I’ve been unsuccessful in my attempts to find a job. At first I hoped to find something where I get to sit down (after my last assignment where I stood and walked between 8,000 and 18,000 steps a day). Now I’m just hoping for a job, period. Applying for pretty much anything. I have so much experience in finance and budget, spreadsheets, databases, analysis, etc. I’ve owned my own company. I’ve been a manager, a supervisor, the boss, and also the lowest ranking. Yet I don’t have what it takes to get a real-life job. I don’t know Quickbooks or any of the new systems. I’m seventy years old, living in a place where I know only a couple of people. Family is far away. I chose this place because it’s warm in winter. I have a history of accidents, when driving on snow and ice and would be afraid to leave the house, which would be so awful.
What do I do well? Hands down, I do art. Art has given my life meaning even when there was nothing else. It has given me purpose. For the past year, I’ve lost that meaning and that purpose. I’ve made decisions that seemed absolutely right and then had horrible consequences. I’ve come to doubt myself. In everything.
It makes me so sad, this place I’ve come to be, in my life. At seventy I sure never would have believed this would be what it’s like. Of course, I’m working at accepting that and stepping away from the conversations I’ve had with myself about where I wish I were, where I was, and who I lost.
What hurts the most is that I have so much to give. So much to offer. I’m compassionate and kind. I give away smiles as often as I can, because they’re free and they make such a difference. I believe in God and am so thankful that he gave his son, such a huge sacrifice, for one such as me. Me, the mistake maker.
My life is no longer about forever homes and close family, but is about finding a way to be alone, but independent, and to let go of everything I knew. I have to forget about what was, because if I don’t it takes me down, down, down, into a pit that gets harder and harder to climb out of.
Art, something that has been with me nearly my entire life, is where I find rest and solitude. Spending time with art makes me feel like maybe God is really right here. After all, he is the great creator. He speaks “create”. When I create, it feels like I’m speaking it, too. Like God and I are sharing it. Speaking the same language.
Wow! I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I am the same me as I’ve always been. I do have more aches and pains as time passes, but I’m essentially the same on the inside. I can see myself at seven years old sitting on a pile of gravel, my knobby knees and long skinny legs on either side of a cement block – my grinding table. With a tiny cardboard box that might have held a necklace or bracelet long ago, and a flat stone for grinding, I spent the summer turning small granular, sparkly stones into “gold dust”. I was going to grind enough little stones to fill my sandbox. I didn’t get enough dust to fill the little box, much less a sandbox. That didn’t really matter. It didn’t upset me or make me give up. It was the doing of the thing that made me feel so great. So focused. My family life was a disaster, but while I sat on that pile of stones, nothing else existed.
I turned sixty a month after my mom passed away. I was an orphan. It was something that hit me on the head. I don’t know if a realization hitting one on the head can do brain damage, but I’ve never been the same since. I’m not damaged, but most assuredly I’m different. It was as if I woke from a deep sleep. Maybe you’ve heard the expression “I’ve had a day”. For me it was “I’ve had a decade”. I saw some things I didn’t want to see and had to face some things I didn’t want to face. And here I am. Seventy.
For the past three or four years I’ve thought I couldn’t do art anymore. Not that I didn’t want to. I just felt like whatever ability I’d had was absolutely, positively gone. Wrung out of me like dish water out of a rag. Art was my purpose. Losing my ability to do art meant I’d lost my purpose. According to Victor Frankl, in his book Man’s Search For Meaning, those who have no purpose, no meaning, die. And so I was prepared to die.
But Then!
Tonight I watched a couple of videos on YouTube about not being able to paint and on not being able to finish a painting/creation. It was quite a wake-up call for me. One person spoke of the inability to paint as being part of a story – the story of your life. She called her viewers/followers to think about what the plot for their life might be. Hm. I had to think about that. In fact, I’m still thinking about it. I want to figure it out, because the fact that she described it all so very well made me want to understand and benefit from her words. She spoke of how we are the heroine and perhaps the protagonist at the same time. She talked about the parts of all stories. There must be a conflict phase. Perhaps when an artist thinks they can no longer paint it’s just the conflict part of their story. She went on to say that characters do the most growing during the conflict. I felt a spark of hope at that.
I realize that I’m mixing tenses in my story here. This tiny little bit of story. I don’t care. It’s mine to tell and I’m renting this bit of internet space to tell it. Leave a comment if it bothers you more than necessary.
Okay. I’m in the conflict phase of my life. I’ve been divorced four years and its been four years of relief, total abandon (in a good way), going into debt (not a good thing), making good decisions and bad decisions, all of which may well be necessary in the larger picture. As my very good friend, Terri, just told me, if all the recent bad stuff hadn’t happened, we never would have met. More about that later.
