July 24, 2014

Russian River Dinner with Sam and Nico.

Nico is a renaissance man. He cooks mushroom risotto from scratch, serves us wine from his vineyard. Sam makes a crisp fennel salad with peaches, sugar and salt. We exchange stories and laughter. The road makes me tired, more tired than I have been because I’m finding wonder in every turn. My body has to exercise with ELF. She twists, I counterbalance. With no power steering and old 70s seats, my body is working. So I retire earlier these days, full of delicious experience. Grateful to Sam and Nico for their incredible hospitality, we wake early to start the journey again.

We drop off the Escapee at the bus station near Sacramento, which takes us a day off course, even though we have no course but north into Oregon and East towards Wyoming. We make our way through Napa Valley and stop at the vineyard that calls to us both. We can’t go through Sonoma County without tasting a wine or two.

The one we pick seems to be pretty popular. When we turn off the busy street, we expect to see only a few wandering sommeliers. But there are flocks of folks gathered and buses moving in and out of the massive parking lot. We find the wine tasting counter and saddle up to the menu. The woman with brown hair and tan skin behind the counter has that annoying voice of disdain. It’s a bit nasally and draws out at the end. I don’t believe a word she says because of the way she carries her voice. My sister told me there is a name for this voice, but I can’t remember it right now. After her obnoxious introduction, she asks, “Where are you from again? Didn’t I ask?”

I’m a bit cool in my response, “You didn’t.”

Pamela breaks in, kinder and with a smile on her face, “We are traveling around in an RV for a while.”

The wine pourer’s interest is piqued. “You going to Burning Man?”

“I am.” I smile now.

And the whole conversation, the weight of it and its purpose shifts. We both lighten our bitchy shadows and connect over camps and art cars. She is working with the organizers on the Man this year. Before we leave, I write down the name of our camp, and my playa name. You never know, sometimes we run into each other out there. And sometimes, we don’t.

We get back on the coast, where the air is cool and the views are incredible–an expanse of cliffs and oceans. The windy roads beg us to slow down. I pull my weight against the wheel. The strength of the pull and rush and the momentum keep us on the road. On these windy roads, I also feel a bit of fear rush in. If ELF wants to break down here, we are screwed. If the steering goes out, we are dead, thrown over a cliff like Thelma and Louise except we don’t want to go out like that.

I’ve learned to be comfortable in the discomfort, still in the movement. It is a form of meditation, a practice and a process of finding calmness in the chaos. And I am grateful for the opportunity to grow, to learn, to be stronger because of it.

When all plans changed, when Miles decided he couldn’t make it across the country, I was thrown into a plan-less six months. And now, I don’t have a home to arrive to at the end of this journey. I subleased my house to a wonderful person under the assumption that I would be in NY.

Originally, Pamela and I were supposed to make it to NY. Then I would fly back to CA for Burning Man and then fly to Panama with Floating Doctors for twenty days. After the epic travels, I was to be in NY with my family and friends on the east coast for three months—writing a book with my father, living with my brother, hiking with Miles and my friends, and spending time with my loved ones.

But that has all changed. And there is a great sadness in this loss. I love my family. I have a really beautiful home there. And it is incredibly beautiful in the Hudson Valley. But I can’t leave my dog for six months. He is 14. He is like my child. So here I am, without a home or plan, except to move moment by moment. I have to find comfort in the discomfort of not having a place to call home.

I speculate where I will live in October—Russian River Valley, Big Sur—the mountains near the coastline. I can bring the ELF back to Topanga, and pick up my dog and my car. Head north again in October.

But plans change. The expectation is to have no expectation. And it is scary sometimes. In bed last night, I felt a weight of sadness in the loss of NY. I cried for the first time on this journey, for the loss of being with and near my family.

Pamela hands me a poem she carries with her and it resonates with this moment of feeling lost and loss. David Wagoner writes, “Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here. And you must treat it as a powerful stranger.”

All of the things that bring me comfort—being with my dog, having a place to live on the homestead, driving a reliable car, being surrounded by loving friends and family—have been stripped away on this journey. I have removed myself from all the things that bring me comfort. And I have to treat this unknowing discomfort as a powerful stranger. And this stranger has a lot to teach me about resilience, identity, and satisfaction. Who am I without the things that bring me my greatest satisfaction? Why, at times, did I feel unsatisfied with all of those beautiful, grounding things surrounding me?

This nakedness exposes great truths—gratitude, resilience, and presence.