This is the post in which a very depressed state of being gets more deeply accepted and channeled into a place of compassion. I hope.

Physically speaking, my body is not in a very good place. Scoliosis leads to lots of chronic conditions and major spinal fusions leave you very few corrective options. I’m recently dealing with increased nerve impingement and degeneration and just learned of an increased risk for osteoporosis. All of this has made it difficult for me to play, hoop, or sleep comfortably; to sit, stand or walk for too long.

Being very much a “fixer” and an avid learner/researcher, it’s been incredibly frustrating to find so few solutions to the problem. (Exercise, yoga, chiropractic…even massage has caused problems.)

There have only been two things that have made a significant impact on both pain and energy:

1. Gluten-free foods
2. Grass-fed meat and dairy

The first is not easy to stick to on the road. The second can be difficult to find; we’ve used sites like LocalHarvest.org and farmer’s markets but with less luck than we hoped.

But it dawned on me recently that if I’m not careful, and maybe even if I am, I’m going to end up in a wheelchair within a decade or two. Needless to say, such a thought is enough to knock you down a bit. I spent several days in a serious depression while I processed and talked through my fears and struggles.

Then I read Ronnie’s words on unschooling her body.

Love my body. Love where I live. Love what is. It sounds like unschooling. I could unschool my body.

Wait. Unschool my body? What would that look like?

If I were going to unschool my body…
I would make lots of cool stuff available to it (gear and hikes and massages).
I would spend time with it.
I would have fun with it and do things it enjoys.
I would enjoy it.
I would provide it with a fun and colorful variety of foods.
I would feel good about it.
I would feel good.

I would not disparage it.
I would not feel ashamed of it.
I would not compare it to other bodies in negative ways.
I would not abuse it.

And I absolutely would not let society or any individual tell me what it should be.

I got to thinking about this, about treating my body with compassion, treating it as I would treat my child, with compassion and trust. Instead of focusing on or pushing it towards what I want it to be, simply loving it for what it is…

What might that look like for me?

• I would regularly point out its strengths.
• I would show my appreciation for its abilities.
• I would view its pain with loving compassion.
• I would actively and insistently seek out the foods it needs.
• I would be gentle and not push it to do things.
• I would slow down to its pace.
• I would find things that made it feel good.
• I would spoil it with love.
• I would smile when I see it.
• I would seek out activities it would enjoy.
• I would listen intently to it.
• I would accept it and love it unconditionally.
• I would validate it and the other people it affects (like my son and husband) without making anyone wrong.

Can I do this? Can I love myself and my body with the same unconditional love and acceptance, giving it everything it needs without excuses or resentment?

Ronnie’s words have been my guidance over the past week as I make my way toward a more authentic relationship with my body, one that is aligned with the way in which we choose to live with each other. Just like our family relationships, there have been less than authentic moments. There have been times of frustration, and even downright body neglect.

But there have also been successes: a new pillow has made for a very happy neck in the morning, almost no gluten has decreased my low back and knee pain substantially, more water has left me with more energy. I was even able to share in the water park fun yesterday while still honoring my bodies limits. And my dear sweet hubby has been instrumental in making sure I’m taking care of me.

But mostly, I’ve been changing my perspective. I’ve reminded myself that whatever may happen down the road, I need to live fully and authentically in this moment right now. I can’t fully control what the future holds or what this body may be capable of, but I can fully live without regret. I can enjoy everything it will allow me until that’s no longer an option.

Rejoice in the things that are present; all else is beyond thee.  ~Montaigne

What about you? Can you unschool your body?

My dreads and I have been together for two years. Compared to the first year, it really doesn’t seem like much has changed.

I fluctuate between no ‘poo and shampoo and have been experimenting with liquid soap nuts. It would probably be good if I made up my mind, but I’m a creature of non-habit when it comes to this. I have noticed a change in the amount of dandruff since we’ve been on the road and I’m assuming it has to do with a combination of softer water and less drying climates.

It doesn’t feel as if they’ve done any growing but my bangs have and I’m ready to say goodbye to them.

