The Grant

Tomorrow, I stand before group of judges. Men and women gathered by my school to judge "innovation."

For my part, I have created a plan to save one part of my small corner of the world. I've proposed to take $2000 of their dollars and spend them on invigorating an organization that serves homeless youth.

The plan is pretty basic. Gonna improve their training so they they get a larger volunteer base. Gonna create a development program to improve their leadership core. And lastly, gonna bring together members of the community (and homeless kids themselves) to brainstorm ways of reaching out.

I'm pretty stoked. This homeless thing has been a long time in formulating. I'm grateful that some of the fire and mission that started me on this venture is coming back around to really help those people who need it.

$2000 isn't that much. Not even two months rent back in my old place. But its something. Its a start. Could be a tipping point.

So now it's time to do this thing. I've survived skin rashes, mice sleeping on my face, wet and freezing nights, constant sickness, sleeping on the floor of my office, biking 100 miles a week with no car, and not to mention terrifying cops.

I think I can handle a couple of judges.

Monsters

When you are in the outdoors during the day is sounds so magical. The buzz of insects and the rustle of critters makes the whole area come alive.

Nighttime is a different story. While I imagine the actually noises aren't terribly different at night, the way they sound is quite a bit more terrifying.

On one of my first nights out, I discovered, auditorially, the resident monster. Now, its hard to judge the size of something moving through dried leaves. Every creature makes a loud rustle. Each night, I would set up my tent in relative silence, but as soon as I was safely in my tent, the monster would come out.

It would rustle from its home to investigate this tent intruder, crunching leaves as it passed. It took particular interest in my stash box, moving around it and... making a sound I can only describe as snorting, around its base.

Was it some sort of pig? A boar? Perhaps it was a possum or a skunk. Whatever it was, I was somewhat terrified to startle it (particularly if it was a boar or skunk), but I was also curious about what it really was. While there are countless sounds in the night, this one was the most constant, the most curious, and the closest to home.

So I started leaving the bottom of my tent door unzipped, so that when I heard the beast I could fling back the rain fly and shine my headlamp in the direction of the noise. But try as I might, it eluded my surprise peekings. It must be really fast or really stealthy.

This wonder went on for two months, when one night, in what ended up being simultaneously far more terrifying and far less terrifying than I would have imagined. I had been having some trouble falling asleep, and I was laying, staring in the very dull light up at the roof of my tent, when quite suddenly something leapt into my tent.

I jolted into a sitting position, and quickly grasped for my headlamp (though somewhat afraid because whatever it was had gone toward that side of the tent. I manage to find the lamp after a few tenative grabs, and as I click it on I revealed my intruder.

A field mouse.

Of course this creature is stairing at me with horror. He has just jumped into what he considered a shealter, only to find it inhabited by a creature hundreds of times his size. I, not interested in shairng my home with a mouse, tried to shoo him out with my shoe. This does not go well, as he is fast and the lip of the tent is about as tall as him. So he runs from me in every direction, even a few times getting behind me (which freaks me out in my one person tent). I consider just grabbing him and throwing him out, but I don't really want to get bitten and diseased by some mouse. So I continue with the shoe.

Unfortunatly, one of my gentle shoe guidings ends up being more like a kick, and this sends the mouse into a panic. He dives at me, or rather, toward me, and starts burrowing between my sleeping mat and the tent floor, scrambling desperatly for whatever cover he can manage. It is at that moment when I hear it.

The sound. That... snort like sound. It is his little paws as they scrape along plastic. In a rush, I realize that he, the little feild mouse, is my monster. The noise that eluded my identification, rusting the tarp and at the base of the plastic box, not the snuffling of some giant beast, but the scamperings and attempted climbings of a tiny one.

I am now his monster. As he is hidden and finally still, I slowly reach to the tent door, open it completely, and pull in the rain fly so that a clear exit is now in sight. I then pull back the mattress and with my teeth against my lip I make a soft "ffft" sound. The mouse runs toward the exit, stoping at the lip of the tent door.

"Fffft," I say again, and he leaps out of the tent into the night.

I'm struck by the fact that it was the door I left open so I could find out what the creature's idenity was the door it leapt in through.

I'm struck by the fact that forcing the mouse out was far less effective than showing him the way out.

