i have taken every opportunity to live in other countries since i was nineteen and spent a summer in Canada learning a French that would later embarrass me when i lived in France.

One of these times i fell in with the right crowd. i love them still, these dreamy friends of mine; we keep in touch. They were mostly a bit older than i in a time of life when that mattered, and i was gladly taken underwing. One year on my birthday i did ecstasy with these friends and didn’t quit for another several months. None of us did.

We all worked hard at our day jobs, and those of us who weren’t local also studied the language. Our weekdays were steadily full and rewarding in their different ways. Weekends were reserved for dancing together all night long, taking care of each other, and snuggling at sunrise. It was all beautiful and nothing hurt. Several weeks went like this before we realized that Tuesdays were presenting a problem common to us all.

The institution of “blue Tuesdays” was a simple mechanism for tending to each other. i remember so fondly the understanding among those in attendance that none of us had any charisma to share. The potential darkness of one’s mental state following a chemical alteration was neither underestimated nor feared. For the most part we were all just low on energy; our weekends tapping every reserve we had. On Tuesdays then we would go out to eat together, tenderly sharing a table and food. We’d often startle ourselves by having a great time, if calmer than usual. That group of pals, if we ever tried to have fun, we’d succeed. i remember blue Tuesdays with a warmth in my heart unique to the undercurrent of care shared by beloved playmates.

There aren’t a lot of mechanisms for helping our pals like this. We were a tight-knit group, but i did see the pattern repeated in the kink community. People in that world will check up on each other a few days after playing together, just to make sure everything is okay. It is standard and expected that people do so, both as community care and a gesture of accountability. Kinky people also neither underestimate nor fear the darkness. They’re about courting it, really.

A low time after high time is especially noticeable in extremes, like with chemicals or kink, and otherwise deeply subjective and circumstancial. i usually experience a bit of melancholy following thorough and genuine enjoyment, often sober and clothed, even! Family gatherings can do this, the same as a fresh romance. It feels like life tends toward balance in this way, though really it’s all brain chemistry.

What i know about these trade offs for certain is that the memories stay sweeter—the highs stay higher—when you’ve got a soft, loving place to come down.

i had planned to skip this road, this time. i was a passenger once, nearly fifteen years ago, down about ten hours of this coast, on this highway.

i had planned to miss it because i didn’t want to deal with the hassle. i remembered the traffic and the intensity of the driver’s stress at not be able to enjoy the views. i also remembered the views, and know myself too well not to then consider my safety as a driver.

Fast forward three months and i have done winding roads. i have learned to accomplish mountains, canyons, narrow passes, high altitudes, steep grades up and down, turn outs, in the dark, against the sunset… i have Done winding roads.

After much encouragement, i decided to visit Big Sur. i had completely forgotten my former reluctance about Highway 1. i arrived there fresh from Yosemite, to and from which one can only travel along stunning—currently especially wet and green—mountain twists and turns. i was primed for the coastal cliffs.

Turns out i can now handle my vehicle so well it feels like she was made for these roads. i drove south then north then south again, happily cruising, knowing the deep blue ocean would be there often. Green is everywhere else, under a sweet blue sky. Giant birds—gulls, hawks, cormorants, ravens, vultures—soar and spin in ocean wind above unearthly waves that crash over boulders, into cliffs. Everywhere that’s not water, flowers are eagerly in bloom on green and rocky hills. Cows wander huge fields, surrounded by glorious scenery. Cars speed through all of this, over curves and around bends, as if paced for racing.

And everyone pulls over along the way at sunset. If not, you’d miss the sounds of frogs.

Yesterday i drove into the sunset from the Sierra mountains to the ocean. i went to bed late on Highway 1, waves crashing far below me. The morning was probably twice as beautiful as you’re imagining: birds, bees, butterflies, and a relentless, roiling surf.

Today i found Big Sur. Upon looking up at these massive, old as fuck trees, guess what happened? Nothing surprising: i burst into tears. The comedic kind that spurt like an explosion from probably the most terrible face i can make. i knew that the size of the trees and my respect for them was the catalyst for this eruption, and when i asked myself what else was going on, only gratitude arose.

