden.

A shrub is a sweet and tart beverage made from a concentrated syrup of fresh fruit, sugar, and vinegar. It is one of the earliest forms of food preservation, and I simply adore adding it to iced tea or using it in homemade cocktails. There is something wonderfully satisfying about taking fruit that is abundant for a brief moment in summer and turning it into something you can enjoy months later.

And, like any good witch, I must be careful with my spells. There is a recipe to follow. Measurements matter. Temperatures matter. Sterilization matters. The jars must be prepared properly, the seals must be checked, and everything must be handled with care. There is a certain amount of magic involved in watching fruit, sugar, heat, and time transform into something completely different, but this is not the sort of magic where one can simply wave a wand and hope for the best. An improperly prepared spell may have unintended consequences.

In this case, those consequences are less likely to involve turning someone into a frog and considerably more likely to involve food poisoning. So I follow the recipe. Carefully.

I measure the sugar. I measure the pectin. I watch the temperature. I stir and wait and watch the bubbles rise and burst. There is a strange satisfaction in following a process developed and refined by generations of people who figured out how to make the harvest last just a little longer. And when the spell is complete, I ladle the glowing mixture into jars and seal them away.

Can I go to the store and buy jam? Absolutely. I can buy pickles (not that I would I happen to hate pickles but you can!). I can buy dried fruit. I can buy salsa and tea and any number of other things I might otherwise make myself.

But there is something to be said for capturing the flavors of locally grown produce and preserving them with your own hands. There is satisfaction in carefully measuring out the ingredients, following the recipe, watching the transformation happen, and eventually opening a jar months later to discover that you have somehow managed to preserve a little piece of summer.

I have canned salsas and spreads. I have pickled lemons in salt water. I’ve dried various vegetables to use in soups later. I’ve even made my own fruit tea from scraps of summer fruit, using things like strawberry tops and apple peels. That last one is particularly delightful on a snowy afternoon. Take the scraps that might otherwise end up in the compost and turn them into a fragrant cup of tea. Add a little honey, curl up somewhere warm, and suddenly January seems considerably less offensive.

And that, dear reader, is where I think food preservation becomes more than simply a frugal hobby. It is a skill.

There is a tendency to think of bucket-list adventures as things that require plane tickets, reservations, expensive equipment, or some dramatic story to tell afterward. We put things like skydiving, visiting exotic countries, climbing mountains, or swimming with sharks on our lists.

And those things can certainly be wonderful. But learning how to do something is an adventure too. Learning to preserve food means acquiring a skill that doesn’t disappear when the experience ends. I can make another batch of jam next summer. I can try a different fruit. I can experiment with a new shrub. I can dry vegetables for another winter’s soup.

The experience becomes something I can return to. That is one of my favourite things about learning new skills. You don’t simply check the box and move on. You take the knowledge with you. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to learn how to bake bread. Maybe you’ve wondered about woodworking, gardening, knitting, pottery, fermenting, playing an instrument, making soap, painting, or any of the countless skills humans have developed over thousands of years.

You don’t have to become an expert. You don’t even have to love it. Try it. Learn something. And if you discover that you enjoy it, you’ve gained something you can carry with you for the rest of your life.

I certainly haven’t become some grand master of food preservation. I don’t have a cellar filled with hundreds of perfectly labelled jars. My kitchen isn’t a scene from a nineteenth-century homestead where I’ve somehow become the keeper of ancient culinary wisdom. I’m simply someone who enjoys making things.

And I particularly enjoy making things that allow me to cheat time. That may be the real magic of preservation. Summer is fleeting. The strawberries disappear. The peaches soften. The tomatoes eventually stop producing. The herbs die back. The garden goes quiet. But I can capture some of it. I can put summer into a jar. Then I can tuck that jar away and wait. Months later, when the trees are bare and the wind is howling against the windows, I can pull it from the pantry. I can spread it across warm toast. I can stir preserved fruit into something I’m baking. I can pour a little shrub into a glass of iced tea and remember the heat of July.

