Chameleon: My life as a West Coast Hippie

July 21, 2013, Chameleon: My life as a West Coast Hippie

The day I fly to Oregon I’m wearing a long purple skirt, a loose brown shirt, a distinctly exotic scarf, and blue Toms. With my long hair and the healthy snacks I’m toting in a carry-on bag I look the quintessential hippie. It’s too early in the morning to feel like anything in particular so I settle in for the wait on an airport chair that has both a view of outside and of the gate kiosk.  

After my crossword puzzle is done, a handful of pages read in my book, lots of people-watching accomplished surreptitiously, and the chairs around me filled with other travelers about to head northwest a man takes the seat next to me. He’s nondescript and benign enough. He doesn’t chat me up and I’m grateful for that. I need another cup of coffee.

There’s some delay with the plane and we all listen to the intercom messages from the attendants waiting to see how much longer we’ll be there, how much later we’ll land in Portland. I’m keen for it to arrive and for the other passengers to get loaded on so I’ll know if I have a seat on the plane. I’m flying standby and I’ve been told it’s a full flight. I’m practicing pseudo-Zen by pretending I’m patient and at ease. I even try singing (in my head) Doris Day’s Que sera sera, whatever will be will be. The future’s not ours to see, que sera sera. Sure, I’m one who knows that it’s all about the journey and not the destination, but sometimes, like this day, getting to the destination is all I want to do. I still have the metro to ride, some walking to do, and two busses to catch before I make it all the way.

“You must be going home,” the man says to me. He gives a small gesture to me, my clothing, my hair.  

Well, well, well, I’ve just been profiled. I raise my internal eyebrows and think Vestis virum reddit, a phrase I learned as a child when my older sister and I were taking Latin and which means Clothes make the man.

“It sure would look that way,” I reply, neither confirming nor denying.

“It’s always refreshing to see someone who doesn’t froof themselves all up the way people do these days,” he says and waves vaguely behind him as if to include everyone in the airport and everyone in Dallas, everyone in the world. “And is comfortable with their natural look.”

I’m pretty sure he said froof and I’m imagining what it’d be like if Oregon were really my place of origin. I make some noncommittal noise at his compliment and he goes on to tell me some of his life story. It’s not like I don’t consider myself to be a hippie in the sense of free spirited and as a rejecter of convention, it’s not like my hair isn’t long, it’s not like I don’t use natural remedies, it’s not like I’ve never worn tie-dye. Here it’s a case of feeling like a lizard. Like a chameleon. Because I may look the part, but I don’t belong to it. I’m living out the lyrics to a song I loved when I was a kid. “Chameleon, you blend with your surroundings. Chameleon, no one knows where you come from.”

I’m a hippie but not a West Coast Hippie. Whatever that means.

Since I had the chance to spend some time in Colorado this summer I’ve been thinking a lot lately of the sense of belonging. Over ten years ago I left Dallas for Colorado Springs and when I got there I felt that it was where I belonged and it was home. It became the place where I was from. It was the place I went back to. Then I left it behind me. Heartlessly, adventurously, free spiritedly.

Yet, it doesn’t matter how long I stay away, when I return the mountains always seem to say, “Welcome back, welcome home. We’ve missed you.”  

And then when I leave again to resume the nomadic nature of my life they smile, wink, and say, “See you next time. Come home again when you’re ready.” They joke and say what my dad says, “Come back when you can’t stay so long.”

There’s comfort in belonging. There’s reassurance in having a sense of place, in knowing that I don’t have to search for it. I don’t know what this means except that I’m a mountain girl who in this moment looks like someone who makes her own deodorant (I do), owns a pair of Birkenstocks (I don’t), and would date a guy who has dreadlocks and tattoos (TBD).

The plane goes out only ten minutes off schedule and I get a seat in the exit row. I doze most of the way. When I deplane I blend right in. A couple passing by in the metro asks me if they’re on the right line. I don’t ruin their image of me when I tell them they are. I’ve been this way before. I’m practically a local.

