Captain's Log: First Few Months of VanLife
My dad says I live life in the “ready, fire, aim” fashion — rarely partaking in forethought and planning but instead, pocketing mistakes made and lessons learned as I go along. Case in point, this past spring, I bought a van - an empty, unmarked, white Dodge ProMaster. It was gigantic and unwieldy and I kept forgetting that I had set the emergency break so, each time I went to pull away from the house, I’d lurch forward, dragging segments of the yard with me. I didn’t know a thing about carpentry, electricity, insulation - hell, I could barely hang a picture - but I knew I wanted to live small and live free. And that was enough to know in that moment.
In the modern-day remake of the 1989 classic, Field of Dreams, I had no idea how to build it, so they came. Neighbors I barely knew and friends from cities far away offered their time, tools, and advice. To this day, I’m still not sure why they all jumped in. Maybe it’s the magic of a big empty van, possibilities bouncing from wall to wall in the open cargo hold. Or maybe their hearts were filled with pity as they watched a sunburnt, clumsy lady brandish a jigsaw on top of a metal roof in 100 degree heat, throwing tape measures and pencils in a dramatic display of distress. Whatever it was, I am eternally grateful.
After four months, the van was finished — at least finished enough for me to move into. Baskets still slide off the shelf when I hit a turn too hard and the water pump isn’t hooked up yet, but, it still resembles a cozy little home. After a brief road trip and a painfully sad goodbye to a relationship that was, at one time, beautiful, but no longer resembled that, I moved into my van, full time.
So far, it’s the best move I’ve ever made. That’s not to say it isn’t difficult and lonely and irritating. It’s cold and snowy in Colorado. There’s no bathing in the creek or jumping into alpine lakes for relief. There’s just me and a bunch of knick-knacks collected from people and places I’ve come to love. I have some books, a junk drawer, a typewriter - you know, the essentials - in my tiny, rolling home. Nights dip into the teens. I often fall asleep watching my breath exit my nostrils and evaporate into the dry, winter air. My olive oil freezes from time to time, my carpet is already trashed from mud caked boots. But that’s ok. It’s all ok because I’m doing it. I’m living a life I was dreaming of living not even one year ago.
Someone told me recently that he loved mornings because they contained so much possibility, just the words “good morning” inspired a warm, fuzzy feeling that no other time of the day could ever hope to convey. I like this. For me, this van is my good morning. It’s my fresh start, my clean slate. It gives me each moment, each day, just as it is, without distraction or amusement. It forces me into the present way faster than any yoga or meditation class ever has.
Hours aren’t whiled away while I wait for the next fun, distracting, escape of a thing. Instead, my days are occupied with driving, cleaning, organizing and reorganizing, making the bed, cleaning some more, dreaming up the next adventure, finding a place to sleep at night, working from coffee shops, and visiting friends to swap a bottle of wine for a hot shower and a load of laundry and human connection. I’m tearing up writing this now because 1. I’m sensitive, which, I’m coming to realize, is a good thing and 2. I’m still mystified that I get to live this life. I’m overflowing with gratitude and joy and someone please pinch me because I feel like I’m dreaming every day.
I wanted to live in a van for many reasons — less bills, freedom to work jobs I wanted, ability to roam where I please. But these reasons pale in comparison to all the other blessings this way of life has seemingly dropped at my feet. Stresses are acute and immediate - where to park, where to cook, where to shower, where to get water. I hardly ever think about my future with a capital F. I know that if I can build this van with my own two hands, move into it alone, survive a freezing, snow-filled Colorado winter (TBD), get stuck periodically on multiple patches of ice, make a living, make a life, then I can handle whatever life chooses to toss my way.
This van has given me confidence, reignited passions, forced me out into the world to do my favorite thing - connecting with people, sharing laughter, love, a story, a cold beer. I say that I’ll never live in a house again, half-joking, because few things last forever. But in the back of my mind, I don’t really think I’m joking. I love living like this. I love the freedom it’s given me, I love the people I’ve already met ‘on the road’, I love the stories I’ve collected.
So, for now, I’ll smile at the sound of the wheels crunching on the gravel road underneath as I drive towards some distant horizon. Or a quiet parking lot. Or a friend’s house up the road. I’ll smile because no two days ever look the same and no two nights ever end alike. That’s just the way I’ve always wanted it.
