Invisible Moon

Home Among the Woods with a leafy dance floor

When I started out on my journey 5 months ago, I wasn’t sure where I would be going or where I would be staying. I didn’t have a set game plan except for the cities I needed to be in to run my races. Now that I have a few months under my belt, I have experienced different places that I have called my temporary home.

I have stayed in RV parks with high quality amenities with access to electricity, water, and sewage. I have stayed in state park and national park campgrounds with more humble amenities surrounded by Mother Nature’s overwhelming beauty. I have set up camp in my friends’ driveways getting a taste of having human neighbors again. Lastly, I have boondocked. I have traveled down rugged, one-way forest roads with no connection to the outside world just to sleep under the cover of towering trees.

On my travels, I discovered a Wildlife Management Area that allowed camping that was along the route I was driving in Georgia. My dog and I turned down the dirt road. This dirt road was mixed with sand, hard-packed dirt, and mud. The potholes cupped the rain water as I weaved left and right through the landmines. About two miles in, we found the rustic campsites. Besides one other camper down the road, we were the only inhabitants in the woods. We (the “we” is always my dog and I) backed the trailer into a small clearing in the trees and set up our home. We still had a few hours before the night consumed the sun, and on this night it was a new moon. 

I love working with the phases of the moon. It is such a beautiful way to join the ebb and flow of nature and join her on her cycles. With every full moon, it is a time for release. With every new moon, it is a time for manifesting. For the full moon, I light a white candle, and for the new moon, I light a black candle. I have my moon journal where I document what I want to release and manifest. It allows me to focus on what is no longer serving me, and it also allows me to focus on what I wish to bring into my life. I also like to pull a Sacred Rebels Oracle card which gives me a theme to focus on for the two weeks until the next major moon phase. I pulled the “Trust Yourself” card: a beautiful, brilliantly-colored card with a young woman’s head surrounded by an array of animals. In that moment, I felt empowered to do just that. 

As the evening welcomed the new moon, I was ignited. The fresh air was like a natural drug. My pupils dilated. I needed to move; my body needed to expel electricity. The clearing in the woods became my personal club as dusk started to settle. I put my headphones in, started the music, and danced on the fallen leaves that created a makeshift dance floor. I closed my eyes as the new moon energy pulsed as loudly as the music in my ears. I spun around trees. “I’ve been on my own for long enough/Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe.” I whirled among tree stumps and fallen branches letting my feet be guided by the beats. “Sin City’s cold and empty/No one’s around to judge me.” My hands waved in the air like casting spells on the night. “I said, ooh, I’m drowning in the night/Oh, when I’m like this, you’re the one I trust.”

I stayed outside dancing until I could barely see the shapes of nature. The blackness engulfed the surroundings blending us into one.

A Moment at a Time

Camping down a red dirt road in an Oregon National Forest.

I have always been the type to push my boundaries and limits. However, I walk up to that boundary line shaking in fear; sometimes I spend days, months, or years standing at that boundary, but then something happens.

I cross it.

This current boundary I have crossed has taken me years to tiptoe across.

When my parents both passed away in 2014, I saw time through a new lens: there wasn’t enough of it. It couldn’t be dismissed or squandered. I spent time traveling and experiencing life even more than I had been. I also decided I wanted to travel across the country in a camper.

Not that I forgot the lessons I learned from my parents’ deaths, but I fell back into convention. It always seems so easy to do: to fall back in line with the status quo.

In 2018, I even quit the job I was working, which was with the TRiO program at a local high school. I told my boss I was leaving my job because I was buying a camper, and I was going to travel the states.

While I had every intention to back that talk up with action, I didn’t. I was scared. I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t. So instead, I took time off work to travel some more, and I stayed in my comfort zone.

After a few months of traveling, I started looking for a new job. I became a high school English teacher. While I loved the community, I loved the small school, and I loved the kids, it just wasn’t right. But I don’t think anything was going to be right because I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to. I started getting this nagging feeling. I had to travel the states in camper. I needed to experience the open road and simplicity.

This time when I turned my notice in at my job, I was ready to take my dreams seriously, and I did.

I was excited but scared shitless. In fact, I am two weeks in on the road, and I am still excited and scared shitless.

I have gotten rid of my house I was renting, and I have gotten rid of 90% of the things I own. I have no plan except for this moment. I have no idea what I will do, where I will live or where I will be in one year. For now, I am blindly following my path.

I still doubt myself; I still doubt my decision. Then I feel this intense freedom; I feel the joy that boils up when I am in a new place.

I am on the road with my Subaru, my kayak, my travel trailer and my dog. (This might be a progressive country song in the making). In two weeks, I have experienced so many emotions. I have had these beautiful experiences. I have felt alone. I have felt like the whole world is mine, and we keep sharing secrets. I have felt frustration; I felt elation. I have thought, “What the hell am I doing?” Followed by, “This is exactly what I should be doing!” Things are simple, but nothing is easy.

In two weeks, I lost the handle that lowers my stabilizers on my trailer. I lost the vent cover to the back of my refrigerator somewhere between Nebraska and Kansas. I have had to beg and plead with RV repair shops to fix my 7-prong plug on my trailer. I broke the breakaway cable on my trailer. I drove through 65 mph winds as my car and trailer wiggled like a squirmy puppy. I have had to wash my clothes at laundromats. If I get to take a shower, I have to wait 30 minutes for the water to heat up. I live in a 17 foot space. I experienced a 28 degree night in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot. I carry all the burdens of decision making and handling problems when they arise alone.

It sounds like I might be whining or complaining, but then there is the other side of things. In two weeks, I have experienced freedom and beauty; I have experienced the beauty in freedom. My dog and I sat alone atop sand dunes in Idaho as the sun tucked behind the horizon as the cooling sand soothed our skin. Coyotes sang and their voices echoed through the silence. I ran on riverside trails that meandered through the Utah wilderness with not one human in sight. Every morning in Utah I saw the same deer family of four. I kayaked through the Flaming Gorge as the sun rose high above the red rocks; the rocks jagged edges highlighted by the rays of light. I drove on miles and miles of gravel roads in Kansas while pale blue skies kissed the golden crops. I ran a half-marathon in Marysville, Kansas which was my 30th half-marathon, and my 21st state I have ran a race in.

I still have no idea what I am doing, but I feel myself learning; I feel myself expanding. The open road only accepts patience and appreciation. I have to be willing to roll with whatever I am presented with each day. Being on the road forces me to be present in every moment.

Each morning my eyes open to whatever the day may bring, and no day is the same.