On the Road

People often marvel at my whirlwind life. One month here, another there---on the road soon after. How wonderful to see the world! How lucky?! And it is true--my vagabond life, as I was reminded by the homeless man I took to the shelter the other day, is a chosen one and a luxury I must never take for granted. But there is something beyond marvelous about this life I lead that has been turning through my mind these last few months--it is marvelous in a terrifying kind of way. It is bigger than just driving around and seeing our beautiful world for it includes the parts that make this not just vacation.

I could be living in Malibu, tanning on the beach every day drinking fancy juices but i'm not. Instead I live out of my Subaru Outback, bathe in rivers and eat the same meals in different forms everyday until its time for more groceries. Why? I visited my cousin in Manhattan last fall and she commented after hearing a story I told of an acid trip that she didn't know if it was good or bad but that she felt like she lived in black and white while I lived in color. She said she was happy--with her job, her fiancé, her friends, herself yet hearing about my life--my adventures, troubles and questions made her question if she was missing something. I told her I didn't know. We both agreed we wouldn't be happy living each other's lives but to say one life is better-- better lived, more full, more deep than the other is impossible. It would require knowing what a good life entails-- a question I believe most philosophy is still pursuing. So that is not really my question--is my life a good life? My question is more, why my life? Why can I not be quenched by my cousin's wonderful life or at least live more comfortably? Because that is the truth-- most of the time, my vagabond life is very uncomfortable. What I do with my time is not always easy-marvelous as most of my instagram followers like to believe, no matter how transparent I am on the distorted world of social media. My life is mostly of the terrifying kind of marvelous I mentioned before. My average day on the road alone is filled with excitement and an onslaught of happiness at the rising of the sun. I cook breakfast, try my best to take the morning slow, then either drive somewhere new or commence beading, painting, writing, or hiking. My day is usually spent in silence except for upheavals of emotion brought on by my own thoughts or encounters with other animals. These upheavals usually are laughter or tears. During the day, the world usually fills me. I mull over my questions but none overwhelm me. The light and beautiful of the day usually keeps me present in my process--be that beading or hiking or whatever I get in to. But when the sun starts to go down I usually spiral. I have feared the dark since I was little and still do-- especially when I am alone. Finding a camp spot long before dark is essential to my well-being on the road. I try to keep myself entertained in the evenings--I put off cooking until sunset so that I have a task to focus on as the sun departs and I am once again cloaked in darkness. For in the darkness, my fears and doubts come alive. I miss my family and my community of friends. I miss my ex and question why I left her. I fear other people if I am at a campground yet miss them if I am totally alone in the dark.

Then sometimes, after a fitful night of sleep, the feeling wakes with me in the morning. I wrestle with it--trying to find the grateful, happy self I usually am on the morning hours. I meditate (or try to), I write or paint. I hike. But sometimes the feeling does not leave. It is a feeling of restlessness--a feeling that I do not belong anywhere on this earth. I wander and wander from task to task and place to place. Often I will call a friend or my mom or sister. Talking it through with someone and hearing what is happening in their world almost always helps pull me from my darkness. They love me, so there must be a place for me here.

After finding balance again I often berate myself. I am the one who choses to isolate myself. I choose to travel alone and to travel in the first place. I could live in Denver with my college friends or in Santa Fe with my sister but I don't and that is my choice. But then I return to my earlier conclusion: I would not be happy with that--or, even more than that: I would not feel I was living deeply if I did that. Not right now. So why travel? I know I will not live like this forever. I know I will eventually rent or buy a house, maybe even buy land and build my own house with a garden and a stream that runs across the property. A short drive or bike ride from a town. But not now, not yet. Pico Iyer once said, " I think anyone who travels knows that you are not really doing so in order to move around but you are traveling in order to be moved." He continues on to point out that it is only in traveling-- putting ourselves in new environments, without known backup plans, that we are able to observe "moods or intimations or places inside [ourselves] that [we] never ordinarily see when [we] are sleepwalking through [our] daily lives." I think that Iyer is scratching at part of my answer. It is not to say that one day while solo camping I will suddenly not fear the dark-- if I have learning anything in my 23 years it is that life does not work like that. But I think that traveling for me, because I am me and not my cousin (and I do not even pretend to know why that is), helps me see myself more clearly. When surrounded by comfort and backups and support so much of me is hidden from me. In traveling alone I am forced to be myself every second of the day and I constantly surprise myself with how present and creative and silly and vulnerable I can be. Or how afraid or hysterical or immature or guarded. I see the walls I put up with others-- even in the talks I have with my friends when am feeling dark and afraid I rarely admit to the misery burbling up that caused me to call.

I do not know who I am.

So I travel to try to figure Olivia out. I like to believe that there is truth in the journeys of some of favorite heroines-- Alanna of Trebond in Song of the Lioness or Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear. Both women are given great gifts and power to bring about good change in the world but along with it they are given difficult paths. Paths that force them to question themselves and find the courage to hold tight to their truths when they are threatened most. On the road I see glimpses of a warrior, one who is not afraid to search for truth. She falters often and bravery comes with all of the power she can muster. For now I know I can only continue my pursuit of this woman I know I am until clarity runs still in the roaring river of my life and I settle in my house with a garden and babbling brook where perhaps only the occasional rain will cause me to rise up in search of calmer waters.