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Back To School, Fool!

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Here’s the thing about new beginnings: There is always a lot to learn.

There’s a reason that the word school rhymes with fool. The Fool is the first card in the tarot deck. It’s all about the new start to the journey. It makes sense for me lately, as I’ve been in a major learning era of my life.

The Fool, the first card in the Major Arcana of the Tarot

My daily habits feel as familiar and annoyingly structured as a school curriculum: First period is studying Spanish by listening to Pimsleur classes and living in the Canary Islands. Sometimes I take a field trip to the fruit market and try to have a little conversation or at least pay attention to the television news they play there. Then it’s second period, studying Final Cut Pro with Ripple Training so I can record and edit the audiobook of One-Way Ticket. Next, I go to gym class at GoFit. I may have music or meditation club after that, or perhaps my book club.

And just like when I was in high school, I also have to, oh yeah, work for money!

I haven’t yet mentioned my hardest class: Self-Mastery.

The most recent lesson in this never-ending class is on boundaries. How are you with boundaries? OK, that’s a trick question: Really, I’m just asking if you’ve ever been to therapy, because otherwise you’d likely have no idea what I’m talking about.

I am challenged by boundaries. This week, a client — who I let repeatedly dump her personal problems on me during the work process of the eBook she hired me for — had an emotional meltdown and verbally abused me. She had just received the final draft of the work. She’s now threatening not to pay me for the work I completed that she previously approved. Great.

The last guy I dated? Yeah, I let him treat me pretty poorly too. Same goes for the previous guy. And the guy before that.

I’m really good at pulling up the anchor and fleeing once I realize I’m being abused — but I seem to need a big, neon flashing sign before I figure it out.

What happened to Mr. T? Was he on your Trapper Keeper in elementary school? I need him to deal with some jerks in my life.

I approach most people with an open heart and a positive attitude, ready for a win-win relationship that helps us both. It works well with my large, supportive group of friends. But bad actors have a field day with my tender heart.

I know the answer isn’t to build a wall around that flowering field of my heart, either. I’ve certainly beaten myself against some brick walls, and it hurts! I am stuck between being wide open and being locked in a box.

How do you build healthy boundaries? I’ve got some homework to do.

But first: let me pass you a note that’s folded like origami. Did you see there was a man who dressed as a wall and Trump invited on stage at a political rally in Iowa? That’s one kind of boundary I don’t need, I know that much!

Personal boundaries, of course, are different from political boundaries, which are crossed all the time. That’s what many wars are all about. Russia denied Ukraine’s boundary, for example.

Cue "Fantasy is Reality" by Parliament Funkadelic.

I don’t know how to defend boundaries very well, either political or personal. It doesn’t seem like most countries can, either. Can you?

Boundaries seem usually one of two ways: It’s all or nothing. Rigid or porous, as they say in therapy. Either you walk right over the line, or you can’t even find the line. File under: Can’t win for losing.

I do have many friends with whom I practice boundaries. One of my best friends calls me when she can — I know she’s busy with a big family, and I am secure in our friendship. I don’t overstep with her. Another dear friend calls me almost every day, and sometimes I have to tell him directly to not vent so angrily with me. I get upset with too much venting. It’s actually not healthy!

There are a few things — the operative word being few — I’ve come to understand about boundaries.

You Have to Communicate

Communication is a two-way street, which is a radical concept in today’s one-way splatter-gun content creation. Not everyone can handle a direct and effective communication style that requires the patience that listening requires. Some people view honest communication as confrontation, so I try to be as soft and compassionate as I can while talking to someone.

But if you’re not clear about what you want and what you don’t want, you simply can’t give the other party a clear definition of what you find acceptable and not. You can’t make presumptions that everyone is on the same level as you. Sometimes, the only way to find out is to ask and really listen to the answer.

I’m slowly discovering that many people have no idea about this. Like the client, I made a presumption that she would share my ethics because I knew her casually and had mutual friends. But I was wrong. I actually had to tell this person that it’s not okay to take a final product of work and not pay me.

Look for Red Flags

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound in cure, as I’ve confirmed as I work on staying clear of people who are less likely to respect my boundaries.

Here’s content from a Facebook post I made last spring about the early warning signs of abusive men, which I learned from reading the highly recommended “Why Does He Do That?” by Lundy Bandcroft. They include:

😬 Speaking very negatively about former partners

🔪Saying she “falsely” accused him of abuse or that, in fact, she abused him (may show photos as “proof”)

💕 Says you’re different (phrases like “I didn’t think people like you existed!”)

😒 OR glorifies former partner (you’ll never stand up to her)

🤦🏻‍♀️ Takes no responsibility for end of his last relationship

🙅🏻‍♀️ Is disrespectful to you (interrupts you, talks over you, yells at you “because you’re not listening” or to prove he wasn’t yelling previously)

🏮 OR puts you on a pedestal (very uncomfortable)

💐 Creates a sense of indebtedness early on (does favors you do not ask for, often publicly to create an image of being such a good guy)

🐲 Is controlling (makes comments about your body or clothes or friends, or dictates how you should text a friend, etc)

🦮 Is possessive (calls you “his,” needs you around all the time)

🧸 Nothing is his fault

🙎🏻‍♂️ Makes excuses, plays the victim — cannot apologize

🕺🏻Self-centered, always brings conversation back to him

🍻 Heavy drug and alcohol use, pressures you to do more than you want, too

🍆 Pressures you for sex

👩‍❤️‍👨 Gets serious too quickly (posts photos on social media after first or second date)

‼️ Shows intimidation when angry: too close, finger in face, blocks way, shouts you down, drives recklessly, throws things

🎭 Double standards for himself and you

🤹🏼‍♀️ Has a negative attitude toward women (such as saying women always win in courts, women cannot care for themselves)

🥊 Treats you differently when around others

🧚‍♂️ Is attracted to (perceived) vulnerability

Clients “love-bomb,” too. Before that client told me to “go f**k myself,” she said that she wished I were nearby so that she could hug me because she was so pleased with my work.

Listen to Your Instinct

Yes, I had that nagging little voice in my head telling me that the client was no good and the guys were no good. In fact, all my past bad relationships — the ones that made me doubt my abilities to stand up for myself and uphold my boundaries — all started with me ignoring myself.

I think this is the biggest lesson of all. If you don’t quiet your mind enough to hear what your instincts tell you, you’ll be in for a rude awakening! I practice meditation every day, but I’ve still got a beginner’s mind! And so it’s back to school I go ….

Every Breath Is a New Beginning

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I caught 11:11 on 1-11, and what else do I need to tell you about my feeling of a fresh start? Well, it’s the new moon. I got my period today. Literally, talk about being in the flow!

11:11 is a powerful number because, as someone once told me, when you look at it sideways it is a staircase to God.

I’m also two fresh weeks into a triumphant return to the gym — I write it like this not because of my performance in the gym’s boxing classes but because it was difficult for me to sign up for a membership. You’d think it would be just me walking up with a credit card, a form of official ID, and a smile, but alas this was not the case here in Spain.

Many normal life activities require registration numbers known as a NIE, or the foreigner identity number. It’s the way they keep track of economic, professional, or social activities of expats like me. I don’t have one, mostly because I haven’t had time for the paperwork and the bureaucratic headaches.

I also do not have another important number, known as an IBAN. Every reader who isn’t from North America likely has an IBAN, as it is a number that allows you to transfer funds from one bank account to another. This was my sticky wicket with the gym, but I finally got it sorted thanks to a great friend here on Gran Canaria.

That’s not all on which I’ve recently embarked. I’ll soon be teaching yoga online by donation (more on that soon!), thanks to a friend I met in the Bahamas who is starting a digital studio that is giving the vast proceeds to charity. I asked for 22% of the donations, which gives me the option of giving back an extra 11% and still receiving 11%. You know, with the portal and everything.

I’m also launching into the next phase of the project of producing One-Way Ticket, the creative non-fiction book that I foreshadowed back in 2020 when I was driving the Shanti Shack through Wyoming. Now that the paperback and eBook is released and selling, I’m now getting ready to begin recording the audiobook. It’s 522 pages, so I know this will take a while to produce. I’m learning new software and buying new hardware, and I’m enjoying the new medium.

It's like that new car smell — except without all the chemical off-gassing. In fact, I’ve been living a very healthy life: Being off the sugars and staying away from all bread has also been new for me. It’s still hard to walk past all the bakeries here and not get pulled in for a straight-from-the-oven little bit of love. I have to remember, of course, that bread is not a good substitute for love.

Here is a picture of my friend's new puppy Banjo, because he's just so cute!

And so, with the help of my new acupuncturist and my new online therapist, I am moving forward through this powerful portal. I am releasing the old stories of the past (literally — I honestly do not recommend crafting a memoir from recent past that requires a detached perspective! It was such extreme self-analysis!). I am instead forward-focused on my vision of the future.

