.png)
Biolab Road, Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge
Have you ever allowed your body to free float in a pool of water, suspended between ground and sky – weightless, clear, and ensconced? To me, there is nothing else like that feeling of becoming part of what is holding me up – to just be without the pull of gravity, to drift without effort. And if you have floated, you will know that at some point, maybe seconds or minutes along, your body – seemingly all of its own accord - will begin to sink and search for something to grasp, some surface for a toe to gain leverage, some nearby person to reach out and steady you.
It’s like this on the road for me. If I had to label it for commonality’s sake, I’d call it homesickness. It’s the scratch-less itch. The inability to “be here now” without wondering if here is maybe better over there. When we have a sticks and bricks home, with a family or a partner or even alone, it’s easy to equate this feeling with the missing of specific things or people. But without them, it becomes an indefatigable yet illusive angst.
I have parted with so much – the material items that required a job to collect them and a house to sustain them, the familiarity of geography, and the ease of common social habits within an isolated city. But, what I haven’t parted with are my memories or my grief. There is a special awareness of grief that the road brings. As the miles spin out, one’s mind wanders the vast and manicured avenues of memory and yearns for what was never really tangible in the first place.
It is month fifteen now and I find myself tracing the same routes, visiting the same places – and furthering my old habit of moving on with ease when the mood suits, only to garner nostalgia for the places I have left. I have set myself up for a solitary endeavor, following the heart of my introversion. And while gaining a truer understanding of my own nature has been a boon, I am consistently irked and astonished by the interconnectedness that pursues me wherever I go. There is no alone.
Free floating on the road demands a letting go of something I can’t yet put my finger on. I have learned to not make plans or reservations. I try to see what each day brings and know that I am able to pack up and leave a place in a hurry if need be. This is lovely in theory, but the ache remains. And the edgy feeling that things can change in a moment is disorienting and unsettling. The true nomads move around, maybe every week or two, or even every day or two. So far, mine is more of a migratory life. Cooperstown to Silver Springs to Buffalo, and back again, hands still gripped firmly on the flotation device. Brief spurs of sojourning, yes – but always leading back to something “known”.
The humidity of early spring in Florida breathes its nascent breath and for those who live in vehicles the time is close to move again. My mind traces back to where I have been and the comfort of those whom I love beckons me. How do I want to live this life? How am I best able to live this life? A stealth quest to the desert or perhaps a journey up the eastern seashores to all points Nova Scotia? Or, another migratory move, stationing myself somewhere for the duration nearer friends and family? I am blessed to know I can return, again and again, to the places where I am loved.
The indulgence of travel, the burning of fuel, the oft-times inability to recycle, and the turning of the mind to self first, all give me pause as I examine my choices. What is it I am doing out here anyway? Time and again I discover an anxiousness around strangers that has narrowed my tolerance for interaction, so incongruent with a spiritual path which guides toward love and compassion. Ultimately, I must admit this anxiety is in part the reason I yearn to stay put or move only within well-acquainted parameters. In all my fearlessness, I have met my fears.
And, ever-so begrudgingly I have begun to understand that yes, somewhere amongst the eons of required solitude is most certainly a need for connection, for the gravity that beckons me when I start to sink and the floating dissolves…seemingly all on its own.
*********
Some things I carry with me in my teeny home.
Things I have learned recently:
Looking in the mirror occasionally does have a purpose
Sometimes the B.O. you smell really is your own
Put your solar panel out every day, no matter how overcast
Showering is a minor miracle
Have multiple ways to protect against mosquitoes & ticks, including hiding and running away
If something doesn't feel right, it probably isn't
Check out Gear I Love for links to products I use and honest reviews.
Thoroughly enjoyed this blog. Made me feel more normal. I often wonder what direction I want to go in. I'm forever undecided about everything. But I have decided to car camp this spring and my car is 95% ready. Not sure where I'm going. Might not be far from home. But I don't care. It's a lot of effort to make plans and book campgrounds. So we'll see.
suffering is such sweet wine - beautifully written :)
Very lucidly written. I get what you are saying about what you are saying(?). I told myself, in my 30's I wanted to through walk the APT. I went camping alone first time (divorced and kids gone) and I was struck at how much the solitude shocked me ( I drifted around Colorado and down to the Mesa Verde area, into Utah). I decided then that I was probably not in the place to take off 6 months alone.
I developed an affinity for going alone and then I met my Shannon and we did all this together. Thing is, now I not only recognize that being alone is my normal state, it is my preferred state. Your blog reflects…
#6 is the most important! Trust your gut!😘