The last frontiers: Alaska, menopause and ascension.

I’ve been shifting – transforming. I’ve known some process was at hand, but I didn’t know what I was shifting into. And I might still not know, but I will write about it anyway.

I came to Alaska because the thought of doing so caused me such joy that I knew it was right. It was a case of ultimate follow-your-bliss, with a potency similar to what propelled me to walk the PCT or write Crazy Free. Pure must-do.

I came, and now I am leaving again, with no regrets. The long meditative miles, the physical work at the ranch and the Alaska environment precipitated the shift. Or maybe the time simply had come. I’ve been told that, from the outside, my life looks like constant uprooting. It seems chaotic, unsettled, maybe even pointless. Am I lost? Looking for something? Drifting aimlessly from place to place?

“You drove all the way to Alaska, only to turn around. That makes no sense.”
Sense is not something I concern myself with. Only growth interests me.

This is really 3 posts in one, but I view them as inseparable. As within, so without. Alaska was a perfect backdrop for the life metamorphosis I have embarked upon, which is a stepping stone experience in my greater quest for higher consciousness.

Alaska

alaska1My two favorite things about Alaska are the trees and the people, for opposite reasons.

The trees here carry some of the gentlest energy of any forest I have been lucky to meet. I mistakenly interpreted their short stature as the result of logging when I first arrived. But the land is so vast, it was unlikely that all of it could have been logged. Then I learned of the growth limit imposed on their roots by the frozen ground of intense winters. Trees can only grow as tall as their roots will support – the same is true for humans. Such gentle trees adapted to such harsh conditions. I have enjoyed their company and learning about the medicine they offer, and I will miss them when I leave.

The people here are some of the hardiest I’ve met. If it’s needed, it must be designed, built, foraged, trapped, hunted, raised, grown or self-created somehow. Summer lasts three months. The rest of the year is a dark and cold game of survival in which humans and Nature are on equal footing. This common vulnerability breeds strength, community, respect and humility. When I first arrived, I saw a world of diesel fumes, barb wires, guns and dead beasts’ skins. But it only took meeting a few locals to realize my preconception-perception goggles were distorted.  The cycle of life is simply streamlined from birth to table, and it is entirely in plain view. There are no hidden massive production, transportation, packaging, marketing, shelving. There is also little waste. Resources are too scarce to waste. When a beast is killed, necessary food is provided. When trees are cut, a cabin is built. When a cabin is dismantled, all pieces are saved for the next project.

When I said hardy, I did not mean harsh. As anyone knows who has lived off-the-grid, the smaller the community, the tighter the bond. The size of Alaskans’ hearts are a match for the land. The mountains, tundra and all of wild Alaska are breath-taking. But the real gold here, I found, is the people. I learned a lot here, especially from Goose and Pinky, the caretakers at the ranch, and masters at dancing the fine line between adventure and homesteading. I will see them again. Alaska is only a few gorgeous thousand miles away. My little trail brother, Kristo the Lion, has found home here and will be staying. Another reason to come back and visit some day.

I always wanted to come to Alaska, and now I have. If I had landed here when I was 25 years old, I probably would have stayed. But my days of needing to prove myself have passed. I just know I could thrive here, and therefore I don’t need to choose to experience it, not even for one summer. There is only so much lifetime left and priorities of experiences must be made. Which brings me to the next topic …

Menopause

Woman-Goddess-Nut-by-Maya-CointreauI think it is reasonable to assume that I can and will live to 94 years old. Which makes this year, 2017, the exact middle of my life. When I look back at everything I have created so far for myself, I get stupidly teary-eyed with gratitude. But just when I thought I had finally reached my cruising speed and altitude, comfortable in my own skin and living my dream of a nomadic off-the-grid life, metamorphosis began again.

My favorite thing about menopause so far are the hot flashes. Seriously. The sensation is similar to drinking a good whiskey, except instead of a traceable warmth down the throat and into the belly, the heat radiates from any starting location in the body and expands until it fills it fully. I love to watch it spread, like the flow of a private inner hot spring. The covers fly off. And 5 minutes later, I’m scrambling to gather them back. Hot flashes make me giggle.

The other physical symptoms, I love less. I traded periods for monthly migraines, which prompted me to research natural medicine with a greater sense of urgency. My eye-sight acuity is now inconsistent, but my sense of smell is keener, which makes working on a hog ranch a real challenge. My brain gets cloudy. Some days, I’m just plain dumb. Functionally dumb – I can still read about and understand the intricacies of quantum physics, but I just can’t fathom how to put that pin in that hole that ties the whatchamacallit to the tractor, or remember where I put my glasses. My physical strength so far seems unaffected. “The old that is strong does not wither” (Bilbo Baggins). She might not wither, but neither is she thinner. I can walk, shovel or dig all day until my muscles are pumped and my core is solid. And still, the good bits sag and the middle thickens.

The greatest ride of this metamorphosis, however, is in my mind. All the moody moons of the past decades culminate now. And I cannot falter in my self-awareness or the thoughts take over and drive me nuts. All the stored repressed feelings, fear, guilt, shame, etc. are coming up, amplified. Menopause – isn’t that what happens to old people? Should I prepare myself for the crone stage of life? I’m probably too fat to be loved anyway. I should just be a spinster with a bun on my head and a cat on my lap in a rocking chair. I watch thoughts and feelings arise, and breathe through them until they move on. It helps me to think of it as a detoxification process. Whatever I see is no longer hidden. Like with a thru-hike pack shakedown, I get a chance to decide what I want to carry for the next leg of the journey, or not. It took 47 years to acquire and store all these internal dramas, so I expect the process might take a little while. But I’m on it – like a hawk.

I created most of the experiences of the first half of my life unconsciously. Given the same number of years forward, and now in full awareness, if I do this transition right, the second half of my life should be spectacular.

Ascension

Accessing_Higher_Levels_of_Consciousness__WOUNDS_David_Icke__GrEENZILLA__158215Ascension is a funny term with unfortunate religious connotations. I’m not physically ascending anywhere or leaving my physical body to become a “light being”. Like the trees, I am growing deeper roots so my canopy can reach higher. Higher what? Higher vibrational frequencies, higher levels of self-awareness, higher consciousness and clearer perception of how and why I create what I perceive to be reality.

It’s an ongoing growth journey. And each stage (an arbitrary division on a continuum) seems like an achievement. But I have long understood that enlightenment is a verb, not a destination. And anything I think, say or write, could be revealed as over-simplistic or inaccurate at the next stage. The climb itself is the sought-after experience, not the standing at the summit. Which is why I still use the term “ascension”.

