Living in a camper is half-house, half-tent. I feel the safety and protection that hard walls and a roof provide, but they are paper thin and the sounds of nature are amplified with little insulation between us. Better than a tin roof, the sound of the light evening rain is grounding. Gathering evidence that I am in the place I am supposed to be.
Over the last 4 years of pregnancy and early child rearing I have deeply mourned our past freedom to pick up and go camping, hiking and backpacking. These things are the essence of David and my's connection to each other; our spiritual connection to the land. I've felt a little lost without it. But this feels like a move back in the right direction, even if it is glamping. I love the nostalgia of sleeping in my sleeping bag every night, but with the luxury of it being unzipped and uncramped comfort on our futon bed.
This last first week submerging ourselves into camper living has been a mixed bag of emotions. I've felt ready to transition to this new lifestyle since we left our old house. Even though living in the cabin on the hill was a gift for 4 months, it often felt like a lie, inauthentic. We would never have been able to afford to live there at its full mortgage price, nor afford to build it. We've been purging stuff left and right to prepare for our move, but it will still be a huge transition and adjustment as we figure out how to live with less and just the essentials. This is a hard task for me right now. Having been surrounded by foreign things for the last 4 months I just want to to revel in what is "mine." Every object with its history of my life a love affair, and a struggle to let go of or put back into storage for when our house is ready.
I feel a pretty strong dichotomous pull between these things and the idealism of a minimalistic lifestyle. I'm confident it will all balance itself out as we learn over time what we really use and what we don't need and can pare down even more. This feeling also applies to minimalistic technology. It is absolutely another form of addiction. A mind numbing way to escape life, yet I'm drawn to it as is it pulls me away from the things that matter the most. An escape from reality, which I have a predilection for in my history of addiction. I find the withdrawals and treatment to be so similar. Staying present, distractions, gratitude lists, and getting out of my head and into something bigger than myself, like my volunteer work, or playing outside. Reading has been the best, distraction, and paying attention to the little things I've forgotten to mind. The pleasure of getting in bed early, and waking with the light. Appreciating the waste of resources and privilege we've had in just having running water, electricity, and a dishwasher. The same Cardinal that visits our kitchen window daily at 7:30ish am, pecking at the screen, perhaps thinking the pattern of our curtains is birdseed. I should make a list of these things now to covet for the times ahead when camper living doesn't seem so glamorous and I have trouble remembering the small things.
In the meantime, every surface feels covered and cramped while we organize and that's tough. But now I feel poised to let our new journey unfold. Humbly, and slowly as it should.
