(Image is the view from my couch/bed, through the window over the sink. In the foreground is the everyday stuff of living - coffee press, dirty dishes, the faucet - but through the window is a sweet piece of shady forest, through which you can see the bright green of a sunlit clearing.)
It’s been three weeks today since I said goodbye to my little house and hitched up my trailer to the UHaul box truck. I used pool noodles to create a landing strip, put a broom on the bumper with the bristle end out where I could see it, and backed the truck up to the hitch. It was totally blocking the alley, but it was the only way. And holy shit, I lined it up perfectly on the first try! Needless to say I was rightfully proud. I confidently lowered the trailer hitch down onto the ball, there it goes, all the way down… perfect.
But the latch wouldn’t close. The latch that keeps the thing hooked up. The ball was seated in the hitch, but the latch would not close. Well, fuck. I cranked it all the way up off the ball, then lowered it again. Same thing. I knew it was seated, because the full weight of the trailer was on it. I knew the ball was the right size for the hitch, but just to make sure, I took the hitch ball all the way out of the receiver on the truck, and popped it up into the hitch. It locked in just fine. WTF. Tried a third time, then stopped. I was already emotional and shaky, and this was NOT an auspicious beginning. Here I was all excited that I lined it up perfectly. Ha!
I stood in the alley, trying not to cry, hoping no one would need to get past me. I looked around, a little desperately. The family across the street had a large travel trailer in their driveway, but it didn’t look like they were home.
Then, down the alley on the next block, I saw a truck hauling a trailer pull in and stop! A tall man got out, and heading toward the house he parked behind! Maybe he could help! I practically ran down to the house and knocked on the back door. Thank you, universe, for letting this be someone willing to help.
The man who answered was none other than one of my friends from my walks - the man with the two dogs that we’d talked about on occasion - the quiet man with the tree spirit presence! What were the odds?
He recognized me, I explained my dilemma. A few minutes later he was there, and told me to pull the UHaul forward every so slightly. The second I did, there was a satisfying “ka-CHUNK” as that last little bit settled - and the latch closed easily. Thank you, Spirit! Woot!
The man and I made introductions, and said our goodbyes as well. His name is Jason (because of course it’s a J name), and his response when I told him I was now hauling my new home was “That’s the dream.”
I’ve heard that a lot from folks, actually. “That’s the dream.” It was certainly mine - and now, almost month in, I think I’m getting the hang of it. I tow The Ripple Effect with confidence, I know what to look for with regards to gas stations that have room to maneuver. I have the hitching and unhitching process down pat. Salty and I have developed a routine and she seems happy. We’ve stayed in Kankakee, IL; Logan, OH; Lynchburg, VA, and now we are in Chesapeake, VA. I shit, shower, and do laundry at the campsite facilities (I use my little bathroom for peeing only - with this heat I really don’t want to deal with a poopy sewer tank: I use my shower stall for storage.). I’m slowly getting things arranged in my trailer so that I have access to the stuff I use most often. I’ve gotten into a rhythm. I’m living the dream.
I must say, though, it’s a very odd dream. It’s a dream you have where you don’t really recognize places or people, and it almost feels like you are in someone else’s dream entirely. It’s the kind of dream where you wake up disoriented and unsure of where you are at first. It’s not a nightmare by any stretch, but you don’t exactly feel rested when you wake up. It’s a strange dream.
I have moments of total elation, driving through beautiful country, with no place I need to be, and no time I need to be there. Blissful moments when I look at the trees and the sky and feel so rested, so at peace, that I feel a little guilty. Moments when I realize that I am really and truly free.
I also have panicked moments, like when I was below a quarter tank and had to pass two gas stations because I couldn’t get in and out, and no idea how many miles I had left in my tank. Or like the other day when I started hearing a dragging noise while on the highway, thinking maybe one of my stabilizer jacks had loosened somehow, or my spare tire was falling off, or something. So I pulled over onto the very narrow shoulder, clambered out the passenger door (the traffic was flying by and if I had opened my door it would have been bad), did a walkaround and found nothing amiss, somehow got back on the highway and realized as the sound picked up again that it was the fucking WIND blowing at an angle I had apparently not yet experienced. Very funny, Spirit. Very funny.