What exactly is that, you may ask? Well, there’s the $64,000 question, except first you must convert that number into euros, thanks. Everyone I know, including my parents, always want to know where I’ll be living in the next month. That’s not new: I’m staying in the warmest part of Europe as long as there is snow on the ground anywhere south of London.

The newness here isn’t geographic, which is a first in a while, but rather an identity shift. As you know, our thoughts and feelings influence our behavior. Our consistent behavior becomes our habits, and our habits become our lives. Change starts with thoughts.

I speak clear and relaxed Spanish! I am fit and flexible! I have completed the audiobook, and it’s been accepted by the Audible platform! I choose to feel good and happy every day!

It’s hard to imagine your future self. But the reality is that we are always, in fact, our future self. Think about how every breath is a new beginning. The truth is that we are constantly changing, and we are constantly becoming who we are going to be in the very next moment.

Whenever I see 11:11, I imagine it is a wink from the Universe telling me that I am supported, am on the right track, and setting up my future self for success!

It’s easier to remember — and presume you’re not going to change — than it is to imagine something we don’t know yet.

So, OK. Change is indeed inevitable. How do you want to change? We’re responsible for our lives, based on the flow of how our thoughts eventually turn into our lives. I’ve got a lot, including a 60-Day Challenge to Change I’m running with a couple of friends. It’s hard, but I’ve been pretty good with daily exercise, studying Spanish every day, and writing the new weekly blogs. Now that I’m at the beginning of my menstrual cycle, I can restart my fasting regime. My last 60 days messed up my hormones, but now I’m in the know thanks to reading Fast Like a Girl.

After all, the goal here is to create a life where I feel filled with bliss all the time. As I grow into the highest expression of myself, I’ll feel fulfilled with my work and creative projects. I’ll rest in the feeling of abundance and joy. I’ll feel gratitude for the hard moments and inspired by what I accomplish. I’ll be excited when I wake up. As my friend Monika says, I’ll follow the feel good.

Connection is perhaps the best feeling, and the 1-11 portal reminds us that we are all one, too. How many ones do you need to see to get this message? The more connected you are with yourself and your plan for the future, the more you will be supported by the energy of unity. With that, you can create anything and beyond that which you can even imagine!

It Takes a Long Time To Grow an Old Friend

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I have never struggled to make friends at any age — provided, of course, I can speak their language. A simple, “Hi, that’s a neat t-shirt” is usually enough of an opener to see if a person is interesting, kind, and fun enough to spend time with.

I like to exchange names early in the process of getting to know someone, too. I ask repeatedly if they have a unique name that’s tricky to remember. I often ask for a spelling. I want to get it right because I like it when people know my name is Suzanne and not Susan. It shows they care, if only a little.

Of course, I misjudge people all the time. New friends can disappoint me, and I’m forced to start over socially wherever I am. It’s good to balance new and old friends. Keeping a healthy group of friends and developing long-term relationships that are positive and supportive are part of the next-level work.

It’s easy to find a bunch of drinking buddies. Just show up at the bar. But making friends who help you get to the next phase of your growth? That’s something else. It isn’t easy to find people who understand that you will be different next time they see you, and that your growth doesn’t discount their growth (or lack thereof). When friends can’t handle your growth, you’ve outgrown them. Thus, the need for new friends.

Remember the 1980s TV show "Bosom Buddies"? Two guys can't find an apartment so they dress in drag to live in a women's only building. Talk about going all-in for a friend. And isn't it funny how outrageous that show would be today?

For many people, making new friends is a challenging task. Currently, I am one of those people because I live in a country where I barely speak the language. I can have a nice transaction when buying persimmons from the man with glasses and puffy, gray hair at the fruit market, and I can chat a little with the people in my weekly meditation group. But when it comes to making jokes on the bus, I instead tend to look uncomfortably out the window.

I won’t lie: On the bus, I’m likely listening to a podcast or an audiobook (in English, no less) in my earphones. I’m not even open to someone who speaks my language and could say something I’d appreciate. When earphones aren’t an option — like in the sauna, for example — I close off my body language to avoid conversation. I reply in mumbles. I’m too insecure in my Spanish for friendly small talk.

Insecurity, it seems, is at the heart of many missed friendships. When you allow yourself to be open to a stranger, you are by definition vulnerable. They may reject you. They may laugh at you. And in my case, they may talk so darn fast that I stare blankly at them and muster up what little sense of humor I can find to laugh at myself in the situation.

You may think that you make a poor first impression and that many people don’t really like you enough to want to form a friendship. This is known as the Liking Gap, and it’s scientifically proven false. People like you just fine. People like you more than you think they like you.

As a way to sweep that insecurity under the rug, you may think that making new friends is kid stuff. After all, remember how easy it was to make friends in school? Lindsay happened to have the same permed, brown hair and glasses as I did. I had to decide in that seventh-grade moment whether this pseudo-doppelgänger would be my best friend or my arch enemy. I’m glad I choose the former.

Are you more likely to be friends with someone who looks like you? I suspect so, but I also think it's a shame that we miss out on horizon-expanding connections. Source: https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-34679496

Maybe you think you have enough friends. Me, I never do. I would love to run into someone (besides the man at the fruit market) who smiles when they see me every day. I love it when my friends call me or send me a note. I love to support people through their hard times, paying it forward for the inevitable time when things turn upside-down in my life. We’re all in this together, right?

I’ve recently learned about Dunbar’s Number, which states that due to the size of the human brain we can only maintain 150 meaningful contacts — or, in other words, real friendships.

This concept is based on research by Robin Dunbar, who breaks down the theory into concentric circles of different levels of friendship maximums. We tend to only have five of our closest loved ones, 15 good friends, 50 actual friends, 150 meaningful contacts, 500 acquaintances, and 1,500 people you can recognize on the street and offer a passing hello.

Yes, people who consider themselves extroverted may have a larger network of meaningful contacts, for example. But then introverts may have a larger number of very close friends. Women tend to have more close friends than men, according to the research.

How this research fares in the face of social media is an interesting debate. If you’re like me, you are already thinking about the number of people who are your Facebook friends. I currently have 1,842 Facebook friends, and I have shaken the hand of 95%.

The few whom I haven’t met in person, I’ve likely connected with through a group and have embarked on an accountability challenge together. For example, it’s fun to stay in touch with Agnes, the woman from Kenya with whom I shared an extended fasting experience when I lived in Uruguay. People who are different than you may, indeed, have a lot in common.

A few years ago, I culled my Facebook list down by about 500 contacts. Did those people even notice that I wasn’t in their news feed anymore? Unlikely, according to Dunbar’s Number. Those people were those who never felt like they wanted me to win. They were “frienemies,” and we can all do with fewer of those in our lives.

What about those people who have assistants who send flowers on birthdays and reply to invitations? Of course, they have more people in their lives because they’re paying someone to do the emotional work of friendship. After all, friendship can be work.

Currently, I have a number of friends going through hardship. More than one is breaking up with her lackluster boyfriend. Another is quitting drinking alcohol. Another is trying to get a new job. Another is struggling with losing weight. Another is having trouble with family. I talk with all of these friends regularly on the phone. I want them to succeed. I spend time listening.

After all, I think that listening is the true key to friendship. How good of a listener are you? We all move so fast in today’s world, scrolling with limited and disrupted focus. Even my father, during the annual holiday video call, was staring out the window as we talked. He’s so used to Twitter and TV that I’ve grown boring. Friendship requires patience as we develop a slow-moving, in-depth understanding of another person.

It’s part of why I wrote a long, creative non-fiction book in the first-person. It’s a disruptive experiment to see if people would sit down and get to know the main character, who happens to be me. There’s no scrolling mindlessly through a 500-page book. I love long-form prose because it requires a little investment on behalf of the reader. I sure hope it’s worth it — for my old friends, new friends, and people I’ll never meet.

It takes a long time to grow an old friend. And friendship won’t grow unless you first plant the seed.

Hey, Adults: Let’s Have a Little Talk About Emotional Regulation

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What does it mean to be an adult?

It’s a fun question about in the (inevitable?) messy family aftermath of Christmas. Come on, admit it. You totally know what Ram Dass was talking about when he said, “If you think you’re enlightened, go spend a week with your family.”

I live on the other side of the world from my family — and not without reason. Many of my friends refuse to see certain people in their family over the holidays, creating boundaries and heartache as they learn to carve out safe emotional spaces in their lives. It takes a lot of self-awareness and inner growth to break free from unhealthy family dynamics. And I don’t even have Trumpers in the family, thank God. We all agree politically, at least there’s that.

The holidays can be a really hard time for adults. You have to deal with your family and go into debt at the same time buying everyone the perfect expression of your love for them. Add in excessive sugar, baked goods, and alcohol, and it’s exhausting physically, emotionally, and mentally. I’ve become sensitive to the disruption of Circadian rhythms, and of course my clients want to wrap up big projects by the end of the year.

I have been living in Stressville. (Can I keep plugging my book by saying that I hope it’s not a one-way ticket? Yes, I think I can.)