While my body was exploring the rawness of Alaska, and my mind releasing the densest stored energies about and within me, a new knowing entered my consciousness. I felt it coming for a while. I’ve been feeling restless and unsettled. Then one morning, at 4 am, it revealed itself – “The mind that sees all paths, sees the map, and therefore no longer needs to choose a path.”

The understanding that came with it was visceral and wordless with ramifications extending to all experiences and connections past, present and future. The vantage point extended beyond (and including) the body, the self, the higher self to Source itself.  The timeless blue-print behind the script of reality and the scaffolding of beliefs through which stories are told about the script, are in my own handwriting. Like a beating heart, consciousness expands and contracts from self to Source and back again. Because it is more exciting “down here” and less chaotic “up there”. On the screen of my mind, the world is a perfect reflection of everything I am -everything that composes “me”- and vice versa – “my” experiences and “my” self (the experiencing part of consciousness) are locked in a chicken-and-egg dance, an Ouroboros meal. Why create reality? Absolutely everything is a choice of an experience, a keystone detail, the most important thing ever to exist. That’s why.

And, simultaneously, none of it matters … including this so-called ascension process. All of it is make-pretend. How awesome and freeing is that? No need to work so hard to manifest/create something better. It’s already perfect and inconsequential. “There is nowhere to go, nothing to see, no one to meet, nothing to read.” (Christopher Loren)

So, let’s just have fun with it. I get to be a middle-aged goddess. And I get to live in Alaska for another day or so, before the truck and I point south again, to Nelson, British Columbia, for the next adventure.

Some people take drugs for insights … I drive 3000 miles every month ūüôā

May all your creating be delicious.
Thank you for sharing this experience with me.

XOX

Roaming Bobcat.

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Fearless – 5 secrets to survive your new love in a tiny home

“2 people. 32 square feet. And barely¬†enough cash to get to where we’re going. What could go wrong?”

Previously, on the Roaming Bobcat … remember how I met a man in Maine, a new sparkly love, and invited him to travel back to the desert Southwest and live in the truck with me for the winter? Right, because living in 32 sq feet wasn’t challenging enough by myself, I guess.
I seriously questioned my sanity at the time, and I panicked a few times before departure. But in the end, you know what killed the cat … There was no way I was leaving without him. We left fearlessly on December 1st and traveled “all over this great Earth”, as Jim liked to say. Here’s a map of our roaming adventures.¬†jimandmeltravels

8,700 miles in total we traveled. From the sand dunes of Death Valley, to the gigantic Redwoods of northern California, via the Sierra Nevada, the rocky mountains, the Cascades, the wind-swept Wyoming plains, through a couple of hot springs, a sunset over the Pacific Ocean, a years’ worth of Brussels sprouts and a new love for green chilies.

Jim flew home a week ago, a month later than he had originally planned.
“Come here, Lovey Bumpers.” he said right before crossing the TSA queuing line. I cried as I watched him leave, and that was a good thing. That meant we still loved each other, after all this.

So here is a short list of advice for you, if you wish to embark on such an adventure. 5 lessons I’ve learned from our wild journey, and also a few insights on what I¬†wish I had done¬†differently.

  1. Unjustified confidence.
    Before we left, Jim predicted we’d make it. When I asked how he was so sure, he replied “unjustified confidence.” He was right, as long as we both chose to believe that we would make it, our perspective-goggles remained focused on¬†what did go right instead of what could go wrong. This self-congratulating attitude set the stage to create more of the same. If there are ups, there must be downs, and vice-versa. So as the roller-coaster goes, keep your eyes on the horizon. I failed at this a little bit. When it was up, I assumed it would keep going that way. When it was down, I quickly jumped to cutting bait conclusions and threatened to fly the man home. I wanted justified confidence, but sometimes, I’ve learned, keeping the peace just takes good ol’ blind faith.
  2. Com-mu-ni-ca-tion.
    You cannot sit and stew, when you live in 32 sq. feet with someone else. You¬†might think you’re avoiding an argument, but your heart is emitting the energy of the unspoken words you’re¬†attempting to save your partner from. And said partner picks up that energy¬†unconsciously and projects onto it much worse than the actual problem at hand. So speak up, whatever it is.¬†Clear up the air early with truthful, calm, open communication. After a month of adapting to each other, Jim and I established a daily “check in” – a safe place where whatever was coming up or moving through us could be shared. I loved the daily check-ins. In hindsight, I wish I had learned sooner that¬†if frustration reaches a boiling point, it is best to walk out into¬†the desert or the forest and discharge that energy first, before the check-in. I mean, isn’t that why we live in our vehicles? So we can have all this open space at our disposal? Use it. Open space doesn’t mind¬†loud noises, but your partner does.
  3. Respect all Alien life
    Living with someone in the truck’s tiny space is like having a microscope on full zoom on each other’s quirks. 90% of the time, these quirks will make no¬†sense to you whatsoever. Why do you need to keep this desiccated piece of wood? He just does. Why must I wear pajamas in bed? Because it’s my bed and I said so. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, but your beloved will suddenly seem straight outta Alpha Centory’s third left moon. This is a good time to sit back, relax, and dismantle. We are all programmed from birth to what society and our parents deemed right and good. Others’ programs might overlap, or they might not. We only get upset if we believe that our programming is superior. Understand, it is not. On the partner’s home-world, that quirk is¬†what is right and good. And if you can laugh at the differences, you get bonus points.As a recommended extra step… Reinforce respect with daily small appreciations.
    “Thank you for packing the truck this morning.” “Thank you for the hot water for tea.” “Thank you for driving me all over this great big Earth.” Feeling seen and appreciated fills up the space with good vibes and makes the aliens feel at home.
  4. Space and your personal frontiers
    No matter how tight you like to snuggle, you will need breathing space to survive. And it might happen that it is pouring rain out, for days, and that neither of you feels like walking out into the cold. In such times, a good skill is the ability to create a bubble of privacy in your mind. Quiet space is private space. You can also sleep in opposite directions. Having someone’s feet by your face somehow feels more private than breathing their breath. Keeping a private journal and separate social media are¬†essential. One partner can also get dropped off at a coffee shop or a library for a few hours. If the rain stops, then go ahead and walk away. Hike different trails, find each other at the top. Consciously choose¬†different experiences to ensure that you always have some exciting stories to share with each other.
  5. Strap yourself in and feel the Gs.
    If this was a “normal” relationship, one or both partners would go to work all day and reunite for¬†a few minutes between dinner and some TV show in the evening. On the road, a two-year relationship gets crammed into each week.¬†So, you can expect two years worth of “stuff” coming up in that time-span. Here you are, thinking you’re on a geographic journey … 8,700 miles, 20 states, 5 national parks, etc. That is nothing compared to the internal space explored. The person with whom you started at mile 0 is¬†gone by mile 1,000, and they’re not coming back. They were changed by the shared experience and by the constant contact with you. And you are different too, even if you don’t see¬†it. Feelings, expectations, plans, preferences – everything changes. Your partner is not inconsistent, he or she is¬†evolving. So, support their growth with love, and honor yours with self-respect, because in the end that is what the journey is all about – that, and nothing else.These are the biggies on my mind at the moment. But Jim only left a week ago, and I suspect I will continue learning as layers of memories are revealed in order of increasing subtlety, like layers of an onion.

