When I began, I told everyone it would be for a year. I believed that at the time, but I now realize it was a safety net I’d created. An out. An exit strategy. It was a fear tactic I’d put in place in case I got on the road and decided it wasn’t for me — a way to exit gracefully without feeling like a failure.

It turns out I didn’t need an exit plan at all. Instead, I jumped head-first into a way of life that feels completely natural, and now I can’t imagine living any other way. Sure, there have been some not-so-great moments, but no way of living is easy sailing 100% of the time.

Shedding Skins

As cliché as it is, I have learned – and continue to learn – so much about myself and have grown exponentially in unexpected ways. Though I lived alone for years before this venture, van life stripped away distractions that kept me living life at surface level. Long drives, no phone signal, and meandering walks all provided the perfect opportunity to look inward – whether I wanted to or not.

I poked and prodded at storylines that played on a loop in my subconscious since childhood. Stories I’d attached to my identity and therefore always believed to be true until I began to look at and question them. I unearthed so many deep-seated fears, insecurities, and false beliefs along the way, it felt like I shed skins as I snaked across the American West. Shedding toughness, peeling layers down to the vulnerable stuff, and blinking off eyelids for a new way of seeing.

Change of Pace

This lifestyle taught me to slow down and move more intentionally through life.

During the first two years, I avoided major highways and Interstates as often as possible, opting instead to travel along remote back roads. Eager to explore new landscapes, visit National Parks, and fully embrace the nomadic lifestyle, I changed camps every 1-14 days. Some areas warranted daily moves, and others welcomed a full two weeks, but my average was three nights before moving again.

This past year, I slowed down even more. I now stay in one place for longer periods – months, rather than days. This not only helps keep costs down, but allows more time for creative endeavors.

Alone But Not Alone

My belief that people are inherently good has been proven on numerous occasions by friendly people I meet along the way. While most interactions are short, the kindness of basic human connections remains with me.

Living alone in the van can get lonely, even for someone like me who is perfectly content with my own company. There’s no shame in loneliness, it’s an emotion everyone feels. I learned to not let it consume me by reminding myself that while I may be technically alone, I know I’m not really alone. I have all of you out there supporting me, commenting on my posts, and reaching out via text, social media, or phone. Words can’t express the gratitude I feel for the community of people who I know are on this journey with me.

Get By With A Little Help From New Friends

Another new experience this past year was visiting and staying with friends and family along the way, as well as traveling with new friends. Staying as a guest in the home of someone you know is one thing – spending weeks camping in the wilderness with a new acquaintance is a fast track to deep friendship.

Sometimes I meet people while walking through a forest, other times it’s in a parking lot where a quick conversation turns into a deeper connection.

Meeting kindred spirits is like finding members of a tribe you didn’t realize you belonged to. It’s marvelous to encounter people who share my love of the nomad lifestyle and with whom I can talk about the odd, sometimes embarrassing, or weird idiosyncrasies that are a result of living in a tiny and mobile space. I’m grateful this new network of friends continues to grow.

• You’re going to bump your head. A lot.
• Hide a spare key somewhere externally on your van. You’ll use it more often than you think.
• Whatever you do, do NOT “drive as fast as you can” over washboard dirt roads, no matter how many people suggest it. That might be fine for other vehicles, but in a van, it results in everything shimmying out of place, bouncing off the floor, nails wriggling loose, teeth rattling, and quite possibly the tightest death grip on the steering wheel possible.
• There’s no right or wrong way to live in a vehicle, nor is there a right or wrong vehicle to live in.
• It’s not always fun, but the good days outweigh the bad.
• Not everyone will understand your lifestyle. Some will mistake you for being homeless, and many will blatantly accuse you of “milking the system” or receiving some sort of Government subsidy. I’ve learned to just ignore this.