Not everyone I know has a challenging relationship with the end-of-the-year holiday season. I also have friends with amazingly loving and fun families who make each other smile and provide support whenever someone is in need. But those families can get messy, too.

Life is messy. The older we get, often the messier it gets. Trauma has a way of coming into every life in an endless variety of ways.

So, the question is then, OK, adults: How do you handle things when life gets messy?

Remember when Marie Kondo admitted that she could no longer be tidy while raising three kids? Perfectionism is the ultimate emotional constipation. Humans are imperfect by design.

When you are overcome with emotions that are complex and difficult to process, what do you do to get yourself back to a calm center? This is called emotional regulation, and I suspect it’s at the heart of what it means to be an adult. I wrote about adulting when I turned forty, but I was just starting to feel the feels then.

Now, I live in a Spanish city where I hear a lot of this: “MIRA! MIRA! MIRA!” which, often from the mouth of babes, translates loosely as, “Please turn your eyeballs toward me, because I am so insecure as to whether or not you even love me and if you give me some positive attention, all is right in my world.” If the plea is ignored, it’s usually shortly followed by screaming or sobs.

Who witnessed a Christmas meltdown? Raise your hand.

I feel this. I sometimes regress to a plea for attention, but in a mature, type-A go-getter way. I win awards, publish books, travel around the world, and live a big life filled with love. I’ve done a lot of work to relax from within (to stop the MIRA!) and regulate my emotions (to have as little crying and acting out as possible).

I’m not always successful. We all “fall off the wagon,” right? We commit to a healthy way of living, and then we veer off course for whatever reason. I participate in a few accountability groups, and I often see and hear excuses from others. I read recently to call them “reasons” instead of “excuses.” But if you’re arguing with yourself over something you “want” to do, well, you’re arguing against success on your own terms.

I’m not always perfect with my daily healthy habits, but I’m better than if I didn’t try to do them at all. I know that I only do what I want to do. So, if I don’t do something, it’s because I just don’t prioritize it.

My friend Michael, may he rest in peace, told me once about how he wanted to date a woman who hated cigarette smoke. So, he quit the next day. I’ll never forget that. Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances! Yet, his story shows that controlling your behavior — just like regulating your emotions — is mind over matter. (He returned to smoking once they broke up.)

And wow, do those habits come in handy when life starts handing you lemons. You’ll go one of two paths when the cookie crumbles: You cry like a baby, or you deal with it like an adult. I currently employ a mix of both.

Perhaps babies cry because they know how hard life is and parents say "no no everything is fine" because they've forgotten. The baby's right: There's a lot to cry about. Emotional regulation is hard.

Your ability to regulate your emotions and relax back into the feeling determines where you fall on the spectrum of adulthood. As you get older, you have to learn how to the “feel the feels” and be OK with it all —or else you suffer.

Sorry to break it to you, but I’m surely not the only one: You simply can’t drink, eat, shop, sex, scroll, drug, or video-game the bad feelings away. Well, you can, but it’s only temporary. When you stuff down your emotions, you end up with what I call emotional constipation. It feels worse. Then you have to medicate for that along with whatever was the problem in the first place.

The older you are, the more likely your emotional constipation, or so it seems. There’s just more to stuff down. So many older people can’t take a joke. If I hear one more person complain about how grammar rules are more important than people’s feelings over what pronoun they want to identify with, I’m going semicolon. And those young whippersnappers also are so soft that they can’t get poked without crying. It’s time for everyone to regulate.

Not every senior is a grump, of course. I loved the TED Radio Hour interview with Dan Buettner, the National Geographic researcher of the Blue Zones, where people live the longest. He said longest-living humans are full of joy and fun to be around. It’s not just about staying alive a long time — you also want to live a happy life along the way. You want to be emotionally fit along while also being able to avoid slip-and-falls. One way to do this is through the concept of Ikigai.

The idea is that people stay alive when they have a good reason to do so. For many people in Blue Zones, researchers discovered that even a simple garden can qualify as a raison d’être. Having something to do with yourself is part of emotional regulation.

This reminds me of the dog in my apartment complex. It barks for hours. It took me a while to realize that it was the same as shouting “MIRA! MIRA! MIRA!” That same universal cry for attention and love. Unfortunately, the dog can’t very well tend a garden. But adults can.

I have an abundance of things to do in my day. I’m never bored. Years ago, I learned about bullet journaling. That’s a system that uses pen and paper notebooks to create simple, personalized daily planners. I carried one for years (I used one like this), and my favorite section each month was a habit tracker. I drew an X-Y access with the day numbers of the month on the X and my habits on the Y. When I completed a task, I made a bullet point on my chart. I’ve been tracking habits for years, although I got rid of the paper journal this year.

Now that I’m a full-fledged adult without children, real estate, or possessions beyond what I can stuff into my trusty 65-liter backpack, I use a digital app called Habit Tracker. This list of things I want to do with myself every day encourages me to stay off social media, away from the ice cream, and other not-great activities. It’s rare that I check everything in a day because I have a big list.

When I don’t know what else to do because I’m overwhelmed with emotions, I can act on autopilot with these healthy activities. I’m more likely to lace up my shoes and take a walk along the paseo if I do that every day. I know somehow that I should call a beloved friend to talk if I make a habit of connecting every day. I will pick up my ukulele and sing a song, even if I feel bad, if that’s something I do daily.

Beyond being able to regulate my emotions, these habits help me create the life I want to live. If you think, gosh that’s a lot, then you’ve already started making excuses for why you shouldn’t be the main character in your life story. Your list can look however you want it to look. My daily habit goals include:

  • Daily intermittent fasting
  • Daily exercise
  • Estudio español
  • Meditation
  • No scrolling
  • No junk food
  • No alcohol
  • Good sleep
  • Play ukulele
  • Journal
  • Drink water and take vitamins
  • Connect with friends
  • Rest (usually a nap)
  • Seva (selfless service)
  • Be in nature
  • Make money
  • Write weekly blog post (check!)

If I do all those things every day, I don’t have time for the unhealthy stuff. I won’t have time for unhealthy thoughts. I won’t do unhealthy things. I’ll feel better. I’ll be better prepared for when the inevitable chaotic storm approaches. Because it’s coming, fellow adults: The next family holiday will be here before you know it. Will you be ready?

Christmas as a Minimalist

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I completed my small version of the pre-Christmas rush on Saturday, as I popped in from store to store here in Spain to pick up the ingredients for the chickpea-cauliflower-curry loaf with homemade mango barbecue sauce I was baking for a holiday feast with my new roommate and friends.

I was in the depth of one of those catch-all, cheap import shops, searching for a cheesecloth for a new kombucha brew, when into my earphones did play the Fresh Air podcast’s David Byrne Christmas Special. Byrne’s Christmas playlist of kooky songs included an unknown and unironic tune by Joseph Washington Jr.

“I’m going shopping, shopping, shopping downtown/ I’ve got my Christmas list together, going to buy presents … for everyone who’s been so good to me!”

It was a catchy tune, and it made me laugh. Why? Because I do not enjoy shopping at all. Ever since I sold all my possessions and moved on to a 32-foot sailboat in 2015, I have had no interest in accumulating things around me. And I’m not particularly interested in encouraging anyone else to do the same.

Christmas can be a strange time for a minimalist.

Everyone around me is wearing seasonal sweaters they only get out of the closet once a year. I passed a woman wearing plastic reindeer antlers on the street. In every store, there were opportunities to buy buy buy. You’d think as an American, I would be used to this. But I’ve been out of the Christmas game.

For the past many years, my life has been so nomadic that I really haven’t celebrated the holiday season. There wasn’t really any need for shopping. Last year, I had just injured my Achilles tendon and it was unseasonably cold in Lake Worth, Florida, where I was cat-sitting. I simply laid around in bed and read my book on Christmas. The year before that, I was in Daytona Beach, again caring for cats and staying quiet.

I dreamed of a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine when I was a kid, but even then I knew it was a ridiculous waste of money and never actually told my parents I wanted it.

The year before that, I was visiting friends outside Fresno, California. One friend had a quintessential holiday meltdown when we exchanged gifts. I don’t talk to that guy anymore. I guess you could say that Christmas really isn’t much of a holiday for me.

But it certainly is in Spain! There are plenty of parties, dinners, outdoor concerts, and even larger-than-life sculptures in the sand of Jesus, Joseph, Mary, and the rest of the characters in the Christmas story. There is no avoiding going shopping, shopping, shopping downtown.

I was torn. I love to get perfect gifts for friends and loved ones, just like Joseph Washington Jr. sang about. But I barely know the people who are coming to dinner on Sunday, and I’m not in a place to spend a bunch of money on stupid stuff that no one really wants. Besides, we all know that Christmas isn’t about getting stuff — although, of course, that’s exactly what it’s about for at least the first decade or two of life. This holiday is about sharing love. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Now, I know what a lot of readers are thinking right now: Give experiences, not things. But that doesn’t really happen after you turn 7 and it’s no longer appropriate to give coupons for things like shoulder rubs, dog walks, and car washes. Maybe if you’re in a serious relationship you can buy concert tickets or one-way tickets to exotic destinations. It is possible — but I came up short when I thought about the people on my Christmas list. Not that it’s very long.