Most of all, I'm struck by the fact that it was my ignorance of reality that caused me to fear that monster mouse.

Waking Up

Gotta tell you, it's a lot harder to get up with little sleep when I'm out in the wild. I'm not sure why.

Wait, I fucking know why. Its because there's some much damn work involved. Sure, getting up takes some work even when you have a house, but the tasks that await you tend to be refreshing (like showering and eating).

But out there, getting up entails packing dismantling my tent, packing my stuff away, and hiking out of the canyon. Doing all that seems really appealing on four hours of sleep.

Shower

I've never been so happy to shower in public.

When I think back to past experiences that involve group bathing, they are usually sorta awkward. I'm not super nervous about being naked in front of people, but there's just a somewhat uncomfortable air in public showers.

But not last night. After a brief workout I'm sweaty and gross and I this shower is mine. I'm not bumming from a friend. I'm not hiding behind a bush in the wild. The shower I'm about to take is mine. Rented, just like every other member of the gym, but an equal part mine.

Even better than a sense of ownership? Hot water. I turn that handle and in an instant I have hot water. I stand there for just a moment as calm washes over me. For the first time in a long time I am truly blissful.

Homeless Skin

One of the things I have always noticed most homeless people have in common is their skin. Perhaps "in common" is the wrong expression. Sometimes its flaky and ashen. Sometimes its sun baked and leathery. Sometimes it has rashes. Sometimes its has open wounds.

Perhaps I should say it inversely. People with homes all have the same skin. Forget color. You show me two people with a home and I'll show you two people with very similar skin. Sure, maybe one works outside and has hardened hands and a deep tan while the other's skin is soft and white. But there are no persistent rashes. No reoccurring ailments.

What's the cause? Well, its a combination of things. Think about it. Outside often. In the sun often. On the ground often. Increased exposure to contaminants (or in my case, possibly allergenic plants) Fewer changes of clothing. Fewer launderings. Fewer showers.

More shit on you; fewer was to get it off.

Said another way, a home is basically walls. I can usually find something to get under. Under a freeway overpass. Under an awning. But I have no place to get in. Even when I manage a place with walls (like my car or tent) it is small and very hard to keep clean. Think about how often you are protected by the walls of your house. Now, take all those times away. What protects you now?

Your skin. Your skin is the last wall. The final rampart that draws the definitive line between you and the world. And should you ever become homeless, your skin will be the organ that bears the brunt of what the world has in store for you.

I have homeless skin.

I don't know if I'm surprised. I sort of expected it (as I've always known it was one of the common struggles), but I also thought my particular brand of vagrancy would be exempt. I have rashes.

One is a reaction from a plant. Its not real bad, but it starts around my waist and extends down my left leg. Must have brushed some Poison Something, then inadvertently itched it down my leg. Not unexpected. I'm out in the bush, and some of the bush is itchy.

The other rash is a bit more unique. See, part of my version of homelessness involves me keeping my job. I have to look nice, and I have to smell nice for the normal world. I had originally planned on getting a gym membership as a way of gaining regular access to showering facilities. But I never did, instead defaulting to bathing in the wilderness.

Here's how I do it. I pack out a 64 oz. bottle and soap and shampoo. In the morning, after breaking camp, I would wash myself. Naked. In the wild.

It works... well enough, I suppose. I don't get that awesome clean feeling one gets after a hot shower or a long bath, but I feel passable. Also, I would find the opportunity to shower in one of the houses at which I would crash. But one day, I started itching. Not just any itching.

Genital itching.

Now, I've used to give the sex and relationship talk for a teen development organization. I remember health class. I've even spent some sobering hours searching sexually transmitted diseases on the internet. But I'm perplexed. Lets just say my current sexual behavior shouldn't be infectious.

Unlike most vagrants, I have health insurance. Not from teaching, but through the Church. I suppose Christianity has always concerned itself with healing. I just so happened that I found myself in a dermatologist's office a few days after the itching started (had made an appointment for something else about a week earlier).

Between my reflections and the doctor's knowledge, we put it together. Wouldn't you know that soap is an allergen. That's right. We are all allergic to soap. Now, not very allergic, which is why we can stand to put it all over our bodies. But if you leave soap on your body (that is perhaps, if you are bathing out of a 64 oz. bottle and don't get it all rinsed off...) you can have an allergic reaction.