    Until the next adventure …
    Jim and I
    To Jimmy James. Thank you!
    XOX – Loves.

Lunacy

‚ÄčLunacy. A real thing.  Alone on the Wolf Moon in a desert I love,  like so many other nights.  Midnight. A truck full of screaming drunken men races up my dirt road. There’s metal banging.  The engine roars. I can’t tell if the scream is of pain or joy. I feel the fight or flight hormones rushing through. The truck is now open and I’m ready. I could run and hide up the hill.  I know this desert better than they do.  And leave my truck open to vandalism?  Never. What weapons do I have? 1 ice axe, 2 fire staffs. No gun. No need. I wouldn’t shoot. I know this. The screams are closer now. Pots and pans must be tied to the bumper. What feeling is this?  The opposite of feeling safe. Would I feel safer if Jim was here?  I can’t rely on others for my feeling safe. Would I feel safer if I believed I was safe? Yes. I used to believe. I don’t know why it changed. Would I remain aware and believing in a loving, kind universe if these men got here? Fascinated by the inner dialog, I feel it all,  like an observer and a potential victim both.  

They turn around less than 20 feet from the truck. I am parked on a muddy dead end road.  They never saw me.  I find their tracks in the morning. They drove back and forth through the thickest of the mud. They broke some trees and drove over cacti. 

I follow their tracks all the way to the paved road. They were on a rampage. Mayhem and destruction everywhere they drove. I knew their path before I saw it. As they left the desert, I could hear their screams and see their red fading lights for miles. I wished those lights stay red.  Don’t turn around. Don’t come back here,  lunatic wolf moon madmen.

[Reposted here from a Facebook post from a few days ago]

*the Wolf Moon is the first full moon of the year. 

Tinderized

It’s time to tell you this story. I was sitting on it because I’m superstitious and didn’t want to jinx the Magic. But with the Facebook photos of the truck being converted to a two-person sleeper and of cabins in the colorful northeastern woods, anybody who’d care has already figured out that this Bobcat’s on a whole different kind of adventure than her usual.

It starts with a dream, so let’s back up a bit …

Previously, on the Roaming Bobcat … I was released from the hospital with a mystery. The doctors had found no obvious cause for the belly pain that diverted me from my AT thru-hike. As Western doctors – even well-intentionned ones – are known to do, I was released with a laundry list of catastrophic potentialities – cancer, ulcer, tumor, etc – my asymptomatic mystery still could carry, and a busy schedule of ongoing medical tests I would need. A week and a half after my release, I dreamt of my Grandpa Henri. Henri died when I was 14 years old, but I never met him, and I only know what he looked like from one small photo my Grandpa Alex gave me.

I approached Henri’s casket in the dream. The family was gathered around, but nobody I knew. He opened his eyes and looked straight at me. Was this normal behavior? Maybe just some leftover nerves. Nobody moved. He sat up suddenly, pale as death, and the family ran. With both eyes still fixed on me, he swung his stiff legs over the casket and stood up.
“You can’t get up.” I told him, “You’re dead, remember? You died of cancer a while back.”
He didn’t care. He jumped out of the casket and skipped on down the corridor.
“Henri! You’re dead!” He finally turned around to acknowledge me. His face was young and fresh, full of vitality. “I chose to die back then because nothing could be done. But now there are alternative, holistic, earth-based medicines. This is a good time to wake up.”

I woke up with a knot in my throat. Was this a message? Was it saying that the pain in my belly is cancer? A flash of fear ran the length of my spine. I breathed thought it and sat with my own mortality. Relax! Henri is¬†right, there are¬†alternatives. I decided then that if I had cancer, I would not follow the western path of radiation and chemo. I would follow the earth-plant-holistic path. And if I failed? Then I’d die. And that was fine. In that moment, I felt such gratitude for my life thus far. It has been exceptional by my own standards. The best life I could have ever wished for. I’d want to know that my truck was¬†in good hands and that the story in my book ¬†lived on. Other than that, I felt perfectly fulfilled, content and at peace with what was and has been.

So it was with surprise and confused fascination that I watched myself roll over to my phone, download the Tinder app and create a profile.

tinder_fire

I don’t remember the first man that was presented. Jimmy James was the second. He looked kind, handsome, and could do a handstand. I “liked” him. In the following hour, I swiped “no” to at least 300 undoubtedly wonderful men. I “liked” two others, not out of interest, but because I felt I should at least have three eggs in this basket. But the other two eggs never hatched.

I understand that it is customary to exchange Tinder messages for a while, then move on to personal texts, eventually a phone call, and way down the line, finally a meeting face-to-face, once compatibility and sanity have been fully checked and vested. Ugh! Who has time for that? My Tinder flame’s truck had just landed in the shop, his wallet was just stolen, and his phone had just fallen and shattered. It seemed to me the man needed a break from a bad luck streak, so after a few texts, I drove to Maine to pick up Jimmy James.

First impressions – A tall man, a peaceful demeanor, long white dreads, torn jeans, bare feet, a joyous gait, an army bag topped by a rolled wool blanket.
“Great! I just drove an hour to pick up a homeless hippy”, I though, but instead I said “Hey, here you are!” as genuinely as I could fake.
“Yay, here I am.” He walked to my truck as though he always had and naturally placed his belongings in the back with mine.
“Where are we going?” I assumed he had a plan, since we were in his town.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought any further than this meeting right now. We can go anywhere.”