 

• Traveling with a dog means 98% of your decisions will be based on their needs instead of your own, and a dog will limit your ability to do some things, but having a dog on the road is 110% worth the emotional companionship.
• If you have a dog, buy a “spill-proof” water bowl – because even that will get kicked, stepped in, and turned over at some point.
• There will always be dust in your van, even two minutes after you’ve OCD-cleaned it.
• It’s amazing how quickly you get used to not showering frequently.
• The same goes for laundry.
• You can still cook gourmet meals on a two-burner propane stove.
• You’ll be able to spot a fellow nomad from a mile away, and chances are they’re just as eager yet apprehensive to talk to you as you are to meet them.
• Living in a van is still living, not a permanent vacation.

• Dog parks are a great place to meet people, get tips on the local community, and offer a quick dip into civilization after you’ve been camped alone in the wilderness.
• Always trust your gut and don’t park or go anywhere you don’t feel safe.
• Keep track of where you’ve camped. (I save pins on Google maps) You may want to return to a site, or more often than not, you’ll be able to share campsites with new nomad friends you meet along the way.
• Open the toilet flange BEFORE you open the lid (just trust me on this one).

• You will experience every type of weather imaginable.
• Find a campsite before nightfall.
• Get used to seeing unburied human poop everywhere (I know, it’s gross, but that’s the reality).
• Don’t always trust Google maps.
• When in doubt about a road, back up and turn around while you still can.
• Keep a journal. You think you’ll remember everything without logging it somewhere, but trust me, you won’t.
• You need far less than you think you do. You’ll quickly find you need fewer clothes, shoes, cooking utensils, and less than just about everything.

• You can do it! If you want to live in a van or any vehicle for any span of time, you CAN do it.
• Don’t let fear of the unknown hold you back. Take the first step, whether it’s a giant leap or a tiny shuffle forward, you got this, and I promise you won’t regret it.
• Most importantly, have fun! Take time to enjoy everything around you. I guarantee you’ll be delighted by the unexpected.

1. How long did it take to adjust to a new lifestyle and become relaxed about it giving up all the luxury?

Starting out, it took about three months for my mind to switch out of “task-list” mode. I’d been so focused on work and building the van, when I was finally on the road, that sense of needing to be doing something all the time continued to nag me. Thankfully that eventually wore off. I’d say, overall, it was probably around the six-month mark when I realized I’d relaxed into the lifestyle and grown accustomed to this new way of life.

As for “giving up all the luxury,” I think that hit before I even moved into the van. I purged all my belongings, gave everything away to friends or thrift stores, and unburdened myself of possessions I’d accumulated over the years. A few months after being in the van, I remember thinking about kitchen appliances I’d once spent weeks contemplating, saving money for, and weighing whether the high price tag was worth the investment, only to hand them over to a thrift store without any thought.

Now, “luxury” is a flushing toilet or hot shower.

2. What is the prep like before you actually get to hit the road?

I feel like the answer to this is probably different for everyone. It’s easy to fall into the endless rabbit hole of blogs and videos by other people who have done this and shared their techniques. I too was deep in the overwhelming ocean of information before I even began to renovate the van.

Like most things, the more information you consume, the more overwhelming it feels, so my advice is this: just do it. Don’t overthink it. Throw some essentials together and take the leap. I promise you won’t regret it, just don’t let the first few bumps in the road knock you down.

Don’t try to make your first build the perfect setup. I’ve met people living in all sorts of vehicles, from giant tricked-out RVs to compact cars, to nearly empty cargo vans. You don’t need fancy things or to have everything look as polished as what you see on Instagram. Find what works for you, and go with that. One thing I can guarantee is that once you get on the road, you’ll realize you don’t actually need half the things you brought, and you’ll continue to tinker with your setup until it feels perfect for you.

3. Do you wake up with the sun vs set a time?

Living in a van has taught me how to live a life unencumbered by the time on a clock. At some point along the way, my body slid into a natural circadian rhythm. It’s especially evident when I’m parked in the middle of nowhere. I wake before dawn and go to bed early. I eat when I’m hungry rather than by the time on a clock. I typically have no idea what day of the week it is, but I’ve fallen in sync with a more natural cadence of life.