So here I am. Despite my efforts for cleanliness (in fact, because of them), I have rashes over various parts of my lower body. I'm pretty good at not scratching my itches. I've always been the person who can keep meditating when the fly has landed on my face. Also I've had some nearly whole body Poison Oak disasters that really put this kind of suffering in perspective. The worst, though, is at night. I guess I don't have the same focus and self control when I'm sleepy (go figure), and there are times that I wake up and I'm frantically scratching scratching scratching. And once I've started, its very hard to stop.

Fortunately, the doctor gave me a little sample of hydrocorisone and I've been working to get the rashes under control.

I also finally got that gym membership, and am looking forward to full showers daily. Even as I write this the American economy is worse than its been in almost a century. But I submit to you this question for meditation and subsequent gratitude.

Do you have the ability to shower daily? Better yet, do have unfettered access to hot water and total privacy? How about an endless selection of scented concoctions with which to clean yourself, with every nuanced step from flowery or bold available for just a few dollars?

Yes? I do not contend that you don't have struggles, but if your answer to these questions is yes, I pray you count yourself among the lucky.

Sick

I've never wanted a home more than right now. Being sick, it seems, is the clincher. See, not having a home gives me this sort of displaced feel, which is sometimes pretty cool. There are times I feel like I'm really on a mission. An unending quest to save the world. But that's when I'm feeling spunky.

On Monday I strained my lower back. On Tuesday I got sick. The back pain makes the prospect of sleeping on the ground very uninviting. The sickness makes me want a home. Now, I am fortunate enough to have people around who care enough to put me up for the night, or make me tea, or some other form of comfort. While this is nice, and I appreciate the sentiment, it has yet to make me feel at home.

We are more than half way through February, which means the cold will be passing soon and the rains will be gone. I am looking forward to not being ill. I have yet to regret my choice of lifestyle... but I'll say, on days like today it looks pretty bleak.

The Rain

Last night was cold.

A few days ago I hatched the idea of creating a wilderness cache. In this box would be all I would need to stay the night in the wild. Hidden away behind tree and bush, I would be able to just hike out to the box with the appearance of going for a hike, and stay for the night. This is an important little bit of deception, as camping in this particular wilderness is not looked highly upon by the law.

Here's the deal. The gates up to the legal camping spots in these mountains close at 8:00 pm. I am so rarely done working/talking to loved ones by 8:00 that I just never make it up there. Honestly the hours between 8:00 and 11:00 are my most productive. Anyhow, there is no camping in Eaton. Now, that's only kind of a problem. If I hike out into the bush a few hundred meters, no one would ever catch on. The problem lies in the fact that I have to walk passed the ranger station every time I hike out there with all my stuff in tow. This makes my wilderness cache appealing, as it makes me look like every other early morning walker.

Last night I created my cache. I got a plastic tub and a tarp from Target, and filled the tub with the tarp, two blankets, a pillow, and my cozy socks. I also decided to bring my tent, as it sorta looked like rain. Good thing, too.

Rain it did. The ground was all soft and moist from the earlier rains, and the creek coming out of the canyon was running for the first time since the end of last summer. Usually I love that little river, but carrying a giant tub in with only the moon to light my path made the rocky crossing a bit more stressful. I found easily the spot I had scouted out a few days ago, and I set up camp.

Everything was damp by the time I settled down for the night, but is was more... annoying than uncomfortable. The actual suffering came later, around 3:00 am when the rain kicked in. See, tents keep the rain off you, but for some damn reason, if you touch the side of the tent, the water can come in. My little porta-tent is basically a mummy bag with a spacious bit for your head, which means that your lower section is basically touching the sides. If you aren't directly, your pad and blankets are. The only way to avoid this is to stake out the sides of the tent. I hadn't.

So starting at 3:00 in the morning the half hour wake ups began. I would wake up, vaguely aware of my soggy condition, roll over, and try to sleep. This worked well enough, but as I got wetter, the attempted rest offered diminishing returns.

The lesson here is not terribly surprising. Getting wet is not fun in the cold. Now, it probably didn't even dip much below 50 degrees, but the wet can really make that miserable. Not much chance of hypothermia and that temp... but upon my sluggish unrested rise today, I really missed home.