The second video
Talked of giving up on art/writing/etc. Many famous people gave up on projects. DaVinci, for example. Mozart. The Greats! Not all things get finished. Selling one’s work validates the creative. What, of ourselves, we put into our work is what people spend their hard earned money to purchase. That feels good. Something you say with paint or words or music and the way you say it strikes a chord with the purchaser. They’ll hang that story on their wall for a long time, hopefully. When our work doesn’t sell, it fills us with doubt. For me, it was the act of deciding to return to traveling about in a camper, wanting to live a simpler and less expensive life. There would be no room for all of my unsold, but much loved works of art and I wasn’t going to rent a storage unit and have them bake to death in there. So I unframed them all, stuffed them into a leather portfolio, and threw the frames into the dumpster. From then on, I would confine my work to small projects that could endure in a camper and probably never be seen by anyone but me.
The man in the video said the first part of our life is outward, when we’re focusing on jobs, growing our lives and having families. The second part is the inward part, when we focus on ourselves.
Reflections of Life
In the newest video in the “Reflections of Life” series, on YouTube, the man being interviewed said that when you’re alone, doing things alone, your critical voice is louder. So true! “AMEN!” I wanted to shout. In the last couple of centuries, civilization has taken upon itself, change at a ludicrous speed. We went from the pony express to mail sent by jet. Perhaps soon, it’ll be mail sent by spacecraft or teleporter. Civilization is hurtling towards a precipice with no slowing down. Maybe all that change is bad, but maybe it’s good. We won’t know until we fling ourselves over the edge.
The past three years have given me pause. Time to reflect, to be mindful of the moments instead of the days. I’ve had lots of time to do so. My life in a small camper was nothing like life in a 6,000 square foot log home. I could clean my entire dwelling in minutes. I had everything I owned with me in that little space. If I bought something new, something else had to go. No alarm clock was needed. Dinner could be eaten at any hour. My path was like the path of an ant on fine dirt. All criss-crossing and seeming destination-less. Folks came and went in my life – sometimes for a day, sometimes for a season. It was a season and a day made up of moments. Moments lived and experienced slowly and deliciously. It was like getting to eat fine French pastries for every meal.
And then the bad thing happened!
That something happened in late October 2024 and nothing has been the same since. That’s a story for another day. The only thing that matters is where I am now. I’m seventy and I’m still me, but my feet are on a path I didn’t foresee. We shall see.
Just like that I changed everything. Small things in my life opened my eyes.
For one thing, I love playing Minecraft with my grandson. I noticed that I enjoy building cool places to call home, but once its built, I’m restless again The realization hit me that its the exploring and searching for the next place that I love about the game.
I also have to admit that I can’t keep from craning my neck to see passing RVs or RV dealerships. I loved my little apartment, but found I was accumulating too many things. Perhaps it was to replace lost treasures. Maybe it was to make me love it here or love living in a stationary place. Whatever the reason, I could see that buying things didn’t accomplish any of that and it didn’t make me happy. Not really.
Previously, my life in an RV was simple. No furniture. No collections of things. No dusting under and around trinkets. There seemed to be more hours in the day and going around corners or over hills brought me to scenes that took my breath away. I’ve missed having my breath taken away.
Finally I realized that I’m lonely for other RVers. Nomads. Road Warriors. My own kind.
Discovering all that about myself turned on a light over my head. Ding. I want to go back to nomad life rather than stay in one place, accumulating material possessions that begin to own me rather than be owned.
So that’s exactly what is happening. It wasn’t a decision made lightly or quickly. I know me and what makes me happy. There are many things I can’t control and aren’t in my power to make happen, but this one I could. After doing a lot of research on RVs that would be right for me, it was a matter of finding an available one. Beckley’s RV in Thurmont, Maryland had it. I drove there on a Saturday. The salesman took me to the section featuring the Grand Design travel trailers. The one I thought I wanted was sold, but he let me look at it. If it was the one I wanted for sure, it could be ordered and I would just have to be patient.
After looking at the ideal one and at several other Grand Design Imagine floorplans, I actually eliminated the one I thought I wanted. It had a desk, which was a must-have. It also had an island, which I didn’t need. Also it was bigger than I needed. The 2600RB floorplan was 26 feet in length (living space), with a very large bathroom, and lots of storage for my art supplies. I felt like Goldilocks. This one was just right. Turning to the salesman, I said, “I want it” and I got it. Within about two weeks of making up my mind to go back to RV life, I had a travel trailer and a truck to pull it. I named the RV “Patty” and the truck “Patty Puller”. I brought the RV home on St. Patrick’s day.Some of the details have worked out splendidly.
