the loneliness of modern nomadism

Anthropologically speaking, humans have always been nomadic creatures. But humans, at one time, traversed continents to follow resources - and they did so together. As we've evolved into an era of finding sustenance just a block away - or, a click away - we've all but eradicated our base-level need for community. But I'll get into that another time. 

For now, I'll just speak on my individual experience of nomadic instinct. Biology or genetics, nature or nurture, I've always been pulled to stay on the move. As a child, I was used to being awoken by my mom saying something along the lines of: "No school today. We're driving to Montana."

Some of my clearest and fondest memories of childhood are being on the road - my sisters and I piled into my mom's Suburban, barreling down the I-15 and stopping for anything that called to us. I remember a Pueblo in New Mexico where we ate Navajo Fry Bread while picking the brain of a French traveller. (This was my first memory of a woman with full armpit hair - and it made its feminist mark on my psyche.) I remember pulling off the highway for a sign that read, "Ghost Town," and driving down a barren street as a few elderly people watched us silently from their porch rocking chairs (We barely escaped with our lives, but that's a story for another time). I remember flying past the tall, lit buildings of Las Vegas, and stepping into the hot Arizona air for rest stops. I remember waking up to green sky in Oklahoma and getting the hell out of there before the tornado hit the ground. I remember sneaking our pet wolves into non-pet-friendly hotel rooms (Yeah.. we can talk about that later, too). 

I also moved several times throughout my childhood. I was born in California, then moved to South Carolina for a few years, moved back to California, moved to Montana, moved back to California, moved to Montana again, and then moved back to California when I turned 18. High school alone was three different schools, then ending my senior year with an online program. Since I turned 18, I've never lived in one place or been at one job for more than two years. When I left California at 23, I moved to New Mexico for a couple of years; and now I'm currently in Austin, Texas. (This timeline is also chock-full of many cross-country roadtrips, mind you. I've been known to quit my job, pack my car, and disappear for a while.) So you can see how my family and friends are spread out across the country. 

Now, the winds are blowing and telling me that it's time to go, again. I say that because the "itch" feels akin to the movie, "Chocolat" (One of my favorites, obviously). The main character in the film, Vianne, descends from nomadic tribes. The wind blows when it's time for her to move to another town, and she feels it on her face like the caress of a family member. It only settles when she decides that she has found her true home and she won't listen to the wind anymore.

Well, I don't think I've yet found my true home. But I'm searching. And here is where the problem lies: I have no place to call home. It's an endless dichotomy of not being ready to settle and subsequently not having ties to anything. The amazing part of my nomadism is the expansion of myself and my story - my relationships. I have treasured experiences with people from all over the country, be it an acquaintance I meet in a Thermopolis, Wyoming hot spring, a love affair that was cut short in Salt Lake City, or the circle of friends I built in San Diego. I am connected to so many in deep, albeit sometimes fleeting, ways. And, yet, I sometimes feel as though I have nothing to show for it. 

I watch my friends (and even acquaintances) through social media posts. I applaud their milestones and celebrate their wins. But because I can not always be a physical part of their journey, I am somewhat relegated to the sidelines - benched. Sure, I have many lovely, wonderful friends for whom I am eternally grateful. Friends who care, who reach out, who are there when I need them. Friends who party it up with me when I visit like I had never left. But the closeness we have is not the same as what it could be if we were in physical proximity. It's not just the distance between where I used to live and where I live now, it's the distance between me and everyone I've ever loved. 

I can't always show up to the birthday party or the baby shower, and I'm not always the first phone call someone makes when they have a more practical option. Nearly all of my phone calls are "Let me catch you up on the last two months in thirty minutes." and most of my bids for connection are likes and comments on Instagram posts. 

It's a pleasure and a joy to have had the opportunity to connect with so many people from so many different worlds. But, I know that I am leaving pieces of my heart behind with every new journey I make. I know that these people I love have their own lives, built on experience and community that is deservedly theirs. But as for me, how does one find peace in experiencing everything and belonging nowhere? In knowing everyone and having no one?

As someone deeply drawn to roots, community, and family, I would like to hope that I will one day find what is meant for me: a place to call home. And maybe you're thinking, "Chey, your problem could be solved if you just stay put." But something true - something that I own - is that I don't want to. Not yet. I have to keep faith in my intuition, my instinct. I have to let the wind blow - until I can't hear her anymore.

- From Chey