4. How do you cope with moist weather? (could be tricky for both sleeping and painting)

Moisture is one of the biggest nightmares for van dwellers. Winter nights are the worst, waking to windows covered with heavy condensation. I generally try to avoid such circumstances by driving to a warmer climate, but that isn’t always an option. I sleep with the roof fan open to allow fresh (sometimes freezing) air to flow in, and when possible, will do my best to air out the van during the day.

When I traveled through Pacific Northwest, I spent a lot of time in damp rainforests. The humidity was thick, but again, I tried to keep the van open enough to provide plenty of ventilation. I have an anti-condensation mat under my mattress to allow airflow, as well as holes drilled into the bed platform to prevent mold. I also keep a bucket of DampRid under my sink and will place it in a more prominent location when I need to draw moisture from the air.

As for painting, I feel as if I’m in a constant wrestling match between paints and the weather. Paints are finicky, regardless of if I’m using oils or acrylics. I have drawers under my bed to store wet paintings so when I am in a damp environment, I don’t have to worry about paint drying before I can pack things away, but even that can be frustrating at times.

The post What I’ve Learned from Three Years In A Van first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

When I first began traveling, I told myself each year would be different. I would travel new roads, venture to new towns, and see sights I hadn’t seen before. While there were certain areas that drew me back for a second meeting, I mostly stayed true to my original idea, which had me zig-zagging all across the American West.

The post A Change of Pace first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

I recently acquired a mountain bike and it has introduced me to so many unexpected delights.

The bike belonged to the daughter of the family I pet-sat for in Breckenridge, CO, and while she had outgrown it, the bike perfectly fits my small frame. It’s an older Santa Cruz Juliana with a full suspension – a term I’d never uttered about a bike before this one entered my life. Having been riding it for a while now, I sure am grateful for the extra cushion the full suspension provides.

Serendipity seemed to be the theme of my three-month stint in Breckenridge, and this bike entered my life at exactly the right time. It became my only mode of transportation for the two weeks my van was in the shop for repairs, allowing further exploration along mountain roads and travel into town for groceries, library visits, and more.

Riding along mountain roads allowed me to lay a foundation of endurance and  take the time to familiarize myself with the gears, brakes, and nuances of the bike while building my biking confidence. I’m still very much in beginner mode, but I’m proud of myself for pushing beyond my usual comfort levels.

When we woke to snow in Breckenridge, it was time to head toward warmer weather, and I traveled with a new van friend to Moab, UT. Moab is an amazing place to explore by any means and is notorious for mountain biking. Throw a stone, and you’ll hit a trail, all of which vary wildly from easy, flat terrain to treacherous, rocky climbs. Thankfully, most are clearly labeled.

We took the bikes out for a seven-mile ride the first day we arrived. It was my first time riding an “official” mountain biking trail. My first time traversing rocky inclines, riding across vast expanses of bumpy sandstone, and speeding downhill while navigating sharp turns. I surprised even myself by not tipping over once, though my shins have a few more bruises and cuts from the spiked pedals.

Three female mountain bikers passed by while we were stopped to let the dogs drink from a pool. I caught myself doing what I always do: comparing myself to others, and always coming up short. In that brief moment, I watched the women ride by and told myself they were better than I, a mere novice.

This type of thinking has always been my knee-jerk response, always comparing and always coming up short to who or whatever I’m comparing myself to. However, this time, despite slipping into that old habit of thought for a few moments, I quickly snapped out of it. Sure, those women may be better than me, and that’s fine, but it could’ve been their very first mountain bike ride, too. I reminded myself that I was on the same trail as them, was also on a mountain bike, and had only stopped to let the dogs drink, not because I couldn’t physically go any further. My friend graciously reminded me that the trail had a medium/hard difficulty rating, going on to reassure me I’d “crushed it,” despite being my very first time riding a technical trail. Proof once again that my fears and insecurities exist only within my mind.

Since then, we’ve ridden several trails of varying difficulty, all usually 10 – 14 miles in length. Every ride fills me with pride, confidence, and a tranquil mind.