Day One, Year One and Year Two

The meaning and lessons they teach me are the same and are still a near-daily occurrence. (Some people never learn. ) I’m still understanding a lot about judgment, self-acceptance and vanity.

I’ve had a few times this past year where I was ready to pick up the scissors and say goodbye. One particular incident had me feeling so completely self-conscious I faced almost a month of doubt:

Two days before Christmas, Zeb and I ventured out to the stores. I really should have known better – crowds and craziness overwhelm me. I was doing good though, handling what was coming my way until we walked down one particular aisle in one particular store looking for one particular item.

A woman and her teen daughter were there and I watched them for a moment. They were gorgeous in a matching sort of way that made me smile for them. Their hair was curled the same, their clothes were trendy, their makeup perfect. They were talking animatedly and by their demeanor you could tell they were close and enjoying their shopping trip together.

But then the daughter took one looked at me – perhaps she saw my frizzy, unwrapped dreads, lack of makeup and casual clothes – and she leaned over and whispered to her mom who looked my way, rolled her eyes and made a loud comment to her daughter that simply crushed me.

I don’t even remember the exact words now (something about my childhood, I think), nor do they really matter. What hurt was in one glance she assumed she knew my life story. She made a snap judgment about me based on my outward appearance, disregarding anything else she could have taken in – the smile I had given them moments before, the connection I had with my son as we looked for his dad’s gift, the tired look in my eyes that said it had already been a long morning.

It wasn’t the only negative encounter I had that day; after all it was two days before Christmas and everyone was stressed. But it was the one that set my mood for the following week. And by the time I got home and was in tears from the affect of the stress, it was the only experience I was really crying over. (Thank goodness for loving husbands and their comforting embraces.)

For several weeks the judgment I felt lingered over me. I allowed their hurtful comments to make me feel ugly and doubt myself and all that I do.

But beneath my doubt and my hurt feelings the same words kept echoing:

21. Let go of what others want me to be and Just Be Me

I put the desire out there. I stated what I wanted to do. But I had no idea my resolve would be so quickly tested.

I remembered something I wrote almost four years ago about the impact one particular woman had on me.

So I was watching “So You Think You Can Dance”…I don’t know why but I always get sucked into the auditions and lose interest in the actual competition.

Anyway, there was a girl on there that was, well….unique. She had this red/orange/bleachy looking hair and a very eccentric attitude. Instantly I loved her. You could tell dance was her self-expression. And through the choreography, you could see her start to break down. She just couldn’t do it. They put her up on the chopping block because of it and asked her to redeem herself by dancing in her own style to prove she could dance. And well, she went nutsy. Flailing, running, really indistinguishable.

But here’s what resonated with me: They called her crazy and she was deeply thankful for that. She said she felt like she was losing herself in the choreography and admitted her craziness and even looked relieved when they cut her. (I was PMSing so I cried with her. It was great.)

And then I started thinking. Do I love me enough to lose a huge opportunity because it might make me a little more like the rest of the world?

Or maybe I should’ve ask Do I love me enough to risk my feelings being hurt by someone who doesn’t know me well enough to judge?

How I Tend To Wear Them These Days

Well, I didn’t shave my head, nor do I still want to. So I guess I can answer that question with a resounding Yes! I realize now that authenticity – or whatever this is driving me to the brink of insanity – isn’t always easy or accepted or appreciated.

But authentic is the only thing I can be.

P.S. I have a super cool dready giveaway from Sand and Sky Creations coming up soon! Stay tuned!

Bad weather, bad traffic, too much noise, too little space and boondocking outside a casino, for goodness sake…I managed to get through dinner by listening to music that never grows old and pretending I heard nothing else as I made spaghetti and the guys played Mario on the DS. But by the time it came to washing dishes, sticking my hands in cold water put me over the over-stimulation edge.

What do you do when it’s too cold and windy to go for a walk?

You walk 10 feet to the back of your small RV, press your hands over your ears as hard as possible and listen to your breath for 10 minutes. You try not to explode as your RV slowly closes in around you, going from cozy and comfortable to a minuscule sliver of living space. You allow your mind to wander from questioning your sanity, to questioning tomorrow’s plans, to wondering what your friends are doing, to looking forward to an upcoming gathering until you realize your hands are regaining circulation and the noises within the RV aren’t quite so overbearing.