As I turned the key in the ignition, I sensed an adventure had begun, one beyond the miles we might cover that day. The calm joy of that man in the cab of my truck – Certainty, solid ground, landmark, and a launching pad for a rocket ship combined. Suddenly all other adventures were canceled. THIS needed to be explored. And what was this? I’m not sure yet. But it’s that thing that makes you take your shoes off – unless you’re already barefoot – and run through fields in the sun, and laugh, and dance, and blow milkweed puffs in the wind. It changes the flow of time¬†and¬†reorganizes your life like the advanced stages of a Tetris game. It’s that thing you didn’t know you were missing in your “perfectly¬†fulfilled, content and at peace with what was and has been” life. It makes it not okay to die. Not at all.

And it gets worse.
This one comes with two more – a two year old and a four year old. A man and two boys to steal my heart and deconstruct my well-oiled solo roaming life.

So, this is the end of this post, but the beginning of what could be my biggest adventure yet. There will be more stories. I have already climbed a physical and metaphorical mountain with the boys. Now the Cat-mobile is being converted to fit two people. Our sights are to the southwest for the winter. We have known each other a little over a month, have no money, and will be confined to a 32 square feet home for the foreseeable future.

You think I’m scared? You damn right I am. But …

‚ÄúThere is nothing more pathetic than caution when headlong might save a life, even, possibly, your own.‚ÄĚ
~ Mary Oliver, Felicity:Poems.
 

 

milkweed

 

AT final debrief. And the next adventure …

I finally updated the AT 2016 stories page, linked to the menu above. Here is a prologue of sort to the next adventure …

I had the means, the time and the gumption. I was going to hike the Appalachian Trail (the AT), all 2,200 miles from Maine to Georgia. My plan was to start at the summit of Kathadin in early July and roll on down south to Georgia for Thanksgiving.
But you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and bobcats ‚Ķ I made it to the top of Kathadin, across Maine, New Hampshire and half of Vermont. 500 miles I walked. Then I landed in the hospital.¬†Here are the stories of my hike and its unexpected left turn –> here.

As I update this page in the fall from my temporary home in New Hampshire,¬†I now know that the sickness that landed me in the hospital was¬†a gift. This is still 2016. The year when I asked the Universe to ‚Äúsurprise me‚ÄĚ. It might even surprise you ‚Ķ but hold on a little bit. The next chapter is being written, and I don‚Äôt have a full grasp yet of its extent. For now, I‚Äôll tell you that it comes with delicious green eyes (or grey, or orange, depending on the weather) and an air of certainty, of game-change, of uncharted territory.

So, stay tuned. The adventure ain’t over yet, even if the AT is temporary (or permanently) on hold.

img_2595

Whose room is this? And how the hell did I get here?

I wake¬†up indoors this morning. A lovely little room, with blue and orange draperies on the ceiling over the bed. Last night, I drove to the desert, but that van – you know the one – was parked in “my”¬†spot again, so I turned around and drove elsewhere for the night … and ended up in this room, somehow.

The last thing I remember was turning around where the van was parked. What the hell did I do last night? Did I drive back to town? Go to the Oak Creek Brewery for open mic? Did somebody spike my water?

I sit up in bed with a fast and hard beating heart. I’m sure it’ll come back to me.¬†I look around – hard! Nothing. I rack my brain trying to retrace my steps. Nothing. Am I dreaming? Nope. Wide awake. I check my phone. Dead. Damn – that’s like that time my friend was given¬†cocaine and didn’t remember it the next day. Did I smoke pot again? At least, I figure whoever I followed home isn’t¬†a guy. This is¬†definitively not a guy’s room¬†– not a straight one anyway. Some woman’s room, with good taste from what I can¬†tell. One bookshelf, with some of the same books I own and some shiny¬†rocks. Some climbing gear in the¬†closet, and these big cool orange and blue draperies overhead. Okay, so I met some cool climbing chick and went home so we could go climb together? Doesn’t explain why I’m in her bed …

I turn around and my jaw drops. What the hell! I’m not even in Sedona. These are¬†pine trees past the¬†small balcony, and not Ponderosas either. Like big, mossy evergreens. By then, I’m getting dizzy and about to really loose my shit, when this girl gently knocks at the door.

She opens the door and leans in. I don’t remember her at all.
“Hey, sorry to bug you, but rent’s due today. Would you get your check to Pat before you leave.”
“Who are you? Where am I?”
Pat walks in. I know her. Patricia MacQueen Р2011, we were PhD students at Frasier University together. I never called her Pat then, she was Patricia.
What is this, the Twilight Zone?
“I’m sorry ‘Pat’ – huh … how did I get here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why am I here?”
The girls look at each other.
“How the HELL DID I GET HERE?” I’m starting to really panic, like I completely lost my mind.
“Huh … you live here …”
“I live in my truck, currently parked in Sedona.”
“Sedona, Arizona?” They look at each other again. The girl I don’t know looks at Pat “Maybe she had a seizure from too much alcohol.”
I understand I’m in Vancouver. Mmmh mmmh. Hell no. “I left here in 2011 to walk the PCT, then I moved in my truck and have been living on the road ever since.”
“No, Love,” Pat says gently “you walked the PCT and you moved in with me when you got back, and you’ve been paying rent here ever since and we’ve been commuting to our office at school together every day, and Megan here moved in with us last year, and in 3 days when you leave to walk the AT, she’ll get your room.”

Speechless. Brain trying to catch up to facts. Too much to take in. But mostly – shit! I have 3 days to move all my stuff to¬†storage before I¬†drive to Colorado to see LB, before getting on the AT. Deep breath. Not all is lost. At least I’m still walking the AT. Wait, what? I’m still in school?
“Am I planning to come back here to finish my PhD after the AT?”
They look at each other again. It’s getting really annoying.
“Man, what did you do last night? No, you finished. You defended yesterday, that’s why you went out and partied your ass off … don’t you remember?”

No, I really don’t remember. But somehow it makes sense. Maybe I did have a seizure. I don’t remember anything of my life in Vancouver for the past 5¬†years. I’m lost in thoughts trying to piece it together, and can hear a van drive down our street, past the tall pines and right below my small balcony. Wait a minute … that’s a Westfalia. I know that van.

The puttering of the engine gets louder and grabs my consciousness out of my life as a Doctor in Geophysics, and drags it upward to the surface of this reality, where the rocks are red and there is no rent due today and I don’t have to move all my stuff to storage because I live in my truck.