I’m grateful to have a friend as my tour guide and mentor. Someone not only familiar with biking to share tips and experience but also well-acquainted with the terrain and trails in Moab. I follow his lead along dusty paths and use his tracks as my compass. Sometimes, though, his tracks take a route far too daunting for me, and I’m forced to find my own path. It’s such an obvious metaphor, but one I ruminate on as we ride.

A New Form of Meditation

I tend to be a perfectionist. If I start something new, I get frustrated when I don’t immediately master it. Mountain biking has forced me to let go of that notion. I’m forced to be a beginner, which raises several other lessons in my mind. While it’s easy to follow someone else’s path, eventually, we all have to choose our own routes – not just in biking, but in life. We see what others are doing and want to do that too, but we all arrive at the endpoint via our own, often zig-zagged route.

I can listen to advice from others, learn from their experiences, read multiple books on the subject, and do all the research in the world, but until I do it myself, I’ll never know what works best for me. It’s a bad habit of mine, researching something to death, reading so many books, articles, and blogs, or talking to countless people about it that I never actually do anything to get myself any closer to whatever it is I’m hoping to accomplish. I’m fully aware it’s an act of avoidance. Fear creeps in and I think, “If I just read one more article, or can grasp one more concept, then I’ll be ready (maybe).”

Mountain biking proves that sometimes you just have to jump into the abyss. You have to zoom down a rocky trail and push through that fear of falling off the side of a cliff (literally, in this case). You also have to let go of your ego.

Perfectionism gets pushed aside when I hit a section I don’t yet have the technical abilities to traverse. Instead of forcing my way through, or chastising myself as a failure, I laugh, dismount without any ounce of shame, and walk the bike until I reach a part of the trail I feel comfortable with. Then I keep moving on.

In those moments, my inner critic gets silenced, and that is wonderful.

The pride, exhilaration, and sense of accomplishment I feel when finishing a ride far outweigh any doubts or anxieties that cross my mind. Proof that when I stop allowing fear to creep in and stifle me, I can accomplish great feats. Feats that didn’t even exist as a notion in my life a short six months ago.

The concept ties directly back to a Mary Oliver quote I have taped up inside my van, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.” I never imagined I’d spend three months in one place. I never imagined I’d acquire a mountain bike that would push my limits both physically and mentally. I never imagined meeting new friends who would become mentors and travel companions. Happenstance has changed my plans so many times, and my heart is filled with gratitude. As the title of this post states, if it doesn’t challenge you, it doesn’t change you. Vanlife has been full of challenges that have changed me in so many positive ways and pushed me to grow in ways I never envisioned.

I can’t wait to see where this little bike will take me next.

The post If It Doesn’t Challenge You, It Doesn’t Change You first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

The post INTERVIEW: What An Honor to Be A “Van Life Inspiration” first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

The van recently underwent renovations to transform into a mobile art studio.

I wanted to make things more easily accessible so I would be inclined to maintain a regular routine of doing something creative every day.

If it’s not convenient, as it wasn’t before, I won’t do it. Simple as that.

Previously, I had to dig through cabinets and move things this way and that to get to a box of art supplies, and that was just a small part of the process. It took half an hour to get everything pulled out and set up to paint, and more often than not, ten minutes later, the weather would shift, or something else would intervene to thwart my creative time. Now everything is easily within arm’s reach, so I’ve got no excuses.

I was able to spend the holidays with my parents last year, so I took advantage of having access to Dad’s tools, as well as his help. Everything was built using wood and supplies he already had, so I was lucky to have little to no expenses, other than other upgrades I’ll talk about in a moment.

Video Tours

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A post shared by Lisa Bussett | Artist | Vanlife (@lisabussett)

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A post shared by Lisa Bussett | Artist | Vanlife (@lisabussett)

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A post shared by Lisa Bussett | Artist | Vanlife (@lisabussett)

We raised the bed about five inches, allowing maximum storage underneath while still being able to sit in bed without my head touching the ceiling. Inside the van, I created a storage cubby over the toilet to house various art supplies such as watercolors, pens, pencils, paintbrushes, and a large assortment of papers to work on. I also added a new slide-out table that stows away under the bed. Now it’s easy to access materials, slide the table out, and immediately get to work, even if it’s raining. I absolutely love the addition of the table. Before, I used a little folding table I had to pull out and assemble before each use. The new table is so much easier and more convenient, which is why it gets used far more often than I’d imagined.

