Cracking the Exterior

   

 

We are following a grain train into the West, a boho-colored sunset, ribbons of orange, pink and purple flutter before us, enticing. It’s 55 degrees at 5PM on the way from Las Cruces, NM, to Willcox, AZ, a familiar boondocking spot, where we first encountered forty thousand raucous, dancing Sandhill cranes. When we woke this morning, we thought we’d go for a hike on Elephant Butte and then soak in  a nearby hot spring. The Universe had other plans.

We had landed the night before at Prehistoric Trackways National Monument in New Mexico. We slept with coyotes and rattlesnakes as our neighbors. In the morning, Kobi, our infamous traveling cat, sang his usual opera, begging dramatically to be let out. It had been 26 degrees during the wee hours and I was reluctant to leave our cozy bed. Kobi always wins, eventually. I donned my hat, gloves and winter coat, put on his vest and leash, yes, he walks on a leash, and out we went. After a few minutes an enormous, black and white spotted Great Dane appeared around the corner. Kobi nearly had a heart attack and flew back into the RV. I gazed at the Great Dane, whose name I later found out was Hela, after the Nordic Goddess, and at her parents and her furry, short, black brother.

I initially saw their car when we had parked the previous night and had wondered where they slept. They peaked my curiosity. The guy had neck and face tattoos, an enormous, sheathed knife, a red bandanna and an army coat with a Military Police patch. The young woman with him was also tattooed, had ripped jeans with sunflowers all over, a rainbow belt, Pokemon strap around her neck that held a slew of keys and a plethora of colors in her hair. I asked them where they were from and they said here and everywhere. Johnny had a great, friendly smile, a deep baritone, raspy voice and a pipe. Yes, he sang. He looked like a country Western star. I liked him immediately and was drawn in horror and curiosity to what I thought was a tattoo on his finger of the SS symbol. I was so thrown by the contradiction, but felt I needed to know more before delving into all that.

I learned that Johnny had bean beaten for being a "Nazi Kraut" and a Mexican. He was German and a Mexican, his grandfather had been in the SS officer, his dad part of the Hitler youth. He was wearing his ring which was engraved with a skull, the words Himmler and Wolff (Hitler's nickname) and a swastika. The date October 19, 1933 or 1939 was engraved on the inside. Johnny was a Buddhist who served in the Iraq war.

He left home at age 11 after being raped by his Southern Baptist Pastor. His parents were alcoholics. His dad broke young Johnny's nose several times. Johnny was selling his guns from the trunk of their car in order to have some money. I told him about myself, an Israeli Jew with a German Grandmother who converted  to Judaism, oh yes, and here is my wife, Rachel. He was so happy to meet us. He congratulated us on our recent nuptials. 

Huh?

I had to photograph him in all of his complicated contradictions. Hearing about his current homeless state, I wanted to give him whatever he needed. He was so grateful. We got to hear about his 25 year old girlfriend, Charley. Johnny was 44. They had escaped their brutal respective families in Georgia and were living in a tent.She had been raped by her mother’s boyfriends since she was 3 years old. She couldn’t have children. Charley’s family told the police that Johnny had kidnapped her. She was driving her own car. She said they only had each other in the world. Yes, she was with him by her own volition. Nonetheless, they had been stopped by the police often. 

We gave them some tangerines, goat’s milk, bananas, avocados, tuna cans and made them grilled cheese sandwiches. We gave them some money. We would have given them anything they would have wanted.
When I meet people who survived violence and abuse, I just want to give them respite, love and show them that not all humans are assholes.  They gave us a mounted Jackalope head. We hung Jackie in Ruby, our RV. I feel like I took a step towards red-neckery. Or towards my father who was a taxidermist.

They introduced us to Jimmy, a veteran who lives around the corner on the hill. He had a beat up truck, PTSD, was a recovering alcoholic who had tried to hang himself because his platoon brother got killed when Johnny stepped on a double landmine and his brother/friend/soldier pushed him off and sacrificed himself. Yikes. Johnny was trying to forgive himself for what he believed was his fault: his brother’s death. He was the Godfather of the guy’s daughter. Johnny felt  he didn’t deserve to see her. He didn’t deserve anything good. 

He sharpened our knives. They needed that badly.  He wasn’t hungry so we couldn't feed him. He created 2 wire heart pendants for us. He cried when we hugged him and gave him some money, made him a cup of coffee and offered a banana. 

We learned  from Jimmy that eating Kangaroo rats tasted like coal because you can’t get rid of their hair except by burning the crap out of them, but they provide protein. Rattlesnakes are good but currently it’s too cold outside so they aren’t around. Too cold for snakes, yet our new friends slept outside. No heaters. My privilege crimsoned my face. Jimmy advised us not to eat the rabbits because they have wolf disease. You will see scabs if you skin them, he added. There’s always cacti to eat. If you are going to sleep outdoors in that area, dig down 18 inches. Don’t build a shelter. It’s warmer below.

I asked why he wasn’t teaching survival skills. He answered that the county required that you had teach the first class on safety. It had to be indoors. You needed money to make money. That’s the way to keep the middle class scared and productive. Make sure you have a poor and working class in place.

