Sometimes We Need to Seek Less to Have More
I sat in the backyard of a million dollar home, overlooking the vibrant hills of San Juan Capistrano, California. Spring was pulsing with life and color this year. Green hills were contrasted by bright yellow mustard, in what must have been the plant’s most glorious year to date.
The backyard of the million dollar home belonged to two people who hired me to take care of their sweet dog. They were in Hawaii, while Jackson and I enjoyed our little corner of paradise. As Jackson napped inside, I did some yoga in the sun. After finishing my stretches, I sat and stared at the hills. A thought crossed my mind: “I spend most nights in a month staying in someone else’s home, at this point. Why am I paying rent?”
Six months prior to this thought, I had started a sort of small business venture. I began walking and sitting dogs. Walking dogs was the only thing, besides walking through redwoods, I wanted to do when I returned home from my three year stay in South Sudan. I didn’t understand this desire at the time, but within a few months of starting my business, I felt the mystery unraveling. I took my business seriously, though I could rarely believe people were giving me money in exchange for loving their dogs. On some level, I knew it was a sacred calling.
The thought I had about not paying rent that day was sacred, too. I’ve been prone to think myself insane more than once. And this could have been one of those times, if I hadn’t come to love this particular quirk about myself already. Though I did double check with a couple people close to me, just in case. They confirmed. I was me, not insane.
As I stared at the hills and let the thought develop, it dawned on me that as soon as I bought a car, I could sleep in it on the nights I wasn’t dogsitting. I could save the money I’d been spending on rent, for an upcoming move. It would be summer in Southern California. Perfect weather. And I could finally go on that adventure I’d been thinking of since Philadelphia.
Quirk revealed: I am prone to risk-taking and adventure-seeking. I had been thinking of being homeless since I studied Applied Research & Evaluation in grad school. At the time, I was interested in getting a better idea of what it’s like to be homeless, and in demonstrating an act of solidarity with the poor.
Those familiar thoughts of insanity crept in then, too. Why couldn’t my ideas to help be tamer? My heart swelled for those less fortunate, and I wanted to do something to help. But why did I always need to be so close to the issue?
Sharing the homeless struggle was one of many ways I thought of helping the poor. Another, was to return to Africa and work for peace and development, which is what I did immediately after my schooling. I’d long had a date to return to Africa, and had found a job that seemed perfect for me.
After my big attempt to help in South Sudan, which lasted three years, I returned home to the United States. I took several months off to rest, visit family and friends, and try to figure out next steps. Then I moved back to southern Orange County, where I had lived before I left California, eight years prior. Though I thought I’d never return, and never really wanted to, it was the place that made the most sense for me to live, at the time.
Juba, South Sudan and Orange County, California are, at once, drastically different and surprisingly the same. On the surface, they are like different planets. One rich with red desert earth, mango trees, murky river water, and monkeys. The other — sparkling ocean water, palm trees, asphalt roads, and domesticated dogs. One, filled with mostly black people. The other, mostly white.
Beneath the surface, they share certain struggles in common. The poverty I witnessed in South Sudan was the kind we see in the media. Many people didn’t have the kind of money some do in the US. They didn’t have as many material goods. They didn’t have air-conditioning. They didn’t have access to reliable electricity. Of course, this wasn’t true of everyone. Some had more material wealth than others, like anywhere.
The poverty I found when I returned to Orange County was different. This is the type of poverty Mother Teresa would call poverty of the spirit. So much striving and posturing and suppressed sadness. And loneliness. The sciences and media are getting better about researching and covering this kind of poverty. Public figures are being more vulnerable about this kind of struggle, too. Again, in Orange County, some had more spiritual wealth than others, like anywhere.
I needed to go back to Orange County. I can see that now. I was angry to be there for a while. Angry at everything. How could so many people walk on such a beautiful trail right next to the ocean, and never make eye contact with, or smile at another human walking by? How could people spend so much time and energy slaving away at a job to pay for a home they were rarely able to enjoy? How could people be so starving for real connection yet continue to chase after more expensive cars or vacations or the latest trend in plastic surgery?
Over time, I felt the struggle. It was a familiar feeling, one I’d had when I lived there before. It was the worst kind of full circle.
After two years of working hard to dig myself out of depression and a deeply traumatized state, I could no longer continue to engage in life as many knew it. I was through the worst of my pain, but loneliness had done its work on me. I had a small number of close, satisfying friendships, but I still felt socially isolated after all that time. This was partly because I could not surrender to the demands of the Orange County machine.