On nice days, I set up a 4’ plastic folding table outside. It’s the perfect-sized workspace that allows plenty of elbow room without feeling cramped. If the sun gets too hot, which happens in the Arizona desert, I pull out the awning and keep working. I had two Ikea folding chairs that I used in my previous home studio, and they somehow survived the mega purge of belongings that occurred when I moved into the van. I’d forgotten about them until I saw them at my parents’ house and was thrilled to be reunited. Even more exciting was discovering I could fit a chair at the back of the van, so I would always have good seating for my outdoor workspace. It was an unplanned addition to the van that works perfectly and even fits into the color scheme. Being comfortable while I work is right up there with everything being easily accessible – it’s more inviting and allows me to focus on creating.

The under-bed storage area at the back of the van got a complete overhaul. The goal was to create space to store wet paintings. Painting with oils means slow dry times, so I needed storage to keep everything in place while driving (bouncing) along bumpy forest roads. We were able to accomplish exactly that, and even with everything in place now, I still have extra space left unfilled.

I’d found some lightweight metal drawers at a resale shop and bought them before I had any outlines of what the new build would look like. I have no idea what their original purpose was, but I knew the 5”x5” panels I had been painting on would fit into them perfectly, so it was worth the whopping $4 investment. I also found a treasure trove of small art panels at the same store and loaded up with as many as would fit into the van – I also had no idea how much space I’d have when I bought them. I built space for them, though. They too fit in the metal drawers, so it seemed like a win-win. I’m excited to report the drawers work better than I expected, and they don’t even rattle while I drive!  They slide in and out easily, which is great as I can remove the whole drawer and transport paintings to my outdoor setup.

We built two more drawers to fill all the space left behind the toilet and under the metal drawers. These also slide all the way out and offer enough room for larger paintings. Another happy accident was finding a perfect spot to store a small easel, paints, and mineral spirits so everything fits snuggly and securely. The brass drawer pulls, as well as the pull I used on the slide-out table, all came from an antique cabinet in one of Dad’s shops.

We made several other upgrades that aren’t as glamorous as building an art studio, but each contributes to making life in a van just a little more comfortable. I added new LED lights inside that provide SUPER bright light so I can see what I’m working on, no matter what the situation is outside. Thankfully, they’re dimmable. My auxiliary battery power went from one gel battery to two lithium-iron phosphate batteries. That translates to nearly quadrupling my auxiliary power, which is superb! Auxiliary power is fed by the solar panel on the roof, and provides power to the fridge, lights, fan, and allows me to power regular 110v items. I upgraded to an ICECO refrigerator, which I admit was probably an unnecessary upgrade, but has so far been worth every penny. Mom used her sewing skills to alter a couple of my larger curtains. Paco’s food storage got an upgrade to better fit into the new build. I bought an Omnia Oven so I can now bake and roast foods, and got some larger pots so I can make soup during the colder months. Last, but not least, we installed airlifts on the van’s rear suspension to give us a softer ride. Every pebble on the road rattled us like a pothole before, which Paco has very strong feelings about, but now it feels as if we’re driving a whole new van. I highly recommend them to anyone who drives an older vehicle. They were fairly inexpensive, we installed them ourselves (thanks Dad and Dwayne), and the difference is definitely notable.

We’ve only been on the road a short time since finishing the new build, but I have already been cranking away at paintings. I’m re-learning how to be patient with oils, and am playing around with various styles. “Playing” is the key word – it means I’m having fun making art again, and that is essentially what the real goal of remodeling the van was about.

I’ll continue to add works to my shop. If there’s something that catches your eye in any of my photos here, or on social media, by all means, reach out. It’s not often I have a strong wifi signal to upload large photographs of works to online shops, which is why there isn’t a ton available in my shops now, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love for the paintings to find new homes.

