GIVING MYSELF PERMISSION TO RELAX
There is so much I don’t know about this upcoming lifestyle, and that’s unsettling.
I really don’t know what my expenses will be while on the road. The expenses I imagine, once I am boondocking on a regular basis, are not the expenses I am incurring now. Now, life is reasonably expensive on the road. Then, maybe a month or two into the future, considerably less.
But I don’t have concrete information to use as a foundation or building pad, borrowing from construction talk, and without a solid foundation, I feel . . . unsettled.
Which leads, of course, to the point of this section, giving myself permission to relax. I know, in the logical part of my brain, that things will be fine, but the logical part of my brain does not always run this crazy show called Bill. Once I turn things over to the emotional, the illogical, the semi-crazed well, it’s a whole new ballgame, folks, one I try very hard to avoid if at all possible.
So, I’m trying to relax. Breathe deep, absorb the peace surrounding me, the mountains, the high desert, and companionship, now let that breath out, and repeat, repeat, and repeat.
On a related note, I’ve got this alcoholic thing going for me, and it’s all tied together for me, the peace of mind, the order, the routine, I find solace in those things, and when they are not present, or I’m tossed into a meat-grinder of emotions, I have the drunk to deal with, even if he isn’t drinking, and don’t you love the way I went from first person to third in the blink of an eye?
So, I’m working on the relaxation thing, the breathe deep thing, the giving myself permission to be a bit unsettled, all the while knowing that I am really quite well, and life is, well, quite good.
SITTING IN THE REI PARKING LOT
The place: Medford, Oregon, or more specifically, the REI parking lot in Medford, Oregon, me waiting for Bev while she shops for the one last item in their inventory she does not own. Yes, that was facetious, but not by much.
I’m watching the cars come, the cars go, and the people walk in, and the people walk out, and I’m struck, for maybe the third time on this journey, how similar that particular scene is, or was, to thousands of others playing out across the country. If you took a quick snapshot of that parking lot, in Medford, it would be impossible to tell where you were in the U.S., and that leads to a grander point of it all, that there is so little that differentiates us all. It’s like 99% of our daily doings, our comings and goings, our hither and yon, is the same, no matter where we live, no matter our age, our sex, our religious affiliation, our political leanings, we are all just flesh and bone, moving through very similar lives, the locations different but not the scenes playing out in those locations.
Why, then, do we have to much trouble getting along?
Why do some think their shit don’t stink when, in fact, it reeks every bit as much as our neighbor’s?
Just something I’m thinking about from a rest area just south of the Oregon/California border, six p.m., a rainy night in February, safe within the bus’s cocoon.
RANDOM KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
I think humans get a bad rap. Perhaps it’s just the fact that 99% of what we see on television, and what we see on social media, are the hair-raising, scare-the-shit out of people stories, telecast with the express purpose of getting viewership. Whatever the case may be, I have found the vast majority of people to be friendly, courteous, and eager to interact in a positive manner.
Cases in point . . .
Eating dinner at a rest area in Trinidad, California, car parks nearby, single woman, maybe fifty-five, gets out and goes to the rest room. After completing that task she see us, the dogs, smiles, says she likes our bus, loves our dogs, and then rummages around in her SUV, finds what she is looking for, and walks to us with fresh lemons from her mother’s tree in L.A. “Do you like fresh lemons,” she says, and Bev is thrilled by the gesture.
And . . .
Stopped at Tractor Supply in Crescent City, first time filling the propane tank, I obviously looked confused, a young clerk smiles, helps me, chats me up, couldn’t be nicer if she was being paid for the friendliness, loved the dogs, of course, wishing us safe travels when she completed her acts of kindness.
And . . .
A Mexican couple, broken English, stops us while we are walking along the beach, smiling broadly, asks us where we are from, where we are going, brotherhood oozing from their pores, such lovely people, nothing in it for them other than a tall can of feel-good.
I hope, and I mean this sincerely, that I give as much as I receive on this journey. Meeting America, one handshake at a time, but more . . . spreading some kindness, sharing smiles, one handshake at a time . . . yes, that would be perfect.