Skin Splitting

I haven’t written at all this year. And here it is September.  I feel so far from that brave person who articulated thoughts, dreams, and direction nearly every month on this page. For I feel that I have done none of those things this year. I have plodded through months of uncertainty concentrating on one steady foot in front of the other. And this is no condemnation on myself, merely an observation. I am careful to avoid all words that have been used to the point of wear for this year. This year like no other. Oddly, one of tremendous change yet based on my lofty goals, no real movement. My bus is still a series of plans in several notebooks.

It’s not as though I have been idle; I have been extremely occupied. This year required flexibility, I was needed- as a mother, a colleague, and that’s where I’ve been. I regret nothing. Time is precious and I can truly say it was spent on the precious this year. In the end, my progress is judged by the fullness in my heart, which is overflowing with Loves. Therefore 2020, your demand for a detour seems appropriate. But the dream returns as an unsatisfied hunger pang- and so I turn to my writing to focus my thoughts. 

One thought that came to me the other day was: 

Why do we always compare our growth to the metamorphosis of a butterfly?

All the instars blurred together as mere development for the final, beautiful stage. And yet, there are many insects whose mid-life cycles are more valuable than their final emergence. In fact, one could argue that the final stage of the butterfly is highly valued more because we as humans can easily recognize it and find it aesthetically pleasing. 

I recently was able to spend quality time with a dear friend that I have not seen since May. She commented that she knew it was way too long- not only for nourishing our friendship but also that whenever we went long periods without seeing each other I was the type of person to go through complete metamorphosis and she knew she had to get caught up to wherever life had taken me these past months. 

And it’s true. I haven’t written in my blog since December of last year. I re-read my post, as I always do, to gain insight into where I left off the last time I was inspired to write. To see if I’ve had any shifts in viewpoint. In life trajectory. To gain perspective for my current instar. You see, I don’t believe in doggedly pursuing ANYTHING that no longer serves my growth. I don’t mean this to sound like I make 180 degree turns, but more the splitting of skin that no longer houses the next stage of growth I find myself. Some instars are merely bigger goals that mirror a previous stage, while others are seemingly complete transformations with wings or new legs with which to journey. 

So where, exactly, am I right now? I have been voraciously munching on nourishment- building strong friendships and alliances, practicing my craft in the field, and lastly moving to a new home where I feel free to relax my guard- and write again. Oh I know the mantra, write every day whether you feel it or not, but to me writing isn’t a “practice” or a “job”. It is verbal explosions that come close to these transformations, literal markers whereby I can record the next stage of my life path. These ten months were a time of necessary nurturing, an unavoidable pause to fatten up on love, both to my son, myself, and a tight circle of people that I carry in my heart. And now, I feel the skin splitting. My arms and feet aching to move in ways the previous me was incapable of doing. I don’t guarantee wings and a striking array of colors. I can’t say anyone will even recognize the change. But I feel it’s undeniable presence, as only a transient being of uncountable life stages can. 

Life through Windows

Snow walking. It’s a calming, meditative activity, and at these times in life I’m grateful for quiet winter hikes with cushioned air and subtle beauty that feels like a buffer to my heart. Winter isn’t an easy season, on many levels. Choosing a seasonal career that ends right about when bills rise and holiday expectations are high- 

But that’s not important to me. Let’s just segue into where my thoughts have been. 

I just finished a popular mystery book- I was sucked in, and, due to my current state of mind internalized the main character’s actions and emotions more than I would during other times in my life. She was a miserable mess, dragging weight of an unhealed marital wound around, and glimpsing into others’ lives from her passenger perspective on a train. She imagined picturesque lives from the seconds-long glimpses she got, and placed perfect dreams into their imperfect lives. 

In the end, she realized those frames she enhanced were actually glimpses at the off-moments of a nightmare. The knights and damsels were actually villains and victims. Her own depression started by a villain-crowned-prince in her selective memories and gaslighting he performed on her. In the end- her real state was much better off than her imagined stars in a picturesque fairy tale, and she- the seemingly obvious loser- through fortunate glimpses and timing, and then her pursuit of the truth, brought justice and realities forward. 

I recall all this for you because I relate to her- not the unlikely heroine in a murder mystery, but the sad mess of a person carrying around emotional pain of circumstances that aren’t necessarily all that bad. The life she dreamed of- that she lost- was one with a psychotic killer- yet she believed all the false evil about herself he whispered in her ear. And while it never quite rang true- she broke under the weight of guilt that was never hers to carry. Thankfully her internal voice overpowered the whispers of false reality, but for a long time, she was yoked with what another told her she was, and equally crushed by the perfect lives she perceived others had through her self-tinted view into their lives. 

