This oversized silk slip-covered chair has been my favorite possession for at least 15 years. About a week ago, I gave it away to a loved one.
First it was there. And then it was gone, with only a dead cockraoch and part of a Sweet’n’Low packet left behind.
Why? I’m practicing what I’m 99% sure is just about to happen. I’m considering “de-homing” myself and hitting the road in The Tiny for at least a year, and selling or giving away most of my possessions.
I’m excited. I’m elated. And I’m exhausted. I have not “pulled the trigger,” which would be to give notice to my landlady. The should-I-stay-or-should-I-go cha cha cha polka in my head is nearly nonstop. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay.
I may also be out of my mind. There’s really no way to tell at this point. It just seems like a good idea to get rid of the stuff, hit the road with the dog, continue to do my writing work remotely, travel around to visit family and friends, visit our precious national parks, and see the country. It could be the best thing I’ve ever done, or it could be a tumor pressing on the part of brain that regulates the need to stay home and be safe.
The urge to downsize started a couple of years ago, long before I got The Tiny. I found myself walking around my lovely leased New Orleans home of 8 years thinking: Why do I have so much space? Why do I have so many rooms? This house is not enormous at 1,500 sq. ft. Still, it seems about twice as big as I need in a house.
But the location is unbeatable, across from a 1,300-acre park and centuries old oak trees.
The interior is equally agreeable: Beautiful. Calm. Organized. Nurturing. How could I leave this?
And most of all, how could I leave the sexy glass-front refrigerator of my dreams? I’m committed to not putting stuff in a storage unit. I’ve read too many regrets about that path.
Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Yada yada yada.
To help me sort through the ebb and flow of thoughts and emotions, surety and doubt, boldness and terror, I used one of my favorite techniques, which is to divide a page in my journal into four sections with these four headings:
- The Positives of Doing It
- The Negatives of Doing It
- The Positives of Not Doing It
- The Negatives of Not Doing It
The idea is that when I get all the sections filled out, one of them will be so overloaded that I won’t have to make a decision; the decision will have been made for me.
I filled in the four sections.
- The positives of doing it are immense: Not having to pay about $2,000 a month in rent and utilities, getting to visit with my family and friends all over the country, living a simple life, being able to camp and spend time in national forests and in more nature, challenging myself to do something new, being able to move with the seasons and flee extreme climate-change related events, and writing this blog. There were so many positives that I needed more space than the quadrant would allow. That’s never happened before when using this technique.
- The main negatives of heading out in The Tiny are losing this wonderful leased home, leaving the daily connection with family and friends here in New Orleans and in Mississippi, and taking my dog away from her best friends Trixie and Sebastian.
- The main positive of not doing it is to be safe here at home, albeit burdened with a lot of rent. I realized at this point that fear of walking away from this house and the rent that has not gone up since I’ve been here (but which will surely rise considerably for the next tenant) was the main driver of my hesitation, that I would lose this marvelous house I found after extensive searching and lose my marvelous landlady and her family who live next door, and that I would never find another house that helped me feel so good, so powerful. (If you know me, you know I’m a virtual pit bull when it comes to finding excellent housing. I’m a master at it. So this fear is irrational.) I recognized in myself a small and fearful Gollum-like creature who believes there are no other houses I will like, there is no other place for me, this is the only place that has been requisitioned for me and if I leave, don’t let the door hit my butt the way out. I decided that being enveloped in fear with an overriding sense of lack and deprivation is no way to live.
- The main negative of not doing it is that fear wins. Time is running out. My health is good. My capacity to work is as strong as it’s ever been. If not now, when?
To bolster my courage, I hang out on the 8,800-member Facebook group called Women Who RV. Those radical fems are out there doing it big time, in big rigs and small, in Class A and Class B and Class C motorhomes, in travel trailers, in 5th wheels, in vans, and without apology. I posted about my struggle on deciding to stay or to go and the comments were overwhelming like this:
- “Go for it.. you only live once!”
- “Goooo!! Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. —Mark Twain.”
- “Fear is a very natural reaction to the unknown, I think we’ve all been there at some point. Have courage and follow your heart.
“ - “You can always rent/lease another house!”
- “Are you gone, yet??? Go now! The world is waiting.”
A few women suggested I take a test run to see how I like it. That’s good advice, but there’s something different about trying something out and committing to something. With the former comes the possibility of retreat. With the latter—going for it—comes the need to grow and stretch and move beyond my self-imposed limitations. I’ve taken three longer road trips: 2 weeks in a rented Jucy van, 3 weeks in a conversion van, 4 weeks in an SUV and KOA cabins. Loved all of it.
Reviewing my life, I’ve owned many tents and several camping vehicles (including 2 spectacular VW Westfalia vans) and have lived in some tiny places, including a few years in a Southern Pacific caboose on the edge of the national forest above Santa Barbara. While I was in heaven, one person who visited said: “How do you live in this?” I was mystified by the question.
So I’m 99% sure I’m doing this thing. There is only one big issue, and that is The Tiny itself.
I am a master at creating beautiful and functional living environments (see above for reference). But truth be told, The Tiny is really tiny. And is not self-contained. That is a polite way of saying it has no bathroom.
I do have my trusted porta potty, which I’ve had since 1989(!), and there are restrooms everywhere I tend to camp. But I can see how a bathroom might be worth the tradeoff in space, along with the need for a black tank and dumping stations, etc.
A bigger unit could come in time, or at least one with more creatures features. This is not about The Tiny. This is not about being so attached to some thing—a house, a trailer, even this earthly body—that I’m fearful and paralyzed. This is about adventure and courage and following my heart and dreams.
Bottom line: Everything I’ve ever done in my life has been a divine part of my journey. I do so much right, so much in alignment with my highest good, and the highest good of others. There’s no reason to believe this will be any different. I have so much going for me: I already have a job I can do remotely and that pays direct deposit. I have a fairly new tow vehicle, my mighty Dodge Durango. I have a calm dog who likes to travel. I’m am sober of mind and body.
And most of all, the road is calling.
My next step is an upcoming road trip in The Tiny to Pensacola and Key West with my sister. After that, I’ll know for sure if this is right for me.
Soon, I’ll make a vision board about about the places I hope to plant The Tiny over the next months and years so I can do my work, visit family and friends, and enjoy this planet. I’m thinking natural campgrounds with concrete pads and power poles. I’m thinking driveways and properties of friends and family. I’m thinking occasional RV parks where The Tiny gets a small shady spot away from the big rigs. I’m thinking of a world where me and the dog are welcome and wanted and treasured, with lots of places to walk. I’ll get all that onto a vision board and watch it come true, ’cause that’s been my experience so far.
After sharing all this with you, I now feel 99.9% sure I’m going to do it. Those are pretty good odds.