Thank you to everyone who follows along with me and supports me on my travels. Know that I am deeply and genuinely grateful for each and every one of you.

The post Building A Mobile Art Studio first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

Painting on the road is quite different from painting in the comforts of a home studio, and I’m still getting used to it. When I set my studio up outside, I have to contend with weather, fluctuating temperatures, and the movement of the sun, and wind, and that’s just a start. There’s also the occasional insect that gets stuck in the wet paint, along with pine needles and other tree debris. Once I had to pack up early due to wildfire ash raining down on everything. It’s all a fun challenge, though.

I’ve been playing around with new styles and painting techniques to create whimsical landscapes and cloudscapes. Much like my former portraits, these new paintings have turned into caricatures of landscapes rather than realistic likenesses.

These new paintings are small, lightweight, easy to hang, easy to mail, and make perfect gifts if you’re looking for something unique for the holidays. You can see some of the recent paintings in the images below, and find paintings currently available to purchase at lisabussett.com/artworks.

Below are some photos to give you an idea of what my outdoor, and indoor studio setups look like.

Let me know what you think!

The post New Paintings Inspired By and Created In Nature first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

The post Vanventures with Lisa Bussett – Part Two first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

My perspectives have drastically shifted since I’ve been on the road. I’ve done a lot of internal work, and processed thoughts, emotions, and memories I’d long deeply buried and forgotten. I’ve heard so many stories of lives cut short by death or drastic accidents. I’ve watched the shadow of regret pass over people’s eyes as they confide they’d always dreamed of doing something similar, but now they feel “stuck” in a life they can’t leave. I’ve met retirees who are finally out traveling after 50+ years in the same job, but now their bodies don’t allow them to go on long hikes or adventures.

Many have commented, “Good for you. You’ve got the rest of your life to work, so enjoy it now while you have your youth.” I have to agree with them. At 42, I don’t feel as youthful as some other van dwellers I’ve met, but I am still able-bodied enough to get out there and explore. Life presented me with this opportunity, and I wasn’t about to let it pass me by.

I’d initially given myself a year, and I think that was probably more of a fear-based projection. An escape hatch in case I failed, or things didn’t turn out the way I thought they would. Turns out, that things haven’t turned out how I expected at all. Every single day far surpasses anything I could have imagined. We’ve traveled to places whose beauty I have no words to describe, and I’m often deeply moved by majestic landscapes and the reverent solitude of nature.

While it’s not all sunshine and rainbows every day, I wouldn’t trade one moment and have zero regrets about having made this leap.

Here’s a map to show which states we’ve visited so far, and a small collection of the 12,000+ photos I’ve taken along the way.

The post Living the Van Life first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

I have a lot of wonderful stories from this year on the road. So much more amazing than I ever could have imagined. I’ll share more insights and photographs of our joyous adventures, but first, I want to reflect on this time last year, when my journey began. 

Those last two weeks in Austin were rough, to say the least. I was so emotionally tapped out I could barely form sentences. It felt like moving through gauzy dreams. I was in the final throes of clearing possessions, finalizing accounts, cramming in last-minute doctor and vet appointments, and preparing my house for its new owner. I’d made plans to see so many friends one last time before leaving, but none of those happened. 

When COVID forced me, along with the rest of the world, to sit in one place for two months in quarantine earlier this year, I decided to process my last morning in Austin. This is what I wrote: 

The day had arrived. The final day in this house. My house. My home for the past eight years. Walls whitewashed and neutralized. All belongings cleared. It was a strange feeling, leaving some things in place. The living and dining rooms were staged for professional photographs. Yellow dining room chairs tucked under a dark wooden table, ready for the next meal. The large denim blue sectional perfectly fluffed and poised for movie night or conversations with friends. The 1979 Zenith console stereo sat silent, ready to purr music through its warm, crackling speakers. A large part of my childhood, it lived in my bedroom where my small body lay atop it, feeling the vibration of music from records spinning beneath me. I was grateful the new owner wanted to keep it.