I get on the bus and settle in for the three hour trip. The driver Charles, an older gentleman with a charming white mustache and a black cowboy hat he puts on when he drives, is the same driver I had eight months ago. I recognize him, I remember him. But who am I? No one to stand out or to remember.

I’m a spy, a role player, a chameleon.

Just another hippie.

Drinking Summer

July 8, 2013 – Drinking Summer 

I want to sip mint juleps all day long. I’ve never actually had one (I think I read about them in The Great Gatsby) but it seems the proper kind of drink to sip from a back porch in the waxing days of summer while listening to the locusts hum and watching the insects sip out the nectar from the open lips of flowers. Some days I work. Some days I sit in the sun and let my skin turn brown. Other days I do both. I’ve come back to Oregon. It’s not the Oregon of Autumn with the drizzling rain, the short, short days, and the eternal heading into darkness. No, this is an Oregon of baby blue skies, sunlit patches of grass, plum laden branches yearning for relief, and the melodic irregularity of wind chimes.

“How long do you plan to stay?” my friend asks when I arrive.

“As it stands,” I say, “unless something happens between now and then my money will run out around the end of September. At which point I’ll return to my parents’ house and rethink my future.” This is my life. A little bit of certainty, a lot of uncertainty. Just now I’m in one of the perfect moments. One where I’m allotted time to work in peace because I’ve saved up for it. Where the future is far enough away to seem magical and not frighteningly impending. Where the warmth of summer is as restful as a cat sleeping the afternoon away. 

 

There is only the here and now. The breeze stirs the trees to life. The whirring of traffic filters in over the fence. The locusts start their songs back up again. I sit and watch the spiders wait in the center of their webs, the hummingbird hover in front of the hot lips salvia, and the shadows shift with the spinning of the earth. Unlike the biblical lilies of the field I do toil a little. Weaving sentences together like silvery webs, stringing them into paragraphs, connecting sticky thought to thought. And then, in between words, I dream about mint juleps and think that summer will—it must—last forever.

From an Undisclosed Location with Love

June 3, 2013 – From an Undisclosed Location with Love

Only twenty-two days past my self-imposed deadline I finish the first draft of the book I’ve been working on since the beginning of the year. It’s a tale of expectations and love and the failure of love. It’s not the story I set out to write. And it’s too early to know if it’s any good. I finish it in just enough time to take a few days “off” before I pack up my bags again and prepare to catch a flight out of town.

It’s time to move on. I’ve known this day would come (time passes by so quickly now) and I’ve been looking forward to it. It means forward momentum, getting out of the humidity of Texas, and keeping with my nomadic lifestyle for a little bit longer. In spite of knowing all this I’ve reached that conflicting phase where I’m ready to go but I don’t want to leave. I worry that I’m being foolish; I should stay and work a little longer (I know money can’t buy me love but it sure helps out with other things). Also it’s been delightful living with my parents (aka friends). 

We’ve settled into a nice existence. Who would want to ruin that? And what will the dogs do without me there to play with them during the day?

But I can’t stay still. I feel the moss starting to grow up around my feet and, soft as it is, I can’t have that.

So early in the morning, after days of agonizing over what to take and what to leave I zip up the last bag, grab my snacks, bid Mom and Rocky a see you later and get in the car. My dad drives me to the airport with his dog Oscar along for the ride. They drop me off curbside. Dad helps me unload my things. I hug him goodbye and go to check my bags. I’m on my way toward the airport entrance when Dad heads back over to me. “I just had to tell you,” he says. “Oscar is really upset that you aren’t coming back with us.”

I look back and see Oscar’s fuzzy head through the car window, hear his frantic whining. My heart cracks just a little. Even when I understand that it’s not forever, leaving can be hard to do. There’s always someone, something to miss no matter where I am. Always. It’s not forever, I think at him. Maybe dogs are telepathic. Or maybe not. Sorry, Oscar, I know you don’t understand. I smile because that’s all I can do right now.

