Getting Started
No Thyself
THE ONE THING that connects me to my earlier selves is my love of peanut butter. One version of that earlier self would be age five, a time of innocence. I not only believed in Santa, I knew where to find him.
At age six, cracks in the reality field began to show. That Santa chimney conundrum, for instance—what if he got stuck? Or worse, what if there were, heaven forbid, no Santa to even get stuck? Think about it. Think, John, think. There had to be an explanation.
Approaching age seven this thing called growing up was beginning to seriously assert itself. Life was getting way too complicated for comfort. Alas! No turning back.
This is the story of my rather improbable 2024, where rather late into life I achieved enlightenment (sort of) living in a forest in a broken-down van while making friends with a skunk. But to make sense of it all, I have to bing-boing through time, back and forth: to my distant past as an innocent boy and then a confused adult trying to adjust to life on a strange planet not of my choosing and thence to my more immediate last eight years, where I found a sense of peace by hitting the open road and never looking back.
Only then does a skunk massaging my legs at two in the morning make sense.
No Thyself
THE ONE THING that connects me to my earlier selves is my love of peanut butter. One version of that earlier self would be age five, a time of innocence. I not only believed in Santa, I knew where to find him.
At age six, cracks in the reality field began to show. That Santa chimney conundrum, for instance—what if he got stuck? Or worse, what if there were, heaven forbid, no Santa to even get stuck? Think about it. Think, John, think. There had to be an explanation.
Approaching age seven this thing called growing up was beginning to seriously assert itself. Life was getting way too complicated for comfort. Alas! No turning back.
This is the story of my rather improbable 2024, where rather late into life I achieved enlightenment (sort of) living in a forest in a broken-down van while making friends with a skunk. But to make sense of it all, I have to bing-boing through time, back and forth: to my distant past as an innocent boy and then a confused adult trying to adjust to life on a strange planet not of my choosing and thence to my more immediate last eight years, where I found a sense of peace by hitting the open road and never looking back.
Only then does a skunk massaging my legs at two in the morning make sense.
NEVER WASTE a good heart attack. That first one changed my life, reordered my priorities. It's been a week and a bit since my second one. Let's see what happens now.
My van is now parked by Dani and her Buddhist Nomads. I've developed a morning routine of taking a chair out beyond the wash, and parking it under a large tree, with my coffee and banjo. No didgeridoo—my New Year's resolution is to become known as Banjo John by the end of the year.
It's been two and a bit years since I purchased a banjo and it was love at first twang. There is something about strumming it under a tree that induces a quiet contemplative state, only this time my practice takes on the status of a pre-meditation.
Shortly before ten: My chair is now positioned in front of Dani's van. A few people emerge from their nearby rigs and take up positions on either side. Finally, Dani steps out of her van. She assumes a semi-lotus position on a cushion, loose socks, ramrod straight, dark hair flowing below her shoulders.
I'm guessing she's in her late-forties-early fifties. Her appearance is immaculate, as if she's had a full spa treatment in her van. On the road, this is exceptionally difficult to pull off, especially in a flat desert with strong winds blowing up dirt and dust.
No obvious makeup or adornments or nail polish. You might say she comes off as plain, but plain in a stylishly calculated way.
“Good morning, Boonies,” she greets us. Boonies is a play on Buddhist Nomads. It can also refer to our boondocking lifestyle. She lets the five or six of us there know what to expect. She brings down a tiny mallet on a chime …
Somehow, intuitively, I know this is where I need to be. Basically, I'm exploring the landscape of my mind, seeking a sense of calm. My mind, of course, has other ideas.
Whatever you do, says my mind, do not think about elephants.
Fun fact: Did you know the elephant has 40,000 muscles in its trunk?
Damn!
My van is now parked by Dani and her Buddhist Nomads. I've developed a morning routine of taking a chair out beyond the wash, and parking it under a large tree, with my coffee and banjo. No didgeridoo—my New Year's resolution is to become known as Banjo John by the end of the year.
