My Fantasy Life

Managing a Fear of Regret

It’s nearing the end of garden season, and I am bone tired. Though there are still squash, alliums, and tomatillos to harvest, my body and energy feel a bit withered and crumpled like the leaves in my vegetable garden. The barely tolerable heat waves are over, but several weeks of wildfire threat remain. The cooler temperatures, darker early mornings, and muted light usher autumn into place. My seasonal chores change: plant 75 cloves of garlic, save some seeds, prep the garden for winter, cut firewood, and continue the damn firewise work. These are the days that I dream about a different lifestyle, one without so much physical work and full of excitement and discovery.

I am sure I am missing all the fun.

The internet has indulged my fantasy life dreaming. My latest fantasy lifestyle is about becoming a nomadic traveler. My fantasy to-do list looks like this:

1. Eliminate my stuff, storing only the necessities.

2. Sell my home.

3. Buy a van and build it out to live in full-time.

4. Travel all over North America.

5. Witness beautiful vistas, chase wildflowers, explore ecosystems, watch the sun rise and set, ponder the Milky Way, hike trails, and sit in silence and awe of nature’s natural ruggedness.

Let me point out that this idea is not on my bucket list. A nomadic life has never appealed to me. Twenty-five years ago, my mom and stepdad sold their modest home and small business, rented a storage unit for the belongings they hadn’t sold, and bought a small used motorhome. They worked as campground hosts in the summer and traveled during the off-season. 

I remember thinking I could never give up my home to live on the road.

But this year, my homestead has needed a lot of extra maintenance, and when I am tired, overwhelmed, and grumpy, I escape to the computer to check out van life. YouTube is stocked with videos from many people who have adopted the nomadic van life, including several women in their 70s and 80s. Like all social media, the videos depict a life full of incredible scenery, cozy vans, and happy traveling companions. Now and then, they share that they are sleeping in the parking lots of Walmart, Cracker Barrel, and interstate truck stops while traveling to their next destination. That does not fit my fantasy, so I pretend they didn’t share that aspect.

Image from AAA : What’s Van Life Really Like?

I find two things about van life appealing: exploring the earth’s natural beauty and freedom. Most “van lifers” describe a sense of freedom as the best part of their choice; their only obligation is to live their lives, coming and going as they want. There are no garden clean-ups, firewood cutting, housecleaning, weed pulling…you get my point.

It’s estimated that over 1 million people live on the road full-time, using public lands, campgrounds, and parking lots as their temporary homes. Some of these nomads are retired, some work remotely, and if you have read or seen Nomadland, you know that unfortunate circumstances have forced some to live full-time in cars, vans, and recreational vehicles. And for some, it is a lifestyle of adventure combined with physically demanding work. Amazon’s CamperForce utilizes a seasonal and traveling workforce that lives full-time on the road, working in their warehouses during the holiday season.

My fantasy life does not include working in warehouses but exploring North America's natural beauty and backroads, especially the wide open spaces of the West. I envision camping and hiking for weeks on public lands, observing and writing about the flora and fauna and my adventures. Then, I would check into a motel or Airbnb for a day or three of civilized living, specifically showers, flushing toilets, and restaurant food, before heading out to my next exploration. Technology would allow me to read, research, write, and keep in touch; in my imagination, it plays like a grand adventure.

For decades, I kept a list of life goals—things I wanted to achieve—and it was ridiculously long. I worry about having regrets in my final days, which is not a bad thing, I think. It motivates me to dream, learn, and plan. Mary Oliver’s poem, When Death Comes, describes my desire: 

When it's over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

I’m not new to fantasizing about a different life. My childhood was chaotic, and I seldom felt secure or safe. I dreamed of escaping, and at age 17, I landed in Anchorage, Alaska, a place that utterly enchanted me with its massive mountains, glacial blue rivers, saltwater bays, and wildness. Several years later, I lived in Seabrook, Texas, a short walk from Galveston Bay. The flat landscape, the oppressively hot, humid weather, and the smells of the nearby chemical production facility did not enchant me. I fantasized about returning to Alaska for the next ten years, dreaming of a log cabin in the Matanuska Valley north of Anchorage, growing food, chopping firewood, foraging for berries, etc. My then-husband didn’t understand my obsession with Alaska. He didn’t share my Alaskan back-to-the-land fantasy.

Image from Alaska’s Harvest B&B

Moving to Washington State was the next best thing to my fantasy of homesteading in Alaska, and I settled into a predictable and conventional suburban lifestyle. Still, the fantasizing continued, and as I neared middle age and menopause, I felt the energy of change. The fear of regret haunted me. I wanted out of the suburbs, the eight-to-five job, the one-hour lunch of complaining about the other eight hours of the day, the commuter stop-and-go traffic, and the waiting for the weekend to experience living. I found my current home while searching online (the internet once again). We made an offer after one visit. Fifteen years later, I have realized my decades-long fantasy of living in a wilder state of nature, growing more food, and living a bit slower. As I wrote in A Place Called Home, I thought this would be my forever home. 

Despite the videos of beautiful vistas, camping spots, and cleverly designed vans, I have given up the notion of living full-time in a van and on the road because it simply is not a good fit for me. The list of reasons for not pursuing this adventure highlights some fundamental realities: 

• I’m not fond of driving. I get bored after only a few hours, and my body stiffens. I prefer the passenger side of a moving vehicle to watch the landscape and study my paper maps, orienting my body in an unfamiliar space. And knitting a few rows in between long glances out the window.

• I enjoy multiple creative pursuits, and nomadic life in a van can’t easily accommodate them. My books, my yarn projects, my herbs…

• I would miss my annual garden. Yes, I know I started this essay complaining about the garden work. But in the spring of each year, I am madly in love with the potential and hope of that year’s garden. A gardener’s enchantment.

• I am highly introverted, and meeting new people each week would be exhausting. Even thinking about it right now gives me the willies.

• Community is a part of my life. Friends, neighbors, and acquaintances in my rural village contribute to my sense of community. It’s easy to take this for granted.

• I have two big dogs and a cat—none like car rides. I envision a cat crying most of the time and four canine eyes looking at me, asking when we are going home? And where would they sleep in a van, exactly?

• Most importantly, my partner does not share my nomadic fantasy. I don’t mind solo hiking and camping, but a solo life is not appealing.

• I don’t know if it was the uncertainty of my childhood or if there is a homebody gene, but I cherish the sanctuary I have created. My favorite part of traveling is coming home.

I recently read Pam Houston’s Deep Creek: Finding Hope in the High Country, a love story about her relationship with her 120-acre ranch in Colorado’s mountains. I nodded my head throughout the book, agreeing and understanding so much about her connection to her place, but this statement hit home:  

Some days I think I would like to live near the ocean, or a sushi bar, or a movie theater, or my friends, who by and large live vibrant lives in sophisticated cities. But a low-level panic that feels downright primal always stops this kind of thinking in its tracks. A quiet certainty that if I gave up the ranch, there would be no more safe home, no place of refuge, no olly olly oxen free.

Thank you for being here. If you’d like to support my work you can do so by:

• Liking this post, so that others are encouraged to read it

• Leaving a comment

• Sharing this post via email or on social media

• Taking out a paid subscription to this Substack

Do you have a fantasy life? Do you have a regret about a path not taken?