Other People's Kitchens (or: How to Fall Off a Cliff)

Camping in sleepy Carroll County, Maryland (those are beehives behind me)

When you’re living out of a bag, moving from place to place, you can't be on autopilot anymore—whether it’s making tea, doing laundry, taking a shower, connecting to the internet, even going to bed. You’re figuring everything out for the first time, over and over again. Every house has its own rules, which you undoubtedly don’t know exist until you break them. No scented laundry detergent, recycle, we don’t recycle, keep the windows closed, keep the windows open, keep this window closed.

Without a consistent stream of freelance gigs, I can’t even work on autopilot. I find and pitch each story or job as I go. It’s freeing but also exhausting, and I’m only one week into this nomadic existence. It’s a strange feeling, to not have a home. I’ve been thinking about Kerouac a lot. I’m hoping freedom wins out in the end.

Meanwhile, I’m still in Maryland. Last week, I stayed with an ex-boyfriend in Baltimore, and today, I set up camp at my mom’s house. I’m writing this on a foldout table in her yard, where I’ll be camping (literally, in her backyard) for the next week, while I finish some final interviews in the area. Truth be told, when I had the idea to drive across America, this is not what I had in mind for the first leg of the trip, but is life ever what you thought it would be? (For the record, I’m also horrible at planning anything, so here I am, writing by the light of a lantern, smack in the middle of suburbia.)

I’ve also been sorting through my carload. After downsizing from a house to a car, you’d think the work would be done (and what an intense two weeks that was), but instead, I have too much stuff wedged into my car and have to cut back even more. Truth is, how many flashlights and lanterns and headlamps does one really need? If downsizing has taught me anything, it’s that I need a lot less than I thought.

All that said, the vision of the road is getting nearer and nearer, barely a fantasy anymore but a practical, concrete next step.

Over the winter, when driving across America was still a vague idea and I was bundled in blankets with books and tea, I had dream sequences that were quite revealing. Early on, I had a series of dreams of me at various beaches, swimming in the ocean, always among massive waves that should have terrified me—waves that were bigger than I’ve ever seen in waking life—but instead, I met them full on, with strength and joy and buoyancy. In the dreams, I wasn’t frightened by the fact that they were big enough to destroy me.

And then I started dreaming about falling off cliffs. All kinds of cliffs. Sometimes someone else would fall, but upon waking, I’d realize that the girl in the dream was a representation of me. Like the girl who looked like my blonde-haired, Southern-California, partying alter-ego. She was loose and wild, feathers in her hair, carrying on about something, talking among friends but standing with her back to the edge of a cliff. All her friends were freaking out, telling her she was about to fall. And then she did. And the whole crowd rushed over to see her plunge to her death, but instead, she was still just nonchalantly carrying on, standing on a ledge that sat about four feet below, out of sight from the others.

Sabbatical

Out with the old to make space for the new.

I’ve moved a lot throughout my life, and in recent years, I’ve continued to downsize with every change of address, although never quite to this extent.

In two weeks, I’ll be downsizing to a tent and living on the road. I’ll be driving across the country alone for the second time in my life, but this time feels different. This time, there is no home to return to—just open road, where some blend of magic and mystery meet, where the future is expansive and unwritten.

A couple days ago, I packed all of my earthly possessions into a truck and drove it to Pittsburgh, where they’ll be stored at my brother's house until, well, further notice. I kept what I needed for an unknown amount of time—essentials like clothes, camp gear, and a bin of journals and books and field guides.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to live on the road—pitch a tent in the wilderness along the way, visit the quirky towns and tourist towns and ghost towns, see all of America. This year, I’m gifting myself that opportunity. I’m viewing it as a sabbatical of sorts, where I’ll be focusing on my creative work: working on a few manuscripts, interviewing people for a book project, and developing my knowledge as an herbalist by studying terrains outside of Appalachia and crafting new formulas (herbal tinctures, flower and gem essences, prayer bundles, etc.). I’m excited, intimidated, open, nervous, all depending on what day it is. Or hour. Mostly though, I feel more aligned with who I am and how I should be living, more than I ever have in my entire life.

A little backstory about all this: In 2017, I uprooted my quiet, country life to take a job in Baltimore, after having stayed at the same job for 12 years prior. I’d lived in various places out in the country throughout my entire adult life and had never felt so out of my element upon moving to the city, despite the wonderful people I was meeting. Then, six months ago, I got laid off from said job, when the company decided to make staff cuts. I was mostly numb at first, which then turned to panic. How would I survive? How would I pay my bills? Where would I move when my lease was up, if I made it that far? I had eight more months to go! And then one morning, instead of waking up in a panic, I woke up with a solution, as if it had been delivered to me in my sleep. When my lease was up in May, I would live on the road, something I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember.

I started freelance writing and editing and was able to make ends meet through the winter while loosely planning this rendezvous with the road. If it means going into credit card debt to take this sabbatical, I'm OK with that. Whatever it takes, really, I'm OK with those things, too.

For 13 years, I'd been on a hamster wheel of deadlines, churning out copy for newspapers and magazines. I got burned out a long time ago. Blame it on being a Manifestor. I know that other people do it, but even when I could keep up, it always bothered me that I was putting my own creative work on hold while I expended all my energy on writing that never really felt like it was authentically “me.” Needless to say, I’ve been working on a lot of my own projects and will continue to do that while living nomadically.

Are there times when I think I should be scrambling to find full-time work and saving money to buy a house and do the thing every other 37-year-old woman seems to be doing? Obviously. But that stirring inside me never goes away, that longing to be traveling and writing, that longing for freedom and expansion. I feel most like myself when I’m in that space. And what are we all wasting our time doing, if we’re not continually aiming to find our center of gravity, our own true north, that space of creation where we come most alive?

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note on the title of this blog: “Dear Road” is the title of a travelogue/memoir that I wrote during a cross-country trip in 2008. I’d planned to edit it over the winter and publish it before traveling again, but life got too intense to hit my own deadline (yay, life!). In the book, prayers to the road are interspersed among notes about my travels. I thought the title was fitting for a blog as well because I’ll literally be back on the road but also because my intention continues to be spiritual in nature, and I want to share any insights with you.