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.
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.
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