And I don’t have to keep all the magic to myself. I spread it around, too. Slightly intended pun. Jams, jellies and other homemade treats make wonderful holiday gifts. There is something special about receiving something someone made themselves. It says, I thought of you when I made this; I took the time to make something; I put this away months ago and remembered you when it was time to bring it out. And perhaps most importantly, it says, I hope this makes your day a little brighter. That feels like a much more meaningful gift than something grabbed from a shelf five minutes before Christmas.

So as autumn settles in and the farmers’ markets begin their final abundance of the season, perhaps consider adding a little practical magic to your own bucket list. You don’t need a cauldron. You don’t need a pointy hat. Although, I always love a good hat, bonus points if it’s festive. A hairnet will probably suffice. Head to your local farmers’ market. Find something delicious. Learn how to preserve it. Follow the recipe carefully. Respect the science. Don’t accidentally poison your loved ones. Then seal away a little bit of summer.

Because when winter finally arrives, when the snow is falling and the cold seems determined to seep into your bones, you can reach into your pantry and open a jar. And there it is. Summer. Waiting for you. A little magic you made yourself.

The Family We Gathered Into

Published on August 23, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

Dear reader, some of the most important traditions in my life aren’t traditions that my family created.

At least, not my family by blood.

They began with a group of college friends of my parents who, somewhere along the way, decided that friendship deserved to be celebrated. Perhaps because most of them came from dysfunctional families, so they formed a family of their own and it was into this family that I was born. Decades later, the gatherings continue. The faces have changed over the years. Some people have joined us, others have moved away or passed on, and the locations have occasionally changed. But the traditions remain, some remain untouched from their beginnings. Others have slowly morphed or rolled into other traditions.

Three times a year, give or take, we gather.

St. Patrick’s Day brings together those who share an Irish heritage, or perhaps simply an appreciation for good food, good drink, and the opportunity to sing Irish folk songs at increasingly enthusiastic volumes. We used to gather for Mid-summer’s and Mid-winter’s but they were rolled into St. Patrick’s when Mid-winter’s kept getting snowed out and our host for Mid-summer was no longer able to accommodate everyone camping on his property. And while I miss the bonfire where Jay would dress up like Merlin and entertain me with colored flames, I am a bit old for that now. I would want to be the one dressed up as a wizard.

The Garden Party marks the end of summer with music, food, lawn games, and sometimes dancing. It is the sort of afternoon where nobody seems particularly concerned about what time it is because there is always another game to play, another conversation to join, another drink to refill. It goes long into the night and often into the next day for those who choose to stay over. Each year is a different theme ranging from Morocco to China, from France to Mexico and even different decades.

Then comes the Holiday Feast, an amalgamation of Thanksgiving and Christmas. We give thanks for the blessings of the year, eat an enormous meal, sing Christmas carols, and inevitably discover whatever puzzle has been devised for us that year. The puzzles have ranged considerably in ambition. Some years it has been little more than a worksheet. Other years have involved elaborate murder mysteries requiring us to search the house and garden for clues. Apparently, gratitude and Christmas cheer are insufficient entertainment for this particular group. We also require an opportunity to investigate fictional homicide.

There is usually a familiar menu as well. If you attend either St. Patrick’s or Holiday Feast you never need to check the menu, you simply know.

And then there is the house. For most of my childhood, these gatherings took place at my godparents’ home, a house originally built in the 1700s and expanded in the 1800s. It is the sort of house that seems to remember the people who have passed through it.

There is an old wood stove tucked into the hearth room. The cellar contains an Irish “pub” that my godfather quite literally dug out by hand, enlarging the space until there was enough room for our heads. The rough stone walls make you feel as though you have somehow stepped out of Pennsylvania and landed in the old country.

Every room has its own history. Every corner contains a memory. There are whispered ghost stories. There are stories about people who aren’t there anymore. There are objects whose significance I probably wouldn’t understand if I hadn’t spent so many years seeing them in the same places.

I can mark my childhood by these parties. At first, there was the children’s table. Playing with my siblings and my “god-sister”. Eventually, I graduated to the adults’ table. There was the first time I was old enough to drink at one of the parties. I learned crochet. I learned to play bocce ball. I learned how to mix drinks from our resident “expert” bartender. I listened to stories about places I had never been and people I had never met.