Then you shuffle up to your husband, accept the hug he offers, and whisper a sorry while promising him it will indeed happen again. Then you take his hand and wander inside to see if New Mexico casinos are any different than Las Vegas casinos. You come back to your warm and cozy home, curl up with your 10 year old and some Harry Potter and breath in deep that life – in all it’s sticky, messy, unpredictable, emotional, dramatic beauty – is still so good.

Because it is good. Especially if you’ve read the great news on Justin’s blog…

When we first started discussing the decision to travel full-time and eventually settle outside of Vegas, we included Zeb. How could we not? He’s one-third of our family and his experience will be as life-changing as ours.

So, we sat down. We talked over our situation and our choices as best we could without overwhelming him or stressing out an easily-stressed soul. We told him every pro and con of full-time RVing we could think of, we gave him a timeline for being on the road but were honest that it could change, we discussed the potential challenges. And we asked what he thought.

He was hesitant, for sure. Thoughtful and questioning. But after some time, and a promise we’d make room for his Legos, he told us it would work for him.

And then he was excited…for about a week. That’s when his real transitioning began.

Zeb is an emotional, highly-sensitive child. He creates strong attachments to animals, friends and family, as well as things that hold special significance. For years he kept his school reports and certificates on his walls because it reminded him of *something* good from those difficult years. So it’s really no wonder that this transition – away from loved ones, best friends, his hometown, all that he knows, even his pets – would hit him hard.

All at once he was torn between sadness and anger. This isn’t to say he wasn’t simultaneously excited. But he realized how much he would miss his friends and family. He worried that he’d be bored. Truthfully, I think he was a bit afraid of such a Huge Unknown. In his ten years, he’s experienced some pretty difficult stuff and it’s left him leaning heavily toward the hesitant side of life. Now here we were, and he was feeling as if the security we’ve built for ourselves was being stripped away. It’s a big world out there and it’s already proven to sometimes be scary.

This went on for awhile. Some days  – many days – I didn’t handle it well. Truthfully, my own excitement was building and I was feeling resentful for his raining over my parade. I didn’t want to be pulled into the emotional upset and away from the budding joy. Internally, I didn’t think I had the energy to handle it.

On those days I tried to rationalize with him, remind him how much fun we’d have, how many more friends we’ll see and make, how many things we’ll have the opportunity to do. I took lots of deep breaths and left the room countless times. It’s not that I didn’t understand him. It’s that I was too wrapped up in my own expectations to react to his needs.

He doesn’t need to be rationalized with or reminded that he had once agreed. He needs to mourn what we are leaving behind, so that he can be prepared to move ahead.

Zeb has always needed a slow transition. He’s slow to get out of bed, slow to stop one thing and start another. We work with this by giving him plenty of notice before we leave, before we eat, before company comes.

And this anger and sadness was the beginning phase of a very big transition. All he needed from me was a place to vent, some validation over what will surely suck and some patience. So I finally stopped rationalizing or talking him out of his emotions. I stopped trying to fix it. (Wait. I thought I learned this one already?)

I allowed myself to be his emotional punching bag.

He needed a safe place to let it all out. And with lots of deep breaths and quiet reminders to myself to keep my mouth shut, I became that place. Sometimes he yelled, other times he cried. Sometimes he questioned and voiced concern. Some days he talked excitedly and made plans. At one point he blamed us for ruining his life and called us names, hating us with conviction. And that’s about when I was suddenly able to see past my own expectations and look with compassion on my son who was grieving a loss in advance.

And as soon as I managed to stay present and compassionate during his storm, it passed. In a matter of an hour he went from total meltdown to cuddling in our arms. In the end he gave us a look that resembled a Thank You, a hug that said I Love You Too and he was off to conquer the day without the heavy emotional load dragging him down.

I’m not about to assume we’ve seen the end. He’s not that kind of kid. And he still has his moments of fear amid the moments of excitement, although they aren’t as explosive now. But if I can remember to breath and not take it personally, I know we’ll get through them, too.