I was coming back to life as joy was steadily being returned to me, but I was still tired. I felt defeated. I reckoned I had strength for one last adventure. Opting to live off the grid, right in the heart of the grid, was the best way I could think of to peacefully protest. It was the best way I could think of to honor whatever mysterious, spiritual path I had been going down. Crazy or not, I knew I would do it.
“Protest that endures, I think, is moved by a hope far more modest than that of public success: namely, the hope of preserving qualities in one’s own heart and spirit that would be destroyed by acquiescence.” ~Wendell Berry
The adventure lasted three months. I spent 27 nights, total, sleeping in Gypsy — my deep black pearl, six-speed manual transmission, 2019 Volkswagen Golf Sportwagen.
When I went shopping for a vehicle, the car salesman, a friend of a friend, looked at me with a curious smile as we stood at the back of the car. He lifted the door and showed me how to disassemble the trunk cover, lower the back seats, and turn the back of the station wagon into a bed. “This is Southern California,” he said. “Everyone wants a car that doubles as a bed,” his reason for smiling revealed. I laughed as I wondered if he knew. Then I realized he must have been referring to the surfers and beach bums who camped at Old Man’s and Doheny all year ‘round.
Gypsy was perfect in every way, and not just because of the bed. As soon as I started the test drive, I felt as if the car was made specifically for me. I could see us having a long-term relationship filled with many more adventures, post-homelessness.
Once the sale was final, I sent a photograph of me standing with Gypsy to the two people who had confirmed I wasn’t insane, and they congratulated me, in various degrees of eloquence. Then, I showed my new home to a few close friends. The adventure had begun.
The initial excitement faded, as it does, and my tiredness compounded as time went on. Reality had its way with me. Even in a car so beloved and so very mine, three months ended up feeling like a long, long time. Even so, in many ways, those three months were the best months of my time living in Orange County. Sometimes we need to seek less to have more.
Some nights were made relatively easier by a friend who insisted I park in front of her house. Her kindness, gentleness, and humor were three of the gifts I received as I embarked on my adventure. One of few friends I told about my plans, she offered to help in any way she could.
She kept insisting I come sleep inside her home, but I kept reminding her I was doing what I was doing for a reason. She understood, because she had known me longer than a decade at that point, and she had watched me live my life the way I had.
Still, she kept doing her best to protect me. She warned me of roaming coyotes one night. As we stood behind Gypsy and talked about eye shadow on a different evening, we spotted two coyotes roaming the street, and disappear into someone’s backyard. Minutes later, I crawled into the car and prepared for sleep.
After the first night sleeping in her driveway, she ordered a back-of-the-car sized air mattress. She was familiar with vehicle camping and knew just the thing I needed. She later went on to gift me melatonin, make-up tutorials, and even some weed chocolate on a few occasions toward the end. I told her about the dreams I was having.
The first dream I had was on the first night. I parked in some neighborhood in Dana Point, behind a big work truck. In my dream, the man who owned the truck was watching me sleep through the windshield. After I woke up and remembered the dream, I wondered if it was a dream at all. I hopped up quickly, moved to the front seat, started the car and drove away. I didn’t even wait for the engine to warm up.
In another dream, I had to outwit a man who was interested in having sex with me, after breaking into my car. A different night, I woke up to the sound of a car door closing, then looked up and saw a car that was parked behind me, drive away. I can’t be sure if that person saw me or not. To my knowledge, nobody ever did. But I’ll never know what went on during times when I was able to sleep, deeply.
I spent maybe half the time, total, sleeping in my friend’s driveway. I generally felt more comfortable and able to relax there, but even some of those nights proved to be interesting. The rest of the nights, I spent sleeping in a few different spots I found, in the neighborhood I’d just moved out of.
I spent several nights in the beginning — after that first night when I had the dream — cruising slowly along neighborhood streets. My eyes were tuning into which spaces seemed obscure enough. I was looking for spots where streetlights weren’t beaming. Spots where homes were surrounded by high, cement walls with vines growing on them.
It was harder to sleep when I parked at my secret spots, even though the ones I found were ideal. They were dark, next to tall walls, and between other vehicles which seemed to belong — giving Gypsy the same air of belonging. But I still struggled with anxiety and sleeping well. The adventure began at the end of June and by the end of August, sleep disturbance was in full-effect.
One night in late August, I parked at one of my secret spots. I set my alarm for 5:33am, peed in my sweet tea cup, and went to sleep around 10:30pm. I labeled the alarm “Do not drink the tea!”. I woke up maybe three times throughout the night, looked at the clock and thought, can it just be morning already? I’d never wanted to be done sleeping, or for the night to be over with, so badly.