I used to do a lot for Christmas. It is all in the name of God, after all. Now I honestly do as little as possible during the holiday season. About a year ago, I discovered a fantastic gift for my parents: a subscription to a local coffee roaster’s coffee of the month club. It’s easier to keep it rolling throughout the year to cover birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Christmas for them both. And they love it. And it’s not more stuff.

I’m persona non grata for the other members of my family, so the only other people on my list are my new roommate and the people I barely know coming to holiday dinner. I am cooking a main dish, a vegan chickpea-cauliflower-curry loaf. I bought a package of construction paper for one euro and made colorful origami cranes, strung a hemp cord through it, and created ornaments. I wrapped them with a star that reads, “Feliz Navidad!” We’re in Spain, after all. My roommate gets a pair of earrings I bought in Turkïye that are cool but a little too heavy for my ears.

It's taken some maturing as a minimalist to understand that there is value in the act of giving gifts, even though it underscores the cultural construct that relationships can be translated into money. I know when I sold and gave away everything I owned to move on to the sailboat, one friend in particular was very upset to see that I sold a candleholder she gave me. Did she think I was going to take it on the sailboat? Was it more ethical to give it back? She also gave me a beautiful Native American bamboo flute, and I asked her if she wanted that back. She accepted it, then never talked to me again.

So, when it’s a holiday season, I try to balance between letting people know that I love them through the love language of gifts while also not getting caught up in the idea that things equal love. This goes for what I buy myself, too. Since I know, eventually, I’ll be back down to a 65-liter, 20-kilogram backpack (which is already too big, please don’t get me started), I only buy things I need or are willing to leave behind whenever I go to my next country. That means the dress I’ll wearing tomorrow is the same dress I bought a year ago at a consignment shop, and I’ll put on a little eyeliner to be extra fancy.

I know that the people who appreciate me don’t care what I look like, just so I respect

In Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums, everyone is just so friction' perfect. Are you from a family of perfectionists? It's exhausting. You don't have to be perfect and there's nothing you can buy that will make you so. There's no reason to try, either. Relaxation is the real flex.

the holiday. They aren’t going to care if I spent no money, spent five euro on each of them, or bought them all big, elaborate gifts. It’s not going to make them like me anymore. If it did, well, I might like them less.

The average household debt in America is more than $100,000. This includes student loads, mortgages, medical debt, and, of course, credit card debt. People pay about 10% of their income toward trying to pay down their debt. The average credit card debt is $6,365 per person. How do you compare?

I’m lucky because I was raised by parents who paid for everything only with cash. They paid cash for their house 36 years ago! Now, when I was a kid, this also meant that I had to work for my money. I was the home maintenance girl: trimming bushes, pulling weeds, water-sealing the deck and painting the garage door just to earn some money to go to the movies. I was babysitting at age 14 and had a part-time job at the local produce stand when I was 16. They taught me to work hard and never have any debt. I still work hard, and I still don’t have debt.

But a big reason why I don’t have debt is because I’m a minimalist. I don’t get joy from buying things. I once dated a hoarder, and it was an interesting peek into another world. He found joy in buying all the small appliances a kitchen could ever want, every piece of sporting equipment that could make an armchair athlete sweat, and endless shirts, shoes, and pants. In truth, though, he didn’t find joy. That’s the thing.

Shopping can only bring so much dopamine. It’s addictive just like alcohol, drugs, and social media. Shopping gets you excited in the same way that picking out the sweet in the bakery gets you excited. Or me, I should use the correct pronoun. My acupuncturist told me to stay off the baked goods, and I’ve been bread-free for the last couple of months. Hello, I’m Suzanne and I’m a chocolate croissant addict! I miss them most of all.

Did I really just search the Internet for a picture of a chocolate croissant? Oh yes, yes I did.

It also helps to live in a place with a low cost of living. I pay about a third of what I would pay for a third of the space if I were to be renting in the United States. I also live five blocks from the beach and have a large, private, and quiet space. I cook my own vegetarian food, don’t drink alcohol, and bought mostly secondhand furnishings for the apartment. Low overhead and low desires are keys to a debt-free, minimalist lifestyle.

I’ll warn you, though: It’s not easy to have few desires. You need to train your mind to understand that you can’t buy happiness, and then you have to find the joy in true financial freedom. After all, the fewer bills you have, the less you have to work. The less you work, the more time you have to pursue your dreams. You thought I was going to say play, but life is play when you get the balance right.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Michael Singer’s lectures lately, and in one he talks about how we all have that thing we’re crazy about. Maybe you’re crazy about yoga or craft beers or … maybe it’s the holidays. Maybe you’re crazy about giving a lovely gift to bring a smile to people’s faces. Some things it’s okay to be crazy about. I like making people smile, too. That’s why I made the origami for everyone.

We’ll also have a karaoke machine for performances after we eat. I plan to belt out the hits. I’m also practicing Happy Xmas (War Is Over) on the ukulele. After all, I wish most of all for you and the rest of the world a peaceful time now and always. Maybe if there weren’t so much stuff to fight about, we could also agree to stop fighting.

I FEEL YOU, BODY: HOW I GOT KICKED OUT OF VIPASSANA

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You know how everyone tells you to “listen to your body”? 

If you’re like me, that’s easier said than done. There are days I’m not sure I even know the language my body speaks. (Insert a fart joke here)

It’s so hard to understand, honor, and accept what’s best for your physical self, let alone your mental or emotional self. Aren’t we all socially conditioned to detach from our bodies yet care passionately about our image? Women’s magazines and Instagram influencers make me feel a certain way about my body, there’s just no getting around it. 

I’m not alone. So many people I love have eating disorders, anxiety, and even just fears about getting older. Dreading birthdays isn’t just about not wanting wrinkles, gray hair, lumps, and pains. With age comes trauma. There’s no getting around that, either.

But I’ve been trying to feel my body. For decades, I’ve been practicing yoga, Reiki energy, and all receiving kinds of massage and body work. I fast regularly, and I eat vegetarian foods. I don’t drink alcohol anymore. 

Then I completed a 10-day silent meditation Vipassana course. I didn’t get kicked out of the 10-day course. It was amazing. It is all about feeling your body, at depths I never knew possible.   

I got kicked out of the one-day “refresher” course a few months later. They actually refused to let me participate. I have feelings about that, too. 

Vipassana is a style of meditation popularized by S.N. Goenka, taught throughout the world in many different languages to thousands of people for decades. Years ago, I had come across it while traveling throughout Asia. I didn’t know too much about it. I just knew it was something I wanted to do. Everyone I’ve ever met who completed the course said it was transformational. 

Now that I’ve done it, I totally agree. 

I was first accepted to a course in Ontario, Canada in the beginning of June 2020. Of course, that was when the entire world was freaking out over COVID-19. I had recently purchased a solar-powered recreational vehicle, an RV. The plan was to drive it from Miami to Pennsylvania, to visit my parents, and then onward into Canada. Unfortunately, Canada closed its border — technically the first of two times I was denied an in-depth Vipassana experience.

I traveled along all the southern coasts of the Great Lakes and up in northern Idaho, Washington, and Wyoming and still have yet to know Canada!

Instead, I roamed around North America, took lots of hikes, and social-distanced myself in beautiful forests and desserts. I applied online to other 10-day Vipassana courses, but nothing lined up with my travels and timeline. Eventually, I sold that RV and moved to Europe. I was finally accepted to the course in Suffolk, United Kingdom in August 2023. I scheduled a cat-sitting gig in London and booked a plane ticket.

I knew the Vipassana experience was going to be intense, but I felt ready. In July, my meditation experience was a steady 20-minute sit every day. Sometimes I would practice one-pointed focus by myself. Other times I would meditate along with a group I belong to on Facebook called the Shakti Love Warriors. Those meditations could be guided with ambient music or quiet. I was meditating more than most people I knew.

And yet, like so many times in my life, I had no idea what I was getting into. An email from the Vipassana centre told me where to go, what time to arrive, and to bring a set of bed sheets and an alarm clock. I bought both items on the streets around the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul and had them with me in my pack.

Dhamma Sukhakari Vipassana Centre in Haughley Green, UK

The course was held in the classic old English countryside. Moss grew in the cracks of brick buildings with windows overlooking natural ponds. I slept in the women’s dorm in a bunk bed in a room with five other female bunks. We ate in silence in a small dining hall. The men who participated ate in an area of the dining hall separated mostly by a wall. I never saw their dorm. There was no talking.

I was assigned the bottom bunk, for which I had extreme gratitude. The woman in the top bunk above mine was young in her early 20s from some Scandinavian country. She talked in her sleep restlessly, often waking me up. But early in the 10 days, she giggled in her sleep, cutely and mischievously like she was conspiring with classmates in her dreams.  I was patient with the rest of her mumbling.

