I was having coffee with a friend the other day when our conversation veered towards taking risks and making choices in our lives. I commented, with a hint of wistfulness, that, “I tend to play it safe” in life.
My friend (and I love her for this) burst out laughing. She looked at me incredulously and just laughed and laughed. Our eyes met and she very pointedly asked, “Really? You play it safe?” I then realized why my statement was so utterly false.
perceptions
We often judge or compare ourselves to others. Or to our own expectations of ourselves. We believe the world sees us as we see ourselves. Sometimes that’s true, but way more often, it seems, we don’t give ourselves nearly enough of the credit that others do. We’re hard on ourselves. We judge ourselves.
Are there times in my life when I play it safe? Sure. Surfing. Climbing. Speaking in front of a crowded room. Yet when I look at the choices I’ve made in my life, where I’m headed and what I’ve experienced… most people would say I take risks and am pretty adventurous.
Quitting my job. Starting a new business. Moving to Hawaii. Converting a van to live in for a year… these are not necessarily “safe” choices.
Our inner scripts can be strong. Even though we grow and evolve and transform, those old scripts from our past selves stick around. Sometimes it takes a perspective from a friend—someone outside of ourselves—to see us as we are now.
too many miles
I’ve been thinking about vans lately. A lot. And cars. And transportation. Oil and impact. We’re shopping for a van. Shopping for a new home. As in, the van will be our new home. That’s big for me. Different. Exciting. Adventurous. (And terrifying.)
Driving down I-25 yesterday afternoon on our way to take a look at a couple of vans, my mind wandered to how much I’ve taken driving for granted throughout my life. Growing up, we drove a lot. My parents carted my sister and I miles every week to chorus rehearsals, piano and violin lessons, allergy shots and concerts. They drove farther for the best they could offer us.
As teachers, they had most summers off and we often took road trips. One year we drove across the country—from Maryland to southern California—visiting family, and (what seemed to me, at the age of 10) every president’s birth site, grave site and historical monument in between (insert pre-teen eye roll). We also saw the Grand Canyon, Painted Desert and Petrified Forest (but I loved those stops so didn’t cultivate the exasperated attitude I’d done with the historical stops).
confidence
Our cars rarely broke down. I do remember my dad walking along a Nevada highway to the nearest gas station to get gas for us after we’d run out in the desert. But in general, we got where we needed to go without too much fuss. Driving expanded our horizons. Extended our education and opened our world (and our minds) along the pavement. I’ve been to 46 out of 50 states. Most before I was 20.
changing attitudes
I feel like a walking contradiction sometimes. I love the idea and experience of living in a town within walking and biking distance to most places I need to go. I enjoyed commuting by bus when I needed to get downtown. And I loved living on an island where a 45-minute drive felt like it was a day away.
And now we’re shopping for a van that will become a home. We plan to live on the road, experiencing new places and learning new things. In the midst of an oil and environmental catastrophe that makes me shudder when I think of the devastation. I’m searching for a home that requires that exact oil to run. But there is a simplicity that I look forward to. A wardrobe of only a few outfits to fit various weather conditions and activities. I weigh the question, “do I need it, or want it” with deliberate consciousness. Sometimes I don’t listen to the answer. Most of the time I do, although it still hard.
finding the perfect van
We’ve looked at quite a few vans now. Most were in Utah, and now one in Colorado. Two we’ve gone to look at, only to have them sold less than 10 minutes before we arrived. Grrrr.
too small
We’ve checked out a VW Westfalia (too small); a 15-passenger extended van (too big); a 1976 family van that needed a lot (and when I say “a lot” here, I mean, “A LOT”) of love. (A lot = a mouse had taken up residence under the driver’s seat.) We drove a ’99 conversion van (too much work to strip down); and a fair-priced cargo that seemed to be leaking an awful lot of fluid from the under carriage. We really liked one, but it was the first we looked at and it had over 200,000 miles, so passed.
At least we’ve narrowed down what we’re looking for. We know what we don’t want (which, when you think about it, is really important).
I have recently realized that I’ve lost a little trust in the mechanics of cars and I’m not really sure why. On our way to Kaua’i, our Subaru broke down and delayed our trip for a week. (Getting towed 150 miles from Silverthorne to Boulder leaves an imprint, apparently.) Our Jeep on Kaua’i broke down the first week we got it. (Not to mention the first time it rained, water leaked all over my foot as I pressed down the brake. And if you’re unaware of the weather on Kaua’i, it rains. A lot.)
too long
So now, searching for this van (our home), I’m feeling hesitant to commit. Our budget is small, but reasonable for what we want. Most cars work. They’re dependable and they run when taken care of. We’re not planning on putting a ton of miles in. Maybe 15,000 in the year? Just a little more than average. And that’s just a big, educated guess. It’s quite likely it’ll be less. We’re planning on avoiding as much snow and winter weather as possible.
I used to take driving for granted. I loved the feeling of independence and control I had with my first car. Now I think about our footprint. Gas mileage. How far to the next stop. Our route.
I’m looking forward to finding our next home, and looking forward to experiencing life on the road. What will it bring into my life? What will I learn? How will I change? The search continues…
“How do I get home,” I asked the agent an hour and fifteen minutes into the call. I was close to tears. She’d been very helpful working with me and another airline to confirm a rebooking for us. It was 3:00am and we were still in Lihue. Our flight had been scheduled to leave at 8:40pm.
I was at my lowest point. On hold for over an hour, only to find out she couldn’t help. I tried to be understanding—I knew the situation. But I just wanted to know where to go when we arrived at LAX.
“How do I get home?” It’s a funny question to have asked. I was moving from Kaua’i back to the mainland with no home to go to. Was I asking her how I get to my final destination (SLC where we planned to stay with my father-in-law for a week or two)?
Or was I asking, in a moment of fragility, a bigger question? What is home? Where can I find that feeling of grounding? Before moving to Kaua’i, I wrote a post about feeling at home whereever you are. It was a post based more on optimism and hope than a reality I knew. It’s a really wonderful sentiment, and I’m still moving toward that reality, but it’s not so easy to come by. As a woman who grew up in the same home for 18 years, it’s an unsettling feeling to move without knowing exactly where you’ll land.
It’s a feeling of limbo. The space between here and there. Shifting habits and routines to fit a new environment; searching for a comfortable and inviting space to work. And the constantly-asked question that others ask as an ice-breaker, “where are you living?” Um… the United States? In a van (that hasn’t been purchased yet)? It’s an awkward question to answer these days.
And that’s what I feel like: Things that felt normal not so long ago seem so very unnatural. Questions I had ready answers to, now make me think twice. Routines I took for granted have disappeared. The next adventure hasn’t begun. I’m floating between what was and what will be. This space between where I’m creating and grieving all at once.
Something good and amazing and wonderful is in the works. It’s exciting and terrifying. The unknown. How will I handle it? With grace? With tact? With confidence? I hope.
We’ll head to Boulder soon—our “homebase,” as I call it. We have things there in storage. We have favorite coffee shops and good friends. We know the trails and how long it takes to get from point A to point B. It’s the best home I know right now, but I’m not sure what it’ll feel like when we get there. Will it still feel like home? Or will it serve as a magnification that I am homeless?
How do I get home? I’m not sure, and I think that’s the lesson. Or at least part of the adventure. We’ve signed on for this. The unconventional and unusual. We’ll figure it out. Home is whereever we are.
