I’m pretty used to flying by the seat of my pants but, now it kind of feels like it’s just the pocket. My next step has fallen through before I even took it. Cedar Key is not opening its museum until July now, so I’m not going there in March. And that change kind of changes, oh, everything. I spend my way-too-early-for-me opening shift at the ranger station scrolling through the Opportunities section of the Volunteer Portal looking for a place to call home and plug in for a little while. I have my map, my weather app, and an active connection with the Universe. And I have two and half weeks.

I get pretty frustrated very early on. They’re either way up north or they’re for the summer months. I cross reference and the few places that do have openings are in places I don’t want to go–they’re colder. And in the places I want to be, people are already there. I can come when they go. It’s Winter and we’re popular, with the warmest temps on the continent. And a lot of people have been doing this for a lot longer than I have. But none of this deters me. It actually pushes me on, makes me determined and wanting it even more.

I scrap my scrolling and look at the map differently. Where do I want to be? I scan and land on the Anna Marie Island area. I loved it there. I know people there. There’s good cycling, beaches, breweries . . . best chiropractor of my life is there. The bottom line: I was happy there. I make a list of nearby parks and make some calls.

In the midst of transfers and voicemails and rejections, I get a great ranger. His name’s Mike and you can feel him reaching through the phone to you. He’s that personable, that caring. There’s always a Mike. I’m often in these moments of whimsy where I’m trying to figure life out on the fly and there’s always an angel when I am. And often his name is Mike. My dad’s name was Michael. The salesman I bought my first RV from–an RV that wasn’t even listed on the inventory sheet–was named Mike. John Travolta even played an angel named Michael. He’s at Myakka River and he’s not in charge, but still, it’s a glimmer of hope and it’s telling me I’m on the right track. And that’s enough for now. He’ll pass the message on.

It always feels so much better when I’m playing offense instead of defense. Even though I’m not getting any immediate scores, my game plan feels good. And now that I’m in the flow of my departure from here — a park with its own magical arrival story — that also feels good.

I print off my last tide report. The forecast is for a maximum of fourteen days — the last tides listed will also be my last day writing them on the board and ringing people up. I glance over at the big wall calendar with a line through every day so far to affirm.

There was an opening in a park near Tampa, but I couldn’t bring myself to formally accept the position. Partly because it was looking a bit chilly there, but mostly because– I didn’t know why. I’d been all excited to receive the offer, but now I wanted to wait to see if Myakka River came through.

And I wait. Days go by and I try to hold off taking the sure bet as I hope for my first choice. It’s a gamble, but it feels like the dice are being rolled by a peaceful, knowing place in my soul. Hillsborough River isn’t pressing me for a commitment either so that’s good. Maybe I should call them, I look out the window, take the certain option. But something in me says, ‘No.’ It is soft, but it is certain. Okay . . . I whisper back to it–one more day. My departure date is a week away, I don’t have forever. The smell of the saffron plum in bloom is delicious and Nature once again comforts me; a car pulls up and distracts me.

A couple hours later the phone rings. It’s the volunteer coordinator for Myakka and she’s offering me a position. We talk and laugh and connect. . . for almost an hour. Feels like I’m gel-ing with them and I’m not even there yet. I’m not sure what I’ll tell Hillsborough River, a whole slew of the typical vague options parade across my mind, but then I get an email from that coordinator apologizing and saying that she’s been out for two weeks and that the position has rearranged; she no longer has it to offer me.

That’s what that feeling was. I’m really glad I listened. Again.

I’m really struggling at the park I’m at. I’ve been workamping for a few years now, so maybe it was bound to happen, but I don’t belong here. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. I see the sunrise over the water from my hallway window and I watch the reflection of it setting from my sofa–or I can stroll the beach and see the full circle. When you feel bad in a place so good — that’s when you know something is really wrong.

