Dancing In the Rain
If you are wondering if I walked into this Air BnB and went straight for that chair for a foot and back massage, you are correct.
I almost fell asleep as I meditated while the chair worked on my knotty back and well worn feet. Then it hit me that in my first post, I failed to give a preface on Nomad-ish. I never do things in order.
The idea came to me like most things, on an airplane, a walk, or in a yoga pose. Months ago a good friend with witchy intuitive abilities said she kept seeing me with a backpack as I went on about not knowing where I wanted to live. No where was calling and everywhere was calling.
And then life started guiding me places without much planning on my part, which I welcomed because planning is not a skillset I’ve picked up over the years. I was in California living in Ojai in a pool house with an outdoor bathtub doing yoga in Jen Pastiloff’s backyard and working as a personal assistant for a writer. Then I went to my father’s house in Florida to make sure the Republicans were okay. No comment. I went back to Colorado to nanny for some sweet families and then I took off for the North Carolina mountains to visit a retreat center that feels like home. I rested. I ate. I wrote.
And then to Charlotte for the summer where I have been planning for the camino and enjoying the effects of humidity on my middle aged skin and hair.
But this weekend, I am back up in the mountains to see a band I’ve been wanting to see for years, but I haven’t because I haven’t made pleasure a priority. And now it feels less like a luxury and more like a basic need. Music. Outside. Possibly in the rain.
I’ll keep this brief so I don’t miss the show, but what I am finding is that if we are willing to listen and be guided, we will know exactly where to go and when. What that looks like to other people is none of our business. What that means for our relationship with ourself is everything.
For some, the nomadic life is a season or a pipe dream. For me, I’m not sure if it’s either. But it feels right.