"As each increment of change unfolded, I got closer to what I actually wanted... Less."
I will never be a perfect person and enlightenment isn’t an attainment of my spirit, it IS my spirit. These are the words and work of my human experience. I am not sure which came first in ‘the chicken or the egg’ theory. Was I built from perfectionism and attainment or was I imperfect and enlightened all along without knowing? The workings of my world have never been a road short of shortcomings and loss. As I sit in the belly of my life today I am so very content with the woman I have become. Most importantly, I am loving to the woman I was and have been all along.
She sits in silence on her cushion.
She sits bravely when she writes.
She sits comfortably within.
She sits lovingly in her grief.
She gives herself a steadfast equilibrium.
She loves without abandonment of self.
She explores with curiosity and freedom.
The curation of a woman is never a light matter. The curation of a woman living in grief is boundless. It isn’t an overnight matter and the impulsion to crucify her old ways is common. The impulsion to crucify her new ways are too. So, I have never held a lot of weight in the words of those who do not take the time to understand me. As I sit comfortably at my desk with my salary, my investments and my paralegal successes, I am left wanting more that has nothing to do with these securities and everything to do with my wandering heart.
The manifestation of Liv was long before she came into my life. I had dreamed of slipping on my pencil skirt in my van in a parking lot and heading into the office many years before I ever did. She was such a beautiful idea. She was the freedom ride out of the four walled box I was subjected to each time I was told how to be, who to be, and how to live my days. My co-workers would laugh about how I could be found in the parkade in the morning instead of my five bed three bath dwellings in the upscale hood on the ridge. I was the running joke. I was going to be the woman in the van down by the river. As that upscale home downscaled and the house became an apartment, the apartment turned into a shipping container cabin in my mind. As each increment of change unfolded, I got closer to what I actually wanted.
Less.
I wanted less, and in less I receive more than I could ever need. Liv’s simplicity reminds me of what spirit means and how to call upon it for my centred happiness.
In the winter of 2020 I drove her off the lot on a snowy February morning, she and I both an empty shell, and took her back to a 10x10 storage unit full of intentions and for three solid months, I made my dream of her my reality as I built her into the most giving home I have ever had. There were tears of frustration. There was elation when windows turned up out of thin air. There was a lot of learning and Liv was my teacher. As the majority of her build was sound I was set to head on my first trip. I had ironically chosen Vancouver Island as my destination. I had purchased a cassette toilet but had not had time to put in the slide and tray, so I opted for running to Walmart for a tote to store it in. I could simply yoink the tote from the allotted space in her garage and kick it old school. I got into the drivers seat to head my rigged plans and her engine wouldn’t start. With only 100 km on her odometer something was obviously amiss. Her first trip ended up being on the flatbed of a tow truck on her way to Mercedes, where she sat for nearly a month waiting for a part to arrive and for the argument between my electrician and the Benz staff on who was to blame to unravel. Instead of pulling up to Long Beach I was pulling up next to her in the Subaru at the dealership lot to empty all of the things I had placed in her cabinets and drawers for the maiden voyage. There was a heavy sense of disappointment, and her lessons in going with the flow. I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was she. We both had to wait.
Before Liv was even mended I had pulled the plug at work. With zero bereavement time under my belt I was breaking. I threw up the white flag and took leave. As soon as I picked her up from her service, it took moments for us to find our rhythm on the road. The cabinets got stuffed, the yeti full of food, and not much stopped us from that point onward. It was such a relief to lock the door to the condo and have no idea where she and I were going. She expected so little of me and I of her. We spent a great deal of time on the road and resting in areas with no service, lending me the time I needed to reconnect to who I was in my early grief years. Liv kept me warm. She fed me. She escaped with me and asked nothing of me. She was there as my holding space as I submerged in my sorrow and followed my heart map. We traveled, slow wide turning, through the Rockies, the Purcells, the Selkirks, the Kootenays, the Cascades and the island in what seemed like a forever autumn. We settled in national parks, crown land and friends driveways. She gave me permission to let go of all the things I was bred to believe I should do, and let me become who I am without running any interference. She was my safety. As my time drew to a close and work was back on my horizon, I was crushed. She held me as I cried all the way back to the Valley and she then sat in silent patience back home in her parking space as I found ways to get back to where I was. I fought the societal norm with a vengeance and rolled her tires over dirt roads and parked next to roaring camp fires every single second I could. In the moments I was bound by work, I would go into the parking lot and just sit in her space even for half an hour. It became as clear as death, being with her was exactly where I needed to be. This was never going to fade into my 9-5, my mortgage payments, and my responsibilities. My only responsibility was soon to become to myself, without much else mattering.
After a second leave I pulled the plug on work all together. I had spent another round sunk deep into Kananaskis. After days of roaming in the backcountry and landing in the helicopter with my 60 lb pack, It was the best feeling in the world to drag myself down the trail and see her waiting for me. I swivelled her seat and watched the storm roll in. I slept at the trail head in the freezing cold and listened to her water pump gurgle and struggle. My breath was cold outside of my -40 bag. She held on as I ran her engine and pulled the water pump fuse to let it all rest a bit. When I woke in the morning and rolled out of the Mount Shark lot towards the Smith Dorian, she and I pulled over and cried at the sight of the frost blanketing the meadow with the Rockies jagged in the backdrop. There wasn’t anything more beautiful in my world. There wasn’t anything more that I needed. As I headed back to the Valley again I knew there needed to be bigger change.
Without much warning to anyone, I sold my home, and I left.
Liv and I rolled onto the island in the early spring. I had a full bank account from selling my house and a sense of uncertainty as to how that piece was to play out. I just knew I needed to try life different. There was a tingling inside in knowing I wasn’t tied to a mortgage or my investment, coupled with the nagging fear of my money floating in air without a space to grow. It was a raised flag to the world we live in. One day we get older and have the need to retire. As I witnessed other nomads fly by the seat of their pants and take it as it came, they often were left unsecured in that part of life and that scared me. I had always been a solo entity. There was never a net for me to fall towards that would catch me unless I had woven it. My life had been a series of dismantling relationship and family. There was no mom and dad. There was no partner or husband. There was just me, myself and I. Retirement was a solo mission. I had taken a job with a local firm and attempted to mold into island life in whatever sense that meant. I caved early on and bought a condo as my money sitting on the sidelines didn’t sit well. As I awaited possession, I took Liv out to the Juan De Fuca and sat in our new surroundings. Soon occupied by moving into my new space, in record time I came to a realization that I had created the same scene in my previous movie. I was doing exactly what I was doing in the Valley. The only thing I had changed, was the location. I began to work on another plan to leave it all behind and I quit my job for a part time contract gig, in hopes it would allow me the opportunity to have the best of both worlds. Vanlife with financial security. Freedom with stability.
I have one heart and it goes in both directions.
I planned a move to Bragg Creek that was set and gave me half a year to roam, write, heal and work. But once again, the plan turned Liv around and we headed back to island life. She and I, again, riding the wave of impermanence. Each of our trips carries me deeper in to the realization that time is my biggest commodity. Each return home becomes harder. 'Normalcy' creeps in and I do my best to sweep it aside, yet hold responsibility for the other pieces of my future that count.
Vanlife, like grief, has a connection to nature that nurtures. And just the same as grief unpredictably unfolds itself, it has opened my world and my inner work in the most beautiful ways. While I may not be ready to leave it all behind, I am grateful I am brave enough to sit here at all and be curious about what can come, if I choose. When I choose.
Perhaps one day I WILL live in a van down my the river.
And Perhaps... I will also own the land.
With metta,
L.
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