The Journey Chapter 64: Intentional Living and a Walk on the Beach

MORE ON LIVING A DELIBERATE, INTENTIONAL LIFE

Probably my biggest fear, and Thoreau mentioned it earlier, is to be on my death bed and realize that I did not live life to the fullest, I did not live it my way, and I did not live it with passion.  Truth be told, that ship has already sailed, for I spent a great many decades not living intentionally; however, I am reborn now, and I have no excuses from this point forward.

It begins, of course, with the realization that something humongous is missing from your life, a hole has opened in your soul, and out of that hole your lifeforce is seeping.  You let too many opportunities pass you by; you zigged when you should have zagged; you tried to please far too many people, or you lived a life designed by others, by fate, or by circumstance.

The realization then, hopefully, leads to a plan of action.

Let me tell you a true story . . . about Bev . . . I don’t think she will mind.

About two years ago we were watching some television show about backpacking, maybe a documentary, hell, it could have been the movie “Wild,” and when the show ended, Bev said “I wish I could do something like that.” To which I replied “what’s stopping you?”  A quizzical look crossed Bev’s face, and then the realization that really, when push came to shove, absolutely nothing was stopping her. And with that realization the idea of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail was born.

But it was still just conjecture, just tossing an idea around; what needed to happen next was a course of action, and that course of action took shape so that most things we did in the year that followed were action steps leading to Bev being able to start the hike in 2023.

For that year, we both were living intentionally, deliberately, with a purpose, and it was exhilarating.

The final step in that particular drama/adventure was to sell the house and buy buses. Once we did that, we had taken the final step towards a complete commitment to live free and intentionally.

Interestingly, not once did we have a conversation where we spoke of living intentionally but that is, in fact, what we were doing, and it is what we are still doing as I write this chapter.

Bev is still working out, in her mind, what her future will look like. Mine is a bit more concrete. Both of us are determined to live according to what makes us happy, what fills us with passion, and what gives us the most freedom to live our lives in harmony with man and nature.

I feel a video coming on, for those of you, and those out there in web world, who learn better by visual prompts rather than the written word.

Did I tell you I’ve started taking harmonica lessons online?

WALKING THE BEACH ON AN OCTOBER MORNING

Where I am staying, property-sitting, I am no more than a five-minute drive to the Pacific Ocean, and I try to take Maggie there daily. It may well be her happiest place on Earth. My six-year-old turns into a puppy when I illegally let her off leash and she runs into the surf, splashing and whooping and hollering in dog speak, droplets flying, foam and froth and fur intermingle, and I swear to God my dog smiles while she is playing.  She darts straight into the first wave she encounters, jumps up, all four feet airborne, shakes, sprints back to me, always between my legs, and I can almost hear her laughing as she goes.

This particular morning it is foggy, mid-fifties, hardly any breeze to speak of, and my mind instantly turns to the movie “The Fog,” directed by John Carpenter, me expecting to see long-dead sailors walking out of the shrouded, watery horizon, swords at the ready, lifeless eyes surveying the sandy expanse, settling on me, the first kill of the day.

I have a vivid imagination, almost unsettling, quite frankly, alive when the darkness falls, alive when the fog blankets us, alive, alive, and more alive, senses on high-alert, and so it was on that walk, seemed like I was in tune with everything around me, the tiniest crab, the sand shrimp, the textures of driftwood, gulls shrieking, sea grasses and sun-bleached kelp, it all feels familiar, as though simply by the act of breathing I am one with it all.

Amazing, really, first week of October, no rain predicted, not particularly cold, and Maggie and I were the only functional beings on that wide-expanse of sand, as if no one thought of going to the beach once summer officially ended, shame on them, some of the greatest treasures wash ashore in the fall, the great storms carrying all manner of holy shit objects thousands of miles, depositing them at our feet, for our enjoyment, but we have to be there to actually see them. Aye, Matey, there’s the rub, a sailor would say, and back to The Fog my mind goes.

For those of you from other climates, maybe you are saying “what wimps, we swim in the Gulf when the air temp is in the sixties, to which I will reply no one in their right mind swims in the Pacific Ocean bordering Washington State. There is no such thing as a tropical current floating off our shores.  The water temp hovers between 45-55 year round, and those temps will shrink your manhood faster than you can say Mother of Jesus.  No, our coastline is for beachcombing, for bonfires while dressed in fleece, and for long walks, with your dog, when reflection is needed.