The Sierra Madre Villa Metro Station

The Gold Line Metro rail runs in the middle of the 210 freeway in Pasadena, down through South Pasadena and on into Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. Leaving Union Station, the Gold Line's last stop is the Sierra Madre Villa Station, which connects to the fourth floor of the giant parking structure built to house the automobiles of the commuters. On weekdays the four stories are packed with cars, ranging from beat up trucks to luxury sedans.

At night a few cars can be found on any of the floors, left by people who work 3rd's or who have metroed to the airport and are abroad.

But the fifth story is empty. Not really sure why. Perhaps people just park as soon as they see a space, hurrying to the elevator to the forth floor, never even noticing that the bridge spanning the 210 doens't actually connect to the top.

It was on this story, all the way at the top and tucked away in the second parking space from teh wall, I began to make my home. See, the parking is free, which makes it better than Eaton Canyon. It also lets me sleep in my car, which I have discovered is remarkably comfy. And despite the fact that it is smack in the midst of the city, there is more peace there than you might think. High enough that the sounds are muted by the wind and the city lights are far below and the stronger stars can still shine through.

I slept there origionally because of the rain, but honestly, I liked it so much that I began sleeping there whenever it made sense. If I was using the Metro the following day, I'd sleep there. If it was really cold, I'd sleep there. Apart from an enthusiasticly parked young couple, no one was ever up there.

I stayed up too late last night, and I subsequently got up too late this morning. Though the night had been pretty cold, the heat of the morning sun had been collecting in my car, and I opened one of the doors to let in the morning cool. Laying there, I ran an assessment of my body, noticing that I felt really, really good. My back was not out of whack, I was well rested, and my spirits were good. A few early morning phone calls with Kristen had left me in a good place.

As I lounged in my car assisted, parking structure home, I heard a car idling nearby. Thinking perhaps that they needed to park next to or near me, I closed the door conscienciously. As I lay there, thinking about getting up for real, upside down out my passenger side window I see the uniformed form of a police officer open door. Two fellow officers are fanned out around my car.

I roll so I am looking at him upright, and in a surprisingly cheery tone for how startled I am I say, "Good Morning!"

The cop shakes his head. I'm not sure whether he meant to say with his shake, "No, this is not going to be a genial conversation," or, "No, this is not going to be a good morning." Really both interpretations amount to the same thing.

"Leave," he says flatly.

"Um, ok."

I'm honestly expecting more. Perhaps for them to ask to see my licence, perhaps some questioning, perhaps a description of the law I'm breaking... something. But he adds no more. So I hop out the car and go around to the other side. The other two officers are just stairing, too. As I'm putting on my shoes, they start asking questions.

"How long you been homeless?"

"I'm not homeless. I live in Orange but work in Pasadena. Sometimes I use the Metro," I say, but I'm thinking, "Damn it, I wanted some kind of story about using the Metro but taking a nap in my car... ah well."

The cop looks in my back seat. "How come your car looks like a house?"

"Because I keep some of the stuff in it, because sometimes I stay here." I say, truthfully.

"Where do you work?"

"At Cal State LA, and at a church here in Pasadena," I say much in the same way I tell all people about my employment. Now they are really just looking at me. Maybe its the fact that I'm well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved. Maybe its the really great mood I'm in. Maybe its because I'm telling them that I'm a college teacher. Whatever the reason, they don't know really what to say to me, and they are all just standing there.

I've got my shoes on, located my wallet, and I'm ready to go.

"So..." I ask, "Is that all?"

The third officer nods, "Yeah, get out of here, and you can't be sleeping here."

As I drive out, floor by floor, I realize that I won't be staying here again. Its a sinking feeling. This place that I felt so safe. That was free. That was warm, tucked away, and under the stars. Taken from me.

Now, I get it. The precise reason I feel safe is because cops like them kick out vagrants like me. That's why there isn't a shanty town on the fifth floor of the parking structure. But I can't shake the feeling of displacement. Perhaps I haven't been homeless for long enough for the vagrant mindset to really have kicked in, but I had started feeling at home in that second parking space by the wall. So much so that I had a driving desire to part there, in that one spot, every time. And now that sense of comfort had been scattered. My tenitive hope that this might just work, gone, just like that.