While reading, I would at times be thankful I wasn’t quite the

mess she was, drunken, jobless, and hopeless- but I recognized the whispers of shame and guilt she allowed to become narrators in her life. The desire to insert herself into what appeared to be bliss. To help right a wrong in another’s mostly perfect life because hers just wasn’t worth saving. But in the end- theirs was the disaster, carefully hidden. Hers, while by outwardly appearances dank- was easily changeable- she was free of the monsters from without. She just had to clear their voices of influence from her head. 

Last year, at this exact moment, I was walking the snowy woods up north, with someone whose life I had passenger train views into- and imagined it quite delightful. It was, however, an unfinished nightmare, to which I could be of no help, and had to sever myself. Today I walk the woods alone. Fighting whispers that angle to become narrators. As I walk, I endeavor to stop looking out windows at lives flashing by, seeing as I choose to see and misunderstanding the scenes that occur when trains go silent. Passenger views are skewed and biased. I set the stage with my own emotions, imagine outcomes based on my own expectations, and in the end, any insertion is but an unneeded intruder complicating a scene not meant for me. My view is turned inward, and upward, where my heart is beating, my hands are reaching, and the stage is mine for setting. Vignettes are just that, fleeting scenes we impose our own context upon, with consequences tied to how long we gaze there. 

Strangers and Friends

Friends that become strangers. Strangers that become friends. I’d say I have an even number of both that float throughout my life. Today, while sorting through papers and books, I opened a book I quite forgot I had to find a letter from someone I can’t quite forget I once had. I suppose ‘stranger’ would be the correct term for who we are now to each other, though- thanks to modern technology we float in each others’ background static collection of online friends. Where once words came in a rush now we only silently glance into each other’s lives through a screen.

I met someone last night. Oh, don’t get excited, I’m always meeting someone. They’re all interesting in their own way. I fascinate some, for a time. Some even fascinate me. And some become old letters in forgotten books; not quite deserving to be culled, yet there is the unspoken space- I can’t say agreement because I rarely agree- that words no longer flow through our connection. I used to wrack my brain in agony trying to solve the usually abrupt disconnect, and was puzzled even further that we never mutually severed all connection- and that, at times, I could even find them actively watching, as a stranger at the window into the life I lead curtains thrown for all to see. 

Two of them immediately come to mind- and both are integral motivations behind my bus journey. Strong, sweet connections that were severed- I’d wager- for similar reasons. Broken by what they put their heart into, they have trained themselves to be fiercely cautious to ever open their hearts again. And yet, our connection caught them off-guard- they opened- so beautifully to me; their eyes spoke of dreams again, their words an eager flow to my welcoming presence, and I watched enraptured as hope bloomed with connection. A common passion was shared, and theirs caught fire with every animated communication.

I watched transfixed as these determined warriors found spark after spark of motivation to just “be” again. Their knowledge and passion in turn, fueled mine, and for that I’m ever grateful. But they are broken, damaged, and still very guarded creatures. I don’t say this as an excuse, but what I have come to understand. I know they are still watching, that the forgotten book holds unforgettable words that speak of a fire that must be fueled. I am grateful for the strangers that have become friends. But I journey for the friends who know safety only by again becoming strangers. 

No more distractions-

Why is a windy day such an inspiration to write? As I walk through the woods and breezes stir the leaves around me, they simultaneously stir up thoughts and forms sentences- even as I try to push them away. I think back to some of the first words I penned for others to see- heady thoughts about jumping or easing in and the declaration that I was jumping- and yet I still feel I walk the cliff’s edge. 

I cashed the check today- so I have the money for the bus immediately on hand for any opportunity that presents itself. I have open invitations of friends to help assess the bus, access to a wood shop to build the inside, all the steps lay poised to take- and don’t worry- take them I will. I owe it to myself to make this dream happen. And while I don’t necessarily owe it to others, I want to give others a chance to see me create this journey- alone. 

Many people have expressed that they are vicariously living through me, and envy my freedom to take on such an endeavor. One that the trappings of their life would never allow for- trappings- such an appropriate word- that I have somehow avoided or slithered from- intentionally or unintentionally- my whole life.  

My best friend and I have had countless talks about my life, my penchant to gravitate towards the strangest, most solitary and temporary paths- all connected by their ignition of passion inside me. She warned me that this journey is too big to get side railed by my usual pitfall. And I do agree with her, it’s too important to let the tugs of normalcy that many around me gracefully manage to navigate derail me- for they have always been pitfalls of disaster.