The van drives by and continues onto 525, and I follow its sound until it’s faded to nothing.
Shit, that was intense, and so real.

As real as this one reality by my perception.

I’m having a bit of an existential crisis this morning, wondering if I’m going to wake up from this one somewhere else. At least, in all my realities, I’m leaving in 3 days to Colorado before walking the AT.

It really makes me wonder though …

parralel life

I pee in a Tupperware

I pee in a Tupperware because it’s too wet to step outside.
I eat dark sea salt chocolate for breakfast because I don’t want to set up my alcohol stove in the mud.
I hide in my shell and post photos on Instagram because I can’t hula hoop.
It’s too wet outside.
The edges of the shell leak.
The basket that holds my toothbrush, toothpaste, headlamp and crystals is wet.
The corner of my journal leaned against the window is wet.
My shoes tucked against the tailgate are wet.
A corner of my mattress is wet – Tupperware accident.
Everything else is dry.
I’m dry.
It’ll be really slick getting out of here this morning, but I know the truck doesn’t mind.
The rain plays a drum solo on my shell and nourishes the creatures of desert, and I can’t help but love it, in spite of all the inconveniences.

‚̧

Slapped with blessings

My friend Peter always says “Whenever I complain, the Universe slaps me with a blessing.”
The same is true for me.

Just a few days ago, I posted a rant called “A day late and a few grands short.” I have since¬†deleted it. It was too out of character.¬†I mean, I do come with a full range of emotions. I’m not always happy, contrarily to what some of you seem to believe. But still, I felt that post didn’t represent the majority of how I feel or how I interact with the world, and most certainly it didn’t reflect my reality. I’ve included¬†the original post¬†below (Click here to skip to it), if nothing else, for the pleasure of having that flippant Bobcat walking away photo somewhere on this blog.

Here is the post where I set the record straight.

“How come I don’t get any financial abundance?”¬†I whined.

Alright. Let’s look at this (in somewhat reverse chronological order). There was the time when …

  1. I had less than $100 to my name, when I met a Viking who offered to front me the cash to travel with him to Cuba. Work was waiting for me when we finally parted ways after adventuring for two months straight, to two countries and across the USA. Thank you Miles, my knight-viking in shining armor (or hiking skirt, depending on the occasion).
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  2. I returned to Sedona from a west coast book tour at 4 am, and with only $80. At 8 am – 4 hours later – I was woken up by a text¬†from Benny of¬†Earth tours saying that he hoped I was in town because he needed help for a special retreat with 4 Russian billionaires. The pay was good. The work was fun. The Russians tipped me $1000 for a day and a half of work.I didn’t need to work for the rest of that year. Thank you blood moon of 2015!
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  3. I left for a west coast¬†book tour with less than $40. It wasn’t even enough to make it past Flagstaff, but I felt called to go anyway. I sold enough books in Flagstaff to get to South Lake Tahoe, sold enough books in South Lake Tahoe to drive to Ashland, sold enough books in Ashland to … and so forth. 6,000 miles later, I returned to Sedona with $80, having traveled to Canada, Burning Man, worked on a farm, kayaked, hiked, climbed, etc. (See the green loop on the¬†roaming map) I¬†never lacked for food or fuel. I even manifested some amazing free yoga pants along the way. Thank you, dozens of angels along the way.
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  4. After a few months in the Sedona desert, I was trying¬†to finish the editing of my book, and¬†was running really really thin on cash. I went to my storage unit to see if I had anything to sell, when a business card fell out of a box I was moving and landed at my feet. It was for Danita Delimont, an agent with whom I worked back when I was a photographer, almost ten years prior. I called on a whim, and she said “Melissa! Where have you been? We’ve had this royalty check here for you for years, but we didn’t know where to send it.” She Paypaled me the money within half an hour. Thanks Danita. Thanks business card for falling out.
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  5. One morning I woke up with $4, an empty fuel tank and an empty food box. I had $14 the night before, but went to a Ryan Montbleau show in Phoenix. It was worth it. I woke up thinking “Mmmh. I’m out again. Today should be interesting.” A few hours later, I met Benny, of Earth Tours, at a coffee shop. He had never successfully worked with an assistant, but he hired me on the spot and paid me a tour in advance. Boom! Money and a job, and a coworker better than any I could have dreamt. Benny has been part of much financial magic in my life since I met him. Thanks Benny! (and Thanks Ryan Montbleau for an awesome show).
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  6. I was in the negative in New Hampshire, worried about the approaching winter, when one of my yoga students introduced me to a rich lady with a 17.5 year old dog. The lady needed to travel to France but couldn’t leave the dog behind. I dog-sat that dog and lived in a small palace overlooking fields and the White Mountains for 7 weeks. She paid me well, and suddenly I had enough to drive back out west. I still stayed for another month in NH to finish my book, in the spare bedroom of an incredibly bright and loving Mother Goddess. She asked for nothing in return. She even gave me a private office¬†to finish writing my book. Thank you Dawa (the dog) and Leah (the Goddess)!
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  7. I had $2.62 left (I took a picture of my statement)¬†in New Hampshire, because I had just quit a job at a gear shop I didn’t resonate with and didn’t make enough from teaching yoga to cover my expenses, when out of nowhere a man I had met briefly at the gear shop but had never actually spent time¬†with offered me $40/hr to help him clean windows of rich people’s homes on Nantucket island. I worked on Nantucket for two¬†weeks, lived with Rich, and was spoiled with fresh seafood and friendship. When I returned to North Conway, I discovered that my tires were delaminating. I was able to buy a very nice set of offroad¬†tires for exactly the amount I had made. It was like the Universe gave me the gift of new tires in a roundabout way. Thanks Rich!
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  8. Looking further back, there was the time when I found $184 in the trash can of a hotel in Big Bear City. Sorry thru-hiker who lost $184 while cleaning your gear. I made good use of it. Passed it on as magic to other hikers for the rest of the day, and only kept a $17 fee for myself. It seemed fair.
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  9. There was the time a hot air balloon landed on my truck in the middle of the desert and offered me a job. Say what? Yep. Thank you!
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  10. There was the time I walked the PCT on a credit card, and upon my return discovered the National Science Foundation had never reclaimed the $10,000 tuition funds deposited directly in my account. I also paid for my trip to India with that money. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
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And that’s not even the beginning of it. This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I mean read the book … sometimes, it’s just ridiculous.

My friend Carrot Quinn said that she feels the Universe is on a matching program. Whatever effort you put in, you will be met with magic of the same amount. I definitely get more than I put in.