Even if I wanted to go back there, and sleep in the second parking space, it won't feel like a home. I will feel like an intruder returning to the scene of a crime, not a man coming home after a day of work. Instantly my heart goes out to the homeless. Not only is it a cold, dirty, and often unhealthy way of life, I have begun to see that if you don't have a home, you don't have a place at all. And if you forget for a while, and start to put your faith in a surrogate home, a uniformed man will come and remind you that in this world... you don't have a place.

The Car

I have discovered the secret of sleeping in my car.

When I first really started considering this alternative lifestyle, I slept in my car... just to see how it would work. Wow it sucked! I tried sleeping in the passenger side, front seat fully reclined. But I couldn't really manage to do something comfortable with my legs (a bit like trying to sleep in an airplane, with more reclining). I slept so poorly that night I slinked back to my bed and had a two hour nap to try to actually be rested. A bit crestfallen, I resolved to find other sleeping arrangements.

The 70% likelihood of rain gave me some second thoughts about camping. I love the mud, don't get me wrong, but the notion of packing up that soggy, grimy tent and putting it in my car was just enough dissuasion that I decided to give the car sleep another try.

I drive up to the parking complex for the Metro, all the way to the top, and off in a tucked away little corner. Inspired by a few brainstorms from Kristen, I hatched the following sleeping arrangement. With both the front seats pushed forward, I constructed a sleeping place diagonally crossed the car. With a blanket shoved there and a sleeping bad here, the sleeping landscape was a bit like a reclining chair. You know, the ones with the flip up leg supports?

Slept like a baby! A well fed and unrealistically rested baby.

Now, it happened to not rain that night, though, two nights later, as I looked at the dark clouds pouring toward the mountain, I decided to try it again.

Same situation. Total comfort; unmolested. As it was still raining upon my waking, I took a shower in the light drizzle. I crouched in front of my car, and just let the rain slowly soak my hair and body. God provides. My peaceful cleansing was interrupted by a security guard cruising by on his little battery powered car. I give him a joyful wave. He waves back, totally flabbergasted. and just keeps driving.

I reflect as I am pulling my clothing over my damp body as I drive away. The vagrant life trades worries and joys with the home life. When have I had the blissful opportunity to bathe in God's bountiful waters? Not often.

But then, when have I had to escape my morning shower early for fear of security guards calling cops? Not often, either.

Down to a Backpack

On Monday night, at 10:30, I started my car to make the drive into the mountains.

Or rather, I barely started my car.

The battery light had been on earlier that day, and I had watched with some worry as the voltage fluxed from 10-12. Voltage now read just above 8. Not the way I want to drive into the mountains. So I call Jonah. Matt. Priyanka. Jen. Jen picks up.

I crash at Jen's house. Morning rolls around, I manage to get one more start outta my car, and I limp it down to the Steve's lil' Engine. Walk to my bike, bike to my work. At this point I am estranged from my vehicle, which now stores my basic living supplies. All I have is my backpack, its academic contents, my cell phone charger, and a small travel bag with a few hygiene products.

Or at least, that's what it would seem. I also have my wallet, and while I am not wealthy, I have the ability to wield more money than 60% of the world uses in a year. I have my cell phone, capable of communicating at a moments notice to nearly anyone anywhere. Textually, vocally, and even pictorially.

I also have a great pair of shoes. Good for running. Black so they look kinda classy. Compared to the footwear throughout history, they are a walking miracle. They are nearly as flexible as a silken slipper, and nearly as durable as hardened leather. Great traction on the bottom. They let air flow through the top. They even lace to different tightnesses depending on my mood and given activity.

My jeans are a similar wonder. Not so thick that I'm hot, not so thin that I'm cold. Rugged and protective; soft and comfy. Reinforced seams. This zipper thing is awesome too. It allows them to fit me perfectly, and still come off easily when I want them to. My pockets are both spacious and classy.

When it comes down to it, even though at that moment I had maybe... 1% of all the things I usually have at my disposal, far less than 1% if measuring it by space, I had more luxury than many people today, and certainly most throughout history.


Side note.

You know when you get your car worked on... how resentful you feel when looking at the hours of labor you are paying for? Well, when I was looking over it this time, I added it up in my head, and suddenly realized that the man MUST have under calculated. I had talked to him half a dozen times over the last few days... I bet he worked 3x more than he was billing me.