These people were my aunts and uncles, even though most of them weren’t related to me at all. One of them eventually became my college professor, which created the rather peculiar situation of having to remind myself not to call her Aunt Val in class. But the others taught me things, too. Not in the formal sense of sitting me down for a lesson, but through years of conversations and arguments. They brought their own adventures with them and regaled us with stories. They introduced me to art, music, philosophy, history, and different ways of understanding the world.

We argued about politics, religion, economics, and just about everything else people are generally advised not to discuss over dinner. And they made me think. Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts these gatherings gave me. They showed me that learning doesn’t only happen in classrooms. Sometimes it happens around a crowded dinner table with people who have lived long enough to have stories to tell and opinions they are more than willing to defend.

As a child, I mostly listened. As I grew older, I began participating. Eventually, I became one of the adults arguing across the table. And somewhere along the way, I stopped being a child who attended these parties and became one of the people who helped carry the traditions forward.

That transition happened so gradually that I don’t think anyone announced it. There was no ceremony. No one said, Congratulations, you are now an adult member of the ritual. I simply found myself there. That may be the strange magic of tradition. The first time you experience something, it is an event. The tenth time, it is familiar. The twentieth time, you know what comes next. And eventually, you don’t even have to discuss it. The parties become almost like a dance. Everyone knows the steps. We know when we eat. We know when the games happen. We know when the drinks come out. We know which songs will be sung and, more importantly, when everyone is expected to join in. Nobody has to announce the choreography. We simply know it. And yet the dance is never quite the same. The people change. The stories change. Someone brings a new dish. Someone learns a new song. A child who once sat at the kids’ table is suddenly old enough to pour drinks. Someone who was always there is now conspicuously absent.

The ritual remains, even as the people within it change. I think that is why traditions matter so much. We often talk about experiences as though their value comes from novelty. We put new places, new activities, and new adventures on our bucket lists because there is something wonderful about doing something for the first time. But there is another kind of magic in doing something for the hundredth time. Traditions give us continuity. They give us something to return to. They create a shared history that stretches beyond any one person and allows memories to accumulate over generations. They remind us that our lives are not isolated events but part of a much longer story.

And perhaps most importantly, they create belonging. These people didn’t become my family because we share a last name or DNA. They became my family because we kept showing up. Year after year. Party after party. Song after song. We cultivated rituals together until they became part of the fabric of our lives. That is something worth putting on a bucket list, too.

Not necessarily a particular holiday or a particular meal. Instead, consider creating something that you can return to. A yearly garden party. A friends’ Thanksgiving. A monthly dinner. An annual camping trip. A ridiculous family competition. A holiday tradition that makes absolutely no sense to anyone outside your groupIt doesn’t have to be elaborate. It simply has to be yours.

Someday, you may look back and realize that you aren’t merely remembering the parties. You’re remembering your childhood. Your friendships. The people who taught you things. The people who watched you grow. The people who became family simply because they kept showing up. And perhaps that is one of the greatest adventures of all. Not discovering somewhere new, but building something worth returning to.

A Million People, One Very Silly Idea

Published on August 16, 2026 by BudgetBliss1 Comment

What Is the Sound of Nearly 8 Billion People Clapping?

What is the sound of nearly 8 billion people clapping? We still don’t actually know!

But for a brief moment on a Sunday, thousands of people around the world stopped what they were doing and clapped. The sound could be heard by the people who were actually there, but that, dear reader, was not the point.

The point was that, for one moment, people around the world, regardless of country, race, religion, ethnicity, economic status, or whatever other category you care to create, came together in a small act of silliness.

So naturally, I set my alarm for 9:55 a.m. Eastern Time to make sure I stopped whatever I was doing, and another alarm for five minutes later so I could clap along with the scattered members of humanity participating with me.

Did I feel any sort of cosmic connection? No. It honestly felt ridiculous and a little pointless. Nothing changed. There wasn’t a loud sonic boom of nearly 8 billion people clapping together. There was no great sense of unity that descended upon the planet. No wars were stopped. No marriages were saved.