We deposited our cell phones with the course manager and began with a meditation in the great hall. We could use as many cushions and blankets as we wanted to get comfortable for the next 10 days. I took a large cushion and four small squishy brick-size cushions, plus two blankets, and settled into my assigned spot at the back along the aisle that separated the men from the ladies. 

The daily schedule started at 4 a.m. Actually, my day always started five minutes earlier. I realized that if I set my alarm before the morning gong, I could jump in the shower before anyone else. I never had to wait for a morning shower, but often by the time I completed my fast shower there would be a line of sleepy women. I was clean, dressed, and ready for morning meditation by 4:20 every morning.  

We would have group meditation in the hall from 4:30 to 6:30 a.m., then a hearty breakfast, then some free time before an 8 to 10:30 a.m. meditation. There would be a short break, then at it again until 12:30 p.m., when it was lunch time. After an always-delicious lunch was a short break, after which we would meditate again for two hours. There would be another break, then again, two hours of meditation. Then there would be time for fruit or lemon water, rather than dinner. After dinner was a meditation followed by a videotaped lecture by Goenka, followed by more meditation. Lights out arrived at 9:30 p.m.

It was 11.5 hours of seated meditation every day. No exercise besides some light walks around a small field where only ladies had access. No yoga, although I stretched and did some gentle yin. I also did handstands in between meditation sessions. Everyone took a vow of noble silence, so no one could say anything. 

I made up nicknames in my head of everyone around me in the meditation hall. There was Clip, who sat in front of me for the first four days. She wore a clip in her hair. She couldn’t handle the meditation, I guess, and left early. I had an extra large space around me once her cushion was removed from the hall. Ghost sat behind me, so nicknamed because she sometimes beat me as the first one in the hall in the mornings and also because she was so quiet with her comings and goings. Poor Sniffles, to my right, was getting over a cold, but she was nothing compared to Cough-y (or Coffee, I never asked him), a man in the second row who was horribly sick with a cough. I would have gone home if I were Cough-y. I had a lot of gratitude for Ghost behind me and not Cough-y. Hat, who had many different hats but always a hat, sat next to Coughy-y on the man’s side. Beep was a man somewhere to my left who wore a watch with an hour chirp. That chirp only happened once before the course manager chastised him. But he’ll always be Beep to me.

At first, sitting for that long was physically grueling. I did not have anything majorly wrong with my body, beyond some natural stiffness, some knots in my shoulders, and sore hips every once in a while. But damn! Vipassana was no joke. I needed to put small brick cushions under my hands, two under my knees, and I was still having trouble keeping still. My foot kept falling asleep.

Three days in, they taught us the Vipassana technique. When I first learned to do it, my body was overcome with a sense of relaxation and well-being. But then I really started noticing all the sensations in my body. I was surprised to realize just how much energy was trapped in my body.

My arms ached. My legs ached. My shoulders ached. My God, I felt old! I was wondering why exactly I thought this whole 10-day silent meditation experience was such a good idea. I had little to do but follow the schedule and try my best not to fall asleep when I was supposed to be meditating. 

The whole thing was run by a nonprofit, so I wasn’t paying anything. I couldn’t really have any expectations. 

It was beautiful there in the English countryside. During meals, I liked to look out the window and watch the trees sway in the country breeze. After meals, I stopped by the garden to see the fat, fuzzy bumblebees floating near late summer flowers. 

I got these images from Google since I did not have my phone/camera with me during the retreat. My bunk was far right on the second floor — you can just make out my window through the branches. Behind the photographer was the meditation hall and walking field.

The course employed volunteers to cook and serve meals, so I didn’t have to worry about food at all. Breakfasts and lunches were always delicious and filling. I was used to fasting, so I was content with hot lemon water in the evening instead of a third meal.

I loved not having my phone around. I had no problem not talking to anyone. It actually was a relief to not make small talk or answer, “So, where ya from?” Besides, everyone looked miserable. I didn’t quite understand it. I mean, yeah, my body hurt but only really when I was sitting in meditation. It was actually strange: Once I got up, my arms and legs stopped aching. I loved taking peaceful walks around the property. In the mornings, I’d stop and admire the stars in the pre-dawn dark sky.

The days wore on. I hand-washed clothing just for something to do. One day, I tried to meditate outside near the pond — even though the strict rules clearly stated I could only meditate in the main hall or in my bedroom. Within minutes of closing my eyes, the course manager approached me and asked if everything were alright. When I replied that I was just meditating, I was instructed to go inside. I did, slightly annoyed.

My mind tried to avoid feeling the pain locked inside the body, but there were only so many nicknames, poems, and other distractions. I frequently emerged from the meditation hall in tears. But I have a strong practice of crying and letting emotion move through me. Since I had no relationship with anyone, I would sometimes dramatically and playfully throw myself on to the soft grass on the field outside the hall. This silly grounding, much like the handstand practice, made me smile and soon feel better. I could go back to smiling at the beautiful English countryside unveiling itself in front of me. I kept up with the schedule.

Then, something interesting happened during meditation: All the knots in my shoulders disappeared. I had been feeling those knots for years. I had gone to so many massage therapists. I knew one knot originated around the time a woman berated me unfairly at work. For a while, I owned a Theracane, and with it I could apply enough force into the knot to cry. But it never went away completely. After that meditation, it was gone. GONE! All of them!

It was on that seventh day when I finally figured out what Vipassana was all about: self-healing. I was healing myself with my mind. It was the ultimate mind-body connection.

I had the power to take what I learned about neuroplasticity and biohacking and reprogram my brain to stop feeling that unnecessary, stuck-energy pain. I barely needed my 3:55 a.m. alarm the next morning. I beat Ghost as the first in the meditation hall for the remaining days. 

As a yoga teacher, I had a mental file of every pain and discomfort in my body. Now that the shoulder knots were taken care of, next up were these hips. I knew emotions were stored in the hips, but now I was feeling it. I was determined to confront the pain I locked away because it hurt too much at the time. 

The Vipassana practice teaches you how to become aware of every sensation in the body while staying equanimous. That is, see the sensation but don’t create a drama around it. Just let it be. The result makes the sensation dissipate. I no longer required cushions and could sit still for hours. 

My hips felt better. My shoulders felt better. The pain in my arms alleviated. My foot stopped going numb. It was amazing. I went body part to body part, really giving each a strong yet loving mental look. Some pain had no origins I knew of. I figured they were generational or from a past life. I acknowledged the sensation and allowed it to be seen. With that, I could feel the pain transmuting and lightening. 

By the last day, when the 50 female participants were allowed to talk to each other, I felt buoyant. I was the last one out of the meditation hall when it was over. Even Ghost was gone.

For weeks afterward, I continued to practice Vipassana meditation for an hour each day. I found that my preferences for things naturally and dramatically diminished. I went to eat after the course ended: Did I want the rosemary and potato casserole or the spinach and cheese quiche? It really didn’t matter. I mean, does that kind of thing really matter? What does matter?

Here’s what does, according to the Vipassana organizers here in Spain: I didn’t give up my other practices, namely Reiki energy work. That was the reason I was denied when I tried to sign up for that one-day “refresher” course. 

I have been attending weekly Vipassana group meditation practice, and I’m loving it. I am still feeling all these sensations in my body. Like, a lot.

If you’ve never felt sensations in your body, at this point you may think that I should take a trip to the mental hospital. The funny thing was, the person running the one-day course said exactly that when he explained that I would have to give up Reiki energy work, to which I’ve been attuned since 2003, if I ever wanted to do another Vipassana course.

I loved Looney Tunes as a kid! A “loon” could refer to a person whose mental state was influenced by the moon, or la luna. A loon is really a bird, you old coot. Now get on to the looney bin, folks.

“The concern is that you may have to go to the mental hospital,” the organizer said. “Goenka himself declared these two practices incompatible. I’ve personally had to deal with people who practice Reiki having to go to the mental hospital. We can’t put ourselves or you at that kind of risk.”

Well, okay. This is all about accepting things as they are, right? 

At first it felt like rejection — after all, wasn’t Vipassana a tool for progressing spiritually so that I could eventually turn into a light being and connect permanently with the higher power and never have to reincarnate again and reach enlightenment? I’m all for that.

That stuff about a mental hospital, geez, that was a first. I was always proud of my stable mental health. (Insert fart joke here). And yet … I was really feeling overwhelmed with all my work deadlines, finishing up the work needed to publish my first major travel memoir, and trying to get fit while learning Spanish and making new friends in a new place. Maybe a weekend getaway in the mental hospital wouldn’t be that bad. Would they serve meals as nice as the Vipassana retreat in the UK? I bet the bed wouldn’t be a bunk bed. It really didn’t sound that bad.

But, no, I have a cozy bed in my own apartment, thanks. I make my own yummy food. I know there are many different paths, and I’m walking my own. I’ve learned that when my mind is at peace, my body is pain-free. 

I still meditate every day. I still practice Reiki. I’m still not in the mental hospital — at least, not at the time of publication!

