I Bet You Are Sorry

I received a text the other day from someone I’ve known online for quite a few years. This person was incredulous when we announced we would be selling our house to live in buses, so the message received came as no surprise.

“I’ll bet you’re sorry you sold your house now that your bus is broken down and you can’t travel,” was the message in question, and I have to tell you, at first, her question angered me, for her message was clear, “you were an idiot, Bill, to sell your security and take such a chance at your age.”

I have simmered down a bit since then.

With a cooler head I have a couple observations.

We all bring to the table of life a unique package of history and experiences and DNA, and it surprises me not at all that there are people who do not understand what, to me, was a perfectly logical decision.

There are also people who find great joy in telling people “I told you so,” and can hardly wait to point out the folly in the decisions and actions of others.

I am the Gatekeeper of my life and, as such, I can choose whether to allow people access to my emotions, and the woman in question is now denied access.

Having said all that, let me address the question.

Not at all do I regret making the decision.  Let me put it another way.  I would venture to guess a great many people die having never attempted to make a dream come true. The reasons for that are many, from lack of courage to drowning in responsibilities to fear to . . . well, there are countless reasons not to take a risk of gargantuan proportions, especially in an uncertain economy.

I am in the other camp, the camp which believes it would be criminal to not take the risk, to always live life in a minimizing risk way.  To me, living in fear, or living overly cautiously, is not living at all. I can’t imagine it.  So no, I do not regret the decision. There was something I wanted to do before I died, there were things I no longer wanted to do (live in Suburbia), and I said what the hell and did it.

Would I do it again, knowing a year ago what I know now, the bus problems and all that?

You bet your ass I would!  And anyone who wants to address a negative, disparaging remark to me about it, well, meet The Gatekeeper!

MOVING ON . . .

I have no clue what the next chapter is; how’s that for honesty?

I just bought a travel trailer, maybe five feet longer than the bus, Puddle Walker, and that will be my home for the foreseeable future. Puddle Walker will be sold. She served her purpose and now she needs to move on to the next chapter in her life, as well.

I’m going to help Bev on the farm quite a bit this summer. She wants to develop her new orchard/chicken area, so we will work on that, and there will be summer camps we both will run, and tours of the farm, and cuddle sessions we will host, so it’s not like I won’t be doing something.

Traveling? I don’t know. My eyesight is getting worse and it will not be rectified until October. My safe Bill says to sit it out this summer and maybe take that Iowa drive in October after the operation. The to hell with it Bill says lets hit the road for a week or two.

We shall see. I’m not making plans. I have possibilities and we shall see what unfolds. You can take this to the bank, though: whatever I decide to do, I am going to see the wonder in life during the process.

SAY HELLO TO DAISY JANE

“Do you really love me; I hope you do.”

Words from “Daisy Jane” by America, from back in the 60’s and the inspiration for the name of my new domicile.

Yes, Puddle Walker has been “abandoned.”  She is at the mechanic where her troublesome “not starting” issues will be rectified and then she will be sold.

Meanwhile, this past weekend, as has been hinted for months now, my new home is a 21-foot travel trailer by the name of Daisy Jane.

Sweet melancholy . . . and unbridled joy!

Just for the record, I have gone sixteen months without running water, without a flushing toilet, without a shower, without a range or oven, without a microwave, at times without electricity, all deprivation occurring in about eighty-five square feet.  And, truthfully now, folks, I never really missed those things, not to the point of complaining about it, or whining about it.  Sure, there were days when I would wistfully think back on ten-minute showers and space enough to take ten steps in one direction, but I never felt deprived or annoyed by whatever inconvenience had fallen upon me on any given day.

It is my belief that the vast majority of us living in the Western World are privileged in many ways, dare I say spoiled, and most days I relished in the fact that I could live without for long periods of time.

Having said that, don’t think for a second that I did not celebrate joyfully when I spent my first day in Daisy Jane and enjoyed running water and all the other comforts of a tiny home.  Daisy Jane will never be mistaken for a mansion, but the extra seven feet of living space length is, well, it’s hard to adequately explain how much difference that extra seven feet makes in the maintenance of my psyche.

I will miss Puddle Walker. She represented over a year of freedom on the road, mysteries and wonders experienced, literally, daily, and a part of me misses those days terribly.

But I love Daisy Jane and the promise she brings for a bright tomorrow.

With running water!