So, now the record is straight. I have nothing to whine about. At all! I am, actually, exactly where I need to be. If I had been more successful financially earlier, I’d have missed out on all these juicy last-minute rescues, the dozens of odd jobs, the gifts, miracles and serendipities. I¬†wouldn’t have been flooded with gratitude as I have been. Gifts are always more potent when contrasted to¬†a stark background.

I just got a job offer last night. I’ll be taking off for Colorado in a few weeks. So, my “spot” in the desert is vacant and up for grabs. And my Appalachian Trail walk is funded (with potential¬†surprises and detours along the way). All is well. As always.

XOXO
Roaming Bobcat.

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The original post:

A day late and a few grands short …

by the Roaming Bobcat

Here’s something out of character. I’m going to vent. I want to vent.

Let me back up, before I start … so, a few nights ago, I went back to the desert a little later than I usually do. It was already dark. When I got to “my spot” there was a van parked there. A man was tending to the¬†fire, a woman was playing with a dog. It happens. Sometimes, I get home and I find someone in my living room. Usually, I don’t mind. Usually, I understand that the views from my living room are exceptional, that it is the only place on the whole hill with 3G, full bar cell-phone reception, and that the fire ring has some wood already stacked. The place just screams “perfect camp. Welcome!” Usually, the campers are weekenders. I turn around right at the spot – sometimes gracefully, sometimes less – and camp somewhere else. The next day, they go home, and I get my home back.

But this time was different. I knew that van. I had seen it in town on and off since last year. It had a big logo on the side: “Where’s my office now”. These were desert dwellers like myself, living¬†out on the land, and they had just found my perfect camp. I turned around in front of their van with a sinking feeling. I parked just down the road a bit, because I wanted to stay close to see what their patterns were. You know, us, big cats, that’s what we do. We don’t pounce right away … we study patterns, and when we have established a fail-proof plan of attack we go for it. I wanted to see when they arrive, when they leave, and such, to be sure I can get there before they do.

Well, that backfired. For the first time in all the years I’ve slept in the truck, a mouse crawled in … I don’t even know through where … and landed between the truck bed liner and the truck bed. I could hear it. Poor thing was panicking. I was not much calmer. The only way I knew out of there was through the hole where the clamp to hold the shell is. I shone my light on the hole and waited. I even set up a small tub of strawberry jam to entice it out. FINALLY, after hours of waiting, I saw its whiskers. It saw me, got scared and turned around, pointing its tail out of the hole. All I had to do was grab its tail and set it free. But, well, it was a mouse. I stared at it. Didn’t move. It went back in. By then it was past midnight. I plugged the clamp hole and tried to sleep. I don’t know how the mouse got back out – presumably through the hole it used to crawl in. Bottom line was, I had an epic night and was exhausted the next day. I left the desert before the van did. No patterns learned.

The next day, I went to the desert by mid-afternoon. I was first in the spot. The van showed up at sunset, and with it another van. Great! Now they were inviting friends.

The next day, I went to the desert¬†even earlier. I wrote the van-dwellers a note I planned on leaving, in case I couldn’t “beat them to it” the next day. The note said “You are welcome to stay here, but please don’t spit toothpaste on the ground, don’t walk on the flowers, don’t …” Once the note was written, I had to be honest with myself. I wasn’t welcoming them at all. It was a¬†passive-aggressive note thinly disguised as a leave-no-trace reminder. They never drove by that night. I thought, “Good, maybe they’ve driven their office elsewhere.”

But as the next day progressed, I noticed an oppressing feeling on my chest. I was actually having anxiety about this. What if I couldn’t camp in my spot?¬†So much for non-attachment! Luckily, that night – last night – I was first there again. The van drove by in the dark. I didn’t move, but I felt that anxiety again. So, I did what I do. I explored the anxiety. Since that’s what was up, I figured I might as well learn from it. What did anxiety feel like in my body? I didn’t try to intellectualize the whys or hows, I just observed it. I fell asleep holding sweet little Anxiety in my arms.

And here my post actually starts.

This morning, a lovely brunette – the woman from the van – came running by my truck. I jumped on the occasion to solve my¬†quandary. If I couldn’t¬†make them go home, I might as well befriend them. Of course, she was genuine, fun, friendly, and had all the qualities you’d expect in a van-dweller. She¬†and her partner¬†have been living in the van since 2013, she told me, embracing a nomadic life. How do they survive? They have thousands of followers on Instagram, and therefore are attracting sponsors. Wait. What? So, you post pictures of you living in your van, and people pay to see the photos of you living in your van? Yep. That’s correct.

WT .. I’ve been living in my truck since 2011 (with time off to walk long trails and travel, a few months indoors when I met Chris, and another few months indoors in winter in New Hampshire). It would have never dawned on me that people would care. I mean, aside from my friends. Would you take pictures of your bedroom and post them? No, well, me neither.

This got me thinking. About 5 months ago, I met another lovely, incredibly badass lady. That lady published a book exactly a month before I published mine. Her book is great, but so is mine. She is making a living from Kindle dividends now, and getting sponsors to hike long trails. Am I? Hell no! Not by a long shot. What’s the difference? She has 5000 followers on her blog. How did she do that? She just posts about her life on the trail, every day. Again, that would have never dawned on me. I just wouldn’t feel like I have anything that interesting to say every day.

“Dude! Just this year, you flew one-way to Cuba, hitchhiked back on a boat to Florida, hitched cross-country on I10, you live in the desert, and you’re about to go hike the AT on no money at all. And you don’t think your life is interesting?” my friend said.
My life is my life. It’s normal to me. I guess.

Instead of FOMO – Fear Of Missing Out – I’m having FOHMO – Fear of having missed out. What if I had kept¬†a blog back when I walked the PCT? Oh, wait, I did. I lost my audience when I started posting spiritual posts. What if I had actually written about Cuba when I was there? Nah, I was too busy living that adventure. It required all my attention. What if I had Instagrammed my way across the country? What if I had learned about hashtags sooner? What if my book came out 5 months earlier, right when the wave of Cheryl Strayed Wild was still hot? What if …

There are people out there doing exactly what I’m doing, and making a living from it. WTF.