In the spare bedroom, clean, crisp bed linens, a fluffy, welcoming pillow, and a cool modern nightstand awaited the next guest. Outside, the patio was dressed to the nines and ready for a barbecue. The yard was trimmed and an emblazoned rich green. The oak trees stood their ground and cast watchful shadows. It was the center tree I’d miss the most. I’d grown a strong fondness for it. Around the corner of the house, in the dormant wildflower garden, I left two cactuses I’d owned since first arriving in Austin. Eighteen-year-old cactuses. They were like family to me, had traveled from house to house to house, and now it was time for us to part ways. 

I’d awakened in a start. Anxiety and exhaustion raced through my veins. He would arrive at 9:30 am. My life would make a hard shift at 9:45 am.

I fed Mabel and made coffee. And cried. I stood in the kitchen, looked at my house for the last time. And cried. I walked through each room, checking for the 962^nd time for anything left behind. And cried. I sat on the warm concrete in the backyard and looked out at the rusted and oxidized iron pipe retaining wall. Each pipe overflowed with a cactus or flower. Iron pipes brought from my parents’ house in Oklahoma and repurposed as lawn décor. And cried. I walked to the center oak, placed my forehead against its rough bark, and cried as I thanked it for allowing me to share its space, and said goodbye. Mabel meowed and thrust her body against the concrete in a twisting back scratch maneuver. I sat next to her and cried while explaining she was about to embark on an eight-hour journey in a cramped pet taxi, and that she’d never see this home again. I would never see this home again. Paco would never bark at these squirrels again. I wouldn’t see the flowers or trees bloom in Spring. 

Minutes dragged on for hours. I was anxious to leave and nostalgic to stay. I moved Mabel into the pet taxi and into the van far too early. Neighbors texted to ask if they could come to say goodbye, and did I want coffee. Yes, and yes, I did. I cried the moment my eyes fell on them, embracing both for what I hoped wouldn’t be the last time. I gripped my cup of coffee hard as if doing so would hold myself intact. We stood talking, my tears inspiring tears in their eyes. 

This move was a good thing. A great thing. An exciting thing. Pulling the final strand of my roots from the Austin soil did not feel great. It felt painful and hard. It was hard. I was only fooling myself in believing it would be easy. I had put so much into that house. It held so many memories, both good and bad, but all part of the fabric of my life. All interwoven tightly into my Austin identity that I was now ripping off with a feeling of peeling my flesh from my bones. 

I had parceled out all my belongings. Donated items I’d spent weeks, sometimes months over-analyzing and budgeting for. I handed my life over, box by box, to various Goodwill locations and friends. I left my job. I gave my car away. Cut ties with a life I had so diligently curated and built and guarded for eighteen years. Who would I be on the other side of this? I was eager to find out, but the voyage to that point felt arduous. 

9:30 am approached. I waited inside, repositioning the file folder filled with owner’s manuals, invoices, and all house-related material the new homeowner might need. I opened all the kitchen drawers. I’d left the silverware, knives, and a cabinet filled with more spices than any person could use in a lifetime. I checked the refrigerator, all the rooms, toilets were flushed, lights flipped on and off, the backyard was still intact. I spread my hands across the kitchen countertop and allowed it to support me as I tried to collect my thoughts in hope of speaking in coherent sentences when he arrived. 

The sound of a closing car door cracked my heart open and sent it plummeting into my stomach. He knocked. I opened the door and greeted him with, “Welcome home.” It didn’t flow off my tongue as energetically as I’d imagined, but instead croaked out through choked tears, tripping over the lump in my throat.

We awkwardly traveled through the house in a final walkthrough. I answered his questions with lengthier, more detailed responses than required. Garage door openers were handed over and tested. I removed keys from my keyring. We walked to the mailbox to retrieve an envelope addressed to him. I’d seen it there two days earlier but acted surprised by the discovery. I tried to appear excited for him and his new life as a homeowner.

He was a nice man. I was grateful to have chosen him as the buyer. Everything went smoothly, better than I ever anticipated. Fifteen offers in thirty-six hours. I’d taken the ease of everything as a Universal sign I was making the right decisions. This was the right path for me. It was the right time for me to shed this skin. I still believed it, but change is hard. Anyone who says differently is lying to both themself and you. 