Art for Art’s Sake

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If you would have asked my 5-year-old self what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a writer and an artist. 

By second grade, I wrote a little picture book about a guy named Joe, if I remember correctly, who drove a Chevy Nova. I was the lead in the little play my class gave to the school about the importance of dental health (I was the “Foolish Molar,” it was not a tragedy). I treasured most a few stuffed animals and my carousel of crayons, with which I doodled on the green shag carpet in my bedroom. I was always a creative type. 

The arts were always a part of my life in one way or another, although writing certainly took center stage. As a high school senior, I was the editor of the creative literacy journal (and lead in the school play, ceramics maker, captain of the field hockey team, and an honors student with a part-time job who sure enjoyed a good party, but I digress). I loved writing and reading poetry. 

But let’s face it: How many poets do you know who can afford to eat? So, I went into journalism. Maybe it was that I felt a social and personal obligation to make some money while I could, but I don’t regret it at all. It paved my way to working for a newspaper, then communications work for nonprofits, government and eventually plenty of small- and medium-sized businesses. I built a professional career that affords me the opportunity to travel wherever I want.

I had fun with some art as a hobby over the last 20 years, creating costumes for music festivals, holiday ornaments for friends, brainstorming creative outreach activities and events, and making music. I picked up the djembe and percussion instruments, and later the ukulele. I love to sing. 

I also appreciate art, filling the Shanti Shack, my RV, slowly but surely with the talents of my friends. So, when I happened to be rolling through Southern California after celebrating my birthday at Joshua Tree National Park, I was excited to discover a place called East Jesus.

A fellow nomad told me to check out Slab City, to go to the Slab City Library and also East Jesus. I rolled into the Slabs, as they’re called, about 10 days ago. I was pretty dirty, having not had a shower in a few days, cough cough, and I researched that there was a natural hot spring nearby.  

Welcome to the Slabs

The first night in the Slabs, I parked near the hot springs. I took a bath alone at dusk, poured myself a cocktail and relaxed for an early night. It was good I slept early, as locals and degenerate types investigated my rig throughout the night, driving in circles with Beastie Boys blasting from radios. I figured they were trying to scare the “Karens” and other retired types who are usually the ones driving around in a 23-foot RV. I found it hilarious! 

By the way, I have an Aunt Karen, and she’s lovely. 

After doing some writing assignments the next morning, I packed up to check out Slab City. First stop from the hot springs was Salvation Mountain. This well-maintained piece of art was made by a Jesus freak and his friends who painted a big hillside with a message encouraging people to say, “Jesus, I am a sinner. Please come upon my body and into my heart.”

I checked it out while other tourists were boasting somewhat loudly and stupidly about how they came here before and talked to the keeper of the property, and isn’t it really cool, I mean, I’m sorry like it’s a long, long drive and everything, but I think this is really, really cool. You know what I’m sayin, guys? Hey let’s snap a selfie! 

Hopping back in Shanti, I drove on to the Slab City Library. Previously, I had finished “East of Eden” by John Steinbeck. Wanting to donate the book, I realized I could also offer a big bag of stuff I no longer wanted. I packed up some random food people gave me that I was never going to eat, my old boots that were about to give out but had some life left in them, and a few hand-me-down clothing that didn’t make the cut. 

As I rolled up to the library, there was a big sign that read, “CLOSED: Deliveries Only.” Not one to listen to signage, I knew I had a delivery anyway so I drove right up. Maybe they knew where I could sleep that night, since I wasn’t quite ready to drive on down the road.

Some dude covered in tattoos came out to meet me and asked if I knew Cornelius. 


“Not yet,” I replied. “I have a delivery.” They pointed me down the way, and another guy came up to my car. I offered him the stuff, and then I asked him if he had a recommendation where I could park that evening. He told me to talk to Cornelius.

Corn comes out of the library. They’re on crutches, missing a leg, and holding a shotgun. They start shooting as two stray dogs haul ass, as they say, off their property. I’m a little shocked but use those old acting skills to play it cool. I introduce myself, and they tell me I can park on the dirt lot over by the edge of their property. I say, “That’s awesome. Thanks sister.”

“I’m a sibling,” Cornelius said, “not a sister.”

My brain rattling with information about firearms, dangerous feral animals, and gender identity, I thank them somewhat clumsily and got back in my rig. Instead of going straight to the parking spot, I carried on to East Jesus. I haven’t left.

East Jesus

Suffice to say, I remain overwhelmed and impressed with this art project. Let me simply write again what I crafted for a self-guided tour you can take when you arrive at this museum, just like I did:

Welcome to East Jesus!

Cared for by volunteers with the non-profit Chasterus Foundation, East Jesus is an experimental, habitable artwork-in-progress and a halfway house for wayward art. This dynamic, interactive museum is a member of the California Museum Association and is the vision of the late Charles Stephen Russell.

East Jesus is a community of artists, musicians, writers and dreamers who love art for art’s sake. With 7,000 watts of solar power and compostable toilets, it’s an off-the-grid lifestyle where we reuse it, repurpose it, recycle it or set it on fire. Your donations help keep everything going, so thanks!

On these 30 privately owned acres, nothing ever happens until it happens. More than 1,000 people have contributed their time and talent to making your experience happen. You get to decide if the random piles of garbage are artistic statements that transcend the impermanence of humanity’s excess or just a bunch of junk.

Whatever the value, all artwork is protected by copyright of the Chasterus Foundation. You must gain permission before you make images for moneymaking purposes. Holler over the wall. We’re a friendly sort.

And sure enough, that’s what I found after I spent a couple hours wandering around the fascinating and fun exhibits, which made me laugh and think and feel and engage in ways that reminded me of art galleries in Tokyo. I loved it. 

I remembered that I had some old pieces of shiny reflective material, leftover from creating my sunshield, and a big fishing net another friend gave me as a netting that just didn’t really work in my rig. I thought maybe these crazy artists would like it. I brought it over to the gift shop, and Paul came over.

He accepted my donation and offered to show me what’s going on inside, which, it turns out, is a community of artists creating and caring for the art garden and living in the middle of the desert. I stayed for dinner and welcomed the arrival of the new caretaker for the season. They had run out of coffee, so I offered to share the artisanal beans I treated myself to from a café on my birthday. 

The next day, after coffee, I pitched in to help … as I always do wherever I am. I did some dishes and sold a t-shirt. I felt right at home, and the caretaker, Steve, asked me to stay. 

It hasn’t quite been to two weeks, and I already dove deep into art. I’ve already made progress on my next book and created a self-guided tour for the art garden with a map that shows the name and location of most of the artwork and information about the project. I constructed a “Help Your Self Desk” that makes me anxious with all that technology I screwed down in it, but luckily, I also screwed on a toilet paper roll and a holder for a spear and a water faucet. 

I’m almost finished crafting a bunch of flower crowns, and I rehabbed and enhanced the previously blown-down-and-busted memorial for the founder, Charlie. I cleaned up the entrance area, dumped a bucket of shit into the compost area (living on a sailboat prepared me for this life), and created a marketing plan for upgrading their website. 

At the same time, I’ve been able to keep up with my work, eat well, make new friends and plan out a couple more art projects. Finally, I can get my zine together, which I’ve honestly been planning since I lived in Australia. I’m also doing some interesting artwork with wire, karate belts and a Styrofoam head I found out in “the boneyard,” which is a huge, somewhat-sorted pile of refuge like what I donated. 

Back in July, I included the word, “ART” on this year’s vision board that I made for myself, but I didn’t realize how wonderfully central that word would be. It’s a blessing to have the freedom to create as I wish. I’m able to dip into my experiences, such as celebrating El Dia de los Muertos with giant kites in Sumpango, Guatemala. That’s what those flower crowns are for. 

I’m able to be myself, just as my 5-year-old self imagined me to be. 

Introducing the Shanti Shack

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Faithful readers! I owe you quite an apology for the eight-month delay in a blog post. I was doing pretty good for a while there, yes? But I’m definitely not living in the Galapagos anymore! An update is long overdue.

The Shanti Shack, the RV I bought sight-unseen while living on another continent. I was shocked by her girth … hopefully, the RV didn’t feel the same. Now that I shelter-on-the-move, I’m grateful for the extra space.

If you’d been reading along for the last six years of this blog, you know I had uprooted my life to travel internationally while trying to understand and share life lessons along the way. My experiences in South America, Far East, Southeast Asia, the Caribbean and Oceania are enough to fill a book. (This is called foreshadowing.) I’ve been busy!

I know, I know … excuses! I was literally making a sourdough starter after playing a song on my ukulele when I realized how I dropped the ball on this blog. Sorry!

I’m often at the crossroads of living my life fully and wanting to document and share everything with those who care to read about it. 

Over the last eight months, I’ve certainly been living much more than writing about the living I’m doing. I’ve always been one for coming up with plans and then executing them. In January, I came up with a plan that has resulted in me having perhaps more freedom than most of the people in the world for the last six months.