It was actually quite quiet sitting in my kitchen, sweaty from gardening, dirt smeared on my pants, my hair in desperate need of washing from sweat and debris.

Just me.

Clapping.

In my kitchen.

So why even do it?

Well, because I’m almost always down to try new things, especially things that seem a bit silly. And there is something rather wonderful about World Clap Day. We’re all different, yet we could all participate in exactly the same ridiculous little act. Nobody had to agree on politics, religion, nationality, or anything else. We didn’t have to accomplish anything. We simply had to clap. Which is, honestly, pretty beautiful. Beautiful enough that 1.7 million people signed up on the website to participate. Now, did 1.7 million people actually clap? Probably not.

I’m certain plenty of people forgot. Others may have signed up with every intention of participating and then found themselves distracted by work, children, errands, or the eternal black hole of the internet. At the same time, there were undoubtedly people who never signed up at all but happened to hear about it and decided to join in. So perhaps it wasn’t thousands but closer to a million people who actually participated. Which sounds like a huge number until you put it into perspective. Even a million people would be only about one in every 8,000 people on Earth.

And somehow I find that both hilarious and impressive. A million people is almost incomprehensibly large. It is also almost nothing compared with humanity as a whole.

So how did this even become a thing?

Apparently, Andrea Bechis, a UK fitness entrepreneur, had a question back in December: essentially, What would happen if everyone on Earth clapped together. Rather than simply wonder about it, he decided to make it a thing. He picked a date and started gathering support. Originally, he hoped people would gather together in town squares and celebrate collectively. The actual execution was considerably more modest.

Basically, sitting in my kitchen sweating from gardening and clapping. I filmed it, but I doubt I’ll post it here.

Still, there is something inspiring about the whole ridiculous endeavour. With enough gumption and a willingness to endure a little ridicule, you can convince a considerable number of people to participate in your wild vision of silliness. And World Clap Day isn’t the only example.

It reminds me of my favourite holiday, Talk Like a Pirate Day, entirely because it is silly. Created in 1995 by two friends as an inside joke, it escaped Australia in 2002 when Dave Barry wrote about it and transformed into a semi-official holiday celebrated each September 19 by those of us with a sense of humour and a willingness to be seen as a bit odd.

It’s now been going for more than 30 years. It may eventually die out, or it may continue. Who knows? In 500 years, there may still be people celebrating it with the same level of gusto that they celebrate Halloween. Although I’m not sure I envy the future month of August being besieged by all things pirate instead of witches and ghosts.

World Clap Day and Talk Like a Pirate Day share something I find rather charming: neither one is necessary.

Nobody needs us to clap together. Nobody needs us to talk like pirates. There is no practical benefit to either activity. There’s no rich cultural heritage or religious event associated with it. It’s just kind of there as pure amusement. And perhaps that’s precisely why they’re worthwhile.

We live in a world that constantly asks us to be productive. Improve ourselves. Accomplish something. Build our careers. Exercise. Make money. Learn something useful. Optimize our lives. Sometimes I think we could stand to do a few things simply because they’re ridiculous.

There is also something about silliness that makes connection easier. When you’re willing to approach other people with humility and a sense of humour about yourself, you open doors that you might otherwise have trouble walking through. You don’t have to take yourself so seriously. You can laugh at your own absurdity and invite other people to laugh with you.

Comedians do this all the time. They point out the ridiculous things we all do and, for a moment, give us permission to laugh at ourselves together.

So was World Clap Day a success?

Possibly.

Will it happen again?

Who knows?

But perhaps those aren’t the questions that matter.

For a few minutes, people scattered across the planet stopped whatever they were doing and participated in the same completely unnecessary, wonderfully ridiculous activity.

There was no great transformation. No cosmic event. No world-changing consequence. Just people clapping and going about their day. And maybe that’s enough. Because not every moment of connection needs to change the world. Sometimes it can simply remind us that we’re all here, together, being ridiculous little humans on the same planet.

And perhaps that’s what makes it Bucket List worthy. Not because I accomplished something extraordinary. Not because I changed the world. Not even because I felt some profound cosmic connection.

I just tried something silly.

