Wandering but not quite lost

I’m writing to you from Bureau of Land Management (BLM) desert land outside of Quartzsite, Arizona. BLM land out here occupies many square miles. You can drive forever on dirt roads, although the further you go, the more you need four-wheel drive. My city minivan would not survive most of those roads. Being a sedate older person not looking to drive off a cliff, I keep to the flats not far out of town.

I am parked about a half mile from the freeway, near a shallow wash and a copse of scrubby trees, about one hundred yards from a herd of half-million dollar Prevosts towing toy haulers. Earlier they were racing their toys around the desert landscape. Now the happy campers seem to be setting off fireworks. I don’t know why people bring their entire house with them to go camping. On the other hand, nights in the desert are dark, cold, and endless. I suppose it helps to have heat, cold beer, and a big screen TV.

Yes, it’s a bit chilly in my car at night, but I’m not complaining. I hear Portland is 16°F, with snow, freezing rain, and high winds. Other parts of the country are suffering extreme winter weather as well. If that is your situation, I’m sorry. Especially if you are living in your car.

Speaking of living in a car, I am not living in my car. Yet. I’m on my second official roadtrip, on my way to Los Angeles by way of Quartzsite, AZ. I have found my tribe here in Quartzsite, but in true apanthropist fashion, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I got my name badge at the RTR, saw the interiors of Sprinters, cargo vans, and minivans designed by some proud nomads, and listened to a woman in a long gauzy skirt make noise, oh excuse me, soothing healing sounds, by pounding on some large bronze shields with a fluffy mallet. I left as soon as I could.

I did not grown up in a camping family, so camping is a mystery to me. My mother camped with her parents and brother. Then she married a non-camping enthusiast and had four kids. It’s not that my father lacked an adventuresome spirit. He had a boat for a while, a 24-foot Thompson with a throbbing stern drive. He took me out on the Columbia River Slough once. We broke down. A nice lady in a little motorboat towed us back to the dock. Then on the next outing, he hit a half-submerged log and busted the sterndrive. Soon after, he sold the boat. He never talked about it, but I am guessing he was sad the dream ended the way it did.

I never wanted a boat. Neither have I had a hankering to camp. I like to hike, but not if I have to dodge snakes or climb over boulders. I was born and raised a city kid, which is why being out here in the open desert freaks me out. The quality of darkness outside my covered windows is more than I can bear to think about. When the wind scoots under the car, I feel a momentary change in my heart rate. Every little rustle could be a packrat eating my wires. A couple nights ago a storm blew through and carried my tarp and welcome mat into my neighbor’s campground. Anita from Missouri. She parked way too close to me, so I befriended her in self-defense. Widow, two kids, long-time camping enthusiast. I vacated to a more peaceful location the next day, which is where I am now.

I can see why people buy bigger and bigger vehicles. This minivan is a very small space, crammed with way too much stuff. If I were inclined to claustrophobia, I would never be able to do this. However, I’m fine with MRI machines and small minivans. I will probably wake up in my coffin and go ho hum. Not really. I hope to donate my body to science and avoid the entire coffin thing.

I feel somewhat like a pioneer might have felt. Did I bring enough food? Can my oxen pull this wagon? Will my solar panel charge up my Jackery or will clouds get in the way? Where can I dump my trash when the transfer station is only open three days a week? Will I have enough cell signal to get phone service, and how close am I to running out of my monthly quota of data? You know. Pioneer problems.

Why do some people glorify this lifestyle? It’s homelessness. You should have seen the interiors of some of those rigs. They looked like garbage dumps, festooned with fake ivy garlands, carpeted with Persian rugs and fake vinyl plank flooring, and reeking of incense, cooked onions, and poop.

After seeing all that stuff, I am more determined than ever to continue my commitment to downsize. I sense I am headed off a cliff of minimalism. It’s been a gradual slope at first, but the incline is getting steeper as I am coming to accept that I cannot maintain a life full of stuff. I feel a mild panic attack lurking just out of reach. Time to pee in my bucket, turn on my heating pad, and hit the foam rubber. Happy trails.

The annoying choice between safe and happy

I had a birthday this week. To celebrate, I treated myself to the trifecta. I don't mean I went horse racing. I mean, I sidled on down to my pharmacy and got the COVID-19 booster in my right arm and the flu and RSV shots in my left arm. Then I went home and descended into the misery I so righteously sought and deserved. I can hear what you are saying right now. Just because your friend E got all three and bounced back like a Bobo Doll doesn't mean you can do the same. E is six years your junior! Come on, Carol. Get real!

Clearly, even at this ripe stinky old age, I still have a lot to prove. 

What did I prove? I am a superhero. After a day and night of fairly intense suffering (it's all relative, isn't it?), I emerged stronger, straighter (in a postural sense), and buoyed with optimism. Invincible is how I feel. Confident enough to keep my tube of Preparation H in the same jar as my Crest Cavity Protection. That's pretty darn cocky for someone on the glaucoma watch list.