The hours are the exact opposite of my circadian, creativity-fueled nocturnal rhythm, and it’s excruciating, but that’s not it. The island highway–one road in, one road out–hums and roars right behind me and sounds like nails on a chalkboard to my sensitive soul. But that’s not it. I’m twenty minutes from a town in either direction with a campground that is still awaiting its comeback after Hurricane Irma so it’s pretty isolated and even lonely sometimes. But that’s not it, either. I just bought a new camper and the drive here was a little terrifying and my bank account looks pretty empty as my unemployment runs out and a pandemic rages on and I could make a pretty good case for that being it. But deep in my heart, I’d know I was wrong. So, that’s not it.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering what it is exactly. It’s elusive and fleeting and ethereal and intermittent so it’s been a little tough to pin down. But when I think about the other places I’ve workamped at, and especially the park I just came from, it dawns on me what they all had in common: the connection with the people. I fit. I fit really well. I didn’t only do a job, I bloomed. I blossomed. Like a plant in good soil with the right amount of sun and water, I thrived. Some parks I felt welcomed at before I even got there. And some took awhile, but a groove was always found –and until it was found, there was a gut feeling that I was in the right place.

I’ve been here almost two months, and there’s no groove. Or if there is, it clearly doesn’t groove with mine. My saving grace is that it’s close enough to Key West that I can drive there on my weekends off. Key West is my happy place and it’s also where my friends are.

So, in the spirit of Christmas and giving and miracles and wonder, I write a couple Christmas cards. At happy hour of course, drinking baby snifters of dark Stouts. There’s a few people on my mind that I feel the strong need to express my love and appreciation for them being in my life. I’m finishing addressing the envelope to the last park I was at, the one that made me feel welcome before I even got there and all the way through, and my phone rings– a call from that area code. My pen rolls out of my hand and I almost spill my beer as my mind flirts with the idea that they’re calling to ask me to come back. That’s when I started to realize what was missing.

The woman on the line was actually the volunteer that replaced me and she was calling about a UPS pick-up gone wrong. She didn’t ask me to come back, that wouldn’t be her place, but we talked for twenty minutes anyways. And the more we talked, the more I longed for the warm family-type community that I had left and clearer it became–I was at park that was pretty much the opposite of that and it was never going to click into place. I was either going to have to get out or muddle through.

I know I want that. That sense of belonging, that feeling that you’re in the right place doing the right thing with the right people. I’m not sure of any of those things now. My heart felt it. Missed it. And ached to have it again.

That was good. I need to keep reaching out.

So, I express the serendipity that just happened to my server, who really gets it and enjoys it with me. She then confesses she’s an artist, to which I say I’m a writer and the ride begins again. She asks for my card so she can say that she ‘once served a now famous author’ and also relates the synopsis of my book to Eat, Pray, Love (which is like, what I’m going for and quite the compliment). This adds even more magic to the moment and I feel it lift me.

I walk to my truck exhilarated by . . .

Another connection. Another checkpoint. And all the next day after the Art Walk. I’m feeling like I’m back on the yellow brick road. Feeling aligned again, as I watch grace operate in my life.

It’s the third Thursday so I’m at the Morada Way Art Walk. Normally, my truck only goes to Key West but this is something I saw as I was leaving my first ever trip to The Keys and I scribbled it on my mental notepad in case I ever got back. And I did, and so I go — every chance I get.

Islamorada is an artsy island and I’ve had some great things happen when I’m around fellow artists. I’m sipping on a Death By Mermaid snifter because it’s 9.8% ABV and because I’ve got to work in the morning. I didn’t even leave my tab open — too much temptation. I’m thinking I should go home, but instead of turning right towards my car, I turn left out of the beer garden and deeper into the Art Walk. I’m not sure why since it’s counterintuitive to the conversation I just had with myself as the beer warmed itself through my veins. I reach the end booth of bracelets with shells and bright colors. I have no extra money for such extras and I decide to just be honest about that. I don’t want her to think I don’t like her work.

We talk about the pandemic and the pathetic way the government is helping us. I “ooh and ahh” over her creations showing themselves off on the black velvet between us as well as the description of her creative process. I like talking to artists — we get each other. My mind doesn’t go in a linear, efficient manner; it’s more like fireworks and silly string shooting off.

