Far From Anything Like Home

It’s challenging to spend a month away from the village that has been my home for months. This journey makes me contemplate the meaning of “home”. I have told people “home is wherever I happen to be”. Living in an RV is like that. Sometimes. Other times I feel like a constant traveler.

I began RV life within months of my father’s death in 2019. His departure shook my expectations and my family’s plans. My mother misses him daily. Her entire life and routines have been shaken like a jigsaw puzzle box, and poured out onto the table. She’s been putting together the outline, and gathering similarly colored pieces, but there are lots of holes. Other friends who have lost partners give me deeper insight and compassion for her struggle. Losing a father is very different than losing a life partner.

Of course I miss him, and imagine his wisdom when I need guidance. My life goes forward. The randomness of life and loss encourages me to follow through on dreams and try things I have said I want to do. I’ve always wanted to travel, and RV life seemed like a great way to do this. It’s been more difficult than I expected at times, and more fulfilling than I imagined. I have seen landscapes, met strangers, and learned new levels of self-sufficiency. I’ve also learned to ask for help, discovered some of my limitations, and pushed past what I thought I could accomplish.

I’ve traveled across the country twice now, with a dear friend. Next time we’ll have to go North or West or fly somewhere.

Yesterday I was at my limit of being around humans. Being obligated to others. Sure, I work full time, in a room, alone, connecting with people virtually, and completing tasks online. Alone. But I’m not alone. I’m connected to a large network of workers all collaborating to keep things moving forward. The work day ends. Zach and I sit with the elders for a meal, then ride the scooter several miles while the sun sets.

We arrived at the quiet campground yesterday evening, greeted by the songs of cicadas and birds, and the smell of campfires. My keys. Where are the keys? I can “break” into the RV, but Zach thought that might be alarming to our neighbors. We could call his dad and Robin and see if the keys were there, but then we’d have another 20 minute ride each way, in the dark, to retrieve them. At that moment I was very aware of my lack of Megan time. I need completely alone, unplanned hours. I need time to stare off into space, write, draw, paint, listen to podcasts, sing at the top of my lungs, and just be. I need to practice yoga in a room with other yogis, led by a teacher, breathing, focused, connected to all there is, and all those around me.

I found the keys at the very bottom of my purse. We let ourselves in and I went for a walk at dusk. With enough insect repellent I had no problem with the mosquitos, and enjoyed wandering as light subsided. I searched for a podcast to distract my chatterbrain. Mostly I gazed at the sillouhettes of trees and campers, outlines of others gathered around glowing campfires, and breathed in the humid gulf forest air.

Gnarled trees at Fort Pickens, Gulf Shores National Park, Florida.

After my walk I returned to reconnect with Zach, then log into a meeting with classmates. Why did I think I had the brain-capacity to study and read? What was I thinking?

Thank you trees. Thank you Earth. Thank you ocean. Thank you humans. Thank you breath. Thank you body. Thank you all.