My back-up plan when life on the road gets too rough is to call a friend and proclaim: I’m not handling this.
And then he’ll say: You are handling it.
The last time we went through this scenario was the day after I got to my current camp. I had stayed overnight at a KOA because the drive was so long from the previous camp, so that was exhausting. My dog had her stitches out from emergency surgery just 2 days prior, after a very stressful time when she had to wear a plastic cone for 10 days and I had to keep her safe and quiet in the campground. On the upside, that’s when I realized the Clam shelter I set up was not just for guests to camp, but for me to expand my life.
After the two-day drive (where I kept repeating “never again” regarding long drives between campgrounds) and the rigor of setting up camp, I loaded up my laundry to go stay at my sister’s clean and peaceful house for a few hours as a respite. Just before I left camp, I brushed up against a Eucalyptus tree and it must have unloaded it’s ant cargo on me because while I was driving, I kept finding ants on me. Oh, and let me add the piece de resistance, on my long drive I had noticed signs of rodents in my air conditioning ducts. And when I called my insurance company, they said they covered rodent damage, but I had a $1,000 deductible and with that plus the cost of a rental car (where dogs are generally prohibited from riding along) many needed funds would be gone.
Thus to Bill: I’m not handing this!
And Bill to me: You are handing this. You are experiencing some trouble, but it will pass. You will solve these problems, and get on the other side.
Talking things over so helps. The signs of rodents consisted of some cotton fringe from a rug I had been storing in the driver’s seat. Some little critter was probably in the process of making a nest and these fibers were fabulous! Rather than turning my car over to a mechanic right away, Bill suggested I get to a car wash with high-powered vacuum and suck the fibers out of there. Then I sprayed peppermint spray in the duct. Mice hate that.
All that calmed me down long enough to figure out a plan. Just yesterday, I paid my nephew, who is a gifted and thoughtful mechanic, to look into the situation. Rather than taking off the dashboard, which the insurance company’s mechanic said he would have to do, my nephew was able to use a camera scope to examine the ducting system and he did not find any nest. He found out where rodents could enter the ventilation system, and fashioned a mesh screen over the intake port. He also replaced my air conditioner filter, which was full of dog hair and tree droppings. And he installed an electronic device under the hood meant to deter rodents. For a few hundred bucks, I got a clean bill of heath. I am now shining a light up into the engine compartment at night. I spray peppermint spray all around. I have Bounce dryer sheets in car. And I’m going to get some hot chili powder and sprinkle it under the car’s parking spot at each campground.
So today is a good day. It’s fall in the high desert and the landscape is absolutely breathtaking. My car seems to be pest free. My dog is perfectly healthy. My Clam screen room has become a stunningly important part of my camp set up, and I sit here now looking out over several mountain ranges wondering how we warranted a rainbow this morning.
One of my goals for this journey was to get more in touch with the planet and its seasons and its habits and movements. What is the sun doing? Where are the breezes? What insects are looking for love? Where are the birds nesting. Which trees are blooming or dropping? Living indoors for so long, I really don’t know what’s going on in the natural world where we humans have dwelled for 99.9% of our time on Earth. Certainly exposure to our mother/home is important.
As the blazing and dangerously hot summer has passed, we are now into the sweetness of autumn. The light is so gentle, and the temperature so compatible. I am tempted to think that I have arrived, that there will be no more problems and it will be birds flying and singing and a gentle warmth on the side of body as the sun reaches higher in the day. This will be the new reality.
But wait! Bill always has another part to his message. Not only will the bad times pass, but the good times will pass as well. This always trips me up. Once I’m in a lovely state of peace and contentment, I truly believe I will feel that way forever. But logic tells me that autumn will pass and winter will arrive. The temperatures will drop to perhaps uncomfortable levels (this is Southern California, so I’m not too worried about death by snow), and the light each day will get shorter in duration, and it might even rain. I may not be sitting in the Clam in two months with the oh-so-gentle breeze on my face. I might be holed up in the T@B with my dog, venturing out into a gale-strength wind with an umbrella. Maybe the power will go out and I’ll wish I had learned how to use the propane heater in the T@B rather than relying on the electric heat pump. (Note to self: get over your fear of propane. Prepare for winter.)
And then after winter, where I might have to call Bill and say: I’m not handing this. And after Bill reminds me that I am, then it will be time for spring. The wildflowers will be spectacular! The days will lengthen. That feeling of elation will permeate my cells. And I might be tempted to think: No more troubles for me.
Ideally I’d like to understand that every moment has passed, is now passing, or will pass. I’d like to appreciate each moment for what it is, and not pine for some moment where things were different, or trying to hold so tight to this moment that I totally miss it. I’ve been in a constant cycle of aversion for bad times and a craving for good times, and it’s a massive waste of time, a waste of appreciating the beauty I was sent here to experience. I want to appreciate this moment for what it is — blissful human existence — and leave it at that. After all, this too shall pass. And hopefully, I won’t be too surprised when it does.