There’s an older woman working the booth with her and she starts looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Waaait . . . were you here two years ago?” as her gaze intensifies.

“No, no . . .” I start with my usual defensive response when people think I look familiar. It’s usually not me. Because I’m passing through without enough time to become familiar and because it’s an ease of connection that we sometimes mistake for familiarity. I have that ease. But in this case, I pause. She might be right — I do the math.

Vic and I were workamping at the state park further down The Keys two years ago, and we did come here. And then all the pieces start to fall into place and my mind plays the memory of a night that turned suddenly stormy as we shopped and we took refuge under a tent. I look up and around. This tent.

Her eyes light up and the other lady catches up and jumps in, “You left your bracelets behind!”

I watch in amazement as she digs a little plastic bag with bracelets of jingle bells out of her canvas bag and passes them over to me proudly. “We were just talking about you the other day . . wondering if we’d ever see you again!”

I am stunned. They’ve been carrying these cheap little strings of holiday-only beads around for two years just in case we meet again. I feel that warm feeling of love and magic tingling in my center and lighting up my mind.

And all I can do is stammer. “How . . . but . . . ” and. . . Why?

“You’ve even changed your hair color,” the younger one references me, pointing and reading my mind, but quickly turns to the other lady for confirmation.

“Yeees. You were blonde before.” She nods, looking at my red hair and making no indication of which she prefers.

“And I have a mask on now!” Finally finding words to match my eyes frozen wide in an incredulous stare.

They both nod at this, almost with the excitement of children who got even the extra credit question right on the exam.

“But you are tall. We remembered that,” she looks me up and down in emphasis.

We reminisce about how that storm whipped up and started blowing everything around. How they invited us in and still we got soaked. And it must’ve been all the excitement that made me leave them behind while I tried on her designs. I don’t care about the bracelets. I’ve since replaced them and forgotten all about these lost ones. I don’t even remember if I did buy something from her or not, or what it was.

This connection is my currency. For some people its money, possessions or prestige or maybe their kids being on honor roll that defines them — bears witness to their purpose and subsequent success in it. Not me. For me, it’s about clicking with life and people and moments like this. Those are my riches; and I’ve been so fortunate to have amassed tons of treasures like this. ‘Checkpoints’ a guru of mine once called them.

As we groove on this divine happenstance I find myself feeling renewed. Energized. And then, inevitably, inspired. “I think I’m going to have to write a story about this.”

“Oooo, you’re a writer?!” the younger one, the booth owner exclaims, “I’ve been wanting to hire a writer to write my blog. I don’t know how much you charge . . . ”

I say nothing into this gap, because I don’t know either.

She carries on, “I hate writing,” she actually makes a face, according to the scrunching up of her mask. “I’m an accountant — give me numbers any day!”

And just like that a friendship is born, a new direction in the journey opens, an alliance is made, faith in the Universe is strengthened. I loosen the reins a little more through the now humorous thought that I could be in control; could arrange such an amazing win-win scenario. I just turned left instead of right because of a little tug in my gut.

‘God gives me better than I would’ve thought to ask for and before I would’ve thought to ask.’ Jed McKenna and Spiritual Enlightenment The Damnedest Thing proves true once again.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?”  I ask.  “I suppose you have…everyone has.”  I answer myself.

“It’s been so long, I don’t remember,” she says.

“Well I have, recently, and it hurts.”

“How long’s it been?”

It’s been four months.  “That’s not that long,” she assures, as does everyone else.  It takes time.  They say the same thing about my hurt shoulder and my skinned knee.  I used to have to excuse myself from the table and go clean up what was oozing from the bandage in the middle of my leg so I guess there’s been improvement.  I used to have to do the same thing for my heart.  After everyone’s voices receded and the montage in my head grew louder I would go into the bathroom and try to reason with myself.  As wonderful of a relationship as we’d had and as much as I wished he was here with me now, it was over.