As is normal for a chronic malcontent, my unearned sense of optimism wore off fast. Now I'm back to my usual gloomy self. The alarm clock in my head relentlessly chimes once or twice per minute of every waking hour. I can't say for sure what happens after I finally fall asleep, but judging by the amount of time I spend awake and staring out the bathroom window at the stars, I'm guessing the alarm rings while I'm sleeping, too. During the day, like for instance, right now while I'm typing, I can tune it out. But when I'm lying on my foam rubber mattress on the floor, the noise in my head is deafening. I wish I were deaf, but I have a feeling this kind of sound is the kind you hear through your eight cranial nerve. Sort of like the way trash truck noises travel through the floor of the trailer at 4:00 a.m. and permeate my bones. Oh, the humanity.

It's so fun to hear other people express righteous anger on my behalf. I have to remind myself, though, that they might possibly be right. I'd rather not consider that possibility. Some of their suggestions are downright annoying. For example, people give me suggestions (advice) on everything from eating to dressing to finding a home to managing my healthcare. Some of it I've heard since I was a kid, so it's easy to tune it out—get a job, wear a bra, grow your hair, learn to type, draw flowers and fairies. Lately, I've been told to apply for senior housing, move closer to family, put my art on t-shirts, be more assertive, sell on BookTok . . . The list goes on and on. I suppose I do the same to them, so I fair's fair.

I usually fall into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. Later I berate myself for once again falling into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. It's futile, yet I still slip and fall right in. More like I dive in headfirst. I'm self-trained to defend first and self-berate later. And of course, because I live in constant doubt, I wonder, are they right? Is the problem that my hair is too short? Or I don't eat the flesh of dead creatures who would prefer to still be living? Or that I should just accept where I am, even though I don't like this town, and focus on being safe, forget about being happy? 

I've done so many things wrong in my life, it's easy to nod and say, you're right, I'm sure you are right. Everything would be different if I just put on a bra once in a while. Or stopped picking my teeth with toothpicks. Or yelled at my doctors instead of sucking it up and whining to any friend who will listen. 

In the end, with all the noise in my head, I can't hear my own voice among the voices of all my well-meaning advisors, mentors, and fixers. How much of my predicament is the product of a lifetime of thoughtless choices, and how much is attributable to a structural problem in the U.S. affordable housing market? I read an article today about someone who works in Los Angeles but has to live 100 miles away to find affordable housing. That's a 2- to 3-hour commute! I did not create this housing shortage. Neither did I create the fiasco that is the U.S. healthcare system. I just happen to be caught up in the vortex of ill health, age, poverty, inadequate housing, and a deep desire to rest in silence. 

A good friend's mother is dying. Another friend just found love for the first time in many years. The refrigerator is working. My check engine light went out. My sister's cat finally pooped after days of constipation. Lives are cut short from war, earthquakes, sea-level rise, gun violence, and COVID-19. The world is busy. I want to be busy, too, writing. I don't need much to do that. Maybe I can find my own version of Walden Pond. Is it out there? I won't know unless I go look. One thing I am sure of. It is not here.

The buck stops here in the Arizona desert

I've been thinking about the past. You don't have to tell me that contemplating the past is rarely a good thing. Living today for a better past is normally not a goal of mine. However, reflecting on my present circumstances has brought into sharp focus the choices that I made that have led me here to now. I've talked about this before, so I won't yank off the scab again. Nobody wants to smell an old festering wound.

I'm doing my best to navigate my fear while I manage the fear of others. The existential fear of being homeless is deeply embedded in my local zeitgeist. It seems clear that some members of my close circle of family and friends would recommend I seek the quickest path to housing, no matter what. Who cares if I have to endure shared housing! Who cares if it's in a city I don't care for, in a climate that is not healthy for me! Other people have to do things they don't want to do, what gives you the right be such a Goldilocks hothouse flower? 

No right at all, I guess, other than the small easily overlooked fact that it is my life we are talking about, not yours. I acknowledge your fear, but I cannot live what's left of my life in such a way as to make it so you don't feel fear. It's not my job to manage your fear, nor is it even possible. 

Nobody knows how much time they have on the planet. No one knows when an asteroid is going to blindside us, despite all the efforts of science. No one can predict the next pandemic or anticipate how deadly it might be. Nobody knows if the next breath they take will be their last. We live our lives as if we are immortal, as if there will always be a tomorrow. Well, I'll speak for myself. I know I have. I've made many assumptions, and made choices based on those assumptions. For example, I assumed somehow my creative life would blossom into something that would support me. 

In my secret little wizened heart of hearts, I hold out hope that it still might. The rest of me has no hope, and I'm wise enough now to know that hope is not a requirement for success of any kind. What is required is action. This I know. 