Yes, I could¬†copy them … and I am. I’m Kindling like the badass lady with the blog, and I’m hashtagging like the lovely lady in the van. And I feel like a¬†side character, the #2, not the Captain – almost as good. This is the¬†movie of my own life. Why aren’t I the friggin’ leading lady? With the wild imagination I have been accused of having, couldn’t I be my own creative genius. Couldn’t I hit that secret jackpot that lets me be exactly who I am, and poof! abundance flows in because of it.

Or do I think too highly of myself? Humility – is that what I’m missing? Should I feel gratified to know that the Universe is placing¬†people in my path to show me what is possible. And isn’t it my own blindness that instead sees in them¬†lack by contract?

I know others in that¬†boat. I know¬†incredibly talented individuals who have dedicated months to¬†years to building a social media dream, only to be ignored at best and poopooed at worse. What’s the difference? Intent? Am I going to have to fall back on spirituality for this one? Is this one of those … to every monk there is a path, and for some reason, you have chosen to explore living in misery, but it’s all for the Greater Good. Or worse … did you just see the sentence I¬†wrote? These bad thoughts I’m having are creating the blockages that impede the oncoming flow of abundance that’s waiting right around the corner, and man, when that dam breaks, I will be flooded. Yes, I am rolling my eyes … more body language blockages.

Sigh … Hello Frustration. Hello Confusion. Hi Tinge of Anger. Welcome aboard. I shall be your bodily vehicle for the moment. Please be sure to express yourself fully, keep all hands and feet inside at all times, so as to not spill over onto my social media life. I have a reputation to uphold. I am the Roaming Bobcat. ¬†#ilovemylife #asitshouldbe #abundance #iamenough #yadeyaah #whatever.

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Happy One of my Most Special Days to me!

[Below this post are my Dad’s corrections, sent to me via email]

My body took its first breath on September 7th, 1970. Isn’t it funny how that day has been celebrated my whole life as more special than the other 364?
Truth is, after just 45 years of living, I could celebrate each day as a personal holy day.
Like April 17th – when I started walking the PCT, April 9th – when I awoke to my spiritual self in Death Valley, April 5th – when I started writing my first book, April 9th – when I wrote in that book about what happened in Death Valley on April 9th of a few years prior, April 10th – when I came to the US.

On April 10th, 1992, at 2:10 pm, I landed in LAX. It might as well have been another planet.

And I mean “other planet”. Let me put this in perspective …

This is all I knew:

This is where I landed:

Now, if you just had the thought that you’d much prefer the first locale, that’s fine … for you.

I think I had island fever by the time I was 5 years old. I slept in an American flag sleeping bag, had a bumper sticker on my bedroom door that warned visitors “proud to be an American”, and often stared at my reflection in the mirror mouthing nonsensical drawled out sounds, to see what I’d look like when I got older and actually learned to speak English.
My French parents humored my obsession by keeping a supply of beef jerky, lemon pepper seasoning and peanut butter in the house. French kids didn’t eat peanut butter back then. And corn on the cob was downright sacrilegious. “Why are you feeding her pig food?” Was my very-French grandmother’s reaction to corn on the cob.
But, luckily, my parents understood wanderlust. I was born in Los Angeles by the grace of their adventurous spirits, and their common love for America.

My parents lived in Los Angeles for 5 years prior to my birth. My Dad worked as an exotic car mechanic. I don’t know what was exotic about the cars, but I know that he personally handled Katharine Hepburn’s car needs. My mom was a teacher at a Montessori school. She taught French songs to small American kids, just as she would later teach me American songs. They spent their weekends exploring the wilder side of so-cal, especially Death Valley, where I supposedly was conceived. Their life was one big adventure, and they created an amazing set of stories to share with the conventional, settled world they had left in France.

Until, I showed up.
Then, they bumped it up a notch.

Los Angeles was a fine place for two adventurous adults, but not for two illegal adventurous adults with a newborn baby girl – 1970s LA was epically polluted.

As I usually imagine it in my head, they spread out a world map and looked for the remotest island possible. Tahiti had potential, but my aunt already lived there, so that island was occupied. They picked the next farthest one … New Caledonia.

I was 3 months old when my parents landed in New Caledonia. I grew up naked in the sun and the red dirt, took my first steps in a quanza hut – that was our home for a few years – and day dreamed about the US while “trapped” on endless pristine white sand beaches surrounded by impossibly clear and warm ocean water.

I always said I would come back home to the US some day. I said it so often that it became an integral part of my personality. I was an American on an island. Always different. Always special.

Until one day somebody called me out on it. I don’t remember his name. He was a rep for a printing paper company. I worked for a computer dealer, and had a bit of a crush on him. He loved the US as much as I did, and whenever he visited my office, we day dreamed together of wide open deserts, Joshua Trees and coyotes.
“Someday, I’ll move back to the US.” I told him, again.
We were sitting on a sidewalk in downtown Noumea with sandwiches on my lunch break. “Yeah! Good luck getting a green card.”
“I don’t need a green card. I was born in LA. I have an American passport.”
“You do!? So … Huh, why are you still here?”

DING!

That was it. That was the moment. That was the cue. That was the shift.
I didn’t even answer him.
I didn’t even finish my sandwich.
I got up, walked across the plaza, and bought a one-way plane ticket for two weeks later.

That evening, I returned to the studio I shared with my boyfriend of 5 years. I told him I was going to the US, and that I’d marry him if he wanted to come with me and try to get a green card. He didn’t.
Instead, he drank an entire bottle of vodka and collapsed onto our bed. I packed my belongings and left. That was the last time I saw him.

When I got to my parents’ house, everybody was gone. My mom and sister were visiting friends in Touho – a small village a few hours from Houailou, on the jungly eastern side of the island, where I grew up – and my Dad was somewhere out at sea.
Two weeks prior – and Dad can correct me on this, if my memory is faulty – he had decided to motor his fishing boat all the way to the Isle of Pines. A pretty ballsy move for that size boat. But having kids and settling on an island never really took the adventurous edge off either of my folks.
Dad had made it, with dolphins on each side of the boat celebrating his success. But on the way back, he had been caught in a perfect storm. I believe he survived on optimism alone.
I watched him stumble down the driveway on wobbly sea legs. He looked ragged, with a few days beard, a sunburnt nose and several pounds lighter. He casually let himself drop on the sofa. He didn’t ask right away why I was there. We just sat in knowing silence, like two people with such good stories to tell that rushing into them would have been rude.
“So … what’s new with you?” Dad gave me the floor.
“I’m moving to the US. I broke up with David and quit my job. I leave in two weeks.” I said casually.
“Hmm. Great. You’ll like the Americans.” He nodded and smiled approvingly. That was it.

