For a new book, titled “Nomadland,” a young reporter hit the road to spend some time among older folks who live in their RVs and also work grueling temporary jobs that swell their ankles and hurt their backs. It’s the end of the road according the book this woman wrote, and is a pitiful way to end up. For some it is, and my heart goes out to them and to others who struggle in houses and apartments and on the street.
That book does not tell my story at all. I am a nomad, living in my teardrop trailer with a supplemental 12-foot-wide Clam tent shelter to set up as needed or as appropriate for living and work. I sold or gave away everything I owned to embark on this lifestyle, successfully resisting the urge to shove unneeded stuff into a storage unit. Everything I own is in my trailer or my TV (tow vehicle).
I am not pathetic or destitute. I chose this lifestyle to challenge myself, to stretch and grow, to get down to the essence of myself, to visit with family all over the country, to be immersed in nature of all geographies, to face my fear of the world, to get out here and see what’s going on. I believe most of the full-time RV people at my current campground are here by choice. We have let go of the society-imposed belief (one I had most of my life) that in order to be valid, you must “own” a house and pay a mortgage and taxes and do the upkeep, and all else that goes with real estate ownership. Many of us have said no thanks to those burdens, and we choose to live in campgrounds or RV parks or Bureau of Land Management land or on the road.
I’m in my luminous Clam shelter as I write these thoughts, facing large screened panels oriented toward several mountain ranges in the high desert of Southern California. I see the native sages blowing in the breeze, and the crows taking flight or perching on the white fence rails that separate each campsite.
Because I bought a lifetime camping membership for less than two months rent on my previous home, I can camp at any one of 160 campgrounds and RV resorts across the country for 3 weeks at a time for virtually no extra charge. I can make a reservation for a 3-week stay at a campground near Yosemite or Sedona or along the American River and the balance is $0.00.
I’m here at this massive California campground to be near and spend time with my sister and her family for Christmas. Next week, I’m packing up and moving my camp to a resort on the Pacific coast to visit my step family for New Years. In between visiting folks, my dog and I will enjoy the other-worldly sand dunes that will be just beyond our camp. After that, I will drive north a few hours to camp near some cousins for a couple of weeks. Hopefully we can take our dogs to the secret beach they showed me last time I was there. After that, I’m not sure. Maybe Idyllwild? San Diego? North of Sacramento to visit a second cousin? Next year at this time, I’d like to check out the Florida lifestyle. The benefit of having wheels under your home is that you can move it toward the sun or to be near family, or move it away from the floods or wildfires that are becoming more radical and happening more often.
Each time I move and make a new camp, I set up my laptop or 27-inch iMac as conditions allow and I continue my work as an online educational designer. Part of my own life design—started decades ago when I realized I needed more naps than typical jobs allow—was to make sure I didn’t have to work in an office or show up at a physical location according to some schedule that might not be healthy for me. That strategy has served me well as I embarked on this latest journey of mine. I work from home. My clients don’t care if home is the $1,500-a-month leased house I left in New Orleans, or in my nomadic camp. I’ve got my Verizon hotspot, electrical power at the campground, a sharp mind made sharper from my travels, and direct deposit from my main client.
Of course the young woman reporting and writing the book didn’t mention folks like me. The story the book wants to tell is of income inequality and a growing number of struggling people forced out of the American Dream and into RVs. And that is certainly a noble cause to write about. But who says living in a “sticks and bricks” house, as the RVers call them, is everyone’s dream? For some of us, it’s a nightmare to be stuck in one location, trapped, stagnant, going nowhere.
With age and wisdom, I find deeper meaning in experiences than simply what society has told me to see. I sit here at my folding table covered with an embroidered white tablecloth and a woven rug at my feet and my dog curled up on her bed and the views of the shifting clouds moving over the mountains. I feel quite wealthy.
If a young reporter with little life experience (not the book author) looked in on this scene, she or he might write: “Here sits a destitute homeless woman with blue dye in her grey hair, obviously trying to be hip, and to no avail. Her wrinkly hands type on the laptop as though she has something to say, and of course she does not, because she is in the second half of life and well past any importance to society. It’s a pathetic scene, really, and I report on this to let all of you know that I’m young and I’m bought into the striving to get a bigger and bigger house in a better and better neighborhood. That these old fools, or young fools with their kids running about the campground, do not share my striving is beyond sad.”
We must not let others define our reality. I’ve always wanted to be where I am now, knowing what I know and not insisting that others know it too, or agree with it, or acknowledge the beauty of my existence.
There may come a day when I don’t want this lifestyle. I may someday crave a small cottage and a garden, or a high-rise in the big city with a view. I know from my several decades of adulthood that I’m a driven ninja when it comes to finding housing for myself. I expect this passion and talent to stay with me the rest of my days. Those who don’t have that talent will naturally feel that giving up a home for this adventure is folly. That is not my story.
I remain open to whatever suits me, no matter who else approves or agrees with it. That is the big gift of maturity, to know what I know without insecurity or doubt, and not feel the need to educate or inform others about my worth. A famous actress said she would choose youth over the wisdom of age. I would not choose to repeat my 30s and 40s, where I was utterly dependent on the opinions of other and separated from my own heart. That is my story.
My story today is one of freedom and liberation and family and letting go of everything that is not essential to my life. If nobody writes a book to tell the story of me and those like me, I might have to write that book. This deep quiet contentment is not “sexy,” to use a newspaper term, but it’s real.
I hope all who wish to, and are able to, can experience the nomadic lifestyle. For me, it has been incredibly empowering. I wouldn’t want any woman to miss out on such empowerment. It reminds of the feminist “take back the street” efforts where they proclaim: “This is my street. I’ll walk down it if I wish and not be intimidated by anyone.” For me, I feel a similar sentiment. “This is my world. And I’ll be out here enjoying it.”
If no one else understands the richness if this way of life, know that I do, and so do many others. Truly, we walk with you.