Should I stay or should I go now?

We're baaaack! Oh wait, we're leaaaving! First, let me apologize for not writing while we were away. It was a combination of things: technology that would not allow us to pair our images with the blog and, the bigger issue, I wanted to try living daily in the 'I want to" not the "I should." Although that was new territory and a new way of being for my very structured, high functioning and productive life, I regret not sharing the road, verbally, with you. I decided that on the upcoming trip, I do want to write because I love writing, because it helps to remember what happened and it keeps us more connected. Deal? 

We returned from our epic 7 months US road trip in the beginning of November and immediately went into the world of Adultism, capitalism , busyness and to do lists that grew exponentially. Man, it was a fast and ruthless re-entry.

How did that happen?

On the road, I welcomed the daily not knowing where we were going, what we'd see, who we'd meet or where we'd sleep. I was rarely bored or lonely. We just had to open the RV's doors and we'd be in breath-taking nature, meet new people who wanted to see our van and learn about our life, and  encountered folks who ogled about Kobi, our globe trotting, leash wearing cat. People invited us to stay with them, fed us and it was easy to make friends during these honeymoon-like encounters. At home, we saw all the projects that needed attention: the yard, the car, the stove, the yearly registration, the refi, the taxes and so on. It's not that there weren't some things that had to be attended to on the road, but in an 8x21 ft home, there's just less stuff that breaks or that you  "need." 

At home, I started feeling lonely. We're still in a pandemic, so interactions are limited. In my house, I felt, at times, that I am in a beautiful cage. I was no longer living in the sunsets, fishing in the river, gathering my mushrooms. It's not that those things were not possible but between the "have tos", the effort to go somewhere in order to see or do any of these and the inclement weather, well, it's not even remotely close to what we had. Also, people in houses have jobs, a life and they aren't coming over from 20 feet away to go clamming or hike or cook together. They will come next Thursday at 6pm. Not the same.

The other interesting thing were family and friends' feelings about our travels. Many thought that it was good that we'd had that one epic adventure but assumed we were done, that it was a once in a lifetime trip, that now we were ready to return to work and join the rest of the responsible grown ups. Most didn't even ask about our trip except for "how was it?" Or what was the one place you loved the most? No one asked to see photos of the most beautiful, diverse, jaw dropping places and adventures we'd had. I think that we had internalized some of these expectations and felt a little ashamed or embarrassed to tell that we were choosing to live very simply and see if we could retire right now. We are unsure if we could live on a very small budget, but we'd like to try. It's harder at home. It's so easy to press a button on Amazon and buy, buy buy. There's no place for stuff in the RV, so we realized how much we could do without while on the road. We were never the kind of gals who needed new clothes, make up, new cars or phones, and we weren't afraid to rent out our fully furnished house to strangers. Why not                                                                    have others pay our mortgage and travel expenses?

At home, I started realizing how much I loved being on the road: learning how to fix the RV, build stuff, use my body climbing and going through slot canyons, foraging for food and chasing murals in towns like Marfa, TX; Sitting in a free hot spring while watching Dall sheep and getting to know folks whom I wouldn't have met unless I lived the Van life. Plus visiting friends in different states to which I would probably never would have flown was a huge bonus. I loved just being present. 

 

The hardest thing about wanting to go on the road again is learning to deal with the disappointments from people who thought we would stay home for good. I had no idea when we starting traveling that I would have two seemingly opposing needs: the need for community and roots and the deep need to travel in the
RV. How do I combine these to create a life that nurtures both? Who would be willing to stick around with this kind of a relationship? Could we travel for 3 months, stay home for 3 months and repeat? Would they feel that they could count on us to help if they needed, even if we weren't there physically? Would they just give up on us being close? Is the price if we                                                                                        go too high? Is the price if we stay higher? 

Then there is purpose. We are people who want to contribute while we're on this planet. How can we do that from the road? Should we stop along the way to help at farms, communities, by writing inspiring blogs about following your dreams, how to create the life you want, how to conquer your fears, how to live fully? Is that enough while there's a global climate crisis, while racism and capitalism has us all in ugly clutches? Do we dare to live as if this is our last day? Do we consciously practice being grateful ( I am so much more appreciative of showers, that's for sure!)

We're leaving at the end of this month, heading to celebrate the New Year with other Van-life loving GLBTQ folx in Florida. Then, we will be heading to Arizona for a meet-up of Nomadic lesbians in the desert where the sky and stars extend forever and the fire illuminates storytellers in the night. That's where in January of 2020, we learned how to poop and pee while conserving precious water. If you can't physically join us, would you like me to tell you the story as it unfolds?