 At 37, I have almost completely accepted I’ll be alone for life- not because I am inadequate- but try as I might, it never wears well on me. I’m meant to be this odd creature- and when I embrace it I glow. When I, at moments of weakness seek simple solace in a coupled companionship, my dreams are neglected. And I wither. So, the cliff is an internal admission of solitude. An active end to pursuing any romantic encounters, even when thrust in my lap. 

But I’m human, you see? I have a longing for that life sometimes- no matter how impractical it is for one like me. I go after it, and often self-sabotage in the midst. Talking of bus plans, or how I’m not sure a long term commitment really fosters growth for both parties. If only dating were a silent endeavor. 

But alas, embrace myself I must. Jump off this cliff I must. Forsake that silly longing I must. For this journey calls- I can’t even articulate the long term outcome- but it’s time to just jump. Failing isn’t the worry. I’ve failed many times. I embrace those failures. I think I fear the success. That I can never go back from this step into bus life and pretend to lead anything even resembling what others can relate to as a life. What’s so bad about that anyway? Nothing I suppose. There’s really no blueprint for my journey. No boundaries to my destinations.

No guidance to my way-points. And yes, the journey awaits- 

An Ordinary October Day

October is one of my most favorite months, and I know I'm not alone in this sentiment. It is a beautiful time of year: crisp autumn at it's finest. To me, autumn is the swiftest season change of the year. Inspirational quotations eloquently speak of the leaves teaching us to let go, and about trees showing colors they've hid all year and with trees as the metaphor, who could deny the beauty of such a sentiment. But in reality as I feel the winds of this October tear the leaves from my branches, I feel anything but settled for a season of slumber. In fact, I feel the stripping exposure unnerving, and I'm not ready for my October.

Finding time to look for my bus has become difficult with other things I'm juggling- and I'm struggling with all these time investments that I feel are eating away at my bus plan. Have you ever stepped into your closet determined to purge out a significant amount only to end up with that ugly old sweater you never wore anyhow and three mismatched socks as the best you could do and question your own ability to let go? How bad do I want this? It's going to take extreme dedication and all my extra cash- which, let's be real, isn't much. No, the real challenge is the mental purging of all these leaves that have served their time and need to drop, leaving me bare to pursue a time of intense dedication to this plan- and only this plan. It's not selfish, it's the season of change. And after letting loose the dried up pieces that are literally pushed off by next years' buds, standing skeletal to myself is the necessary preservation of energy I need for the next step of growth.

I know, I know, the metaphor is getting heavy. It was a heavy day. If you were a fly on the wall of my day you'd be hard-pressed to see why. From appearances it was an easy day, and quite beautiful at that. But I feel pulled in all directions, and at the same time I have the desire to be shrinking into myself in hibernation. The end of the growing season is hard and I have three different paying jobs, and in each I operate completely differently. Then there is my significant volunteer activity, that is hard to scale back because I am so passionate about it. Thankfully my son knows what a nutty life I lead and our time together-though he's a teenager- is a salve for my otherwise spastic life.

I began writing this post to untangle all the anxious thoughts that were creating a bramble in my brain. This is one of those times it isn't working. But I'll continue to write anyway. Last week I attended a social media conference to learn more about how I can run platforms for small farms I plan to visit in the bus, as well as how to form the actual business of the bus plan. I learned a lot of snippets of information that didn't really congeal into a plan as I had hoped attending would help accomplish. Perhaps it's knowledge gained that I'm not yet prepared to apply.

One of the things that resonated with me was a talk on authenticity. Much of social media is the selected highs and lows to elicit a response. The perceived mundane is left out as not interesting and yet these regular moments are what tie us together the most. This post is a regular moment. I feel overwhelmed, disorganized and fearful of not enough time to execute my plan. I'm at a stalled point. Nothing is "happening" and yet- that's life. Today's nothing is the very string that attaches to the moment you'll all jump joyfully with me when I announce- "The bus is here!". There's no profound over-arching theme to this other than, it's another day where I'm on my way. This bus plan is a complicated, intricate plan. Sitting here typing (and focusing on the practical steps rather than the overwhelming feeling of foreboding I've been fighting) is beginning to help sharpen focus on the immediate next steps. I need to find the bus. All leads thus far have been dead. And I've had so many roles to fill that I haven't been able to look as hard as I should. Progress is slow. I have things that must be done before winter. But yes, it's still October.

On Buslife-

 I've thought of closing this blog and starting a new one for Buslife- but I decided I'd just re-purpose the B's- that's what this life is all about anyhow re-purposing. So this blog will now highlight other B words (not that one!) that personify the life of B.

Barefoot. Physically I get cold feet a lot and I'm wearing fuzzy socks by early September. Barefoot speaks to how I walk this life. Constant direct contact with whatever path I am on and deeply feeling every step I commit myself to walk.