I asked J, J and C if they can explain why the local Walmart sells hog heads. We had seen huge crates full of them. They said that people use the meat for tamales. I wonder if all the white shoppers at Trader Joe’s know what part of the pork in tamales comes from.

We told them about the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous and Home on Wheels Alliance, the organization that helps folks thrive in their vehicles. We invited them to join us at the big gathering in Quartzsite, AZ later in January. We exchanged info and hope to see them in the near future. I realized when you don’t have food, you probably don’t have the gas money to drive 16 hours. Charley’s work at Dunkin' Donuts and Johnny’s military pension didn’t allow for housing, food, gas and a phone. 

Three new friends, three brutal lives. This is what can happen when you live in a tin can. I just had to learn how to quiet my mind at night as it was processing the Mexican Nazi whom I called brother and hugged close, holding his swastika-ed hand.

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?

Father, where art thou?

The lack of internet reception will be the bane of me. I haven't forgotten you, but we are challenged by the lack of technology that we have. I have not been able to write, even offline on my chromebook, so I believe it's time to invest in an extender and maybe a laptop that isn't from before 2000... Anyway, I'll write and eventually, when I can, I will add the photos. 

Don't worry, I got you. You got me. 

We are outside Palm springs, CA in yet another desert. This one, a city of RVs clawing a gusty, rutted terrain, gazes at snow capped mountains. I have to tell you...I don't know how this happens, but there is a direct link between nature and an insistent, direct communication with the Divine. No wonder Moses got the 10 commandments in a place like this.  I've seen a burning bush, a cactus, to be exact, burning with the sun's rays, glowing from within, from the abyss of a slot canyon that brought me to my knees with its awesome beauty and sheer massiveness. 

Sitting in one of the holes in a cliff, made by erosion, water and wind, aka, God, meditating, like Buddha, feeling momentarily at peace. Maybe the news of my father, from whom I've been alienated, having Covid and my son, who has chosen to cut all contact with me, has brought a slight opening, like a slot canyon in my heart.                      

Do I want to be right or do I want connection through love and peace? 

I am in the middle, a pin prick in the Universe, yet the chasm between me and these men is so deep, so profound.  I had chosen this separation, this distance, this uprooting between my father and me. Years of complicated, toxic masculinity and rejection, downright abuse and my inability to move beyond these in a different direction, landed me in that decision. Stepping into California a second time within a year, feeling my son's presence on this land and his absence as well, created a link of feeling in the middle of rejection and longing towards both him and my father.

A tug of war pulling at my heart strings, yearning for these men, 

these children really. 

I think my own commandments have been given in this vastness, pulling my insides to expand, 

to accept all of this landscape, its beauty and ugliness, 

its breathtaking valleys and mountains, ups and downs, 

wonders and heartbreaking trash, fracked and lusciousness. 

 I've seen green shoots spring after an annihilating fire. I've seen fish corpses floating on a now warm, algae-filled lake downsized by 200 feet due to climate change. I am trying to learn how to hold these extreme climate changes in my heart, the fractured and the healing despite of it all.

God's Playground

It's hard to be in the middle of arid, vast Texas and not think of God. Did that just come out of my fingers? I had a moment of God, Country (except, land) and Family. Sitting in the middle of a BLM (Bureau of Land Management) site, I see the light tickling the Guadeloupe Mountaintops to the South; the sky, a Robin's egg blue, hung with swatches of gray, purple, white and pink clouds. I am enveloped by brush teeming with birds, National Geographic TV for our kitty, Kobi. I feel calm, the scratchy texture of the bushes, the golden, parched grasses, the miniature sage, the quietude, seep into my nerves,  elixirs to the madness of my mind. There is a smallness, an insignificance, that I relish here.

I am a tiny particle in this awesome terrain. That puts things in perspective. This is where I feel God reigns; this is where I feel grounded to a solid earth beneath me. It's not glamorous nor breath-taking. It is breath giving, which is the biggest oxymoron considering we are smack dab in the center of oil fields. On our drive here, I saw lit torches, hundreds of feet high, dotting the ever-working landscape. Unlike Louisiana, I didn't see many relentless oil pumps churning, digging, so I wondered if there are pipes interlacing underground, like communicating mushroom colonies, only malevolent to the planet. 

The inescapable truth of van-life is that I am faced head-on, feet first, engaging with the world, the land and the earth, daily. It's harder to live in the world of electronics and isolation when you step outside, which I do, everyday, unlike in my sticks n' bricks. We stopped at Enchanted Rock state park right before sunset. We'd been driving for days. All of us needed some dirt on our boots and sun on our faces. It was the unleashing of three year olds in a sandbox, a herd of mustangs on the Savannah. 

Kobi, Rachel and I hopped, skipped, climbed rock formations, our nostrils to the wind, breathing, breathing, breathing. I remembered the existence of my body, its abilities, playfulness and silliness, abandon and yearning. I so wanted to capture this freedom, ball it up and send to you. 