There is plenty more to say on the subject of transitioning/moving/traveling with a highly-sensitive child. You could probably consider this Part One.

Less than 30 miles outside Las Vegas, Benny broke down. A puff of smoke from the dash, a burnt smell and the engine and electrical controls turned off.

At first I really couldn’t be upset. I just kept thinking it could have been so much worse – an accident, the transmission, something requiring a fire extinguisher. We could have been in the middle of the desert without cell service. And that’s what this trip was about anyway; a test run. So instead of stressing out, we played games and kept Justin from getting frustrated as he tinkered. His dad drove out in hopes of helping. But in the end, and with the help of a friend’s phone book back home, we had to call a tow truck.

That’s about the time I started to get discouraged. I feel like this damn city has a stranglehold on me and refuses to let us leave. Following the tow truck back to the mechanic was disheartening enough but as we turned onto our street I felt even more depressed. It had that foreign but familiar feeling already – like you get when you’ve been away for a lot longer than 7 hours. I know it was only suppose to be a two day trip but it felt like the beginning of something brought to a rather abrupt end. And here we are: stuck and begrudged.

I’ve spent the last several hours going through the gamut of emotions – from amused over the story we’ll someday retell to disappointed. I’ve questioned whether this was a sign we are on the wrong path…or just a sign we bought the wrong RV.

And I’ve wondered what we’ll do without the support system we had in place today, without a parent to give us a lift or a friend to make a call. Will we be able to manage when it’s just the three of us in the middle of nowhere?

And for fuck’s sake, will this RV even make it to the middle of nowhere when it can’t even make it to the state line?

Update: We picked the RV up today (the 15th; less than 24 hours after dropping it off.) The mechanic said the electrical wiring under the dash was a mess, with lots of extraneous wiring and poorly connected. Apparently, one of the wires touched something metal which fried the whole thing. The kicker: Had we known or discovered the potential problem, it would have cost us $15 for a DIY repair. I don’t even want to think about what it cost us instead. ::sigh:: Oh, well. Such is life, shit happens and all that jazz. We’re hoping to reschedule our trip within a week and are crossing our fingers all will be well!

A few days ago it dawned on me quite suddenly that within six months time I would finally be leaving Las Vegas. By that time I will be 28 years old and will have spent nearly all my life (except for a brief stint as a toddler and a handful of vacations) in this city, born and raised and never having escaped. I was so struck by elation at this thought, I was brimming with tears.

To everyone that loves Las Vegas, bless you. I’m so happy that you are where you love to be (or will hopefully be here soon?).

But Las Vegas is not for me. Not the heat, the 4 inches of rain, the lack of community resources, the billboards of half nekked woman, the smoky casinos, the dry, dead surroundings. And the only green thing (an occasional grassy yard) is more of an insult to our drought than a source of comfort.

Oh, the possibilities! The things we will see and experience. The people we will meet! The exploring of communities and landscapes and hopefully, the realization of the perfect place for us. Living in a small space, downsizing, simplifying, letting go of our attachment to “stuff” in the meantime is all exciting, exhilarating, appreciated.

Overall, I am really, truly, overwhelmingly ecstatic to be moving.

Except for this moment right now.

In this moment right now, I’m really, truly, overwhelmed by fear and sadness.

It started when I saw this photo from A Sonoma Garden and I thought to myself how beautiful it was and how great the same grape arbor would look along the side of our house in the backyard. And then I realized we wouldn’t be here long enough to watch it grow.

And that’s when it hit me. I’m not afraid to leave Las Vegas. I’m not afraid to leave behind the family and friends we love.

I’m afraid to leave my home. *My* home. The place we’ve worked so hard on, were still working hard on and have now ceased work on. The garden that is still years away from what we dreamed it would be.

I’m letting go of the dream I had of creating this place into something wonderful – an oasis in the middle of barren suburbia - and although we will have the opportunity to start over, we’ll be starting ALL over. From square one. Not debt-free as we had planned. Not starting where we are now. We’re going backwards. And after selling much of what we own, we’ll be going there with almost nothing. Liberating, yes. But depending on the state of the economy and oil prices, perhaps having so little to our name is not such a good thing.