And somewhere out there, about a million other people did too.

Which, dear reader, is a pretty good reason to clap

Make Tuesday a Life Worth Coming Home To

Published on August 9, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

It’s a cup of tea in my hand as I look out over the garden, listening to music through my headphones. It’s the feel of warm wood beneath my chin as I play the violin. It’s admiring the neighbors’ gardens and noticing the subtle shifts as the seasons progress on my walks with Pixel. It’s spending Sunday afternoons in my own garden, pulling weeds and watching everything grow. And of course, dear reader, there are long, lazy Saturday mornings filled with cat snuggles.

Small daily or weekly rituals. Almost stolen moments that fill my days with joy.

Life, dear reader, is not always adventures. Sometimes escape consists of a journal entry or a thirty-minute yoga session. Other times, it’s a book and a cup of coffee on your porch. Lately, it has been a morning visit from a cardinal, courtesy of a bird feeder I recently installed outside my bedroom window to entertain my cats.

I have inadvertently taken up birdwatching.

I may or may not be trying to learn his song on my violin.

A girl needs hobbies, dear reader, and in my fast-approaching middle age, I have decided to go full-on eccentric. I shall soon be donning enormous hats and calling people darling. ’Tis a cruel fate, but I plan on embracing it.

Photo by Andrew Patrick Photo on Pexels.com

But underneath all of these little eccentricities is something more important. Each of these habits fulfills a different need.

The violin and poetry fulfill my need to create. When I play music, I lose myself in the notes, sometimes reaching an almost meditative state where the sheet music ceases to be something I consciously process. My fingers simply know where to go. In poetry, I get to play with form, sound, rhythm, and the compression of ideas. I may spend hours contemplating a sonnet, drop a villanelle onto the page in a few minutes, and then follow it with free verse where I experiment with repetition, alliteration, rhyme, and half-rhyme.

On my walks and in my garden, I connect with nature. There is something grounding about putting my hands into the dirt, watching the seasons change, and noticing things that would otherwise pass unnoticed. And of course, there is Pixel, who seems to believe that every walk is an important expedition requiring his immediate participation.

A cup of tea or coffee gives me permission to stop. Sometimes I listen to music. Sometimes I simply sit and think. Sometimes I read or write in my journal. The ritual itself creates a small pause in the day, a moment to breathe before rushing into whatever comes next.

Photo by u0410u043bu0435u043au0441u0435u0439 u0412u0435u0447u0435u0440u0438u043d on Pexels.com

These things may seem insignificant.

They aren’t.

This blog is much more than Bucket List Adventures. It is also about building a Bucket List Life.

A Bucket List Life is not one where you are constantly chasing the next spectacular experience. It is a life where those spectacular experiences are woven into something that already feels meaningful. Travel can be wonderful, but if you need a two-week vacation every year simply to tolerate the other fifty weeks, perhaps the more interesting question is not “Where should I go next?” but “What is missing from the life I come home to?”

One way to begin answering that question is to look at the different areas of your life and consider whether they are receiving enough attention.

Some of you may recognize this concept from Dr. Bill Hettler’s Wellness Wheel, developed in the 1970s as a way of examining different dimensions of wellness. The model considers areas such as physical, social, occupational, intellectual, environmental, spiritual, financial, and emotional wellness. The premise is fairly simple: you can be doing wonderfully in several areas while struggling significantly in others.

Travel might temporarily touch several of those areas. A trip could provide physical activity, social connection, intellectual stimulation, environmental novelty, and emotional rejuvenation all at once. But eventually you come home.

Your luggage gets unpacked.

The vacation photos get posted.

And Monday morning arrives.

The goal, then, isn’t to use travel to fill every empty space in your life. It is to build enough small sources of nourishment into your ordinary routine that you aren’t depending on the next vacation to make you feel alive.

For me, my violin and poetry provide intellectual and emotional stimulation. Tea and coffee, often accompanied by music, reading, or a devotional, give me opportunities for reflection and spiritual connection. Walking and gardening provide physical movement and environmental connection. My cats provide companionship. Friends and family fill another part of the picture entirely.

None of these things fills an entire category by itself. Nor do they need to.