Through tears i found myself thanking the forest, the universe, myself. Nearly three moons from my Maine departure, i have reached the ocean again. Even as i write this my vision blurs. The reality is that a deep peace settles into your soul when you pursue the life of your own dreams. The gift is that when you’ve done so, the universe will toss more realized dreams your way, almost casually. Here you go, you earned this.

Spending so long on the road alone, rarely lonely, every day in awe, fostered the comfort down in me. i have been feeling a new, yet permanent sense of resolve, assuredness, and fearlessness.

My calm, strengthened soul was then entirely blindsided by an abundance of luxurious, desired gifts that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Like a celebrity in flashbulb light i was stunned, covering my features and demanding my own space. i had felt quite content and secure before these intricate, gorgeous opportunities showed up. At first i did not want them, the way they disrupted my calm. At second i did not feel deserving. Being so selfishly focused of late, i felt unprepared.

It took a minute—and some generous coaxing—for me to realize that not only am i qualified for, i also deserve, this goodness. It turns out that both of these statements are true of everyone at any time; please don’t let your silly brain tell you differently.

Today, a proper acceptance speech could fall out of my mouth at any moment, including the part where i hyperventilate and gush that “never in my wildest dreams could i have hoped for this!” That would be a cute fib for everyone to agree on, when this is what i dreamed of all along.

i’m in a parking lot somewhere near Yosemite National Park held fast by the cats and dogs of spring rainfall. If you were here we’d probably be naked by now, but i no longer spend time on dreams like that, of you. i do enjoy the memories. i write because in remembering now, one thing in particular stands out. i’d like to thank you, even though i know you didn’t do it on purpose, not quite. Even i couldn’t have told you it could work, the way you cared for me, but you showed me exactly the ways i want partnership to be. From those moments, especially our final afternoon of passion and playfulness, i take such comfort. Thank you for helping me identify my ideal. Your honesty also groomed for me a confidence in us that leads me to feel comfortable writing this now, regardless of time passed. Real shit feels real, and stays real, even when you’re just bumpin’ uglies with a pal.

i’m driving winding roads again. Green on all sides, a first since the Northeast coast, in Wabanaki and Penobscot territory. Here, a slow rain is pattering down through ancient pines into stubborn snow, the last of which clings to the earth’s edges, collecting dirt. The droplets are plump. They hang lazily in the air as if unwilling to show up on time to fall together. Instead they simply appear, like so many beads of sweat from pores of skin, one by one. i can’t even set the windshield wipers on auto, so gently does this rain fall.

i wonder if i’ve been dreaming. i wonder for how long. i try to arrange the moments chronologically. i try to reassure myself of reality. i am at a loss, though i have a feeling of winning overall.

i pull the car over to admire the pines. The remnant snow snuck into corners like children hiding from bedtime. There are mountain lions in there, i’ve heard tell. And fresh pine nuts if you know how to look.

i have known very few springtimes that were not illustrated by sweet rain on filthy snow. This reality tickles consistent memories: a cycle i can rely on. i smell the cleansed air, the touch of cold. Moisture in the air brings it closer to something i know.

i roll the window down to breathe deep of this reassuring atmosphere. i tilt my head out to let the rain hit my sun-kissed face. A wet cleanse after a fevered dream. Winter making way for spring.

i haven’t ever gotten to know a donkey. We, the trio of which i lately enjoyed being part, called them burros because it’s a cute word. i like to practice rolling my r’s.

The other day i went for a walk near a lake somebody named Havasu. There i startled some wee bunnies, and then a roadrunner. It was early in the day and the thicket i found was full of excitable blackbirds, chattering and singing away while everyone did their morning foraging. The roadrunner flew to a tree and perched a while. It didn’t mind me less than ten feet away, staring to memorize this animal i’d not seen before. Roadrunners do indeed have a fun tuft of something on their head that does a little up and down sometimes. We both rested there a while, near each other. Things like this happen for me a lot, especially this trip. i feel lucky that in a time of difficult human socializing, i can still make friends with animals. If you ever feel like it, please ask me about the ravens in Bryce Canyon. We had whole conversations.

