He wore a wry smile like an ill-fitting, itchy sweater. I could tell he was nervous—as if he was expecting me to take a knee and propose, kick-starting a flash mob. But this wasn’t a romantic comedy, just a lunch break. And all I wanted to do was give him my wedding ring.
Two minutes later, that symbol of fidelity and matrimony and love vanished with him into a growing, teeming crowd outside. My phone vibrated from a text alert:
“You have $90.25 pending transfer.”
I darkened the screen, and walked across the street to my office to look at spreadsheets outlining events I wouldn’t attend, logistics I wouldn’t field. With four years’ worth of the Pacific Northwest beneath my belt, and the continued rise in the cost of living, I decided it was time to go—to upend the proverbial hourglass, and craft an endgame before the last grain of sand trickled through.
Out my pigeon poop-speckled window, the Great Wheel slowly turned above Elliot Bay, and I swiveled in my chair to begin emptying file folders.
Round and around we go.
***
As I lay on the floor, the shag carpet’s frayed orange fibers illuminated by a camping lantern—its glow amplified by the snow falling outside—I felt something shift inside me. Looking around at the vacant space as Wolf Mother’s “Vagabond” hummed nearby, I recognized that my life would never be the same.
We’re often told that insanity is defined as doing the same thing repeatedly expecting different results. And for most of my adult life, I’d done exactly that: dragged around the same objects; expended inordinate amounts of time convincing myself that this was the job; and worked to feel connected, part of a community. I’d work proactively to stitch everything together, to write a fresh life chapter that felt more compelling. But then, after a time, it’d trend into the realm of fiction—and I’d wake to the reality that my beautiful things continued to gather dust in cluttered, temporary lodgings that the climbing cost of living would wrest away. And I’d, once again, begin to float, unmoored—navigating the smoothest currents to the closest, safest shoreline where I’d start the cycle anew.
And so, months before that snowy evening, I recognized that changing a little meant staying and steeping in the sameness that’d cajoled me into apathy, into aligning with the status quo. But as I stared into the mostly darkened room—my back against clustered pillows, my head resting against the legs of my only remaining chair—I felt as though my exhausted heart had been lowered into a deep well of hope: the weathered bucket filling, refreshing the atrophied organ.
Self-selecting into tiny living was similar to filing for divorce—suddenly recognizing that I no longer wanted to be comfortable in my discomfort. But as empowering a decision as it was to make, I knew it’d also be one of the hardest to see through to fruition; after all, it required me leaving a life I’d been conditioned to believe was normal, responsible—even successful. There’d be so much uncertainty and fear. But I knew that if I remained confined in the monotonous cycle in which I was stuck, I’d continue to wither; my selfhood would die. And I couldn’t allow that to happen, for there’s so much to do and see and wonder about.
***
Crusts at my eyes’ edges roughened my fingertips as I slowly rose, grinding away a dream’s haze with sleep-strengthened fists. A deep, insatiable taste for the sunrise broiled in my gut; I knew I had to see it: a primal reminder of rebirth.
From her blanket-plumped bed, JoJo blinked confusedly, watching me shuffle over to the windows with my lukewarm coffee, a mason jar of cool water, and the last square of chocolate from the previous night’s decimated dessert.
And then, I waited—framed by neon geranium tendrils poised to gulp in the same light. Coffee washed over the chocolate, dissolving it across my tongue, as my mouth flexed, the corners liberated from the night’s tacked-on drool.
I eyed the distant mountains, their pink halo expanding—stretching across neighboring peaks. Outside, the empty streets gleamed with frost, and bloated seagulls dipped and weaved above the low-slung industrial buildings abutting my apartment, and then settled atop a few telephone poles; their feathered necks angled in the same direction I looked.
Fall seven times, get up eight.
This Japanese proverb blipped into my morning messages from a friend I hadn’t seen in years. I took a deep breath, keeping my eyes firmly affixed to the horizon. My strength rallied, mingling with a burning desire for the sun; the fear that’d been sown over the past week wasn’t gone, but its growth had been stymied by this dormant cultivar. Each will grow, wither, and arc—but ultimately I must decide which to tend.
I took another sip. And then, through a small hole in the cloud bank, a slat of brilliant light burst forth. Moments later, the tip of the sun pushed above the remaining clouds—dousing the windowsill, the geranium, and me with its brilliance. I pulled a breath up from my toe tips, and exhaled into the windowpane.
JoJo nuzzled my leg, and I folded myself down onto the floor. Her tongue inched out of her mouth as I rubbed between her ears, her tiny head pressing into my knee. I smiled.
…get up eight.
***
Lately, with the litany of RV repairs and growing bills cluttering every corner of my mental frame as I hemorrhage savings and creep up on my last days of work, I feel wholly depleted—as if there’s no thread of a shred of hope that this endeavor will pan out. But I’ve tried to channel the optimism I felt the first night I sat in my RV alone.
Scanning the space, I knew there were plenty of things to be done, and that gave me pause. Even still, I felt a bizarre sense of calm, and remembered thinking: I have a home now. Bertie was an imperfect block that needed ample work, but Bertie was mine, and would go wherever I went. I imagined the journeys we’d take together and smiled.
I reached into my backpack and removed my grandmother’s rag-wrapped music box, and cranked the small key, listening as “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” slowly chimed into the darkness. I ran my hand along Bertie’s weathered dash, and over two puffy, faded Troll stickers.
“And just where will we go?” I murmured.
I rested my head against the back of the leather captain’s chair and closed my eyes. And in the dark, the aged chimes’ hammer fell gracefully.
Some…
…where.