There are amazing, connected life-affirming experiences while on the road and there is also heartache, frustration, loneliness and disappointment. Things break in the van, often. We have fixed and replaced or are in the process of doing so to all these: Bathroom sink, radio, fridge, generator. We've not had hot water or heat at times. Our awning tore off near Arches National Park when a sudden, strong gust of wind decided to cause some upheaval. These could be experienced as small annoyances or the chance to learn how to use power tools and feel competent.  

As stunning as this country is, it is soooo trashed. I am not sure if it's apathy, disconnection, the lack of trash pick up or availability to dispose of things properly or a lack of workforce to pick up trash. But it is rather disheartening.  What can we do? The task seems massive. It's easy to give up, to feel that one is so small and insignificant. How can I make any difference when Walmart triple bags an apple? 

Maybe apart of my journey is to be so invested in nature that against all odds, I would feel that I have to do something, no matter how minute it feels. After all, it hasn't been the work of corporations that have shifted civilizations to the better. It has been folks, individuals who encouraged, inflamed others to get behind a cause and then change happened. 

I'm just trying to wake up, stay awake and keep my heart beating long enough to do something, anything.

Maybe a part of this writing and showing you what we see is to have you care, engage, join in this journey where we aren't limited by shoulds and have-to's, where we push beyond what's expected, the formulaic, the boxes, the designs that made us feel like we can't dream big, can't step out, made us fear financial insecurity, fed us untruths about consumption and insisted we sleep in various ways in order to escape. 

Last night, we boondocked (dry camping without hookups) outside of Las Cruces at Prehistoric Trackways National Monument. There is a dog training outfit to the left handing out dog treats, a smattering of RVs encircles and beyond, monochromatic mountains overlook a valley dotted with shivering trees. It's cold and beautiful. It's unabashedly the West, expansive, arid, unforgiving for the unprepared. Today's menu: City of Rocks State Park, Chiricahua National Monument then Tucson for propane, water and Chameleon Mocha cold brew and vittles. That's the plan. We'll see...

Trembling before 2022

    

We flipped our house and flapped our wings, heading to Savannah, Georgia for a spell and a spell it was. This magical, fecund, fraught city holds the sway of a thousand Spanish moss, lazily undulating under massive, sturdy oaks, nodding to graves, marked and hidden from the 1700's and 1800's.

The cobblestone streets, the pouting azaleas and the luscious-lipped camellias gather around nymphs, Botticelli-like maidens, boars and vined fountains, eagerly listening to tales from afar.

This is no ordinary American city. This is the manage-trois-birth-child of Creole, French and English colonizers, of Southern living, hospitality and bloodshed. Named after the Native American Indian tribe, Savana, its river of the same namesake, unloaded hundreds of slaves and catapulted its cotton industry. I was surprised, that unlike, say, Virginia, its confederate statues stand tall and proud in many squares and parks, nary a paint spilled on any.

Clad in Christmas gold and red, its gas lamps flickering, strewn among Victorian marvels, the hoofs of carriage-drawn horses mute the history trampled beneath. This city makes you fall in love with heartbreak and beauty, like an old lovers I've had.

St. John the Baptiste Church

But what is it about this place or any others I seek? Why do I have this insatiable need to go or leave or explore or escape? Is it simply my nature or the fact that home was never a sanctuary or that wandering is in my people's DNA or my voracious appetite for newness, for more? Do others have this affliction or compass? I hear from many about their longing to roam, to be free yet most don't. Many cannot even begin to imagine leaving their jobs, their steadfast lives, their familiar routines and unquestioned expectations.

Forsyth Park, Savannah, GA

Maybe it's a generational thing. Although I was born in 1966, baby boomers' values have shaped me. I am probably a kibbutznick hippie who doesn't wear makeup, showers less often than most in the US, believes in self-sustaining gardens and shared resources and has a deep aversion to buying large houses, SUVs, newest electronic gadgets, etc. I love real books with pages and heft, real honest-to-goodness phone calls and getting the oh-so-rare and elusive letter. 

The Fountain, Forsyth Park

Maybe I keep wondering to see how people engage, what have they figured out that's more fulfilling or maybe standing on the edge of a sunset I finally feel tethered to the gateway of the most direct contact with God, this Universe, feeling alive and momentarily connected.

Monterey Square, Savannah

As I sit here and am grateful for this tool on which I write (believe me, if I had a pen, you wouldn't have been able to decipher my writing, nor would I have been able to reach as many,) I am surrounded by long bearded oaks, fanned by Sawtooth palms, the scent of fire in my hair, I watch the sun gently kissing, waking all the groggy elements and wonder what do you wish for the New Year?

Colonial Park Cemetery

If you really could dream big without duties or judgement, what would drive you past your fears? How would you dare to be bigger, not just fine? What untruths would you be willing to confront about what you were taught in order to discover your authentic self, desires, longings? 

Mickve Israel Synagogue

As I ask you, I am willing to keep digging, to keep investigating and inquiring the same dialogue within myself and I promise, if you are interested, to let you in.

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?