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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.

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.

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. 

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.

“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!

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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.