I bought a van. A green, soccer mom deluxe GMC, and I turned it into a travel van. Buckley. It is still incognito, I travel in stealth mode, but it is set up with everything I need to live.

I don't know if I will need everything I need to live, and I am not driving off indefinitely,  but I could, and that is an interesting feeling.

I have a bed, my bike and guitar,  yoga mat and clothes, running gear, blankets, and a sleeping bag. Helmet for the bike, bike bag and gear, tire pump, curtains,  camp chair, cooler, heater, fan, and an extra battery. Stove, stamps, cards, and my address book, computer, tools, art supplies, miscellaneous things, water and three books.

Three books given to me by friends for the journey: Blue Highway, Wanderer, and A Woman Alone, all very road worthy titles.

Everything I need to live is in the van, and I am headed west once again. My first time was at age twenty, fresh out of my first college experience, I called a friend and said, do you want to go out west? We strapped our  luggage on the roof of my Chevy Monza, and rolled on, my mom rolling her eyes.

I didn't tell everyone (or anyone) immediately about the van. I wondered if I was being excessive, impulsive, extravagant or crazy. And when I did tell, people reacted differently.

My favorite reactions were the spontaneous stories that lit up people's faces about the time they traveled in a van. For a summer, a month, a year. Instant connection made over the road. They had automatic excitement for me even without any details.

There were those who thought it was perfect for me. Their joy uncontained. Those with sadness in their eyes or voice, You're going alone? They asked, still  alone? Those that claim they wish they could do what I am doing and those that say they would rather stay home.

Society would have me believe that I am avoiding life. How dare I not stay in the grind, buy more stuff, find a partner, and settle down into the big house American dream.

Mom and John are somewhere in the heavens. With a vodka and tonic in hand, my mom finally able to smoke her cigarettes once again, they are looking down and rolling their eyes at me. What do you mean you're not looking for a job? You can't live in a van. How do you not know what you are doing next?  

I am confident as well, my mom is secretly proud of me for being as stubborn, frugal, and independent as she. For living with integrity on this journey.

My sabbatical ends July 31st, and I will not be going back to the classroom. I cannot teach in a place that would rather persecute me than value me. That would mandate grammar worksheets over a student driven, community based, language arts infused project like a 5K or Veteran's Day Celebration.

Integrity. I know what is best for kids and I know what I bring to the table. What I don't know yet is what to do with that and where the next collaborative, passionate project will be.

So I am living out this sabbatical large. I am driving my van surrounded by the things I love, in the spirit of the people I love to Anacortes Dock in the Pacific Northwest where I will board a 133 ft 1800's schooner and sail the San Juan Islands teaching groups of young people about the Puget Sound, marine life, conservation issues, and open their hearts to action. Full on, placed based, experiential learning. I will be a learner and a teacher and part of the crew. I am bubbling with excitement and those good energy producing nerves.

I sail until August 5th when I will step off the tall ship and back into my van, sabbatical over,

self contained, self sufficient, open and driven,

to let life unfold in front of me. It does not feel lonely and I do not feel alone, and while I may be breaking societal norms, I wonder who made those damn rules in the first place. Certainly not someone who has sailed the high sea, traveled America in a van, or allowed life to breathe it's magic and wonder slowly into their soul.

I give up the grind for movement
Mandates for passion
Work for life.

That everyday I may wake grateful, see beauty, love myself, and make this world a better place.

Daisy

Daisy was not there the day I arrived, but she came shortly after. I walked through the gate after being gone for the day and instantly, I saw the new girl. Large, blocky ball cap, jean jacket, and rosary beads around her neck. She greeted me like an old friend, “Heeeyy…” she said as she lifted her hand into the air and clasped mine in an intimate high five.

She fit in instantly, teaching the girls dance moves and singing songs. I could pick her laugh out from across the compound, and I heard it often.

Slowly, I learned her story. Slowly it sank into my reality, and I began to recognize hers. In 2004, at nine years old, her mother kicked her out of the house because she had epilepsy and her mother couldn’t deal with “the corruption.” Forced to the streets she was in and out of shelters and hospitals for years. On the streets, during a seizure, she was raped and nine months later, at twelve years of age, she had her first child, who was promptly taken away from her and left in a shelter. Soon after, she was tortured and raped by a police officer and nine months later, in her thirteenth year, she had her second child, who was also taken away.

On and off the streets
In and out of shelters
In and out of hospitals

She contracted HIV/AIDS
No one wants a girl with HIV and epilepsy

I hold her hand and watch her eyes roll to the back of her head as her whole body shakes and convulses and then lies still. Rolls, shakes, convulses, and lies still again.

In the short time she has been here, she has made true friends, she has proven to be a joyful leader, and she makes everybody smile and feel special. Priscillah, who was “hard as a rock” has melted and tears well in her eyes as the ambulance comes to take Daisy away, alone.

“Will she be okay?” She asks, “Will she come back to us?”

I do not know.

Two days later, Daisy does come back to us. The ambulance pulls up and girls go running to greet her. She steps out with her infectious smile and says, “Heeeyy…” And gives everyone high fives and hugs.

Her medicine doubles, she is dizzy, unfocused and continues to have seizures. I think they have actually increased. The other girls are afraid. They think it is contagious. They think she is possessed. They need education, and slowly they are getting it. Everyone is afraid, except for Priscilla who loves her with her impenetrable strength.

Days pass, hands held, eyes roll back, body convulses, body lays still. As well, we dance and sing and laugh and sit on the stoop doing hair.

Until the day she begins to cough up blood. The “fit” is long but she comes out of it, and we sit in the shade on the veranda. Priscillah on one side, and me on the other. There are no words for the burden she has to bear, so I rub her back and listen.

She begins to speak, slowly and deliberately, taking long pauses between thoughts. “The doctor says I need snacks and milk with the additional medication, but I can’t ask Aunty; I know we don’t have enough.” “Will I ever see my kids again?” “Will I live long enough to be their mom?” “How will I ever care for them?”

And then silence for a long still moment.

She looks blankly into space. “The streets,” she says slowly and to no one in particular, “are hard.”

And what is left of my fragile heart breaks. I sit a little longer, wiping my tears as they leak through my eye lids, watching Priscillah’s eyes glisten. I excuse myself for a warmer layer, and go up to my room and cry. A desperate, life is not fair, I am helpless wail.

I am crying today as I recall this remarkable girl.  Despite everything, she is filled with joy, faith, friends, and hope – though sometimes that is fleeting – she is filled with hope in a way that condemns and inspires me.

Our long talks about strength and anger and forgiveness. Her dream of running a dance troupe to keep kids off the streets and away from drugs. Her memory of her children. She is trapped in a reality she cannot change.

Daisy is eighteen years old and she is afraid. Afraid of being rejected again, afraid of never seeing her children again, afraid of being back on the streets again, afraid of the unknown. But despite her fear, Daisy has taught me more about faith, joy, perseverance, hope, and love than I have learned in all my years.

I say your name out loud Daisy, and I dance with your spirit in my heart. May you stay strong my friend, and know, that someone in America loves you.