Brave. I have often been told I am a brave person. A wise man once said there is a thin line between bravery and stupidity and I've fallen on both sides of that line throughout my life. I've wasted, stifled, and used my boldness for acts that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. But brave is what I choose to see this life-path to be, and may my future acts of stupidity be few, and only serve teach me to bravely try again.

I choose to bravely, soul barefoot, begin this buslife journey. I'm writing this post in a rather emotional state; I was just approved for a loan to purchase a short bus. Budget is $5000. I have been looking at several that fall in and below that price tag, so that's my maximum but I'd prefer one that's $3,000 with some money to begin the inside build.

So what is the bold purpose motivating my decision to buy and convert an old bus to live and work on the road? It's a multi-faceted motivation, but at the heart of it are military veterans who have re-purposed their lives of service to become farmers. My goal with the bus is to travel the U.S. to these farms to offer my support as a writer: to tell their stories and assist them as a content writer and social media manager, as a skilled horticulturist: consulting and holding workshops on their farms, and lastly as a supportive friend: to farm-sit so they can take vacations and be assured their farm is in capable, caring hands.

This first winter and following garden season I plan to be in full build mode, with a target completion of Summer 2020 to take my first trip to the Northeast where most of my Veteran Farmer friends are located. As I network and bring my services to different regions, I hope to expand my content writing, farm-sitting and workshops to new areas of the country. I will spend a considerable amount of time in Western New York, as I will still run my gardening service, and hopefully my new position as an instructor for the horticulture program will be a long-term endeavor.

This is a huge undertaking, but I have given it years of thought, planning, and careful consideration. It is all of my re-purposing dreams for myself wrapped into one, and put on four wheels. Bus life is flexible, adaptable to change, dynamic. Traits I strive to perfect in myself every day. I am so excited for this plan to begin, and my heart is overflowing with gratitude and love for those of you that support and believe in me. Here's to buslife!

Yurt Dreams

I’m taking my Sunday morning coffee and solitary time atop the hillside in a hammock tucked against the woods at my friend Justin’s Yurt campground outside of Ellicottville, New York, and while I sip, I’m smiling inside and out. This morning, all I can hear are the birds, and oddly unintrustive distant traffic of the 219 through the trees. Sunlight streams through branches and as I lie here in ambient sound, echoes of the two nights preceding surround me.

Laughter, ridiculous shenangains, nonsensical conversations, games, splattered with more serious moments of connection and friendship drift through my mind and I smile wider in spectator-like pride in my friend’s dream in action. Justin built this place for such echoes- for a drawing together of people in any way they choose- in his motto, Come as strangers, leave as friends. I remember when he first laid the plans out for me- I met him just after the first yurt went up and he was opening the campground for its first season of guests. He had accomplished so much already- a complete transformation of a wild thirteen acres into trails and pockets of groomed areas for gathering. But as he walked me up the trail to this spot I sit in now, excitedly writing notes as I identified plants and trees along the way, he laid out the five year, the ten year- the life plan of Ellicottville Yurts and Recreation. It would be his home- with a yurt campground village for year round camping and gathering- and he could then live 24/7 among the love he brought together under the yurts.

It was a model of camping he brought back with him from his days of working on parks and preserves in the West- where camping was a community activity- everyone came together around one fire- perhaps they came as strangers, but that’s not how they’d leave. His desire to bring communal camping to Western New York is now realized one crazy weekend at a time thoughtout the summer right off the 219 entering Ellicottville. The corral-like EVL YURTS gates have opened to so many experiences for visitors to his Yurts- and we all share the love we feel- even if just for a night- it glows on in echoes thought each new group that enters the property.

Justin is one of the firm supporters of my crazy dreams- and I can’t exactky remember what version I was on when we met, but he backed me full tilt, and still does. He was so excited to hear about the Van Plan, with thoughts and advice on how I could best accomplish it- and for that I am truly grateful. To have kindred dream spirits is such a blessing for those of us determined to be outliers in this world. We share in the realization that we both have a mission- whether given or self-imposed- to bring people together and give space for their crazy lives to collide, mingle, and multiply. Laying here in his hammock I tear up knowing that someday a fierce supporter of mine will sit on the bumper of my van and feel this same overwhelming pride in a friend’s mission taking its course.
While Justin has built a sanctuary to bring people to one place of laughter and community, I will set out to bring that sanctuary with me on the road, and enter homes of Loves throughout this country to join with me in laughter, love, purpose, and healing. I am home here, in Justin’s Yurtopia, and I am ready to bring that home with me with my whole heart to each place on my journey ahead.
Cheers to you Justin, and to many more nights of crazy love around your fire.