And then there is the environmental factor. Yes, we’ll be solar powered and running on waste veggie oil which emits 50% less emissions, but we’ll still be driving around the country like tourists, eco or not. We won’t be growing our food or buying in bulk. Will our smaller lifestyle be more or less taxing on the environment than how we live now?

Not to mention this leaves out moving away from our only place of familiarity and a system of support. I have no idea how to start over without the support of family. We will – for the first time in our lives - really and truly be on our own. And have I mentioned that Zeb and I are home-bodies, creatures of habit? We like to follow our routine, we like to retreat to quiet rooms to be alone, we like privacy. How will all of that work out in a 22 foot motorhome?

I want to tap into that excitement again right now. To remember how much we are broadening our horizons, how many more ideas we’ll walk away with and knowledge we’ll accumulate. To remember that we’ve never felt like Las Vegas was our home and this is our chance to find what we feel is missing.

I realize we’ll find a place we love, a home where we can do all this and more, a community that supports our ideals. I realize we’ll be making so many more friends as we travel and eventually settle back in.

But right now I’m overwhelmed. I didn’t expect to face these things for a few more years. But now it’s finally hitting me and we haven’t even started packing. Will I be able to do this? Or are we crazy to even consider it?

It’s not the tone or the words that matter – even if they hurt. No. It’s the feeling that you have to be perfect and knowing every moment of imperfection is blamed on our differing choices, regardless of the fact the same flaws, the same imperfections exist (and maybe, even usually, to a greater extent) within the realms of conventional parenting.

And we are all imperfect. I am imperfect. Still in need of support or understanding. Still too quick to fall back on old habits of parenting in moments of stress. Still figuring it all out and learning and healing and growing. And yet when you position yourself in such blatant contrast of the norm, when you choose a path that others do not understand, your every action and reaction is dissected for fault. Every moment of humanness is waved about as an ugly flag that what you do is “wrong”.

Perhaps, in my maddening attempt to rise above the typical, I spend too much time in introspection. What started as my questioning the norm and finding a better way has progressed into something more debilitating and less productive. I take what I hear to heart. I inspect the thoughts given to me – despite their tone or purpose – for any shred of truth. I look for ways to improve. And I kick myself when I find what I seek. I often find myself spiraling into my own fears (or someone else’s), allowing myself to become paralyzed with guilt and further adding to my ever-growing list of missteps. Perhaps, my real goal shouldn’t be finding fault to improve it but forgiving fault when it arises and moving forward from that moment.

I want to be different, if that’s what it takes to love and respect my child. I want to nurture his ideas and autonomy, even if that means a few more bumps when he is younger because I know it will mean less as he grows. I strive to listen and breath and think before I respond. I want to validate and advocate. I want to listen to him first, me second and forget all criticism that clashes with what our hearts tell us.

But I am not perfect. Nor is my child. Or our life. Not because our choice in lifestyle is flawed. Loving kindness is never flawed. But because we’re human, with histories that shape our present state of mind, that bring up fears and unTruths and because it takes time for us to learn or unlearn and blossom and flow flawlessly with this Love.

We may not always experience one endless moment of Joy (did I ever elude we did?). But our joys are deeper and stronger and more full of laughter than they ever were before we found this path. Under even our most tumultuous days, flows an undercurrent of Trust and Love and Peace. All we have to do is take a deep breath and allow it to wisk us away to calmer waters.

I laid next to Zeb in bed the other night. We had just finished reading a few chapters of Little House and were cuddling, whispering to each other about our day and laughing quietly together. And though I had spent many days in the choppy waters (I) created from unkind words, I took a deep breath, recognizing that undercurrent pulling me back and let myself sink into it.

I whispered to my sweet boy that I love him…And he whispered back he loves me more…So I insisted I love him to pieces…

And he replied he loves me to crumbs…

And just like that, I’m swept away. No other words matter as much as those.

