Waking Wanders

 Have you ever been awakened by the songs of Sand Hill cranes on a cold February morning and watched the sun climb rung by rung to the sky? Today was such a morning. It was 630AM, not my usual rising time, but my inner 4 year old was very curious about the racket and when I removed the blind from the van’s window, the intricate lace of frost welcomed both me and Kobi, my cat. 
 

We had arrived late last night to a boondocking spot recommended by our app and as per usual, as with our frequent, late arrival, had no idea what to anticipate when sunrise came flooding. It’s peaceful here among other van-lifers scattered around the lagoon in Willcox, AZ. This is the reason I love my life. I never know what I will encounter, whom I will meet, what I may experience. Rachel and I have been debating whether these memories and experiences can be created while living in a house. I believe that only a fraction of it may be possible. 

There’s no planning for the richness of the road. In our sticks n’ bricks, I may be able to plan to go fishing in a couple of weeks with my friend, if she can take off from work or chores, and then there’s the hour drive. On the road my view is new each morning. I am engulfed by it, it’s not just a peephole through a window. I walk out to forage, hunt, gather, climb or row. There’s no calendar, there’s engagement right outside the sliding door.

On the road, I have learned to fish for razorblade clams, brought back bagfuls of boletes, practiced hitting bullseyes with my friend’s slingshot, rode various electric bikes like a 16 year old boy on a wild mustang, actually rode a beautiful horse before shooting clay pigeons, kayaked the Colorado river while watching wild horses and burros on its banks, sat in hot springs surrounded by mountain sheep and wild sunflowers, met artists and marveled at their murals, climbed trees, boulders and mountains and descended into vast valleys and dry beds, emerged from slot canyons and turned purple with wild berry juice on my fingers. This is only a partial list. These are just the physical encounters that made me realize how strong, capable and happy I feel, like I did as an unabashed 4 year old in the woods in Israel.

Then there are the emotional arenas that unfold: being offered kindness and generosity from strangers, listening to new to me folks inviting me into their hearts and homes, experiencing different cultures like the  Republican, Mormom Cattle Ranchers who hugged, kissed and welcomed us, their new same-sex couple friends or the desert-dwelling, Nomadic lesbians who offered coal filled pie-pans from their fire to put under our travel chairs, so our butts would warm. I don’t have access to these when I sit in my house.

And then there’s God, the benevolent, magnificent, unparalleled Universe, the artist, the transformer, the awe-inspiring Creator that blows my mind, expands my heart and lungs, makes me weep and howl when I am so touched by its beauty and decay, its diversity and complexity, its hues both muted and vibrant, by its heft and lightness- this is my house of worship, this is where I feel grounded and connected, this is where I want to learn and create, this is where I am a particle, a minuscule grain, no more or less important than all the other atoms surrounding me and I’m grateful.

This is my home. My only trepidation, common to those who have lost their homes, can it last? Can goodness really come and stay? Will my resources suffice? Will my stationary friends understand my desires? Will they stay in my life? Will they join? As the cranes land in much cacophony and swirls, their legs outstretched towards the reclaimed water, I see that beauty is temporary and everlasting. Rest is a cycle of life before take off and return is inevitable.

Purpose-full

 

Across a sea of Cholla, the fuzzy, teddy-bear looking cactus that will bite you in the ass just for looking at it, a hummingbird lands. This is the Sonoran desert, home to coyotes, quail and bobcats and more recently, to our Nomadic friends, who bought this patch. It may be a bit unusual for nomads to buy land, but not if it’s for benevolent use, like creating a space for women to come and build out their vehicles. There’s power in sharing the abundance of the land, knowledge and know-how of this tribe and their power tools. Skill sharing among women to create livable, mobile domiciles, how can we not come and contribute?

The sun is wrapping the dancing, comical Saguaros with its last rays. I am keenly aware of the phase of the moon and reassured every night by the return of the swirling stars. I notice that I am often trying to convey what’s it like to live in the natural, physical world of outside. My language may not be sufficient. Maybe nomads speak differently altogether. Maybe it’s like a Hong Kong mouse trying to speak with an Arcadian barn mouse: one doesn’t know the sound of scurrying on concrete, the other doesn’t know the scent of hay. Maybe that’s my trepidation, that like other nomads, my language with the sticks n’ bricks folk will diminish, dissipate, disappear.  Then again, maybe I could switch between speaking city and country…

Out here in the vastness and being a part of the baby boomer collective, I often think to myself what’s my purpose, how can I be useful, what does the Universe want me to do? Is it to inspire others to dream and live big but consume little? Is it to fall in love with this planet and fight passionately for its/our survival? Is it to learn about the many cultures, tribes, ways of being in order to connect with others, consider our/US impact on others while perhaps having others impact our own ways of life?

It seems there’s an insatiable drive and desire to explore, to see, to engage and not just in the US, but abroad as well. I’m starting the process of getting German citizenship, the one that was revoked from my Jewish-German grandparents in the 1930’s is now available to their descendants. This would allow me to live in any EU country, like France or Spain, and learn those languages, so that I may learn to trust and communicate and realize that not everyone is anti-Semitic and educate those descendants of the Inquisition that we really are in this together or simply share a meal as we tear down any “otherness” that separates us.

As John Lennon said: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us. And the world will live as one.” 

I am curious, what would you like to read? Musings from the mists? RV ramblings from the road? How do 2 women and 2 cats share a 21 foot van and survive to tell the tale? How to use your own resources and retire sooner? How to have courage to dream outside the expectations, obligations and capitalist confines? Tell me, would ya?