They’re simply little threads woven into the larger fabric of my life.

And that’s an important distinction because wellness should not become another thing we feel obligated to optimize.

You do not need to maximize every category.

You don’t need a perfectly balanced Wellness Wheel.

You need to notice where you feel nourished and where you feel hungry.

Perhaps you look at your own life and realize that you’re getting plenty of intellectual stimulation from your career but almost no physical movement. Maybe your answer isn’t another vacation but a weekly hiking group, a dance class, gardening, yoga, or simply walking around your neighborhood after dinner.

Maybe you spend your entire day surrounded by people and realize that what you’re actually missing is solitude.

Maybe your work is deeply meaningful but you’re financially stressed.

Maybe you’re financially comfortable but have lost touch with creativity.

Maybe your social life is full but you haven’t spent any time alone with your own thoughts in months.

The point isn’t to judge yourself for what is missing. It’s to notice.

Then ask yourself what small, repeatable habit might help.

And make it something you actually want to do.

We don’t need to turn every empty space into a self-improvement project. If you’re deficient in intellectual stimulation, perhaps you don’t need to take an online course. Maybe you want to learn about birds. Maybe you want to read about astrophysics. Maybe you want to learn German, pick up a violin, study medieval history, or finally understand how that strange machine in the kitchen actually works. I’m currently studying the Drottkvaett form from Old Norse Court Poetry and seeing if I can’t apply it to modern English. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, but so much fun!

If you’re lacking physical movement, you don’t necessarily need to join a gym. Maybe you want to garden. Maybe you want to walk around your neighborhood and admire everyone’s flowers. Maybe you want to take up dancing or sword fighting!

The best habit is often the one you will actually keep because it brings you some measure of joy.

That, ultimately, is what I mean by building a Bucket List Life.

Keep the adventures.

Absolutely take the trip to Italy. Go see the concert. Try glassblowing. Wander through the strange old arcade. Eat the deep-dish pizza in Chicago when your flight gets delayed.

Put extraordinary things on your list.

But don’t save all of your living for those moments.

Build a life that contains little adventures on an ordinary Tuesday. Find things you look forward to on Sunday morning. Give yourself reasons to put down your phone, step outside, make something, learn something, call someone you love, or simply sit quietly with a cup of tea.

Because eventually, every bucket-list trip ends.

The airplane brings you home. The suitcase gets put away. The souvenirs find their places on the shelf.

And then there is Tuesday.

Make Tuesday a life worth coming home to.

One Big Inside Joke: An Evening with Weird Al in Hershey, Pennsylvania

Published on August 2, 2026August 2, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

The entire stadium buzzed with barely contained energy that only seemed to grow with each passing moment, like an electric current caught in a positive feedback loop. On the giant screen, a figure danced and sang through the backstage corridors, weaving ever closer to the arena. At first everyone’s attention remained fixed on the video. Then, almost imperceptibly, a ripple spread through the crowd as people realized they had been looking in the wrong direction. Heads began to turn one by one until the entire stadium pivoted toward the aisle behind us.

Then he appeared.

The stadium erupted.

Cheers crashed over us like a tidal wave. People leapt to their feet, phones shot into the air, and for a few glorious moments it was impossible to hear anything except the roar of thousands of delighted fans. It just so happened that I was sitting directly beside the path he took to the stage. I really must remember to thank my sister’s father-in-law for buying those tickets. They may not have been the best seats in the house for watching the entire concert, but they were certainly among the best seats in the house for one unforgettable entrance.

Of course, before Weird Al took the stage, we were introduced to his opening act, Puddles Pity Party. Now, dear reader, if someone had told me beforehand that I would thoroughly enjoy watching a giant sad clown sing power ballads, I would have questioned their sanity. Yet there he stood: towering over the stage, face painted in permanent sorrow, speaking scarcely a word while delivering one astonishing vocal performance after another. The juxtaposition was equal parts hilarious and impressive. Somewhere beneath the oversized clown costume was a voice worthy of Broadway. It was the perfect opening for a Weird Al concert because it left the audience delightfully confused, thoroughly entertained, and wondering what wonderfully bizarre thing could possibly happen next.

