Everywhere and Nowhere

I got a DM from a stranger on Instagram, “where do you live?”

“Here.” I thought.

“Everywhere and nowhere.”

“Here, there, everywhere.”

Currently, we’re enjoying life on a lake in North Dakota. We’re plunked in the middle of very rural farmland. It’s incredibly peaceful, quiet and still.

We watched the full moon rise over the lake the other night. The lake, “Moon Lake” lived up to its namesake, reflecting the round orange orb perfectly. No ripples, no coloring outside the lines. Chad and I stood still even after the mosquitos discovered us, watching intently as it climbed – seemingly emerging from behind a nearby hill – in real time.

There’s something very special about moving through places that aren’t touristy. There’s no song or dance, no intentional pull for our attention. This corn, these cows, the silos and old farm houses that I can barely make out as they’re set far back off the dirt road, some concealed behind large cottonwood trees. This is a silent yet integral and often overlooked component of America. I get to witness it as it is now – and probably has been – for a while.

Walking Elvis down the straight roads that stretch for miles over the rolling landscape, my black Blundstone boots dusty because the path is more dirt than gravel. My jeans (real jeans, not the stretchy kind I usually wear that forgive dietary trespasses; I’m wearing cuffed Levi’s I got from the men’s rack at a thrift store in Wisconsin for $1) are collecting dust too. They’re the kind of jeans the farmers who pass by perched high on their big John Deere machines might wear. The massive tractor tires, the size of those round farm tables with the folding leaves, kick up dust and gouge big zipper patterned bites in the road.

I move over to the side and wave as one approaches, and a man in a dirt speckled glass encasement high above shoots me a salute.

Our footprints are the only ones that line the edges of the dirt roads.

I marvel at the birds, pitching and squalling in the sky.

All of a sudden, a fox pops out from the soybean field. It spots us, panics, skids to a stop, and disappears in a quick snap of survival-based alarm, back the way it came. Amidst the fright, something flies from its jaws and lands in a poof of dust on the road.

A small speck, growing larger as we approach.

We pass by it, and I can’t help but look. It’s a squirrel, it’s hide shiny and healthy. It lays motionless on its side. It’s eye half closed. Gone.

We give it a wide berth; I don’t want our scent to cause the fox to lose its appetite.

Living everywhere and nowhere; living here. How very Zen.

Before the adventure, I wondered how it would feel to move around, and lose the traditional home base.

I would also obsess over the nitty-gritty, thinking that conserving water while doing dishes would take a lot of getting used to.

The thought of showering less: A Dark Night of the Soul.

I spent an exhausting amount of time wondering how I would manage with about 1/6^th of my wardrobe, then narrowing down my final tank tops, yoga pants, and jeans. The selection process as tense and dramatic as the ‘rose ceremony’ on ABC’s The Bachelorette.

The truth?

It’s much easier than I thought.

This way of life became normal so fast, that I barely notice what it’s like to live and move around inside our tiny space. I have no problem with a small wardrobe, because it’s not about that. My focus – the novelty – lies more in where we are, and what that stirs to life.

It’s easy to think we’ll be here – alive – forever. Work hard to establish our permanent residency on earth. Prioritize the same things as everyone else.

As a consequence, we take time and its value above everything for granted because we’re so busy staking our claim. Working to anchor and solidify our identity, our existence, through political affiliation, vocation, where we live, what we wear, what we buy and hold on to, “that’s just who I am,” and who we yell loudest for at sporting events. Not like there’s anything wrong with any of this. I even have a sneaking suspicion that diehard sports fans take their love of their team with them, well into the afterlife.

For me, the issue arose when I lost part of myself in maintaining and serving something that wasn’t truly me, and I carried around a feeling of unease and unfulfillment as a result.

There’s no shortage of hoopla and hoops to jump – ways and distractions that pull us in every which way.

It’s easy to feel trapped and forget, there’s so much more.