I bought an RV in the United States and have been sheltering on the move. As an American, I’ve traveled wherever I’ve wished on my own timeline during the entire COVID-19 pandemic.

I have been social distancing in the most natural way: Yesterday, the only person I saw all day was a man fly fishing about 25 yards from where I was doing yoga along the lakeside, next to my RV, which I’ve named the Shanti Shack.

#RVLife: Sheltering on the Move

In January, I came up with the idea of buying this RV … and traveling throughout the United States, for really the first time in my life. I’ve enjoyed some national travel during a week or two of vacation, but I’ve never had an extended road trip.

My timing was divinely guided. After living abroad for five years, I needed to return to Miami in March 2020. I had a meeting scheduled for years at the Italian consulate to reclaim my citizenship, which will eventually result in a prized EU passport. 

The idea for the Shanti Shack happened organically enough. I had a few boxes and my grandmother’s paintings stored at my friend’s house, located a couple of hours north of Miami. There was space to hang my grandmother’s paintings at my parents’ home in Pennsylvania. I needed to hug my parents after a few years on the other side of the globe anyway. With a van or an RV, I could drive from Florida to Pennsylvania and not have to worry about where to live.

Besides, I hadn’t seen a lot of places that make the U.S. so special. I like seeing things with my own eyes, rather than watching something on television or reading about something. When you experience something, there’s an energetic value that’s intangible and invaluable.

I’m at the Grand Canyon! Woo!

In January, a friend in Florida helped me find an RV that suited my needs. In February, I moved from Uruguay (where I was living after the Galapagos and after a brief but lovely layover in Lima) to Colombia for a month. I paid installments on the RV and researched solar systems to get it off-grid. When I landed in Miami on March 1, I had an entire plan in place for living on the road.

It was a busy 10 days. By the time I had my Italian appointment in Miami on March 11, I had installed solar on my rig and felt comfortable enough to hit the road. By March 15, you may remember, the entire world shut down at the horrific predictions of massive curves of deaths and overflowing emergency rooms in a worldwide health crisis. 

I was thankful to be back in the U.S. My friends still abroad shared stories about their police-mandated lockdown. Some were given 2 tickets used to leave their apartment building once or twice a week; others were only allowed outside for one hour in the morning for exercise. Many talked about not being about to rent an affordable room or go to the grocery store. Everyone was worried about their visas.

In the U.S., meanwhile, many of my friends and family had reached a heightened and pervasive state of anxiety. Fear has been normalized. Anger, too.

Meet Shanti

This is where I’d like to turn once again to the Shanti Shack. To me, this girth-y recreation vehicle is more than my tiny home on wheels. Faithful readers may remember me living on a sailboat and in a tiny home on wheels I had built with a guy in Australia. This RV is my peacemobile.

I’ve hung prayer flags, origami peace doves, peace signs, a couple of OMs and artwork from all the friends I’ve seen since I’ve been in the U.S. I have another peace sign art piece currently under commission with another friend.

There is no fighting in the Shanti Shack. There’s no aggressive driving (not like I can go faster than 65 mph, anyway.) This vehicle is a way for me to bring peace, love, laughter, smiles, friendship, and happiness to everyone I see.

Hindu gods have vehicles. Vishnu flies around on Garuda, an eagle. Shiva rides Nandi, a while bull. Ganesha, the fat elephant-headed god, rides a little mouse! There are many lessons here, including that you never have to be alone on your journey and that you should use whatever suites you best for what your life entails. For me, that’s Shanti, which means peace in sanskrit.

Living in America

Every day, I take a big inhale through my nose and identify smells. Lately, the predominent smell has been pine. This is just one way that I am testing myself for COVID-19 symptoms. I am always sanitary, cleaning my hands often and wearing a mask indoors. I actually feel fantastic.

This is a fairly typical backyard view. Especially out west, public lands are available to enjoy for all. I use apps to help me find legal places to sleep, fill up my water and dump my black water.

I believe anxiety is correlated to how in control you feel about your health and how fearful you are of dying. Dying is inevitable. I sure hope it doesn’t happen today or tomorrow for myself or any of my loved ones. But it’s gonna happen to us all.

I’m trying to just be realistic. The result is a careful carefree-ness of enjoying the nation while gas prices are cheap and roads are empty.

Since I’m off the grid, I don’t have to “hook up” at parks. I live for free. I’ve camped on public lands and outside friends’ homes in about 20 states so far, as I drove up the coast from Florida to Pennsylvania, then down south to Tennessee and over the Louisiana bayou, through Texas and into the Southwest. Today’s dateline is Wyoming, and the only thing I see outside my window is a breathtaking view of Grand Teton. Tomorrow I get to see just exactly how much faith I should really put into Old Faithful.

GK Chesterton once wrote, “The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.”

That’s certainly true. I’ve been getting to check off many “bucket list” places in the States, like the seeing the Grand Canyon, sledding down White Sands National Monument, living like a local in New Orleans for a couple of weeks, seeing the synchronized fireflies in the Smokies, living literally on the beach, living literally on lakeshores, and now living literally with the Grand Teton National Park in my backyard.

But wait, there’s more!

America really is beautiful, although now that I’ve driven through Wyoming I feel like I’ve seen just about enough of the amber waves of grain, thanks. And cows. As someone who doesn’t eat or drink any cow products, I have a hard time grasping exactly how huge that industry is. So much of the land I pass is pasture.

As for Americans, well, I’m still trying to reacclimate. As I travel around, I am meeting many different kinds of people. Some are kind, and some are struggling. I do my best to offer peace and compassion to those around me. 

To that end, I very much appreciate being able to speak the language. Although I did enjoy speaking English in New Zealand, India and Australia, most of 2016 through 2019 involved a language barrier. Being able to make the barista laugh while she’s serving me a coffee goes a long way.

And the road (in this case, the famous “Forest Gump” road in Monument Valley) goes on forever ….

Speaking of going a long way, that’s the plan. It will take about another year and a half for my Italian citizenship to be processed, as is the bureaucracy and not to mention the whole, you know, world shutting down. I will see as much of the States as the Shanti Shack allows me, and I look forward to driving through Canada to Alaska, whenever the Canadian government will have me. 

In the meantime, I’ll do my best to update this blog at least monthly again. I also write on Medium, if you didn’t know, and post pictures of my travels on my Instagram, which you’re welcome to follow at @suzannewentley. A lot is happening … in fact, it’s all happening!

Endemic to Earth

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When I was a little girl, I didn’t have pictures of teenage heart throbs on my bedroom wall. I had a poster of the entire Earth, real photographs stitched together on cloudless days as seen from space. I didn’t play with dolls, really. I had endless make-believe adventures, which often involved me wearing a bathing suit and feeling the wind in my hair. My imaginary friend even moved away to the tropics when I was 6 or so.

Galapagos land tortoise
A Galápagos giant land tortoise saying, “Hola, yo soy de aquí” … or something like that. I’m no Dr. Doolittle.

So, it’s really no surprise how I turned out.

I’ve been spending my last week in the Galápagos Islands, off the coast of Ecuador, hopping from island to island in search of endemic flora and fauna. These are animals and plants that can only be found in the Galápagos, and usually only on one particular island. I watched an endemic flightless cormorant, with its pathetically small and useless wings, catch a fish as big as its body and, with a little effort, swallow it whole. I saw two juvenile giant Galápagos tortoises fighting over a branch of a snack, one gumming the other on the neck in a jealous show of slow-motion aggression. I swam past a Galápagos sea eel, sticking its little head up from a hole made at the bottom of the sandy ocean. I watched two Galápagos penguins, relaxing on a rock not so far from frolicking Galápagos fur seals. 

I wouldn’t have been able to see these creatures anywhere else in the world. It made me think about how different that is from me. These days, I can be found most anywhere in the world.

I know how incredibly different that is from most people I meet. The vast majority of the people in the world – including, likely, you, dear reader – has grown up in a section of Earth and then either decided to live out their days in that same location or, maybe, moved one or two other places. My father, for example, was born in the same small town in Pennsylvania where I was born. Outside of his university days and a stint in the Army, he’s lived all his days in that same small town. Chances are (and hopefully not anytime soon), he’ll die in that same town. He’s endemic, really. He may take short trips to tropical resorts to sun himself by various pools, but he returns happily to his home.

marine iguanas
Marine iguanas, also found only in the Galápagos. They’re everywhere and could care less about you, really. But they’re so cute munching on algae under water!

The fur seal, giant land tortoise, flightless cormorants and the rest of the fascinating wildlife I’ve seen on this beautiful archipelago recently all know their home. My dad knows his home. Most people know where home is. Me, not so much.

I have plenty of friends who wonder when I’m “coming home.” People in Florida wonder when I’m coming home. People in the Caribbean wonder when I’m coming home. People in Pennsylvania wonder when I’m coming home. In fact, I even have friends in Malaysia, Bali, India, and now even Ecuador who wonder when I am returning back to the spot where, they believe, I belong. It’s a wonderful feeling, but it’s confusing, too.