Swimming?  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaha

After our walk I stopped to get a coffee. The barista, also the owner, knows my name, knows Maggie’s name, and spoils my girl unapologetically.  We then stopped at Ace Hardware, where at least five of the staff already know Maggie’s name. I swear, we’ve only been here four days so far, but it’s amazing how friendly and accepting people are if you give them half a chance, and if you act like you really care about how they are, which I do . . . and which Miss Maggie does.

We will be here five more days before heading back to Olympia for a few days. There’s no telling how many more people I can meet in five days . . . how many more Maggie can charm . . . but we aim to give it our best effort.

NO NEW PLANS FOR NOW

My mind is in its incubation period.

I’m weighing options in an ambivalent, nonchalant sort of way. I feel like Pooh, and I know how strange that sounds.

The best I can tell you right now, October 6^th, is I will be in Ocean Shores until this coming Tuesday, the 10^th, at which point I will go back to Olympia for five days during my birthday time frame. After that, back to Ocean Shores for a couple more weeks.  And that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

Bev will be in Eastern Washington for most of November, helping a daughter-in-law as she recovers from some medical treatment/operation.  I’m thinking of going there for a few days, get away from the oncoming rain. Once the rains start in Ocean Shores, they don’t stop, and it gets a bit dreary hanging out in Puddle Walker all day, every day, as the skies weep.  So, perhaps a trip east of the mountains, where they don’t do dreary . . . but we shall see. I really don’t have a plan, and that is perfectly all right by me.  And, until a plan formulates in my antiquated mind. I will live an intentional, deliberate life, and take each day as it comes.  All I know for sure is living with Maggie, in the bus, with torrential downpours, for months, does not sound like fun.  And I’m sure Maggie agrees with that assessment.

I can do this Ocean Shores gig all winter if I want. I have the camp host job waiting for me, in February, at Scissor’s Crossing, California, if I want it. I could probably work as a camp host in Campo, California, if I want it.  Or I could just say to hell with it all, embrace the flowerchild in me, and wait for my inner spirit to whisper in my enlightened ear.  Maybe go in search of Woodstock, a full fifty-three years late. Or take off on mini-adventures, seven to ten days each, with Olympia as my home base . . . and I still have this craving for some Midwest hospitality, go visit my parents’ home state, Iowa, this spring.  Oh, and I hear there are honest-to-God communes still in existence. How cool would that be, to spend a little time in one of those? Or maybe it wouldn’t be cool at all, but there is no way of knowing without actually experiencing, something I wish more knowitalls on Facebook would think about before posting idiotic pablum for the uneducated and delusional . . . but the flip side of that is also true, that we can know things without experiencing them, so where does that put us on the spectrum of knowledge?

I truly don’t know which way I am leaning, if leaning at all.  And I’m having a blast being clueless, a shout out to Alicia Silverstone.  One thing I know for sure is I don’t want anyone, at the end of my days, to say I was afraid to fly.  And I don’t want to look in the mirror, at the end of my days, and say I spent my final years just killing time.

COOLER THAN COOL

A deer ate out of my hand today.

Not at some petting zoo.

An honest to God, in the wild, no fences, no forced captivity, a deer roaming free, ate out of my hand.

I’m not ashamed to tell ya, I had tears in my eyes. A wild animal, setting aside fear, trusting a two-legged creature, ever so slowly approaching, wary eyes on a dog, the man, a dog, the man, another step, another, and finally I made one final stretch forward, with my arm, and the doe started nibbling on the leaves I held in my hand.

I don’t even know that I have some wise, philosophical observation to share with you.

A deer ate out of my hand today. That pretty much says it all, don’t you think?

On the same day, Israel was attacked by Hamas.  Climatologists warn us that the three warmest months . . . in recorded history . . . occurred this summer. Pick up the Sunday paper and read, but be prepared to cringe, such is the state of affairs in this world of ours.

But a deer ate out of my hand today.

Small victories!

Living intentionally . . . allowing life to come to me . . .

It is now the next day, me prepared this time, carrying a piece of whole wheat bread, driving Maggie crazy because I wouldn’t share with her, like she’s starving or something, and there are the deer, looks like the same one from yesterday, but how can I be sure (they all look the same to me, a throwback to a rather disparaging racial comment from the 50’s) . . . I held out the bread, one brave soul came forward, tentatively, and gently took the bread from my hand.  She didn’t retreat to eat it but instead stood right in front of me, two feet max, and chewed while keeping an eye on me, on Maggie, such beautiful eyes . . . then I held out my empty hand, and I swear before the gods of nature, she sniffed my hand, wet deer nose brushing my hand, and color me thunderstruck, folks, and yes, tears returned to these old eyes, Doctor my eyes, a shout out to Jackson Browne and a shout out to the possibilities that await us all, right outside our doors, in the World of Wonder.