“Must be nice.”
Quitting your job. Getting rid of all your stuff. Living on a converted school bus with your girl, your dog and your girl’s cat. Going wherever you want. Not working a “real job.” Leaving everything you know behind … “Nice” is a word that doesn’t come to mind. Terrifying, maybe. Or exhilarating. Drastic, intense or exciting as hell. There’s nothing easy about easing down the road without a map. We all read blogs about the simple life and the freedom of minimalism. But getting there ain’t simple. It’s not neat, it’s messy.
This isn’t so nice, kneeling on my hardwood floor with my vintage typewriter propped on a wooden cable spool that “borrowed” from a construction site. My writing desk is long gone, supporting some film editor in West Hollywood now, along with half my furniture. Earlier today, my landlady rented out my mountain cabin to someone else, effective in three weeks. I’m living in this netherworld between watching all my things go and seeing my future life in a converted skoolie still in the distance. There’s no security in giving it all away and starting fresh, opening space in your world to make room for new things. A leap off a cliff or over an alligator pit is never “nice”, but you sure as hell know you’re alive.
The thought of seeing the wonders of America the Beautiful — and doing it with my dream girl, Camping Kitty — is the fuel that drives me. That and the fear, as I watch the new tenant outside my window size up my rustic porch chairs. I have three weeks to wrap up my life. Kitty? She’s off someplace getting Far Out with her gypsy spirit. Or something like that. She texted me earlier to say she was downloading a lot of information. I thought she was collecting pdfs on her computer for our business, but she clarifies that she’s getting “lots of messages from the universe.” No printer needed. She doesn’t drive, so she asks if I can take her to the store when I’m finished selling my leather chair and redwood table. She’s low in patchouli oil, whatever the hell that is.
We still haven’t figured out how Jameson 33, my pitbull, who yesterday chased after a horse, is going to co-habitate with Sunny the cat inside our 200-square-foot living space. Oh yeah, the school bus. That’s filled with all our stuff to sell or give away or leave scattered across the highway, because whatever’s been carried out of our cabins isn’t going back in.
It’s overwhelming, the sheer amount of things to do, and so I type while kneeling on a hardwood floor and daydream about spanking Kitty for being so naughty. 😉
We’ll be living the dream — our dream — and we’re excited beyond the moon and stars. But the fear is real, and always there, lurking just behind like a pitbull chasing a horse. How do you actually do this? Simplify. Become minimal. Travel full-time. Convert a school bus into a rolling home. There’s no manual for creating your dream because everyone’s dream is different, unique. As much as there is written about the joys of minimalism, it’s philosophy written by said minimalist well after the process of what I’m doing right now. I’m on the edge and pure freedom is just a leap away. I’m being the change but still in the swamp. It’s chaotic and terrifying and exciting and life-affirming. It’s all of it and not simple at all.
Creating your dream? I guess it’s not so much a leap as it is a thousand tiny steps in its direction. It’s kneeling on the wood floor to type with Jameson 33 sitting on my ankles and trying to eat Page 1. It’s amazing and fun and frustrating and difficult. It’s everything, and then nothing. But “nice” isn’t a word that comes to mind.
