The Joy of Kickin’ Around

I’ve just returned home after what to me feels like a quick (three-week) spin to the desert southwest. I prefer to slow travel—a way of moving that Sebastian Modak describes in this Conde Nast Traveler piece as “tamping down our own built-in, conditioned obsessions with time and allowing the world to move just a little slower so that we can actually notice it”—picking my way through a landscape or a culture, moving in for a while, getting to know the place.

I’ve never had much use for “bucket lists”—or life plans for that matter. (The best you’ll get from me if you ask about my “Five- (or Ten- (good gawd)) Year Plan” is a shrug and a laugh. I have no fucking idea where I’ll be.) As for “bucket lists”, I have no need for them as beauty is found the world over, if only you get out there and if only you take the time to notice it. And, as I described in my recent post on serendipity and magic, I’ve constructed a freelance existence that provides me the freedom to get out there and the time to notice it.

This is all in great opposition to much of our cultural push towards designing our futures and living our best lives! Harvard Business Review tells us How to Develop a 5-Year Career Plan and Indeed coaches us on How to Create a 5-Year Plan (Plus Template and Examples). Mothers, with blogs like Mom on Purpose, help us construct our lives (How To Create A Five Year Plan (What Are You Becoming?)); municipalities create Five Year Community Plans. We can even “get ripped”, learning from 5-Year Body Transformation videos about how to go “from skinny to ripped”. Or, perhaps, as I prefer, we can decide to simply be.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize my more fluid way of being is somewhat unique—particularly in certain high-achieving communities—and for some, disconcerting even. The questions and concerns take the form of: How do you live like that? With that level of uncertainty? or What are you going to do? I mean…or Where are you going? Sometimes it’s gone beyond questioning to become fully triggering (for friends who insist Well, you can do that but I can’t because…or for the man I dated decades ago who, with his pressed clothes, MBA, and financial services job, was entirely enthralled by me and my wayward lifestyle…until, he found he couldn’t control me. Until he realized that the Victorian house with the white picket fence, the big bank account, the fancy ring did not interest me. Not in the least. Once that became clear, all hell broke loose—the obsession, the anger, the attempts at control. And, then I left.)

And, yes, likely there have been times and places in my life that might have been better served with a “plan” (but since, in the end, it’s all truly unknown, I can’t tell you what the sliding-door outcome would have been had I “planned”, had I chosen, differently). Still, I find the magic and joy far outweigh the discomfort of not knowing. I prefer to live as Rilke suggests: “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” So, ask me about my Five-Year Plan in five years—when I’ve lived into the answer.

This recent trip to the southwest was no different, filled with those wondrous surprises that show up when you show up. And by that I mean when you turn up fully engaged, grounded, smiling, and open to possibility—to new people, new places, new conversations, new adventures—open to living into the answer. When you do, it’s amazing what the world reflects back at you.

First there was the five-day painting workshop in Santa Fe (the only part of the adventure that was “planned”). Despite not feeling ready (that is, a crazy set of life demands—including a blown-up house that had me living in my yard and van for four months—meant I had barely painted, had scrambled back to Sun Valley from the east coast, cleaned out my van, packed for an indeterminate amount of time on the road, gathered my (quite literally) dusty and disheveled art supplies and got on the road in a record 2.5 days), I jumped in—full-body, full-presence—and poured out some art that made my heart sing (and of which I’m truly proud).

Dancing by Wendy Pabich. 60” x 48”. Acrylic on Canvas.

Then there was the thing that happened the first night of the workshop: I had ditched it the night before at a random scrap of BLM (Bureau of Land Management) land just on the outskirts of Santa Fe. It was sort-of beautiful but had a slight air of sketchiness. I had deemed it sufficient as a place to sleep while I was in Santa Fe, but there were likely better arrangements. After class that first day, I set out to find a farm-to-table spot where I could eat some greens. The place I selected—Vinaigrette—turned out to be a wonderful little café with a bright atmosphere, fresh food, happy artwork and flowers, and reasonable pricing. I stepped into the place—a mere three feet inside—and looked to my left. I paused. “Peter?” The man looked at me, “Wendy?” Turns out it was a friend of twenty years who’d recently moved to Santa Fe. This turned into: Come join us. And then: Come stay in our driveway this week. And, then there was coffee in the mornings. And an outing to a hot springs resort. And a long hike over the weekend. This hospitality plus the challenge of the workshop and the comradery of my new painter friends made for a week that was simultaneously fully unscripted and entirely soul-nourishing.

Eventually I moved on, setting my sights on Ojo Caliente, a developed hot springs resort—with camping—an hour north. I arrived at Ojo in the early afternoon, slow rolled through the arched gate to the campground, and, from behind the wheel spied a couple walking towards me. I looked closer: “Annie?” “Wendy?” she replied. Turned out it was my college friend from Colorado, who, with her husband, was also kickin’ around. This turned into two days of soaking and dining and hiking and trail running and talking and laughing and journeying to another camp spot together. We saw rainbows and ruins, turned up pot shards and ancient corn cobs, talked with interesting new people as we soaked.

Again, I rolled on, heading for Ghost Ranch—that wild expanse of desert rock and sky that captured the heart of Georgia O’Keefe—a place that seemed as if it would provide lovely refuge for a couple days. It offered camping and hiking; provided services. It would give me some time to organize, walk, charge my battery (that powers my portable refrigerator), and most importantly, do some work—all in a safe place.

Then there was the Craig Childs event that popped up on Facebook. (He’s one of my favorite writers.) It was to be a spoken word, music, lightshow performance thing-y with a camping option on a remote ranch in Mancos, Colorado. The venue just so happened to be right along my long drive home. I knew Craig some, enough to know the evening would be magical, the community, right up my alley. I bought a ticket immediately, and a few days later, invited a friend from Durango. We met up and together from a granite perch high above the gathering, watched as the sun painted the sky dusty pink, setting the pale rocks aglow, and soaked up the music and words and light as they drifted our way. We don’t know each other well but we seem to be kindred souls, our meeting fated. The evening was nothing short of ethereal.

Eventually, over the course of a couple more days, I rolled home. Not because I wanted to but because adulting called. Occasionally I answer those calls too, but only to a point that keeps me healthy and grounded and resourced enough to leap when the next opportunity for adventure comes my way, the next wave of inspiration propels me, the next dream beckons.

I hope to see you out there on the next roll.

xo Wendy

[And, for those of you wondering, I did have one incident that can only be described as the underbelly of #vanlife. I share some details in this subsequent post: No Real American Sojourn is Complete without a Night in a Walmart Parking Lot]