"I'll Die from Stagnation if I Don't Leave"

I think that's what I'll tell my uncle, since he won't understand what I'm about to do: walking away from everything towards homelessness, voluntarily. I know in my bones that it's the right decision for me, but fear is trying to attack me at every turn.

This isn't my first time leaping before looking, I keeping reminding myself.  I burned all my bridges and took off in a dilapidated boat with a virtual stranger, heading for the Caribbean with no prospects and only $10,000 for a safety net.  And years ago BC and I headed cross-country in an old F150 without a dime to spare, and that turned out OK.

It's all these commercials: "I've fallen and I can't get up"; "Over 60 and you better be prepared for..."; "This...is Potter's Field".  ENOUGH.  Isn't 60 the new 40, or something like that?  My uncle, bless him, gave me a 5 minute lecture warning about Seniors being Scammed the last time we spoke.  He's nervous all kinds of things will happen to me, because he's the family Elder and feels responsible.  Mom would have simply said, "Keep your hand in God's."

Fires are currently raging in Northern California, cutting off Highway 97 and threatening I-5 south.  This may cause me some trouble, since my friends in Incline Village (Lake Tahoe) have said I can store some belongings there during fire season. I'd like to go within the next two weeks before it gets too hairy here.  It'll be a quick trip: an  all day drive; unload and say howdy; then skedaddle back here to pack up what's left in case I have to leave at a moment's notice.  My friends in Nevada are also threatened by forest fires, but somehow I think they're still better off than here.

I always thought I'd have a house by this time in my life, either earned or inherited; but yesterday I faced up to the reality that that's not the kind of life God has in store for me.  It's a hard pill to swallow but I'll do it.  I remind myself of Mom's words a lifetime ago:  "You have a home; you just don't have a house to put it in yet."  She had faith and so should I.  The best I can do is paint my teardrop like my imagined sense of home and that'll have to do, for now.

"But what about all my stuff?"  Half of what I own is in a storage locker in New Jersey and I'm considering doing the same here, because my friends can't hold everything for me.  Both options give me pause, not because I don't trust my dear friends but I've learned over the decades that when I scatter cherished mementos around the country like bread crumbs, I usually don't see them again because they've been moved, lost or swiped by unscrupulous handymen. I don't fault my friends and relatives, for if I'm willing to abandon my possessions why should they care overly much? (Photo: my piano, now in my sister's house, along with the 3D painting of Mom's house I commissioned an artist to create for her birthday.  Both too large for my teardrop.)

The storage facility can also burn, plus with a storage unit on each side of the continent it'll be like having two anchors out in order to stay in place.  I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, so what difference?  Therefore, I've decided to be as ruthless as I when I decided what to take, sell and store prior to Ruff Life; even more so, since I never got all my things back from the Captain.  "Sooner or later they all get it in the neck," a friend used to say.

Look at these two painted pieces of furniture, here in my old 33-foot motor home.  The small side table was built and painted by my late husband, Tino, and the tall jelly cupboard I spent weeks painting following his death. They're each in the home of friends living up the hill, following my downsizing into this 21-footer; and while they've told me time and again that any time I want I can have them back because they belong to me, they've been in their homes so long that they don't really, not anymore. I could tell that story about items now in Georgia, Texas, 'Jersey, Maryland, Illinois, Arizona, California, Washington and, of course, here in Oregon, which is kinda nice when I visit because it feels just a little bit like home.  Things have a life of their own.

I've long said that when BC is no longer in my life I visualize volunteering until I can't any longer.  I learned in Austin that sweltering climates aren't for me, but painting for Community First Village was something I did enjoy.  On the drive back to Oregon I considered the idea of painting for other homeless-tiny-home communities along my travels, and after painting for Hope Village perhaps I'm already on that path.  So I guess I'll pack my paints and brushes.

What's important to me now?  I've got 30 gourds I planned on painting for Christmas, but I don't really feel like working with gourds except teaching and demonstrating.  Besides, gourds are extremely bulky. I've got a beautiful new mirrorless camera with lenses and all kinds of extras (a gift last Christmas), because as you can tell from my posts I enjoy taking pictures. I coveted Clint Eastwood's character in the Bridges of Madison County.  I'll still write so I'll need old reference papers and journals which'll add a substantial amount of towing weight, but pulp is more important than pots and pans.  What about my Pomegranates, drying since October?  Give 'em away, of course!  I couldn't figure out what to do with them anyway.

Well this post has been good therapy, thanks for that.  During writing I've decided to take a break from painting in the heat for a day, and tackle some of the other projects on my list. I've got two yards of Sunbrella I'm turning into shade panels, and there's still that darn computer code.  Thank goodness it's only expected to be 97 degrees today before heading back over 100 again.  Amazing how cool 97 sounds.