As the evening unfolded, I was delighted by the familiar songs I have come to love over the years. I could not help but dance along from my seat, much to the amusement of my sister beside me. Between songs came the signature humor I have come to expect from none other than Weird Al, who is truly a national treasure.

I am certain, dear reader, that he needs little introduction. For over four decades he has somehow managed the impossible: parodying popular culture with biting wit while never feeling mean-spirited. His songs gently poke fun at our favorite artists, our culture, and ourselves, all while celebrating the very music they imitate. If by some extraordinary chance you have never experienced his work, then by all means pause here for a few minutes, or perhaps a few hours, and explore his library on YouTube, Spotify, or whichever musical service you happen to use. I’ll happily wait.

After his grand entrance, he quickly pivoted to Polkamania! Announced by an accordion descended majestically from the ceiling as though it were some sacred relic delivered from the heavens. Before a single note had been played the audience exploded into cheers. I challenge you to find another performer capable of making thousands of people wildly enthusiastic over the arrival of an accordion. Only Weird Al could transform an instrument often associated with polka festivals into the undisputed rock star of the evening.

The performance itself was every bit as delightfully absurd as one would hope. Costume changes happened at an almost impossible pace. During the compilation numbers it seemed jackets, wigs, and entire outfits vanished and reappeared between verses so quickly that I found myself wondering whether there was some hidden portal backstage devoted entirely to quick changes. It was choreography in its own right.

The comedy never stopped. At one point Weird Al paused, looked thoughtfully at the audience, and confessed that he felt as though we were all waiting for something that we had a sort of weird energy he could sense and only one thing would satisfy us:

“A drum solo.”

The drummer dutifully struck the drums perhaps twice.

The crowd responded with thunderous applause as though we had just witnessed the greatest drum solo in rock history. You would have thought John Bonham himself had returned to perform Fool in the Rain. That, perhaps, was the joke’s greatest strength. Every single person in the arena understood exactly what was happening and committed wholeheartedly to the bit.

Of course, the crowning jewel of the evening for me was Amish Paradise.

Living in Lancaster County gives one a rather unique appreciation for that particular song. Much of the music video was filmed less than an hour from where I live, and here we were in Hershey, practically in the shadow of Amish Country itself, singing along with thousands of fans. It was the first Weird Al song that I ever heard, the first rap song I ever liked and I am not ashamed to admit I know every word. It felt oddly fitting, almost as though the song had come home.

I will readily admit, dear reader, that I am not usually one for concerts. First, there is the crowd. Simply reaching your seat involves weaving through a maze of people carrying trays piled high with pretzels and bags of popcorn, balancing oversized drinks, or standing uncertainly in the aisle while trying to decipher the seat numbers. Then there are the inevitable lines for merchandise, food, and the restroom. Add in the ever-present smell of buttery popcorn, soft pretzels, spilled drink, and several thousand warm bodies packed together like sardines, and I have generally concluded that my headphones provide a far more civilized musical experience.

Not to mention the audience often has the audacity to sing along. I realize this is considered one of the principal attractions of concerts, but listening to my favorite songs accompanied by hundreds of enthusiastic yet spectacularly off-key strangers has never struck me as a compelling selling point. Throw in questionable acoustics and modern ticket prices, and I have often wondered whether many people attend concerts simply to say they were there.

Yet somewhere around the third or fourth song, I began to see why people do.

There is something remarkable about standing among thousands of complete strangers who all understand the same references, laugh at the same jokes, and erupt into applause because an accordion has descended from the ceiling. Before the show you chat with the people beside you in line. During the performance you exchange knowing glances at jokes only fellow fans could appreciate. For one evening, you become part of a wonderfully peculiar little community brought together by a shared affection for one delightfully eccentric musician.

The excitement becomes contagious. Energy flows from the audience to the stage and back again in an endless feedback loop. I found myself shouting lyrics to songs that would not even make my personal top ten simply because everyone around me was having such an incredible time. Somewhere along the way I stopped observing the concert and became part of it.