I’m ready for More. Either more right where I am or more somewhere else. But I don’t know how long I’ll be where I am or when we might be somewhere else. And the anticipation feels like  a bear wrestling within my bones, ready to bust out and tear me to shreds in the process. I want to do so much to this home and this garden, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel my intuition telling me to save my pennies for a sunnier day. And yet, waiting, hoping, wishing I knew what that day was, when it will arrive. I want to explode from all this conflict within me.

I want a plan; to know what to expect; to work toward something. But instead I feel stuck. Stagnant. Purposeless. For what is the purpose of sinking more money or energy into a house we could be out of in as little as six months. But what is the purpose of living here, uninspired and unhappy and not work toward making our arrangements as ideal as possible.

I flux between loving and hating this house.

There are days where it is my home and my heart breaks at the mere possibility of an unstable economy pushing us out. I hunker down and revel in its comfort. I enjoy it and I want to remain in it. I can’t imagine leaving the community we’ve built, the family we love, the friends we cherish.

Then there are days like today. Days when it feels like a trap. An unrelenting burden keeping us pinned down; like a beast sitting on my chest as I fight, powerlessly to get up. To breathe, even. It’s one thing to peacefully sit down. Quite another to be pushed to your knees. And as anyone forced to comply, I’m left in a fighting mood.

And here I’ve swung for several weeks, back and forth between determination to make this happen, making the best of it, growing where I’m currently planted; and feeling unsettled, out of control, anxious, uncertain and even depressed.

Justin said it best. “I’m ready to move.”

And yet, here I still sit, holding back emotion. Acquiescing to my circumstances. Trying to remain focused on what I can do, what brings me joy, what lifts this mood. Succeeding for a day or two. Failing for another. Back and forth between two places I don’t want to be.

This is harder than I imagined.

Sometimes I find that “me time” just leaves me feeling bitter or resentful. It makes me focus on how much I give, on the moments where appreciation isn’t pouring from their mouths. It makes me want more time away.

Not a good place to be. I know my presence in such a place is merely a matter of perspective.

I’ve come to know what puts me in that place of negative perspective – being around those who don’t understand my first priority being my family and home or being somewhere that pulls my focus towards “what if” or “how come” or “greener grass”.

But there are still moments when I need to recharge. Not because I want to “get away” but because I want to come home, centered and present and able to give again.

Zeb and I enjoy going to the library on Tuesday. We peruse books and videos and fill our tote until the handles threaten to rip (because how can we possibly not?). And we sit in the comfy chairs to enjoy our stories amongst the calming vibes of bookshelves and whispers and pages turning.

But there are some days when Zeb wants to stay home with Justin and I get to return the books myself.

And on some of those days when I know the guys will be preoccupied, I’ll find an open chair - one of the good ones with padded arms and a cushy seat; maybe even away from the foot traffic or by a sunny window – and I’ll curl up with my own book – something about gardening or parenting no doubt – and I’ll absorb just one chapter without a single interruption.

Then I come home – recharged and present – to smiles and chatter about the game that was won or the new beat that was mastered. And I realize just how perfect that little spot is because it allows me to be appreciative of when I leave it.

to love the mess
and kiss the rock that tripped me
and bless the burnt edges
of the toast for their discomfort

to smile
at the laughter
at the sun
at the wind that blows away
my patience

to be open
to opposition
contrast
differences
and allow it
to open my mind
and think and wonder
ponder, confuse, debate
and then accept it as it is

to breath
deeply
often
to look beneath
to love the layers
and what they hide

to dance
to spin and sway and float
and then be still
and listen
hear
understand
or not
and be okay with it

to create
with color or word or light
with pen or paper
or heart

to sing
and hum
and hear the music
in the trees
and the birds
and the traffic
and the tears

to play
like a child
like an adult
in my heart
my home
and the world around me

to let go
of anger
expectations
assumptions or impatience

to grow
in the soil or the sand
like the bloom
open
simple
wild and trailing

to give and love
and accept both in return
to pray with my lips
or my heart
my steps
or my lungs
every moment, my offering
every breath, my soul

to be sweet
like sticky honey
dripping from my pores

to offer
what others need
to be what wraps around them
the warmth that embraces
listens
silent
loving
to be the smile
that whispers comfort
that hears the truth
and sits in awe

© Tara Wagner 2009

.