The most beautiful break up I’ve ever been in.  He told me how wonderful I was and I saw that he was right.  We talked for hours and ended up back at my place,  and fell asleep on my sofa.  But at some point, he left.  And he never came back.  And to see those words stings just a little.  The dissolving of something so intricate and seemingly well established.  Gone.  in an instant.  (Give or take 5 hours in my case, and a few more hours on the phone a few days later).    We tried to figure out how to save it, but couldn’t.

And now, well, I am coming to see that I didn’t really want it.  It was definitely so much better than what I had, but not enough – I wanted more.  I was reaching for more, and grabbing it and thus needing to let go of what I had to stretch enough to reach it.  You can’t have both.  You can’t stay and go..  you can’t be stuck and grow.

I sit there, looking at the box. The box sits there, looking back at me. I know that’s not how medicine works, but here we are. As far as I can go.

Inside is the latest greatest thing that’s going to make me all better. It’s sliced bread. The microwave. Electricity. My hopes and dreams. I’ve been here before. All my faith into the snake oil they’re peddling, only to find it doesn’t work.

“I don’t even know why you’re on that (fill in the blank with the treatment du jour). It doesn’t even help.” I usually don’t need a doctor to tell me this; I’ve already figured it out on my own.

So, forgive me box, if I don’t do cartwheels and roll out the red carpet. I’ve had the rug pulled out too often. I usually give up for years then, returning to my alternative avenues to heal and manage. And if it does work, what of the side effects? Not fun, and some are the same as what the drug is meant to treat.

“Do you have any abdominal pain, weight changes or diarrhea?” the screener for the specialty pharmacy vets me.

“Yeah–those are all symptoms of Crohn’s disease.”

A brief pause. We move on.

“Are you comfortable giving yourself injections?”

Comfortable may be a strong word. I’m not comfortable going into the emergency room on an annual basis, and I’m really uncomfortable talking about surgery. But being the lesser of the evils, is still evil…

Let me not think of it like that. Let’s give it a chance and go into it with our head held high. It might really be as great as they say. Everyone else is doin it!

At least it gets shipped to me, so that makes it less limiting than I initially thought it would be. Prescriptions usually can’t cross state borders and I was wondering how I was going to move to a new state, get new insurance and find a new doctor all while my month’s supply of medicine was dwindling. This hopefully cuts through that. As long as I see a doctor once a year, it can be prescribed.

That means I need to be in either Wisconsin or Florida, where my body has already established a bond.

A poser, image-maker, when you reach for him, ‘poof’ he vanishes. He can’t show up because he doesn’t know how, or if he does show up he doesn’t know how to express it. The elusive fart in the room, felt and smelled for a just a moment–lingering then leaving.

No one should settle for this. Don’t cheat yourself with the ‘take what you can get’ rhetoric. Or the ‘nobody’s perfect’ bullshit. All ways we betray ourselves, all designed to deny us our heart’s desire.

Let the mediocrity go. Halt the pushing, pulling, and prodding employed to cajole someone into changing, who has no intention of changing anyway. Someone wanting you doesn’t equate to them doing what it takes to have you. I wish it did. But it just doesn’t.

They have to do the work. And if they’re not doing the work, then what they say is nothing but used car salesman talk. Let them find another sucker.

If they come on strong–they aren’t. They’re weak amoebas, barnacles looking to attach and suck the life out of someone and you would be wise to step aside and let them walk on by.

If they come on strong, they fizzle out the same way. Quickly, forcefully, desperately, and the worst–selfishly. Being bankrupt, they steal; having little of their own, they must take pieces from others and stitch them together, forming a flimsy cloak to cover them until they can find another to feast upon. And the cycle continues.

Having nothing of their own, they have nothing to give. Nothing true or real anyways. They lie on the fly, while fully believing themselves. Like cotton candy. Sugar and hot air spinning around and building into something big; but once you bite into it, it dissolves.

These cotton candy people are particularly dangerous for me. I am a generous giver who, if not careful, will end up with no more than a pile of cardboard cones lying around.