I suppose living on the side of the road could constitute a moment of reflection known as ‘Questioning One’s Life Choices.’ And maybe I was doing that, if only subconsciously. But I still felt pretty alright about it all. I had a view of the water through the tropical foliage that offered shade from the late afternoon sun. The temps had even started to cool, the day I unplugged from shore power and plugged in my solar panel there was a crispness to the wind–new, and just in time. That was November first.

Then my batteries stopped storing the solar energy that the sun was so freely providing. Okay, I’ll just turn off the fridge at night. Then another storm moved in and I came home to my solar controller beeping “Danger, Mrs. Robinson. Danger!”

Sigh. Maybe I’m crazy.

But I’m free. Not chained to a corporate desk. Not sleeping next to some man who I have little respect for and/or has little respect for me. Maybe, you say, those aren’t the only two options. You’re probably right–but I’ve seen and heard and lived so much of them that it’s worthy of concern.

I guess what it comes down to, is that I’ve never wanted or loved anything as much as I’ve wanted and loved my freedom. And I’ve never felt as free as I do, doing this. Untethered. I surf my mind while waves of unknowns swell and crest: Where will I work? Where will I land? (this side-of-the-road stuff is just temporary. I’ll be fighting with Wonton for the Christmas tinsel in a real, actual campground). Lithium battery or AGM? I can’t really afford either. The pandemic coupled with Florida’s abysmal unemployment compensation benefit, doled out by a website powered by a hamster wheel, has left my bank accounts looking like they did when I was in college.

Here’s the thing: in the early morning when my eyes flutter open and my soul is more awake than my brain, I feel filled with peace. An all is well sense of being. It’s only when the thoughts start that the worry sets in. But something bigger knows, and It is not fussed.

So, I’ll still take it. The whole hot mess of it. If I still must walk this earth — I want to do it on wheels. I’ll figure it out. When I was a kid I had a poster on my bedroom wall. I can still see the baby polar bear bent down and touching a landed butterfly, the words “Lord, help me to remember that nothing’s going to happen today that you and me can’t handle tougher.”

I say it again, with my trusting ten-year old voice. She’s the one with the faith.