And to be perfectly honest, this is exhausting. I learned very quickly that two nights in one spot is not enough. Just when I start to get settled in it’s time to batten down the hatches and hit the road once again. It’s work - physical work - getting ready to go: things need to be put back in the trailer (my bike, my camp chair) and secured - everything needs to be secured or put on the floor. Then there is getting the thing hitched, maneuvering it into the camp spot, leveling it side-to-side, then unhitching, leveling front to back, putting down the stabilizers, connecting the water, electricity, sewer hoses, putting the bike and chair outside, assessing the damage that bumpy roads can do to even the most secure items… I know it may sound like it’s not all that much, but factor in the heat and just being body-tired from a four-hour drive with both hands on the wheel at all times (especially when a semi is passing), and it’s hard on my 58-year-old meat suit.
I also have moments when I think, “Okay, this was fun, I’m ready to go home now,” and the reality hits me like the humid, 98 degree air when I step outside. I am home. This is home. This little box which contains everything I need to live. And this will be my home for the foreseeable future. Sometimes the next moment’s thought is “what the fuck have I done?”
Here’s the thing, though. Besides the fact that this is exactly what I was called to do (by my very cagey and mysterious spirit guides), when I take the next moment to think about what my life was like before I left - I know I would not want to go back.
Did I love my job? Yes, mostly. But truthfully I was getting burnt out. Really burnt out - and bored. Did I love my home? Yes, I adored it. But I felt stuck there. I was restless. I felt no deep connection to anyone other than my sisters - and even so, I had found no one who could really understand this spiritual journey. At the end I started talking about it more openly - my spirit guides, my purpose, my clear but ambiguous instructions to place all my trust in this path even if I had no idea where it was taking me. Reactions were mixed, of course, so I would follow it up with more palatable (and also true) statements like, “I’ve always wanted to do this anyway”, “I’m 58 and in the best health I’ve ever been”, “I always intended to move back to the Pacific Northwest, and my daughter is getting married in September, so why not vacation until I get there?” Those statements were acceptable, understandable. They justified my craziness.
But the truth under all of it is that I left because I need to find my people. People on a spiritual journey like mine. People who understand that we are souls having a human experience. That I am everything and nothing, and so are they. (I’m elated to report that in Lynchburg I actually found a couple who are my soul tribe, and it was amazing! I wish I’d had more time with them, but I guess that’s the nature of this quest - encounters can be deep and profound and only last a few hours. Still, it was an incredible experience, and I’m going to write a separate essay about that. For now, I’m looking at the bigger picture.)
What lies ahead for me - other than the where and how long at each stop - is a complete mystery. Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to end up in an intentional community in Northern California (I can’t really see myself being happy in that kind of situation, but I have no idea). Or maybe I will end up having my wasband install a 30 amp outlet at his house and go live in his back yard in Longview, WA (also not my favorite idea). I want to go to SoCal and go to Disneyland, but I don’t think I’ll be able to afford this lifestyle beyond September - I’ll need to settle into an apartment and find a job. I mean, I expect that - but when, where, and what work? Then again maybe a handsome wealthy stranger in the right age range will stumble into my campsite and I’ll be swept off my feet and into a fairy tale. Seriously, who the fuck knows? That is both the beauty and the scariness of this thing.
But I think the hardest part is just the general, over-arcing feeling of being untethered. I’m always uneasy when I feel disconnected from Spirit - thankfully a walk among the trees usually helps with that. That’s a soul disconnect, though. That’s feeling out of touch with the spirit realm; feeling mired in 3D. This untethered sensation is a fully 3D world feeling. The everyday, practical, ‘where is home?’ feeling. The lack of true familiarity: knowing where the nearest grocery store is. Who is next door. How far away the bathroom is. How long the washer and dryer take. How hot the shower gets. Where the garbage and recycling goes. The day-to-day minutiae that anyone with a permanent place to live has the privilege and comfort of knowing.
I know when I stay at any one place for three days or more I will start to feel a sense of familiarity - a kind of gravity that pulls on me, tempting me into thinking it’s okay to get used to this. I can’t sink into that - nor do I want to. At least not now: I know I am meant to keep moving. To find more. To plant more seeds of hope and kindness and love and understanding, but only by just being me, living my life. To rest and replenish - for what, I don’t know. These things are so simple, so easy; they are just who I am. I am starting to come to terms with it, but being untethered is hard for me. When everything around me changes every few days; when I have no idea who I will meet or - more importantly - why; when I cannot imagine my future, I am forced to live in the moment. “Being here now” is easier when it’s all you know for sure.
And that, my friends, is a rare and precious gift, for which I hold so much gratitude.
Until next time,
Rhon