My Mom’s reaction was to buy me a suitcase. That suitcase held my entire life when I landed in LAX – a pair of jeans, a few tee shirts and underwear, my American flag sleeping bag, two unnamed stuffed cats – a tiger and a lion, currently behind me, the driver side of the truck, as I’m typing this – and about 15 comic books from a series called Thorgal, I just couldn’t do without.

My sister also wished me luck, in her own way. She confessed that she hadn’t cared for me much growing up – she was 13 years old by then – but that I had turned out alright in the end, and that she was likely to miss me.

With these blessings and gifts, I left never to return. I became an island girl in America. Always different. Always special.

Someday, I’ll write the story of my first day in LA. But that story would take a whole post, and my stomach is letting me know I’ve been writing well past lunch time.

Eventually, the “island girl” in me faded and integrated, reduced to nothing more than a slight lingering accent I’d have gladly discarded if could have. I like the American version of myself I have become. I feel so at home here, that¬†I hardly remember that I once upon a time lived far away on another planet, and wished so hard to be where I am today.

I only remember on April 10th.


P.S: On April 12th, 1992, two days later, I drove into Joshua Tree national monument for the first time with my cousin Jeff, from LA. The sun had just set when we reached the entrance. The Joshua Tree’s alien-looking branches were silhouetted against my first desert sunset. And just then, a coyote crossed the road!

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A few days ago, I posted a story about my arrival to the US from a small tropical island in the South Pacific.

Here are my Dad’s corrections, translated for your convenience (original email¬†below).

Hello, my … American daughter,

I carefully read your post by the above title [Happy One of my Most Special Day to me!]. All is well with it and it accurately represents reality . Of course, I will not intervene in your personal story, but I can correct some minor “historic” errors … or my lack of memory … none of which change the value of what you have written.

  • To begin with, with my memory problems, I don’t believe there was, ever, any peanut butter in the house (I hate it! …), but, if you say there was …¬†
  • I lived for 4 years¬†(1967¬†‚Äst1971) in LA and¬†Mom a little less than 3 years¬†(July¬†68¬†‚Äď January¬†71).
  • Your aunt was a bit young when we left for New Caledonia. She was not yet in Tahiti. It is possible that she had already met Robert [my uncle, who is from Tahiti]. She came, first, to New Caledonia where Robert and her were married (in Noumea), then left for Tahiti around 1975 or 1976. In fact, we felt that Tahiti was too small for our need for¬†wide open spaces. Our one-way plane tickets were from LAX->Sydney, but in the end we stayed in New Caledonia after discovering our beloved east coast.
  • When you came home after deciding to leave for the US, Mom and Goule [our nickname for my sister] were in the Isle of Pines (not Touho). Mom had flown to the island and Goule had sailed with me on the Chouchou [my Dad’s boat], but she refused to get back on the boat for the way back. To be fair, we navigated on the way there¬†smack in the middle of cyclone “Betsy”. I navigated the way back … in one of the worst “western episode” [crazy winds from the west] New Caledonia has ever know!…
  • Your sister was 15 when you¬†left (1977 -> 1992) [Actually, she was 14, so we’re both wrong. She was born on April 13th – which is today in New Caledonia because they are already tomorrow – so she hadn’t turned 15 yet. I still think of her as the “little sister” – it’s hard to keep track :-)]
Here are my few adjustments … just in case you decide to write a book from¬†your memories.
 

Kissesssss

MyDad [Monpapa – one word – is what I call him]
[Featured below, the famous, original Chouchou (not to be confused with Chouchou II) that crossed the ocean in a cyclone and came back in a “coup d’ouest”. Not photoshopped, the water is really that clear.]

 
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Salut ma fille… Américaine,
 
J‚Äôai lu, avec beaucoup d‚Äôattention, le texte dont le titre est ci-dessus. L‚Äôensemble est tr√®s bien et repr√©sente correctement la r√©alit√©. Bien sur je n‚Äôinterviendrai pas sur ce qui t‚Äôest personnel mais je peux corriger certaines petites erreurs¬†¬ę¬†historiques¬†¬Ľ ou‚Ķ¬†mon manque de m√©moire‚Ķ Ce qui ne change en rien, d‚Äôailleurs, sur le bien fond√© de tout ce que tu as √©crit.
 
  • D√©j√†, pour commencer par la m√©moire, je ne pensais pas qu‚Äôil y eut, un jour, du¬†peanut butter¬†√† la maison (j‚Äôai horreur de √ßa !‚Ķ), mais si tu le dis‚Ķ
  • J‚Äôai v√©cu 4 ans (1967¬†‚Äst1971) √† L‚ÄďA et Maman un peu moins de 3 ans (juillet 68¬†‚Ästjanvier 71) .
  • Ta tante √©tait bien jeune lorsque nous part√ģmes pour la Nouvelle-Cal√©donie. Elle n‚Äô√©tait pas encore √† Tahiti. Il est possible qu‚Äôelle connaissait d√©j√† Robert. Elle est venue d‚Äôabord, avec Robert, en Nouvelle-Cal√©donie o√Ļ ils se sont mari√©s (√† Noum√©a) puis sont partis pour Papeete en 75 ou 76. En fait, nous trouvions Tahiti bien trop petit pour nos envies de grands espaces. Nos billets d‚Äôavion,¬†one-way, indiquaient L-A -> Sydney mais nous sommes rest√©s, finalement, en Nouvelle-Cal√©donie apr√®s avoir d√©couvert notre C√īte Est.
  • Quand tu es revenue √† la maison apr√®s ta d√©cision de partir, Maman et Goule √©taient √† l‚Äô√éle-des-Pins (pas √† Touho). Maman √©tait venue en avion et ta sŇďur avec moi sur le Chouchou mais refusait d‚Äôy remonter. Il faut dire que nous avions fait la travers√©e, √† l‚Äô¬†aller, en plein dans le cyclone¬†¬ę¬†Betsy¬†¬Ľ et que j‚Äôai fait, deux semaines plus tard, le retour‚Ķ dans le pire¬†¬ę¬†coup d‚Äôouest¬†¬Ľ que la Cal√©donie ait connu !‚Ķ
  • Ta sŇďur avait 15 ans √† ton d√©part (1977 -> 1992).
Voil√† mes quelques pr√©cisions‚Ķ au cas o√Ļ tu ferais un livre de tes souvenirs !
 
Bisousssss
 
MonPapa