A final wave from me to Dad and then we’re out of each other’s sight.

I board a plane, buckle in, and head west. West to where the mountains are. West to where I’ve left a good portion of my soul. West to Colorado.

With the financial help of a friend I rent a car and spend a few days catching up with folks I haven’t seen in two years. I can’t believe it’s been that long since I sold nearly everything I had, quit my job, and left the country. What a two years it’s been. I meet up with my Judo buddy Christal for lunch one day and as we get each other up to speed she asks, “When did you get back from Peru?”

I pause to backtrack nine countries, a couple oceans, four states and four seasons. Peru. I’ve almost forgotten the chaos of Lima, the noise, the crowdedness. How and why I went there in the first place. Almost. It seems impossible but what I say is true. “I got back last June.” And now here it is practically June again.   

“I couldn’t do what you’re doing,” Christal tells me later. She means the living month to month, place to place, and dime by dime. In contrast I don’t think I could do what she’s doing; studying for her MBA, working two jobs, and keeping her truck’s tank filled with gas.

For a lark, I visit my old place of employment.

Denise greets me from behind the desk I used to hide my flip-flopped feet under. Thanks to the openness of social networking we don’t have much new to share with each other. “You should go wander around and say hi to people,” she tells me at a lull in our conversation.

When I worked there I didn’t often get the chance to leave the confines of my desk. So the expansiveness of the whole building feels a bit daunting. There are so many offices. So many halls. I don’t know who I might run into. “I’ll go bug the Finance Department,” I say. I worked under their umbrella and know my way around those cubicles at least.  

I knock on the divider as I come around the corner. Then I shuffle my feet and smile at the surprise both Joan, my old boss, and Tami express at my sudden appearance. I’ve interrupted them trying to fix something fiscal, but they don’t seem to mind.

They ask me what I’ve been up to and I tell them. They ask me what’s on the agenda for the future and I tell them as much as I know.

“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” Joan says.

It’s warm in this part of the building. I wipe a sheen of sweat off my upper lip and try to look at ease. I shrug in agreement.

“Do you ever want your job back at the front desk?” Joan asks.

“No way,” I say a little too quickly perhaps. “I don’t want to work behind anybody’s desk but my own.”

She’s not offering me the job back--it’s Denise’s (thank goodness and sorry)--she’s asking a legitimate question. And imbedded within it are the other questions, Do you regret what you’ve done? Do you wish you had more stability? Would you do it all over again? My instant response reaffirms for me that I’m living my life the right way. Sure it’s stressful at times, sure it’s uncertain, but I have freedom now that I never had when I had a regular paycheck coming in. Joan and Tami nod their heads and laugh a little, and they say things like, “I understand that,” and “Sure.”

At the sound of our voices Jim, the department head, pokes his head around the cubical wall. After the quick recap of all I’ve just told the ladies—where I’ve been, where I’m heading--he says, “So you haven’t put roots down anywhere yet?”

“My roots only go about three months deep,” I say. If that. For now I’m still a wanderer. A nomad. A drifter. A rover. Following the wind, chasing the sun, and seeking the duality of peace and adventure. I love Colorado and I’m sure I’ll end up here again, but I want it to be on my terms. And until I can work that out I’ll vagabond a little longer.

A few moments later, I bid them goodbye and head out into the open air. There’s the familiar top of Pike’s Peak covered in snow. There’s the sun inching its way westward. There’s the world in front of me.

I look around and take a breath. I’m about to go back into hiding. It’s one way to get things done without distraction. Out of sight, out of mind. 

And while I’m pretending I’m in the Witness Protection Program my goal is to write a proposal for a non-fiction book that would allow me to travel the world again and write about my experiences. If I can sell this idea then I can stretch my wings and fly a little bit longer.

If not, well, then I’ll keep on living place to place, month to month, and dime by dime until it feels right to let the moss collect and grow.