It's been two and a bit years since I purchased a banjo and it was love at first twang. There is something about strumming it under a tree that induces a quiet contemplative state, only this time my practice takes on the status of a pre-meditation.
Shortly before ten: My chair is now positioned in front of Dani's van. A few people emerge from their nearby rigs and take up positions on either side. Finally, Dani steps out of her van. She assumes a semi-lotus position on a cushion, loose socks, ramrod straight, dark hair flowing below her shoulders.
I'm guessing she's in her late-forties-early fifties. Her appearance is immaculate, as if she's had a full spa treatment in her van. On the road, this is exceptionally difficult to pull off, especially in a flat desert with strong winds blowing up dirt and dust.
No obvious makeup or adornments or nail polish. You might say she comes off as plain, but plain in a stylishly calculated way.
“Good morning, Boonies,” she greets us. Boonies is a play on Buddhist Nomads. It can also refer to our boondocking lifestyle. She lets the five or six of us there know what to expect. She brings down a tiny mallet on a chime …
Somehow, intuitively, I know this is where I need to be. Basically, I'm exploring the landscape of my mind, seeking a sense of calm. My mind, of course, has other ideas.
Whatever you do, says my mind, do not think about elephants.
Fun fact: Did you know the elephant has 40,000 muscles in its trunk?
Damn!
(Flashback, three years earlier.)
Back at the camp. Sandra is still in town. Darkness has settled in. Outside, on my Coleman stove, with my headlamp on, I'm preparing a simple meal of mac and cheese. As the pot is bubbling, I head around to the other side of my van to retrieve whatever it was I left inside. The bushes before me move.
Oh-oh.
My van is situated by an embankment. The van is on my back. I am looking up to the top of the embankment, not far away. A shadow materializes, a large mammal in profile, hopefully a deer.
The head turns toward me. Yellow cat-like eyes. Definitely not a deer.
What happens next is so out of the realm of normal as to qualify for supernatural. I am not reacting, not responding. Not even an “oh shit.” I am merely observing. The shadow takes form—a mountain lion!—and bounds toward me. The beast gathers itself before a tree and leaps up with unparalleled agility and grace.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and of all things I'm feeling awe and wonder. A sense of gratitude washes over me—me, blessed with the visit of this marvelous creature.
The beast latches onto the tree and flips over so its head is down and rear legs are poised to spring. It rears its head at me and snarls. I am pinned to the van. It has a drop on me. One more leap and I'm the lion's dinner.
Amazingly, all this time, my amygdala—that part of the brain that initiates fight or flight—has remained surprisingly silent. But now it needs to be going off like a ten-alarm fire. Seriously, it needs to be making some noise. It needs to be initiating sequences—shield walls up, warp drive, karate kick, run faster than Michael Phelps can swim.
Nothing. I'm not even fighting to hold down a panic. No shortness of breath, no racing heart, nothing. I'm standing fast, headlamp on, looking straight at the beast, eye to eye.
A second goes by. Two. The beast climbs down from the tree and slinks away in a wide arc, not taking its eyes off me the whole time. It disappears into the woods. A second goes by. Two. Then I suddenly remember my bubbling mac and cheese. I make a mad dash for it, remembering to turn off the burner, and get into the van and close the door behind me. I will be eating indoors tonight.
I'm left wondering: Why didn't my amygdala go off?
Back at the camp. Sandra is still in town. Darkness has settled in. Outside, on my Coleman stove, with my headlamp on, I'm preparing a simple meal of mac and cheese. As the pot is bubbling, I head around to the other side of my van to retrieve whatever it was I left inside. The bushes before me move.
Oh-oh.
My van is situated by an embankment. The van is on my back. I am looking up to the top of the embankment, not far away. A shadow materializes, a large mammal in profile, hopefully a deer.
The head turns toward me. Yellow cat-like eyes. Definitely not a deer.