Perhaps it was the wash of relief of getting my vagrant home back. Perhaps it was because of my intense gratitude for things like my shoes that gave me an intense appreciation for an awesome machine like my car. Or perhaps it was the subtle knowledge that I didn't have to pay any rent or utilities at the end of the month.

Whatever it was, I look him side long as he is explaining the bill and ask, "You sure you are being honest with these hours?"

He's flustered, starts to say something, and I realize I need to clarify.

"It seems to me," I put in, "that you guys worked a lot more than this."

He gets a grin and replies, "If we actually put down what we work on these things... I don't think most people would be very happy."

"Well, I'm not most people. You sure you don't want to give your self a more fair shake? I'd gladly pay it. You deserve it."

He shakes his head vehemently, "No, no, we learn a lot while working on problems like yours. Its our pleasure."

"Ok, well, I'm glad. I'm just saying. I really appreciate it. I know you worked hard," I say. I feel that little ring of truth.

"That's what I do, work hard." He says sincerely.

"Me too." I earnestly reply, recalling church work, school work, class planning, syllabuses, school applications...

"Well, labors of love I suppose," Steve says, and gives me a half-side hug, half clap on the shoulder.

I thank him as I shake his hand.

My car starts like a dream. All the little lights and dials are in the right place. I smoothly accelerate on my way. There are a few things that have happened in the last two minutes that have never happened in my life.

1.) I have never looked at a bill for HUNDREDS of dollars and felt like it wasn't enough.

2.) I have never appreciated the raw yet graceful automobile as I do while driving away from the shop. (Walking and biking, my friend, will give you a very realistic vision of how much work your car really does.)

3.) I have never been hugged by my mechanic. Figure that one out.

Relaxation

After meeting with the lay director of the Cursillo community of Orange County today (more, I imagine, concerning Cursillo soon to follow), I decided to drop by mom's house, as I was nearly there already. There was some possiblity we would get together and game... but it didn't end up panning out.

Instead, I ended up having a wonderfully relaxing evening, from unscored Scrabble with mom to Burn After Reading.

Not really sure why it was so relaxing. Perhaps it was simply the first day I had off in some time... no work, no familial obligations, no moving. I have to say, though, I felt really right. I may have been carrying that home of mine in more ways than one.

I had an interesting ecstatic experiance in the grocery store. Usually I have people related spontaneous ecstacies, but this one was food related. Weird. While walking along the spice and sauce isle, I had a wild rush of tastes, accompanied with the profound gratitude for all the diversity in all created. Lasted for about fifteen seconds.

Vagrancy

While in conversation with a dear friend last night, I characterized my situation as vagrancy. I explained that homeless was not quite right, as I had many homes, or one big home, depending on how you want to look at it.

What is different about my situation is the fact that I'm roaming. Unlike the single house I used to live in, there are now multiple places where I lay my head. Last night; mom's house. I was already her way visiting a friend, so I just bopped down and took the couch. She offered to gussy up the cubby for me. With a wry smile, I told her I didn't need a bedroom.

Showered at mom's this morning. I really need to get that 24 Hour Fitness membership. I also couldn't find my travel box last night. Kind of a minor disaster there. I'll have to check in the light of day, and if it isn't in the car, promptly relocate it and put it there.

As of yet, no mind blowing revelations. :)

First Night Out

Luxury!

I have a one person, one pole, greenish brown tent that sets up in about 1.5 minutes,

a one inch thick, blow up mattress that basically totally covers the floor of the tent,

a blue, down sleeping bag (rated at 30 degrees),

my queen sized comforter and my two pillows stuffed into one case from my bed...

... and it all more or less fits in my backpack.

Status check after the first night: not cold, not wet, not dangerous, not loud. The morning dew may prove annoying and mildewy if I continue to pack up right away as I did this morning. I did have a little scare when I was unpacking my car last night. Already kinda on edge from the idea of getting arrested or something silly like that, when the bush that I was parked next to started rustling, well, I freaked out more. For about one second I considered getting back in my car, but then the phrase, "Move confidently in the direction of your dreams," ran through my head. So I unloaded my stuff confidently, but accidentally knocked a portable blower for my big air mattress out of the trunk, it lands on the ground, and promptly turns on. "Ok," I think to myself, "move confidently if clumsily in the direction of your dreams."