Being Invisible

May 3, 2013 – Being Invisible

If I were to choose a superpower and Flying was already taken I’d probably choose Invisibility. This would be a helpful talent to have as a writer and I’d call what I did Observing not Spying. It’d also come in useful when I needed to get my work done. If people can’t see me they can’t interrupt. See, my problem is that I create enough of my own distractions without having a constant stream of interpersonal interactions pulling at my attention. Chitchatting with my library buddy Dave, having entertaining and meaningful conversations with my siblings and sibling-in-law, and the omnipresent joy of being bossed into dancing by a niece all add up to minutes and hours that I’m not writing. I fret about it. So much so that the health benefit of having strong social and familial connections is lost on me as I stress out over my inability to focus.  

Why can’t you just BE? I ask myself. Why do you have to DO?

I don’t know, I reply. I just have to.

My writerly angst becomes chronic and I activate my superpower and disappear. What I actually do is get in the car with my parents and drive away from the Hill Country to their house in Dallas. I sit in the back seat of my mom’s car and think, I’ve done it. I’ve done what I’ve always thought of as my last resort; I’ve moved back in with parents. Of course it’s not a permanent situation, of course my parents are more like friends, of course I’ll be helping out—working one day a week with my mom and fixing healthy dinners for us all—so that I am not a lazy, non-working slob. My real goal is to hide out in the safe confines of their house (out of sight and out of mind) so that I can save up some money, figure out my next adventure, see if I can get healthy again and, most of all, finish the first draft of the novel I’m laboring over.

I’m a project oriented soul. I like to have a goal, set a deadline, and then work hard until I’ve met it. Then take a short break and dive into the next thing. This often means long hours alone, set routines, and a rigorous work-writing schedule that I stick to rain, sleet, snow, hail or shine. I haven’t had any of those things since I left Oregon in early December and it’s wearing on me. I’m jittery, emotional, unfulfilled and having more than my usual amount of conversations with myself.

Why are you such a basket case?

You make me sound neurotic.

Aren’t you?

Apparently.

My project: a new book. My goal: a first draft. The deadline: April 30^th.

Since the first of the year I’ve been working nearly every day writing a handful of sentences one day, deleting them the next, rewriting them the day after. But it’s not fast enough. I get diverted by modeling gigs, chicken farming, family excursions into town, birthday parties, lack of sleep, too much sleep, and worry about my future. I want big results. I want to see real progress. I want to dive in completely and lose myself in the story. Full immersion isn’t possible with so many moths and vultures and neighbors and dogs and falling leaves and meals to sidetrack my mind.

You really are neurotic.

Shut up.

What I want is six months of reclusive confinement in a mountain cabin or a biosphere on Mars. I began to dream about closets, small spaces, and solitude. The closest thing I can get to that right now is the guest room at my parents and a spot at the kitchen table for my computer and stacks of books, but only if I tell no one I’m coming.

This is the tricky part.

I have long-time friends and family in the Dallas area. If word gets out I’m there I fear that I’ll fall back into what I’m trying to escape; visits, parties, hang-outs, family lunches, events. I want to be there, but not be there. To hide away and not hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if meeting my own needs (however neurotic) is selfish.

 

“We can get you disguises!” Mom tells me.

I imagine myself sneaking out of the house with gag glasses with a fake nose and mustache. Or a trench coat. Or a cape. Or a wig. That’s if I leave the house at all. I don’t see myself getting stir crazy for a while. My mom’s backyard is paradise, their home a haven. 

We arrive at the house. The dogs greet me enthusiastically, I greet them back. I look around the house I spent so much of my life in already. Welcome back, take your shoes off, stay awhile. It’s cozy, friendly, bright.  

 
Enjoy where you are, I tell myself, because you won’t be here forever.  

I got it. I will.

Dad goes to the store to get us some groceries, Mom goes out to check on her garden, and I unpack my bags, go incognito, and get to work.