I woke up again before my alarm was set to go off and lay there, defeated. This life isn’t for me, I thought. I got up and moved to the driver’s seat. I checked some things on my phone, put some deodorant on, and drove to CVS. I stayed in the car for a bit, checking some things on my phone for a little while, then went inside to use the bathroom and brush my teeth.
Then I drove to a coffee shop in San Clemente. I sat in my car for maybe an hour as I watched several people go in and out of the café. They were all dressed so nicely, smiling, bright-eyed. I couldn’t bring myself to mix with them in the state I was in. Finally, after watching the bright-eyed people leave, I went inside and ordered an oat milk latté. I sat there, surrounded by women, good music, and the smell of coffee. I was exhausted.
In my exhaustion and increasing delirium, I was picking up some new skills. How to drive and brush my teeth at the same time, being one. I also improved my ability to change clothes in the driver’s seat of a car. I learned how to put baby wipes to good use, and I became very skilled at controlling my bladder.
Every night I slept in Gypsy, I would wait until a certain time go use a public restroom before parking the car for the night. There were only a few occasions when I had to pee again before going to sleep, during which times I peed in a cup — or in my friend’s toilet, depending on where I parked.
Every morning, I was amazed by how long I could actually wait to use the restroom. Some mornings, I wanted to lay around longer, especially the more tired I got towards the end. I spent a lot of time at coffee shops in the mornings. I would use their restrooms — often times I would brush my teeth and wash my face in their sinks. Then I would drink some coffee, and do some writing.
I also took the opportunities some mornings to go to the beach. One morning in the beginning, I woke up before 5am, drove to the end of a street I used to live on called Mariposa, parked, and walked to the San Clemente pier. I brushed my teeth and used the bathroom in the public restroom on the beach, then kept walking.
As I looked down at the rocks and shells and seaweed on the sand, I found some sunglasses. I had regretted not bringing my own that morning, so I picked up the John Lennon glasses and put them on. I sat under the pier for a while and watched the waves roll in. I was tired and my stomach felt extra empty, but I felt good. Alive. I was grateful to be able to witness such a beautiful morning.
Then there was the question of what to do with myself during the day, when I wasn’t working. I spent many afternoons parked on Pacific Coast Highway in Capistrano Beach. With the ocean just on the other side of the railroad tracks, it was one of the best places I’ve ever found to rest. I would use that time to talk with friends and family, or nap. Some evenings, I would walk across the tracks and watch the sunset.
“I’ve opened my mind now, come on, set me free” ~Rudimental
Living this way may have been odd. It certainly made me feel insecure and like an extra strange bird, on plenty of occasions.
By the end, I was just starting to understand what it feels like to be homeless. I recognize that my version of it was not exactly realistic. I still had some form of shelter — a vehicle to sleep in. I realize some people might read this and get angry with me for comparing my experience with homelessness. I won’t try to change minds or defend myself. I know my heart, and that’s what matters.
I will say, I paid even more attention to other homeless people around me, than I ever had before. I found it much easier to communicate with them, too. I have long wondered how to treat homeless people with respect and dignity, in the best ways possible. I continue to wonder and learn.
But with the tiredness and the psychological stress, I do believe I got a little taste of what it’s like to live on the streets. I was constantly worried about being seen and judged. In the beginning, I was hyperaware of where I took care of my hygiene, but by the end, I was content to brush my teeth and change clothes and wipe myself off, anywhere.
I started feeling like a menace, like an outcast, just because I wasn’t fitting into a box. I started thinking there was something wrong with me, even more so, because I lacked the desire to own a home. I started to question my worth and sanity because I truly felt like what I was doing was sacred.
With all the stress and exhaustion and real or imagined judgment, what I gained from the experience was far greater.
I leaned into friends and family in ways I normally hadn’t, and they embraced me fully and warmly. I experienced more social connection, even though I was doing something outside of social norms.
I also connected better to myself and my surroundings and my creativity. I spent a lot of time wondering at nature and music. I listened to myself better, and wrote about things I really cared about.
During a time when maybe I should have felt awful, I found myself glowing. I lit up at the opportunity to learn more about eye make-up from my friend with the driveway. I finally listened to my desire to dye my hair turquoise.
Seeking less gave me so much more than I could have ever imagined. Now I know I don’t need to be homeless to live a rich life. I just need to keep listening to myself, and letting my quirks be ok.
Living simply, not desiring a lot of material things, not needing to own a home in the traditional sense — none of these things make me strange or bad. They just make me, me.
A woman who has traveled the world and seen a lot of things and paid attention to the human experience. A woman who wants to drink life in fully, and deeply, and never stop being curious or full of wonder.
A strange bird, maybe, but one who knows how to fall in love with her life, and keep dancing, no matter what comes.
