Vagabond

When I was younger my parents and I traveled a lot. To be clear, we road-tripped a lot. My mother always had a fear of flying and therefore we'd avoid trips via airplane and opt for family road trips across the country.

My father, a native San Franciscan, had family sprinkled throughout all of California so that's usually where we went. My father is the kind of man who likes to swerve off the main road and explore. My mother is the type of woman who likes to cross things off her list. Together, they explored all the major national parks while checking things off their lists. 

With my brother living all over the south, by the time I was in my early teens, I had been to well over 30 states and had been to over 40 when I reached late teens-early 20s. Since then, I've done some extensive traveling on my own and have now been to 48 states. 

But when I was younger, I never foresaw the significance all this would have on my soul. I remember the heat of the car in the desert (when my parents refused to buy a car with air conditioning). I remember mountains, cows, and trees. I remember fighting with my sister in the backseat who was going through her adolescent, goth, "I don't need you," phase and only wanted to talk to her goth boyfriend. 

But that's all I really remember. Sure, I remember the people, but as far as the actual travel and sights--everything was too grand to comprehend. As a child I suppose things don't affect you like they do an adult. My memory sees me as merely a body that was simply there. 

I couldn't talk to spirits or feel the energy of trees and animals like I had learned many Native Americans could. Nor could I play those really cool drums I'd hear far off in the distance. I had no connection to anything--not even the earth. As a child, the world is what it is. It's very methodical. I never knew how special the earth could feel. I was just trying to get by and not get stung by bees. Suffice it to say, there was nothing that ever told me who I would become or how the earth would one day shake my core. 

Unlike most Michiganders I didn't grow up going to the UP and camping with family and friends. My family didn't do that. My dad was a California snob who thought only the real outdoors existed in the mountains. We had mountains in Michigan. At least, that's what we called them. 

As for my mother, she just wasn't an outdoorsy woman. She grew up poor and in the farm country of Michigan where her friends and her used to play make-believe on bales of hay. They could never have afforded fancy hunting or vacation trips. She loves to travel now but it's always with a purpose. To either see family, spend time with family, cross places off her list, or all of the above. 

Finally after years of promises, my father took me camping. I was maybe 12 and had never been "real" camping yet. We flew out to California to meet my uncle in Tahoe, then headed to the Sierra Neveda Mountains to backpack, fish, and camp. We headed to Silverfork where we hiked up and in then set up camp near the river. We ate mac and cheese, drank tang, and while the men fished, I would hike to the nearest, highest points. It was there I would lie down and write. I still have a journal entry from that trip:

It is an unbelievable morning at Silverfork where my dad, uncle, and I went camping. We backpacked and hiked up yesterday afternoon and since then it has been nothing but pure, natural beauty. This morning I got up early and am now up high on the highest rock I could get on, lying down, and looking at the beautiful scenery. I look up and all around me and all I see is miles and miles of mountains and trees. No words--not even a picture--could describe how breath-taking it is. I feel so numb. Numb meaning, it is so unreal it shocks me into not knowing what to say or think. I, being an enormous thinker and always thinking billions of seconds per hour, cannot think at all. I didn't realize it but this whole time up here I've thought of nothing. I never realized how wonderful it was to think of nothingness. I never thought it was possible. I hope one day I can bring all my loved ones here so they too can feel this. I look up into the rays of sunshine gleaming through the trees and think for a moment I might be in heaven. I feel like I belong here, that this is the place that has or will change my life. I'm so far from reality and the cruelty of the world. Though I'm small, I feel so big here.

My uncle passed away a couple years ago. He was outdoors--where he loved. My father and I haven't been camping since though he promises we will again someday. We've hiked and traveled since, but haven't been able to do more. Out of all the trips I've taken in my life, this one I can still visualize the most which always seemed strange to me until now. 

We got home and I grew into my angst teens. I made friends who had families who did the whole "Up North thing" and would take my rebellious group of girlfriends to stay at their cabins. We drank wine coolers, avoided smoking pot and taking shrooms with their brothers, smoked cigarettes, and hung out in the lake--all missing our exes, current flames, or the ones we hadn't met yet. 

Those times up north with my friends were my favorite when I was in high school. It was when I could get away from the drama at school and home and simply be. I never wanted to leave. It wasn't one particular thing that made me want to stay there either. At that age, I couldn't grasp the pull of the sun and sky, trees and dirt roads. I just knew life was better there. Perhaps it was the beer and music vibrating my body but I felt liberated there. Like I was away from the eyes of those who judged me. I had even lost my virginity there. 