Wanderings in the Heart of Winter

Pandemonium pandemic. Some say it has been a wild ride. Some dropped, rolled and took cover. I went into winter, dormant, covered in the chill of my old, familiar terror. Sometimes I got confused. I believed opinions rather than what I knew is the truth about myself. I doubted. I halted, stuck in the mud that was slung and clung. BC, before Covid, I knew myself to be a self-starter, a visionary, a person who set my own goals and then acts. I was surprised, actually, was appalled, at my nascent lack of motivation, focus, structure and inability to get unstuck. I am an athlete who could no longer go out for a mere walk; A writer with such sudden, situational attention deficit, I couldn't even read a book, not to mention, write a sentence. What was this baffling place, the winter of the soul? How did I stay in it for as long as was needed and then poked my crocus head out?

We arrived almost a year ago in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, our new, albeit premature home, according to our timeline anyway. If you have followed this blog, you know that we left California intent on a year long, van-life adventure. However, an ark-worthy flood seeped into our North Carolina's basement and a friend was in Durham's hospital on the brink of the other side, so we hightailed it from Texas to the South and then the Universe sealed our plans. 

As our sick friend circumvented the six horseman and water levels receded and were pushed back to the tune of $20K, life in this new chapter looked promising. Spring came early in technicolor. I had forgotten about the transformation from winter's biting teeth to spring's luscious lips. Rabbits and Robbins, Cardinals and camellias ensconced with Morel mushrooms and Magnolias teased us into engagement with a flirty, unabashed, drawling Southern Spring. An unresistant  romantic, I was hooked.

As the pandemic and Trump's meshuganah antics set in, dread and uncertainty chipped at our newly found relations and began to erect a similar wall to the one being built at the border, this one guarding our bodies and home, a measure to keep death and sickness at the door, hoping that God will Passover our bunker. Maybe it was a survival mechanism, but the separation of this Jew from people felt unbearable at times, generationally familiar, infuriating, devastating, yet I minimized this impact. After all, I had my wife and son, whom we yanked from his year of study abroad, just in time before the borders sealed. I went grocery shopping and no bombs were dropping. This wasn't really a war, right?  So I sat, in my nice bunker, waiting for the bells to ring signaling we are safe. I waited and watched endless TV during the return of its Golden Age. I zoomed and what's app'ed and had more contact than ever with my friends and family in Israel, but not so much with folks in California. I watched with horror, as daily atrocities against the black community were finally being exposed and held my breath as the rising tide of what I had hoped, was an emergence of sustained change. I was afraid to march because of Covid. I was trying to protect two immune-compromised friends whom we had wanted to stay in our innermost circle. But the lack of physical connection, the sense of deep isolation, the longing to feed and be fed, had reduced me to an obstinate mass occupying space and not much more.

Living with two humans and feeling a loss of control, having less bodily contact during a crisis was very restimulating. Is there any wonder that I felt my power, my autonomy wane? Is there any wonder that I rebelled against the only two beings by my side. Oh, this felt familiar and familial. At times I knew this was reminiscent of way earlier times; at others, I was furious at the present. I had forgotten that I could change only one thing on this planet. I thought the power to change myself had been relinquished forever.

Luckily, I attended a workshop on women's liberation and male domination and finally decided that I had had enough of this useless pattern of victim-hood, inertia, false beliefs and dissatisfaction. I had enough clarity after boo-hoo-hooing for a bit, to remember that I thrive in structure. I decided to fight for myself, instead of only fighting others.

 

11PM became my bedtime and at 630AM, I cock-a-doodle-doo! I layered my stairs to well-being: coffee and concentrated reading, breakfast before a walk in the park, writing and then Spanish lessons all before 9AM. Then a daily co-counseling session to set my heart on the liberation of my life and rid my addled brain of less than helpful recordings. And life is going better. The balm of nature grounds my feet, connects me to the trees, opens my creativity, calms my synapses. 

As I traveled today, through the quiet, quivering maples, oaks and magnolias, I thought about my father. His birthday is upcoming. My sister informed me that he had fractured his foot and knee and may have torn a tendon. I have no physical relationship with my father. His childhood wounds, his addictions and his lack of tools left him stunted in toxicity and I have chosen to stay away from the oozing pus and poison. 

It is not a decision I make lightly. My inner young one still wishes for a father who would choose to love and accept his offspring; One who had wanted a girl and thought she was nothing less than perfect; Someone who loved fiercely with boundaries; Someone safe and protective and strong. Someone else. 

My adult has compassion for his young life. The hurts that sit on him no fault of his own, nor his parents'. Sometimes I still need to remember not to jump over my own heartache and break because I, too, deserve compassion. So I look for the trees to hold me, the leaves to soften my journey, the birds to replace the shouting, the wind to lift me and the sun to remind me to shine. I work to replace each brick in my walls with fresh, agile, flexible roots.  When I walk through the forest, I remember that I am a part of this intricate, symbiotic system where mushrooms rely on trees for nourishment and on each other via a vast, unseen, underground network, a teeming tribe resonating with resources to keep us all vibrant and alive. If you'd like to join me, hold me hand. I'll take you with me.