When we make a plan, especially a plan that does not make full sense yet, there is usually this window of time in which we experience what I call "The Squirmies." The Squirmies usually happen in times of transitions, especially as we near the peak of these transitions.

I don't know much about car mechanics, but I think that as we shift from one gear to the next, some amount of pushing takes place. Maybe a little stress, too. And then the opening, the surrendering is what makes the shift happen. Something like that.

During this process, in our human lives, we will often feel The Squirmies: we know where the next gear is, we know we want to get there, but we don't yet know how, and we are still in the pushing stage, the stress stage.

The release will come from surrendering. The transition, too.

Having hatched a plan that does not make 100% sense, I am now in the midst of the Super Squirmies. And because I know that there can be some level of pleasure / inspiration in watching someone else's process, I am going to share this journey with you. Take what serves, leave the rest, tell me your thoughts.

Ok, so in down-to-earth terms, a few things have to happen before this baby gets launched.  A big one being that I need to meet "the right person" to rent my house for 6 months - and take care of my cat. The good news is that I just need one "right person." The challenge is that I have not met that person yet, and my one-way ticket starts in one month.

Of course, this brings up the question of "what happens if I don't meet that person?" - and the answer to that is that I don't know yet.

You see, The Squirmies are full of I don't know and that's what makes them both scary and delicious. Scary because well, we like to know. Or rather to think that we know. Delicious because not knowing means there are millions of possibilities to discover when the time is right. Most likely bigger and better ones than we can imagine.

So, for now, I am doing my "Pray While You Move Your Feet" routine. I talk with people, I practice my Italian, I lighten up my house, I communicate with Joanna who has a sweet room for rent in the hills of Tuscany ... and I trust. I surrender. I talk with the universe and I know, for sure, that whatever happens will be just perfect.

Today, I invite you to make friends with your Squirmies and to trust.

And to come back here for the next chapter :)

Having dinner with my friend Hilary last May, I shared with her the logistics of my upcoming  summer:  for the next three months, my little home was about to quadruple in occupancy.

I explained to her the whos and the whys, and I knew that she was hearing not just my words, but what I was not saying. It is true that no matter how sweet the whos and the whys, I was looking at a whole season of scarily close quarters, in a house with very few doors. This translated to a potential for little personal space, something which having lived with me in the past, she knew me to absolutely need in order to write, to work, to create ... and to be.  

Once I had explained the situation to her, trying my best to sound light and easy about it all, she put down her fork, looked at me, and said: this is not going to work.

No “hey-you-can-always-come-sleep-on-my-couch-once-in-a-while” type of thing. No “who-knows-it-may-turn-out-just-fine” kind of comment. None of that. She looked into my eyes, and repeated: this is not going to work. Possibly followed by: this is not going to work.

I knew better than to try to list the reasons why it could indeed, work. She and I have a long enough history of honesty with each other that I had nowhere to go. The “it will be fine” story I had been trying to tell myself for a couple of weeks in the privacy of my own mind, was crumbling right there on the table, next to the half eaten injera bread.

Exposed and at her mercy, all I could ask was: ok. What do I do?

She was fast. “A tiny house,” she said. “Or a camper. For sure something with a door that closes. Something you can put in your yard and where you can even have phone coaching sessions. Yes, I do think a camper.”

A camper. Hmmm. I could start to see that.

Minutes after saying goodbye to Hilary, I posted a request on FB, asking if anyone had a camper I could rent for the summer. An interesting thread was started and I went to bed, grateful for friends who don’t let me get away with stuff.

The next morning, I was meeting another friend for a garage sale escapade. As we got ready to leave, I let her know that I was looking for a camper, and explained why. Because of who she is, her eyes lit up, and off we went.

Garages sales were scarce, and all I picked up was $1 a string of pink flamingo lights. The string was short, and I had no idea what I would do with it. But I threw it in the back seat.

10 minutes later, as we neared an old friend’s place on our way home, I remembered that as I was falling asleep the night before, I had thought that Corey would be a good person to ask about a temporary camper. He and I had lived on the same piece of magical land a lifetime ago, and if ever there was someone who may know of such a thing, it would be him. I asked Carol if she would mind a quick stop, and we made a left turn down the familiar steep driveway, the way I had for many years. Corey was home, and surrounded by several dogs and a swirl of creative mayhem, he invited us in. He did not have a camper, he said, but “Fred is upstairs, and he may.” Once upstairs, we were offered some delicious warm homemade flat bread, and the question was posed to Fred. Fred, whom I had known for almost 30 years and had not seen in 15,  was fully focused on a toy drone he was working on, and he barely looked up when he said - get ready for this - “well, I do have a little Airstream, parked in the bushes.”