It was certainly a different experience from seeing Joshua Bell last fall, where the audience sat in near reverent silence between movements, hanging on every note. Nor was it quite like attending Flogging Molly years ago, where the energy was louder, rougher, and far more chaotic. Each concert possessed its own distinct atmosphere.

But Weird Al’s felt less like attending a performance and more like being invited to the world’s largest inside joke. For one evening, thousands of strangers gathered not merely to listen to music, but to laugh together, sing together, and celebrate an artist who has spent his entire career reminding us that perhaps we should all take ourselves just a little less seriously.

So remember dear reader, to be a little bit bigger and little bit weirder.

How might you find a little weirdness in your own life or at least some music?

You don’t have to be a devoted music fan to appreciate the experience of a live performance. In fact, I would argue that’s precisely the point. Bucket lists aren’t always about checking off your favorite activities; sometimes they’re about discovering something you never expected to enjoy. Whether it’s a local orchestra, a bluegrass festival, an outdoor Shakespeare production, a tribute band in the park, or your favorite artist on tour, give yourself permission to step into someone else’s world for an evening. You may leave with more than a few songs stuck in your head—you may discover a community you never knew you belonged to.

Letting the World Spin Without You: JOMO

Published on July 19, 2026 by BudgetBlissLeave a comment

Dear reader, I think I have made it quite clear over the years that I am, for a myriad of reasons, simply not a sports person. I don’t typically watch or participate in many sports, nor do I have any particular inclination to change that. I have nothing against them, of course. Why should I advocate for depriving someone else of an activity that brings them joy?

Yet over the past few weeks I found myself, quite unexpectedly, drawn into the orbit of soccer—or football, as nearly everyone outside the United States insists on calling it. (I’m beginning to suspect America simply enjoys being contrarian.)

The World Cup had arrived, and suddenly it seemed to be everywhere. Friends hosted watch parties. Restaurants filled with cheering fans. Social media overflowed with celebrations, dramatic finishes, and clips of supporters singing in unison. Perhaps it was because the tournament was being played on home soil, but even people I had never known to care much about soccer suddenly had passionate opinions about offsides, penalty kicks, and championship predictions.

Watching all of this unfold, I experienced something surprisingly familiar.

The fear of missing out.

It wasn’t that I had suddenly developed a deep appreciation for the sport. I hadn’t. It was the feeling that everyone else was participating in a shared cultural moment while I stood quietly on the outside looking in.

Perhaps I should learn the rules.

Maybe I ought to watch a few matches.

Should I start reading about the teams so I can contribute to the conversation?

If you’ve ever felt that little tug, you know exactly what I’m talking about. FOMO has very little to do with the activity itself. More often, it stems from our deeply human desire to belong. We see everyone around us enjoying something together, and we begin to wonder whether we should be enjoying it too.

But somewhere along the way, I realized something.

I didn’t actually want to watch soccer.

What I wanted was the feeling of being included.

Those are not the same thing.

There is something wonderfully liberating about recognizing the difference.

Photo by Ali Karimiboroujeni on Pexels.com

In recent years people have begun talking about JOMO—the Joy of Missing Out. Rather than anxiously trying to participate in every trend, every event, every conversation, JOMO invites us to make peace with the opportunities we choose not to pursue.

Not everything has to become our hobby.

Not every cultural phenomenon needs our attention.

Not every invitation must be accepted.

Every “yes” we give something is also a “no” to something else. Our time and attention are finite, and spending them intentionally is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.

For me, that meant happily scrolling past match highlights while smiling at the unmistakable enthusiasm of Dutch fans dancing in brilliant seas of orange. Their joy was contagious, even if their pastime wasn’t. I could appreciate their excitement without feeling compelled to make it my own.

Perhaps that is the real lesson.

We do not need to borrow someone else’s passions in order to live a meaningful life. We simply need to cultivate our own.

So the next time the entire world seems to be rushing toward the newest trend, the latest series, the biggest sporting event, or whatever everyone insists you simply must experience, remember this:

It is perfectly acceptable to let other people have their joy while you quietly pursue your own.

Sometimes the greatest peace comes not from doing more, but from realizing there was never any need to join the crowd in the first place.