Still a bit tense, the walk into the wilderness section of Eaton Canyon took much longer than I remember my well lighted, light hearted, heart pumping hikes. But the moon is a bit more than half past full, and I can see without my headlamp. Cross the empty river, and I'm into the wild. Camp is into the trees a bit, though, upon my waking, it was in sight of the trail. Set up goes well, I'm in bed by 10:40, and I'm off to sleep.

I wake up a few times every night, last night was no different. Its... a little less comfy on the ground than my bed, though the sleeping bag + blanket = toasty warm. Camp broke easily, my only concern being the moisture that may be problematic since I just packed it away.

Here I am at work. While it still feels a bit like a camping trip, I can now say my life of vagrancy has really begun.

The Final Hours

No lie... last night was tough. Somewhere around 8:00 pm I entered a strange mental place. Part of me just wanted to collapse, another part was buzzing. I guess it was equal parts anxiety and despair. In an effort to not be overdramatic, I should remind myself that moving is always stressful, and I'm not sure that this time was any more so.

A few times I muttered a resentful prayer, something like, "Hey God, where's that fortitude through grace that flows from intentionality and surrender?" A few bright ideas and ongoing goal setting (Alright, done with the kitchen by 9:30!) put my exhausted head on the pillow around 12:40 am, a little less than five hours before I needed to awake.

The morning had a groggy beginning, but I was honestly brightened by how little there was left to do. Traffic was smooth and my errand run. Now for the cleaning.

I washed the walls,

scrubbed the carpet,

dusted the molding,

vacuumed the floors,

bleached the tub,

and so on.

Maudi (my landlord) was there ten minutes before our noon meeting time, but as the good Lord would have it, I was done two minutes before he arrived. His inspection of the apartment mostly involved carefully inspecting the vertical blinds. They were all in order. I always liked Maudi, and today he is just as gentle as always. I'll get the security deposit in about a month, he says. Take out a bit for the painting, general cleaning, and carpet cleaning. Oh, and minus the seven days of January. I can leave the dressers if I want, but his moving guys will come out of my deposit as well. The washer and dryer? He will leave the door open for a buyer to pick them up. I can leave it if I want. No, he won't buy them.

Apart from some junk in the garage, I am out of my apartment.

It's kind of a weird feeling not having a place I "must" go tonight. As I drove around today in my play, errands, and campsite scouting, I would often realize that this was it. My car, or more abstractly, travel, is my new home.

Overall, I'm pretty up about the whole thing.

One issue does loom a bit, though.

The Cold.

Moving Out

I haven't written in a long time. If you are one for reasons, they are thusly:

1.) Been applying to PhD programs,
2.) Been in IL, MO, as well as family + Kristen been out here for holidays,
and,
3.) Been working on moving out.

Moving out.

Most of the time, when people move out from somewhere, they also, very subsequently, move in somewhere else. Now, both the guise of moving in with Mom, as well as her encouragement for me to actually live there, sometimes makes it feel like that is indeed where I am moving.

There are other times I am blown away by the void of it all. Even if I do stay at Mom's house from time to time (or even often)... that isn't where I live. In a sense, I am moving out of my apartment and moving to "out" as well. My new home is "The Out." It's kinda funny, for as much as I will be homeless, I will have more home than I had before.

Think about it. Yesterday I had a empty, overly large apartment. A relic of a bygone commitment. I ate, slept, worked, and cleaned alone. Its kind of like I rented my loneliness.

Tomorrow, my home is increased a hundred fold. The love of friends and family has been led to an outpouring of support. At least a dozen offers of a couch, bed, or a warm place to eat ranging from "When you need it," to "For no reason at all." And that's just the houses. My new home: God's creation. It's an odd bit of prophecy, the fact that I have always called those mountains my mountains. At first I thought perhaps I was destined to run over them. As fate would have it, rather, they are to be my home.

Home. That word is going to have a slippery definition in the days to come.

Six Months of Simple Living

I am simplifying my life.

Each day, in little and big ways, I am going to offer up the things I don't need to those who need it more.

Get rid of the clutter.

Spend less money.

Save more.

Give more.

God, grant me the strength and the humility I need to answer this call.