And yet, there was still nothing that held me to the ground. I had dreams of moving to a city to pursue my artistic dreams. Living in the middle of nowhere sounded like a boring slow death for me whereas the city offered promise of starting over--of being somewhere where nobody knew you or your past which is exactly what my younger, angry self wanted. I didn't want to go somewhere to reflect, I wanted to go somewhere to forget. 

Look at me now...

Capricorn is an earth sign with water components. Place, time, genealogy, and nurture all seemed to marry me off before I was even out of the womb. I would be married to the earth and that would be that. And like most pre-arranged marriages I would learn to love my spouse... and myself. 

Aside from casual hikes, bonfires surrounded by Southern Comfort, and raucous boat rides out on the lake--I was still very much trying to be a city gal. I enjoyed nature but had bigger dreams. I wanted to see the world and it's wondrous cities. The earth was for pain. Earth created puddles of blood and tears. The trees shadowed the only light I could find to be the sun--the hot, blinding sun that had no mercy on a soul like mine. It knew my flaws and would beam down and point them out to be.

I wanted to fly. I wanted to leave all earthly things behind and soar into nothingness. But flying isn't just about getting away from everything. If we all could fly, we would see the world beneath us and see how it works, like a camera. Then we could watch things happen--both good and bad. I kept flying, trying to forget--high on oxytocin, endorphins, and temporary euphoria carried into my bloodstream via liquor and men burning my insides. 

Then I'd look down. 

Memory would rush back and I'd wake up here on earth. So much happened. I couldn't pretend to forget anymore. I had to remember. And thus, growth happened.

After I graduated college I was finally ready to travel the states like I had always wanted to. I decided it would be a gift to myself. So I packed my car and headed West. I traveled for months on a solitary road trip. I visited cities and parks, hiked, danced, laughed, camped, loved, ate, prayed, forgave, and eventually, let go. The entire trip--the before, during, and after--is still pretty unreal to me now.

During this trip I made a stop to see my cousin. We drank wine and ate risotto while I poured out my heart and soul like a narrated Woody Allen film. I told her of my dream worries, career worries, heart worries, and life worries.

At one point she said, "Helena, you can be a vagabond."

I remember smiling. This had never been an option given to me. It was exciting to finally hear that come out of somebody's mouth, especially the mouth of someone who I held in the highest regard. I moved on and continued my journey, keeping that little nugget of a souvenir. 

I didn't realize it as it was happening but something happened on that trip. I spent the majority of my time alone--something I was not used to. I remembered things and allowed myself to not forget. Amongst the desert sands and curved roads painted among cacti and ice caps, I learned to forgive. I forgave others, I forgave myself, and after years of closing down my soul, I opened myself to love again. 

Then I let go. I said goodbye to the pain and to the faces that had been pressed into my mind, heart, and hands. And strangely, I was healed. 

I didn't want to go back but the "real" world was calling. I had to make money, pay bills, and ground myself. I thought I would be happy doing this too. I started applying for "real career" jobs again. I thought I'd finally be able to use my degree. Nothing happened and it wasn't too long until the road began calling me again. I went on a few more road trips and ended up living in Kentucky for a couple months. After that, I ended right back in Michigan.

Then I fell in love and had my plans and heart destroyed. During one of the break-ups, I took a trip to Texas to see my best friend and put it all back together. When I got back, I decided to give him another chance but I hadn't recovered and never would recover.

I thought I hadn't recovered from the hurt and betrayal he brought into my life but I realized what I actually hadn't recovered from was the trip.This was my journal entry after the trip:

When I first arrive back from a long trip, be it a 22 hr trip done in two days, the result is always the same. Sadness. It hits me the most as I turn off into the neighborhood I consider home. It's sudden too. I'll be happy and hopeful when a strong pang will hit my heart and I am suddenly miserable. A hurt miserable as if I had just lost the one I loved. After a while the pain subsides and I accustom to the daily routines of life and society. But it usually doesn't take long for the road to start tugging at my shirt and claw at my neck which often results in the often cracking and bending of my head like a dog shaking the water off it's mane. It never works and no matter how hard I try to shake the visions, I will suddenly see myself, alone, in the desert. Or dancing in some far away land. But these can't happen and I'm lucky if I can feed the hunger with a short weekend to the Lake or even a week in Texas. But it doesn't last. I yearn still to venture off into the unknown, to come back known. 
It's more than the usual "finding oneself" on the road. It's more than leaving society and all its expectations. You think you'll get away from people but you get closer. You find God. You fall in love with the earth. You learn to love, live, and believe. I tend to get dreamy on the road. I can visualize all the possibilities that await me just beyond the horizon. I slow down. I do what's important. I spend what short time I have with the people I love or have grown to love and take the time to spend time in the sun. 
It's no wonder I'm down once I get back to routine--back to where gypsies aren't welcome, people argue and question all your motives, and all the people around you have steady jobs, families, and lives while you go back to job searching on your parent's couch. 
On the road--you're free from all of this. You're free from judgement and hate (except of course any hate you carry within yourself). You're just free. You worry less and dream more. You welcome random moments and conversations with strangers. You welcome love and pleasure. You welcome God. On the road I find myself praying more, laughing more, and trying more.

There were nights I'd lay in bed with him, wide awake, sometimes crying because I could feel joy pulling me away. Joy told me to leave, to pack my things, and hit the road again. I wasn't t trying to run away from anything or the past. It was only fate trying to jerk me into seeing what I needed to see and with each passing year, my true destiny was calling me. That day at Silverfork I wrote, I feel like I belong here, that this is the place that has or will change my life. I never imagined the relationship I'd create with the earth or of the vagabond I was to become. 

I had several panic outbursts before I moved out to L.A., I called friends worried or crying because while I did want to have a career--I also wanted to be on the road--traveling and exploring new places. I confessed to my parents how I thought about going up north for a month to be alone before I left. Unfortunately, I never did. 

So here I am, still, working to get by, doing things I don't care about. We artists tend to resist creativity out of fear. My biggest stronghold is the fear of what others will think. That's why I don't run off into the desert. Because money must be made and taxes paid. To live in nature with nothing but books to keep you company--that is a thing of the past, a fairytale, a silly concept for poets and vagrants. That's what "they'd" say anyway. 

But that draw keeps tugging on my hand. So I distract myself with mindless pastimes and keep plugging in. At least I'm still writing. I'm writing a lot actually. But I've substituted my pen and paper for a computer in which I tell the truth on a space where people don't want to the truth--just a prettier version of reality. And why not? What is the reality of this world right now?

Friends are good though. Many continue to encourage my art and even pursue art shows. I tell them that this sort of life would consist of going from art show to art show, renting space, traveling often, hoping to sell...

My friend said, "So?" 

She was right. If there was anything I wouldn't mind doing it's that. People tell me to follow my heart--to do what I really want. 

What I really want? It seems crazy, even to me, but I want to pack my car and go. Far, into the desert, into the mountains-- a place where the sidewalk ends. 

I told my dad this a couple nights ago and he told me I should. He agreed you need to fund this lifestyle (which is the scary part) but encouraged me that I could easily find work somewhere by a mountain resort where I could spend my spare time in a place I loved. 

He admires the vagabond in me and I think he enjoys knowing I'd rather my feet be wrapped in vines than wrapped in stilettos. I crave the mountain air, the sun on my face, and the feel of dirt in my hair. I keep changing, more and more, into the woman I suppose I was meant to be--a vagabond. 

I finally opened my journal again the other night. I used to write everything long-hand then type if I needed to. I ended up writing some sort of poem or list of some sort. 

I miss the road
watching the wild desert flow, 
grey and brown, bubbling with
bits of violet and yellow - cascading into eternity.
the smell of dirt and flowers and 
moisture in the air 

I miss the feel of my skin
sticky and salty from sweat 
and sunscreen,
the sun and breeze on my face

I miss the prick of the grass 
that makes my ankles itch

I miss rain,
the feel of it in my hair
on my neck,
the weight of it on my clothes

I miss my body naked
bare, in the water, like
a womb. 
Safe, warm, and excited 
for life

I miss the sky
turning blue to pink to orange and red

I miss the trees and mountains - 
those grand things that no matter what
people say, "that one has to be the biggest mountain in the world."

I miss the somber fall
the rolling hills and sleeping
to the sound of the earth's lullaby 

I miss-read 
the signs

If I had the chance, I'd 
do it all differently

and I miss the chance