Among the nomads i felt no less an observer—no less respectful, grateful, or endeavoring to leave no trace. Emancipated humans are gorgeous creatures, common but rarely observed. They are not altogether unpredictable, nor are they prone to reckless or foolish behavior. Free people are organized by intention, choosing community or not as they please, all the while unapologetically their own unique selves. Unfettered by worldly nonsense one can truly let go—free range humans laugh all the time, and pass judgement so infrequently that one among them could forget the habit.

i use the same skills of communication for all creatures to whom i’d like to offer good will, or companionship, if at a distance, if only for a time. Ravens will get well within six feet, but these days that’s more rare among strangers. Living in Taiwan i learned to give a tiny bow to demonstrate appreciation and respect. i have, gratefully, not let go of this habit. If you spend time with me you can notice minute bows surprisingly often, as i subconsciously entreat my audience. i do much more dramatic bows once in a while with humans, but always with big horned sheep, buffalo, deer… Hoofed creatures seem to genuinely understand the moment when i meet their eyes, close mine slowly, and lower my face away from theirs. i can watch their bodies relax and sometimes even notice a softer gaze. Wary eyes become calmer, often as the animal turns their back to me, which really feels like a compliment: i am so harmless as to have become wholly unimportant. i learned to bow to animals in Taiwan as well, when a startled monkey mama took a definitive stance, so Dave whispered that we should look away from her and the babies. i bowed then, and the rustle of leaves told us of their retreat, a close call.

People who live beyond the constraints of society organize themselves with natural grace. A former manager of fellow workers might wonder where their schedule is, so easily is each meal created and offered. There is little to no talk of money; each member of a group is simply expected to do what they are able. As a person on the outside, i made myself available to help however i could. i also made a lot of my own meals, but was welcomed to share in many of the group’s as well. i never saw these people deny anyone, among them or who had wandered in, anything. Things wanted fixing and somebody fixed them. Needs were met so that enjoyment could be prioritized. If there had been rules among this camp, mutual aid was number one.

Today i saw a skunk! It ran across the road in front of me and I cheered because there was plenty of distance. That little rascal made it well in time. i told him not to spray me as I drove by.

i also made friends with some turkeys. I told them it was safe to cross the path and they believed me. If i turned to face the Drake, he would fluff up his feathers really quickly but not fully. i would bow, and i would concentrate on not being a threat to him. i would picture us being being peaceful and send it to him. He would put his feathers down and turn away from me. This happened thrice. Each time i convince an animal that i’m friendly, it feels like a huge accomplishment. It also always feels like a lesson about people.

Have you ever greeted a donkey and then laughed for any reason? Eeyore was no exaggeration—burros will lower their heads and back up as if embarrassed. i met several sweet burro friends in Arizona, only to find myself apologizing to half of them for my startling laugh. Those were town donkeys, wandering in for food from tourists. It took a day or two but i finally spotted the donkeys we’d been hearing from the hills near our camp. They had a horse friend among their little tribe.

We are all animals. We all organize naturally to take care of each other, given the right conditions. The freedom of anarchism is beautiful and possible and for me now more a faith than ever before. Humility in greeting strangers is a major priority as well. If i bow to you now, it is as a free creature. Listen closely on a quiet night for my song coming from the wilderness.

i drove out of the desert yesterday and didn’t settle down until i saw grass. i didn’t need grass, but that was when i finally settled. i thought maybe the dusty smell of desert now belonged to a place in time: if i go back to take a whiff, it could fill me with sensations specific to the moment i’d just left behind. i could visit us there sometime.

Today my home needs new brake pads and i am stuck in a strip mall full of loud machinery on the only bench i could find within a mile of the auto shop. It’s a bus stop next to six lanes of traffic and some kind of construction separate from the other machine noises. The desert is long gone.