His excitement was palpable, and I strained hard to retain my tears. I wanted to be happy for him. I wanted to be happy for myself. I’ve never been good at goodbyes, even with inanimate objects, and saying goodbye to my home, my belongings, my friends, acquaintances, routines, favorite eateries, ice cream shops, and even the grocery store was painful. I knew I could always return and all, or at least most things would still be there. I also knew when I returned, I would not be the same person I was when I left. 

We got to the point of the interaction where everything had been said, signed, exchanged, and reviewed. It was akin to the awkward moment when you’re about to walk away from someone you like and aren’t sure what what to say next, or if you should even say anything at all. My usual response to such situations is to abruptly say goodbye and bolt, which is what I attempted to do. Whatever dam had been holding my tears was about to give way. I wanted to be in the safety of the van before the floodwaters broke through. 

He followed me out. I don’t remember what words were spoken then. He pulled his phone from his pocket and asked if I would take photos of him. I took the phone. He posed in front of the door, my door that was now his door, and held the keys up in a proud display. A wide smile beamed from his face. He was officially a first-time homeowner. My old home now his new home. I handed the phone back and cracked. All attempts to conceal my emotions were futile. Though I didn’t know him, I hugged him tight while on the verge of a major bawl that I managed to reign in, somehow. 

Through snotty, tearful inhales, I thanked him for the hug, wished him the very best, and that I hoped he would have a long and prosperous life in the house. His eyes filled with tears. I didn’t even care how crazy I may have seemed. My emotions were too raw to retain. I walked to the van, put it in drive, waved goodbye to my home, its new owner, and every comfort I’d cushioned around my life in Austin. 

I drove slowly out of my neighborhood, sobbing silent goodbyes. Retrieved Paco from boarding and cried while saying goodbye to the familiar faces we’d both come to know and love. Merging onto I-35 to head north on a route I knew by heart, I watched Austin grow smaller in my rearview. Sobs obscuring my eyesight like driving through a storm. The notion of pulling over crossed my mind, but I feared reality might catch me too quickly. If I kept pushing myself forward just long enough to get to my destination, then I could stop. Then I would be ready for all these emotions to catch up. Then I would have the strength to process them, or at least so I thought. In reality, exhaustion knocked me out flat for a solid three days, and it would take weeks before my new reality would begin to feel real.

*** 

The post A Look Back At Day One first appeared on Lisa Bussett.

I’ve traveled through five states since my last post, and taken thousands of photos, some of which I’ve posted below (not in chronological order).

Right now, I’m in the Arizona desert. Don’t automatically assume desert = warm. I wake to temperatures anywhere between 18 – 38 degrees, but I’ve gotten used to my cold morning routines. With the state of things being what they are, I plan to continue slowly moving through the Arizona desert for the next few weeks or so. 

While scrolling through social media this morning, I saw posts from former colleagues announcing the start of Winter break. It was during Winter break last year that I dove headfirst into prepping my house to go on the market the first week of January. I repainted every room, scraped popcorn from ceilings, power washed all exterior concrete, and gave boxes upon boxes of belongings to Goodwill and friends. I can’t believe that was only a year ago. It feels much longer than that, but I suppose 2020 feels like a pretty long year to everyone. 

There hasn’t been one day I’ve regretted taking this leap. On the contrary, I wake every single morning thankful for each day. Grateful for everything that has happened along the way, both externally and internally, all the people I’ve met – mostly just brief conversations as COVID has certainly thwarted plans of meeting people, and for all the amazing beauty I’ve seen. Words can’t describe the awe I’ve experienced, and for that, I am eternally grateful. 

When I set out, I’d planned to give myself a year to wander around the country. Now that I’m coming up on that milestone, I’m by no means ready to stop. So, those of you who follow me here, I’ll do my best to post more often, even if it’s just photos. 

I hope everyone has safe and Happy Holidays, and here’s to a shiny New Year! 

The post Follow the Seasons first appeared on Lisa Bussett.