I am not a quitter. Neither am I a person who seeks to be subsidized, not by friends, not by family, not by the government. Call me a homeless loser if you must (I know you won't say it aloud to my face), but the buck stops here, with me. 

At least for the next few minutes, I choose to frame my circumstances as an invitation to meander through the field of infinite possibility. Your comments tell me you assume the worst, but we are not victims of the universe. The universe does not care about us. Bad things happen, but so do good things. Usually it is hard to tell which is which, and it doesn't matter. As long as I'm breathing and able to think and decide and take action for myself, I can set aside your fear long enough to see my life as an amazing adventure. I can see the road less traveled unfolding before me, inviting me to see what happens next. 

Fighting battles in my mind

I don't know about you (because I never hear from you), but I imagine you get weary of me whining about the ongoing disintegration of my life. May I charitably reframe it as an ongoing adventure? An epic escapade? How about a quixotic quest? An idiotic crusade? (This is what happens when I consult a thesaurus). 

My friends have varied opinions on this journey of mine, bless their hearts. A few envy me my freedom. They are saddled with stuff, people, and obligations, so I can understand the lure of this lifestyle. (Can I call disintegration a lifestyle?) Some of my friends worry for me. Living in a car in the forest is not something they would ever contemplate. I don't think they even go camping. (Actually, after that dude got eaten by a bear, camping seems like a dumb idea.) A couple of my more metaphysical friends appreciate the chaotic nature of the universe and express faith that the road less traveled is worth traveling, no matter where it leads. 

I listen to all of them.

My Phoenix friend needed a dogsitter. It just so happened I was available. For the next several days, I'm in Phoenix, serving as caregiver for a small, wiry, somewhat nutty dog with big eyes, big ears, and a surprisingly big bark. The dog and I are friends now (or at least we were until I attempted to brush her teeth), but yesterday when I got here, it was touch and go. I thought I might have to sacrifice a toe or an ankle before I would be allowed to pass. 

It's blazing hot here so the best time to go dogwalking is early in the morning or super late at night. I think the neighborhood is pretty safe after dark, but I was told there are coyotes in the area. Last night as I was trying to relax enough to fall asleep, I mentally ran through a scenario in which a coyote attacked the dog as we sauntered through the park. I pictured myself lifting the dog over my head and kicking the coyote in the gizzard. You can imagine how it would probably go down. Not like I might hope, probably. Most likely, I would not end up being a superhero. After rehearsing my moves, I realized the odds of me kicking a coyote in the gizzard (where is a gizzard, anyway?) are slim to none. However, I would not be willing to give up the dog without a fight, so if I get rabies, send me a get well card. 

This dog is somewhat eccentric. Three times today, she indicated she would like to go out into the back yard (which is concrete and gravel). It's over 100°F today. Each time, she beelined straight for the sunniest spot on the patio and flopped down on the warm pavement. Each time, I sat in the shade to stand guard (coyotes, right?), and within moments I was boneless soup in a fancy patio chair, while the dog casually lounged in the sun. I thought at first the dog had sunstroke, but no, she just really likes the heat. She reminds me of an old lady in a sauna. She sweats out the toxins for five minutes, yawns, and moseys back inside. 

At the end of this dogsitting gig, if all goes according to plan, I will take a drive out one of the highways north of Phoenix to see some of the small towns out Sedona way. My search for home continues. However, I don't think I'll be doing any camping in the national forest. I might be willing to fight off a coyote, but I'm not up for tangling with a bear. 

What is success?

The question of the day: What is success? Go ahead, take your time. I'll let you ponder the question for a minute. It's not a trick question, but answering it could be tricky. Maybe write a list. Okay, time's up. What did you come up with? More important, whose version of success did you channel? 

 

Was it the definition of a long-dead ancestor? I pose the question because someone tried to impose their version of success on me today. After the conversation concluded, I realized it wasn't even their own definition. It was really a dead person's version of success. May they rest in pieces. 

The supposed implication was that if I aspired to that definition of success, I would be happy. Or safe, which some might say is more important than being happy.  

Did you make a list? What do you need to have in order to feel successful? Safe, secure, affordable housing and a good job? Maybe a committed relationship, a pet or two, a reliable car, a big-screen TV? Good health insurance, money in the bank, and a 401K? A predictable present and a future with no surprises?

Occasionally, I've allowed someone else's definition of success to influence my decisions. I've discovered the more I pursue someone else's dreams, the less I know who I am. Sometimes I feel guilty that I'm not measuring up to another person's definition of success. I feel ashamed for wanting to succeed on my own terms. That doesn't stop me, though, not for long. 

Success for me is living a healthy creative life of service on my own terms within my means. It's a construct of moving parts. I've had to flex at times. Rarely have I been able to accomplish all parts at the same time. Some parts can flex temporarily but other parts are not negotiable. 

I don't think I was meant to walk the well-trodden path. Sometimes the riskier road calls.