Though now here has arrived a mourning dove, unfamiliar yet identifiable, hopping over a curb toward some crumbs. There you are: pointing out birds and helping me solve their puzzles, find their names. i don’t know where your body is now but i can see you grinning. And here i am, far from that moment we left. Here i am, cheesing right back.

i am wandering the desert in bare feet and sweatpants. i’m not lost, but i’m not sure why i’m here. Scrub brush and assorted attempts at green mingle among every size of stone from sand to boulder. The shades of grey show color if you give them a moment. i crest a wash to discover a line of pocked aluminum cans sitting on a ledge dug into a rocky dune. My dust-covered toes find footing amid spindly grasses and jagged edges to examine a couple sodas and some booze replaced by sand and ammo. i tip the cans to let BBs slide out sparkling amid the dust that weighed their targets down. The little spheres are heavy for their size, satisfying to roll around my filthy palms. The sound of a helicopter sends my face toward the sky; i take in the landscape again. Desolate, but not hopeless. i am a sunburnt, sandblasted child of some apocalypse, tear ducts full of dust. The wind whips past in particles and i raise my hood to hide from the desert. i take the BBs home to meet my collection of other small beauties.

Dave and i were scootering through the jungle towns on the island of Nusa Penida when we accidentally rolled up on a parade of some kind. We had no way of knowing what or why this procession was happening—a lot of people dressed elaborately in whites carrying various but all tall, handmade, flower-filled ornaments like so many flag bearers. Some had gorgeous headdresses of woven palm leaves. There was a Balinese kind of rhythmic metallic percussion that made us pull over just before the procession took over the narrow street. There was no room for us but to gawk and wait, though we discovered later we’d both felt it necessary to avert our eyes as a gesture of respect. Neither of us knew why.

Lately i have been spending time with a group of people who love each other and the world so well that it’s all i can do to admire and be among them. i am delighted to find that nomads exist, in tribes that are genuinely cooperative, non-hierarchical, and prosperous according to their own standards. i was brought here by a lover who vouched for me, and so am not of the group despite my adoration of it. My being a visitor doesn’t stop anyone from treating me like i belong. It does stop me from taking pictures, though i don’t often avert my eyes.

i’m sorry in advance that i cannot share the brilliant camp meals, ingenious build-outs of different rigs (there are three school busses being outfitted down the campground from the spot i’m visiting!), the irish wolfhound who sniffs at the miniature pinscher while the pitbulls play with the german shepherd, the faces of these people when they look at each other, ways they work to fix each other’s rigs, share meals, make art, or the parties.

There are a lot of ways to feel about all of this and a lot of moments to feel all of those ways. Still, one feeling stands out: i’m grateful just to be here.

And so there will not be many photos for you.

i have the joy of knowing a woman who falls asleep early and mostly unapologetically among her family. She’ll let herself doze off on the couch amid voices and laughter, a peaceful calm on her face. We talk about this and she professes her love for nestling into a room—complete only with good blankets—of loved ones.

When i first struck out on my own with my car, i enjoyed parking in remote spots around Maine and New Hampshire totally alone. i often wouldn’t have cell service, and i’d stay a few days then go park at a friend’s house for a while. Hitting the road this time meant considering different locales (irrelevant, it turns out) as well as parking venues specifically. Lots, rest areas, truck stops, public lands, national forests are all in play now. i talked to an experienced traveler who pointed out the ways having people nearby might feel more safe. “If there’s regular noise you can get used to it, but if you’re all alone and one other person shows up, you might wonder about them.” i have only parked totally alone a few times since.

On the road i started with parking lots, rest stops, then finally public lands in New Mexico. The last was a huge relief and i took advantage by using my tent as much as possible. i like seeing other campers from a distance. Neighbors are good.

At my current campsite, i wake up and go to sleep to chatter and laughter from the group i’m visiting. A beloved moment repeated a myriad of ways in my lifetime, all of them exciting and happy: waking up to warm conversation. There’s maybe the smell of bacon, or toast. Definitely coffee. Some of my memories feature people still partying from the night before, but more often the company simply seem happy, even if they’d rather be back in bed. In more tender memories i get orange juice, not coffee, then become impatient with adult conversation. i remember wondering who else is up, listening for birds and breakfast. Hugging pets. Cooking french toast and promising everyone that it’ll be great. Watching loved ones kiss each other bleary good mornings. Generous snuggles, grumbles, giggles.

When the voices of relative strangers waft into my tent as those of loved ones have down hallways, up stairs, under doors, through walls… when my half-awake ears hear the familiar murmur, i travel these morning memories, leaning in to their sustenance. A sweetness often overlooked, a warmth worth recognizing.