Picking the RV first made it better for knowing what truck I needed. If I’d have bought the truck I almost bought, I’d have had to buy a much smaller, lighter RV. I know that would not have been good. I had a campground site reserved near where my apartment and work are. That was smart. When the date for paper signing was set, I asked to have several things added to the RV. Having that done before signing gave me a good discount and ensured a safer and more comfortable experience with life as a nomad.
I ordered three Fantastik fans to be installed where there were originally default fans. Good choice. I had a surge protector built into the RV so I would have peace of mind. Surge Protectors are quite expensive and easy pray for theft when they’re outside at the pedestal. It also protects my RV from damage due to power surges. The rig was pre-wired for a back-up camera, so I had one installed. A monitor comes with it and I can stick that on the windshield and easily check for obstacles or traffic behind my RV. I ordered several other items, but those were the biggest changes.
Sophia, the cat, and I moved into the RV right away. I would have two months left on the lease of my apartment, but several things needed to be done. Sophia needed to decide if she could live in a travel trailer. I needed to know if she would run away when the door opened. She often ran out the door of the apartment, but the hallway was not really the escape she hoped for. In the RV, if she ran out the door, she’d be free and I’d be Sophia-less.
Another thing I wanted to accomplish was moving things into the RV slowly and as I discovered a need for them. Some things I brought here turned out to be impractical, so they went back to the apartment.
There was one thing I was anxious about. The dinette. The cushions were lovely, but when I sat on one, they proved to be little cushioning at all. Perhaps instead of being called cushions, they should be called cushion-less or uncushions. The table was too high. It felt as though I were a little child, with my food mere inches from my mouth. I could find no redeeming quality about the dinette even from the start. Well, maybe one. It was color coordinated nicely with the rest of the RV.
BEFOREAFTER
I had my friend Steve drill three holes in the back. So far I haven’t been able to decide whether to bring all three of my electronics. I have a desktop computer, which I love. The other two items are printers. One prints fabulous everything. The photos look amazing. The other printer is for printing art work and it prints up to 13 x 19 on almost any paper surface you could want.. However, that would be the ultimate and make my life great, but it adds weight. Not just to the RV itself, but to the slide-out which has a weight limit of 600 pounds and that includes me. There is storage space behind both upright cabinets. The purpose of that is to store my suitcase solar panels and the small solar generator. That means even more weight and it’ll be weight not just on the slide-out, but on the forward half of the slide-out.
Its a common concern with full time RVers. We enter into this life because its a simpler life. I’m all in for that. Its more of a minimalist life and it brings life’s focus to more important things. Do I want to be known for “she lived simply and wisely” or “she wanted what she wanted, no matter the weight”? Arg! Its so hard. Choosing to give up things that have been important in my life. Never a favorite thing to do.
I suppose that’s enough for now. By the way, it’s my birthday. I’m sixty-seven today. I’m shaking my head even as I say it.
I Made Pudding…reposted from my old website “Travels With Einstein”
I’ve been a nomad for the past three years; a grey nomad. Traveling the country in a travel trailer and then a motorhome. It was a glorious time and it was shared by Einstein, my Golden Retriever. The words that follow are from my travel blog. I’m not a nomad right now, but who knows. I have wanderlust and it remains to be seen whether or not I can be content with life on firm foundation.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
By Dylan Thomas
Keeping in touch through social media
I read on Facebook about the special moments my children are experiencing with their children…memories they are living right now and that they will cherish always. As I read I remember my own times like that. There were achievements, performances, events where I witnessed them coming into their own, shaping themselves, living in the moment. I guess I long to have that all back…but it is gone and done. If I had lived just a generation earlier, I would be retired from a job, collecting a small pension, and sitting on the front porch waiting for something…I don’t know what. Life would belong to the young.
But I made pudding today..
I’ve asked no one to take this journey with me. In fact, I’ve intentionally needed to take it alone. I have needed quiet time to sit and reflect on what came before and what might come after. I want to think about how all the things I’ve done and experienced fit into what’s left of my time on the earth. When I drive along in the RV, miles of road before me, I want to see that road with my own eyes and feelings and impressions.
Whether I am able to muster up the courage to speak to a stranger, ask questions, ask advise, find out how their own path has gone out here on the road or behind the cash register or that counter…I want it to be because I wanted it. Right now I don’t want to consider anyone else’s opinion. I want to fit it all together by myself. When I come to an intersection, even if I had a plan at the start of the day, I want the freedom to change my mind and go left instead of right.
I’m ever mindful of the lessening of days in my life. Little aches and pains niggle at my mind and body, never letting me forget. This is my time and I’m letting it fall upon me quietly or loudly.
So today, on this Tuesday, I made pudding…because I wanted to.
