I’m not exactly sure where the past month went. And, I mean that in the same way that someone would say “now where did I put my keys…..?” We left the Bay Area in July, packing up everything we own and putting it in a storage locker for, um, indefinitely (!) and drove away in our little car packed not quite to the gills with everything we thought we would need for the next few months of bopping place to place.
We took some time in Montana. Did a little (ok a LOT) of trail running in Colorado. I happily overdosed on bicycles and all things Italian, then flew to Istanbul where I happily posed as a tourist indifferent to adrenaline, and instead played the role of traveler completely addicted to all explorations culinary + cultural. Back to Italy for another hit before I landed here in Portland, probably looking a bit like Mike Teevee, just realizing the sheer magnitude of the world in the moments after he was shrunk by Wonkavison in Charlie + the Chocolate Factory. Dumbfounded, in disbelief, looking at my limbs surprised that they were still attached.
Many mornings here, I wake up not knowing exactly where I am, or what day it is. I typically don’t make a plan for the day until I have a chance to see if the sun is out, and therefore am able to gauge whether or not there will be a high propensity for me to be distracted from next projects by good weather. Stockpiling sunny days is just about all the “preparing for the future” that we can muster and when five months of rain are looming on the horizon, its all part of winterizing your home and being anyway.
I’d be lying if I said that part of this wasn’t bliss; I feel as if I’m recovering from the handful of years when I didn’t feel like I had the energy to be creative. Slowly, slowly, I’m reawakening that impulsively creative person whom, I’m finding, has only grown more objective and abstract in her slumber. But the overachiever in me has never been so unfulfilled for our homelessness and uncertainty leaves no place for a routine of “achievements;” checking things off the to-do list, planning meetings, adventures, that stuff that the overactive are addicted to.
Instead, I do little things: sort through all those bitty pieces of paper, artifacts from our travels, cataloging notes, sorting through three months of backlogged magazines, writing friends whom are happy to hear we’re alive. I peck away at projects I’ve meant to do for some time. I do laundry – the same striped shirt, jeans, running shorts, and cycling kit that I’ve been wearing for three months because the rest are packed in storage. I piddle in the kitchen, trying to re-establish the callus where the tang of my chef’s knife hit the soft skin of my pointer finger just above the knuckle on my right hand that disappeared from lack of use when I stopped making dinner EVERY night months ago. And little by little, I’m writing, pitching, and (I think) crafting an attack on what’s next.
When we committed to three months of travel (and therefore at least three months of homelessness) I knew that there would be an expiration date on my enthusiasm for the whole thing and it seems that point of impatience is impending with the rain. In the coming weeks, we’ll put a pin in a map and start making way towards that point for permanent. (Or at least as permanent as we can predict.) Then my computer will have a home that will be my desk, my ideas will have a place to live without my packing them up everyday before dinner. I’ll be able to plot adventures, wear my favorite boots, and play with my own kitchen knives again. But most of all, this whole adventure will come to a close, and start in earnest, all at the same time. I can’t wait.