Carol and I looked at each other.

I am not sure who made the next move, but I do know that when Fred said that yes, we could take a look at it some time, Carol and I both finished our flatbread pretty darn fast and one of us said that now would be a really great time.

Within 20 minutes, we were walking behind Fred up a grassy hill and into the woods. And there, under bushes and looking super grimy, was the cutest little camper I had ever seen.

Fred opened the door, got out of the way, and I stepped inside.

The first things I saw were some sort of terribly dirty partition,  and a really grungy looking mattress. It all looked so bad inside that I almost stepped back down and was ready to forget the whole thing. That of course, would have been without Carol who was suddenly right behind me, looking around the way she does, and then declared that “we could fix it up.” When she says things like that, I listen. And when I listen, the way my eyes work changes. If she thought we could fix it up, then we could. I asked Fred how much he would charge me to borrow this beast for the summer, and he said that if I could clean it up, that would be my rent.

Back in the car, we were shaking our heads, and I am pretty sure I saw one of the pink flamingos wink at me.

Fred and I met once more a couple of days later, drew up a little contractual agreement, where he kindly gave me the options to 1) have him come pick it up at the end of the three months, cleaned up 2) buy it cash  3) lease it to own for three years. Then he said he would deliver it  in the next three days.

Three days later, shortly after the sun came up, the World’s Cutest Little Camper rolled down my street, its red round lights blinking happily, and looking mighty pleased to be out of the bushes for the first time in nine years.

The next day was a big work day as I had hired a man to work with me on cleaning it up, inside and outside. I wanted to move fast, get it up to snuff, and move on with my life.

Covered in overalls and suds, we went at it, and within two hours, it started to look really darn good. Mid day, neighbors started to show up, people I had never met in the three years of living here. A couple had lived in an Airstream for 6 years, and they declared the 1979 Argosy Minuet: “a beaut’.”

By the end of the day, it was a totally different camper and I could barely remember its forlorn, moss covered look.

A trip to Value Village for a fluffy pink comforter, the string of flamingo lights hanging on the front - it started to talk to me, and before I knew it, agains all things that make sense, I had named her Lolita. As I was told days later on AirForum.com (yes, I joined that) you should never name a farm animal if you plan to eat it. Or return it in three months.

Over the last month, several of us have fallen in love with her. Thanks to my favorite talented handyman, she now has a beautiful new floor in the main area, as well as in the bathroom (the dirty, green shag carpet was not going to do it), she has had a couple of  overnight guests, I have had naps, coaching sessions and much, much delight - and well ... last week we built a little fence behind her. The kind that offers privacy, you know? And the kind that says that she’s not going anywhere fast.

For a couple of weeks, just as we were lavishing love and care upon her white round aluminum body, questions kept coming at me, and within the span a few hours, I could fully entertain totally opposed scenarios: I could buy her and sell her at a profit. I could send her back. I could keep her and travel. I could keep her and _______. I was making myself a little crazy trying to force some sense into something that just would not yet let me see its sense.

It was only once I committed to not making a decision for another month, that my mind seemed to gently shift. Once I allowed myself to enjoy  and rest in the Not Knowing Zone.

Pretty soon, very softly and sweetly, peace  and enjoyment grew. I was able to be in the moment and simply grateful - and as Rilke writes in one of my favorites lines, I was able to Live the Questions.

What I know for sure, is that this is no accident. The way she came to me, the way she looks, the way I feel when I step inside. The Essences that match some of my core Essences so well: Beauty, Creativity, Freedom. Even Connection.

For years, I had subscribed to Airstream’s online newsletter, following a meeting with a young woman who lived in one. Their curves were like warm butter to my eyes, and every time I received the email, I dreamed a tiny bit. About six months ago, I had unsubscribed, thinking that I wanted to focus on things that were more current - and more possible.  I guess it became time to upgrade the dream from reading about it to living it.

There are so many things whose sense we don’t know but can feel. So many things that ask of us only to say yes.

Today, I invite you to say yes, even when you can’ t quite explain the sense of it. I also invite you to know when you deeply need something, be it more personal space, or a special experience. Finally, I invite you to allow your friends to know you so well that when necessary, they are able to bring you back to the real you, often over great bread.

And more than anything, I invite you to dance with the magic of life as it so often conspires to surprise us in ways bigger and more playful than we could ever imagine.