I’ve taken to creating a little mantra for myself. I’m a yoga teacher, so I say that I’m always hOMe. That is, my home rests in my heart, and in my heart is the peace of my highest self. But that’s a fairly complex reply for the countless times people ask where I’m from.

In fact, that’s often the first question people ask during my last five years of international travels. They’re more interested in my home than my name. They don’t want to know what my favorite food is, how short I wear my fingernails, or whether I enjoy watching scary movies. They want their first impression of me to be based on where I call home. 

blue footed booby
This blue-footed booby can also be found in Perú and California, so technically not a propos to this blog. But check out those feet!

My reply is usually, “Do you want to know where I was born? Is that what you are asking me?” Because, in reality, I have no home. I am technically homeless, after all, even though I’m writing this from a private hotel room by the water for which I happily paid $30/night. When the kind man who checked me in helped with my bag, I apologized in Spanish that it was so big because it was all I owned. He said, “Ah, es tu casa!”

It’s interesting the number of conversations, then, that I’ve had about the state of Pennsylvania, from which I moved as soon as I could. It’s a pretty place, of course, with roving hills of corn plants and pastureland that I’d pass as I drove with my friends to our favorite hiking trail that led back to a sweet swimming hole in the warm summer months. But Pennsylvania, home of Heinz ketchup, Andy Warhol and the Liberty Bell, is also so cold and dreary in the winters that I distinctly remember understanding the phrase, “chilled to the bone.”

People hear I’m from Pennsylvania and think that’s where I belong, like I’m a lava gull or Galápagos finch. But, of course, I don’t belong just there. Sure, I can fit in by ordering a “lager” (that’s Yuengling Lager, duh) and entertaining the soft, quirky nature that comes from living around both Quakers and Amish. But I can also fit in just fine in Tokyo, New Zealand, New York City, Argentina and Vietnam. I might not look like everyone else (people were certainly confused by me when I lived in Seoul), but I get along well enough to eat, conduct business and do what I generally set out to make of my day. 

sierra negra volcano
Look at me! I’m even at home on top of the second largest volcano crater in the world, the still-active Sierra Negra on Isabela Island

I find it takes me about two weeks to understand a city well enough to feel comfortable, sometimes less depending on the size. Just today, I took a walk around Santa Cruz to check on my SCUBA plans (fingers crossed to see hammerheads and an ocean sunfish, like the divers did there two days ago!), and I didn’t need Google maps even as I explore a nearby neighborhood. I stopped into a store to pick up something I needed, then headed back to the hotel where I had a nice conversation with the manager in my pidgin Spanish. I fit in here, basically. I fit in most everywhere, more or less.

That’s why I think I’m endemic to Earth. It’s a big, beautiful world – and it’s my home.

A Halfway-Decent Proposal

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OK, single ladies – when was the last time a man proposed marriage to you? For some of you beautiful women, it may be never. Well, for me, I’m lucky enough to have it happen twice. The first was when I was 21 and tragically naïve, having no idea what I wanted in the world, who I was going to be and how I was going to get there. The second was just last week by a man who is, by all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.

The romance began with the kind of story you tell your kids. I was traveling in the mountains of Ecuador, to a lovely town called Baños de Aqua Santa. I’m actually living 12 hours by bus away, on the coast, but I had an opportunity to explore for a week. Why Baños? Simply because some dude I never met but matched with on Tinder encouraged me to go. Life’s that simple, really.

La Termas de la Virgen, the nicer of the two hot springs in Baños de Aqua Santa. Also where, evidently, I happened to have been the prettiest and most single on one particular day.

Baños is known for its hot springs (or namesake “baths”) as well as its beautiful Ruta de las Cascadas, which is a road that features waterfall after waterfall. I went to truly scary El Pailon del Diablo. I looked down into the caldron and thought about how easily I could throw myself and/or fall over the rocks to my death below. I mean, it’s South America. There are no guardrails or even signs. It’s like, pay $2 and good luck, gringa.

So, I’m relaxing in one of these hot springs, which is really like a warm, muddy public pool that kids swim around and old people gossip and everyone wears a swimming cap. It’s wonderful, and really hot. I had just hiked to the waterfall, and, even though it was nothing like the hike in Guatemala up the Acatenango Volcano, it was still nice to relax. This, evidently, is when I was spotted.

A man slips in next to me and starts talking. I engage in my pathetic-but-maybe-improving Spanish, but he quickly and thankfully switches to English. He calls himself the luckiest man in the world, because he’s talking to the most beautiful woman in the world. I demure. What a line! I’ll take it.

Of course, we’re in the hottest pool, and you can’t last long. So we part ways, but he tracks me down again to take my picture (this, by the way, is not a thing in the U.S. but it is everywhere else in the world. Once, I was on a beach in India and a man yelled, “Ma’am! Ma’am! PICTURE!” And another time outside an art museum in Tokyo, a woman begged me for a photo. What are they doing with these photos?) He also asked for my Facebook connection. Fine. Whatever.

So, I left and, not surprisingly, the man asked to see me again. It took me a minute to get used to Latin men again, after living in Asia for so long. Latin men are extremely forward. I’ve now had the honor of going on dates with a Peruvian, a Guatemalan, a Spaniard (or two), an Argentine, a Paraguayan, an El Salvadorian and an Ecuadorian. These guys! It’s like they barely know your name, and they’re trying to put their tongues down your throat. 

By the way, now’s the time to mention that I was an All-Conference Second Base-woman on my high school softball team. No, really!

Baños really is a romantic town.

But I digress. It’s one thing to be super-sexual. Any guy will try that if it’s the cultural norm. It’s another thing to propose marriage. The man from the hot springs begs to see me again. I finally told him that I was heading to a café to work; he was welcome to join me for a tea. Well, he gets my note, tells his employees to take the afternoon off and gets on the first bus to Baños. Turns out he lives 1.5 hours away. He arrives sweating. He literally ran to meet me. 

After a nice tea, we take a short walk around town. We stop at a park. He tells me that God has sent me to him. He tells me he wants to build us a house – not a big house, but the most beautiful house. He wants to marry me. He wants to take care of me – forever.

I, of course, am dumb-founded. Like I said, it’s not like guys are proposing to me every day. They’re usually just trying to bed me. This guy is trying to bed me for the rest of my life! Now, that’s some cojones.

I strive to be impeccable with my words, so I tell him that I would need a lot of time to think about this and that I needed to get to know him better. We part – did I mention he gifted me a huge bag of fruit? – and I enjoy the remainder of my time exploring beautiful Baños before returning to the coast. I tell my friend about the proposal. This old girl’s still got it! 

Not surprisingly, he wants to see me again. He asks to meet me on the coast. Not having any plans, I agree in the evening. He immediately takes the next 12-hour bus and arrives to meet me at 8 a.m. He suggests a trip to the next town, which turns out to be pretty groovy. We walk around Montañita, have some food, check out a statue of the Virgin Mary that witnesses say cries tears and, creepily, blood. We walk along the beach when he stops me and proposes marriage again, this time directly. He’s lovely. He proclaims his love to me. But I’m not going to say yes. This old girl’s no fool.

After he washes the sand from my feet – yes, you read that right – we return to my town. We part ways, with him telling me he loves me as the taxi drops me off and he returns to his town on yet another 12-hour bus. I’m, again, dumb-founded. My friends think I’m crazy to even consider this. But I do. Do I want children? Do I want a family? Is it now or never?  Would I want to live in a small mountain town in Ecuador and make tortillas? I start imaging wearing an awesome felt hat. Who am I?

Can you see this lady’s hat on the bus? Ecuadorians win for having the coolest hats, with feathers and everything.

Then something interesting happens. He starts posting things on his Facebook page. The first day, he posts a picture of a sexy woman clad in a Corona bathing suit next to a bigger woman in a Corona Extra suit (Ha ha! That big woman ought to be ashamed!). The next day, he posts a picture of him and some woman dressed as a stripper on the side of the road (he was wearing a down jacket – she looked cold and uncomfortable). Then, the following day, he posts a video of some half-naked woman playing the piano. I, not surprisingly to anyone who actually knows me, am repulsed. I’ve seen this behavior before, and I don’t like it.

See, I was triggered. I’ve known so many men who believe the value of a woman is in her shape. It’s normal and fine, isn’t it? Well, I’m here to tell you: It’s not. Just because some women believe that their value is only in their looks doesn’t make it OK. Just because you don’t sleep around also doesn’t make it OK. Just because men are “visual creatures” doesn’t make it OK. I had a boyfriend like this once. He was addicted to looking at women on the internet and porn. He was really pathetic, liking all the pictures of my pretty friends while getting his rocks off in the other room. I kicked him out of my house.

Did this guy have any idea what kind of powerful feminist he was trying to tame? If a man can’t control himself enough to appreciate physical beauty and move on, he’s not man enough for me. The sad thing is, it really isn’t that hard. I told him it was a deal-breaker. He apologized.

The proposal remains on the table. He is a kind man, but is he my kind of man? At least I know I still got it ….