Santa Barbara held my former life in all her bubble wrapped glory. Moving is kind of love hate relationship. Because of this, I’ve sort of adopted this cut everything in half rule. Leading up to this trip, I was in the process of cleaning out my 500 sq foot apartment in Manhattan Beach, CA. Half rule in place, we were left with the following: 1 plastic wrapped mattress, a bicycle, camping gear, the dresser from my childhood, an old desk from Grandma Book’s basement, an iMac, several totes of kitchen wares, and dark room equipment. At this point, I’d been spending most of my weekends commuting from Manhattan Beach up here, so I’d had my fill of exploring the streets of Santa Barbara. I really just wanted to stop at all of the coffee shops to document them, drag my yellow couch around a bit, then head to the beach in Goleta and decompress. The South Bay was a mere 100 miles away, and I started feeling the pressure of the actual homelessness and deep unknown that I was about to endure.
Have you ever walked up to the edge of a cliff or some high place? Did it freak you out?
I hope it did. I hope you respected it, that feeling in your gut. I hope it made you lose your breath a little, feel a bit wobbly.
I’d been preparing for months. Selling furniture. Gawking at friends who made similar jumps. Reading every scrap of material I could get my hands on. Watching every episode of Chef’s Table. Read The Alchemist a million times. Thanks Ben Moon for writing Denali. I was just drooling over these people who had the guts to leave it all behind and walk their path. Their hero’s journey, their artist’s path, their dream. Call it whatever you want.
I’d arrived at one solitary truth. Living the life I had imagined for all of these years (and badgered your poor souls about) would require one gigantic leap into the unknown.
I want you to know that this course correction felt like seeing the edge of that high cliff, but, instead of approaching it thoughtfully with great reverence, we just took a running leap and dove headlong straight into the abyss.
There’s a quote about this that will always hit home. This bit from Erin Hanson about freedom waiting for you in the sky and asking the universe ‘what if I fall’ and her rushing in to offer ‘but what if you fly.’ The dualistic nature of risk is so beautiful to me. I savor it. Deep sadness revealing abundant joy. Life implying death. Needing “black for the white to show.” (Thanks for the cool line Quinn. It’s from a song he wrote called Smile.) You’ll notice it show up in my work if you look closely enough. Always contrasting with color, subject, and light.
That’s the only way I know how to describe the feelings that were wreaking havoc on my being. Like I was being pulled apart at the seams to make way for something I couldn’t begin to conceive. This wasn’t silly fake horror film imagination night terrors. This was true vulnerable fear. Is this safe? Am I ok? If I fail, who will help me? Where will I go? How far am I prepared to fall if this doesn’t work out?
My plan was full of holes. Well to be honest, I didn’t really have one. I was running on courage, but I had a few goals I guess.
Goal 1: Get off Treadmill
Goal 2: Build community
I had two months of expenses saved and that’s about it. My stubborn ego and my wild anxiety were about to endure adventure of a lifetime.