What happens next is so out of the realm of normal as to qualify for supernatural. I am not reacting, not responding. Not even an “oh shit.” I am merely observing. The shadow takes form—a mountain lion!—and bounds toward me. The beast gathers itself before a tree and leaps up with unparalleled agility and grace.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and of all things I'm feeling awe and wonder. A sense of gratitude washes over me—me, blessed with the visit of this marvelous creature.
The beast latches onto the tree and flips over so its head is down and rear legs are poised to spring. It rears its head at me and snarls. I am pinned to the van. It has a drop on me. One more leap and I'm the lion's dinner.
Amazingly, all this time, my amygdala—that part of the brain that initiates fight or flight—has remained surprisingly silent. But now it needs to be going off like a ten-alarm fire. Seriously, it needs to be making some noise. It needs to be initiating sequences—shield walls up, warp drive, karate kick, run faster than Michael Phelps can swim.
Nothing. I'm not even fighting to hold down a panic. No shortness of breath, no racing heart, nothing. I'm standing fast, headlamp on, looking straight at the beast, eye to eye.
A second goes by. Two. The beast climbs down from the tree and slinks away in a wide arc, not taking its eyes off me the whole time. It disappears into the woods. A second goes by. Two. Then I suddenly remember my bubbling mac and cheese. I make a mad dash for it, remembering to turn off the burner, and get into the van and close the door behind me. I will be eating indoors tonight.
I'm left wondering: Why didn't my amygdala go off?
THE PART you've all been waiting for …
We can all talk a good game about enlightenment, but try doing it with a skunk present. And Flower meant business. One fine evening, Daisy—the dog we were looking after when I was with Buddhist Nomads—engaged in a bit of a tete a tete, resulting in a minor disagreement. Flower responded by giving Daisy a piece of his—uh, you know.
Now I've moved to a nearby spot smack dab in the middle of Flower's migratory route. Every night without fail—sometimes twice or more, he would turn up, tail ominously raised. If you were able to look past the fear, you would be treated to a magnificent display of ethereal black and white stripery.
If I were designing a flag for a country, it would be a simplified rendering of Flower's tail and I'd be asked to give a TED Talk. The fact that there is no such flag is proof of our fear of skunks.
One fine morning, I woke up to muddy footprints on my van windshield. How he got up there, I'll never know, but if I ever write a murder mystery I'll spend three rewrites trying to figure it out.
The plot thickens …
I’m doing most of my sleeping in the “clam” Shakti has gifted me. As you may recall, this is a five-sided mesh-walled canopy. The unit has no built-in floor, but an outdoor carpet creates a sense of home.
I'm also taking afternoon naps in my hammock. I settled in. A skritching from below. The feeling of my butt being rubbed. For any linguists reading this, the word “amygdala” pairs very nicely with skunk.
So do glucocorticoids, fight-or-flight, panic, and holy shit!
I settle into my sleeping bag in my clam. Skritch-skritch. I switch on my headlamp and look out. A pair of yellow eyes. The tail!
Please, Mr Skunk, I implore you. Would you be so kind as not to …
Not working.
Woof! Woof!
A definite calculated risk. After all, the last thing we want is for my amygdala to set off his amygdala. Don’t want to deal with that “end” result.
I'm rewarded with the sight of the tail receding into the darkness. Whew! Not Phew!
Days and nights of siege warfare. I left something behind in my van. I unzip the door to my clam and step out. There's Flower, midway between clam and van, not about to budge. Instantly I see the merit in deciding that whatever it was I left behind in my van cannot possibly be important, and so it is that I slink back into my clam fortress, tail between my legs.
His tail, of course, remains fully raised.
The passage of time …
Skritch-skritch.
“Hi, Skunk, how's your day been?”
“Hi, Human. Not half-bad, I suppose.”
Flower and I have reached a modus vivendi, an accord, a meeting of the minds. We have decided that each other falls into the mostly harmless category and we go about our appointed rounds accordingly. My amygdala is now wholly nonreactive. I pee freely in the forest, looking out at yellow eyes. I ply back and forth between clam and van, Flower practically by my side.
You know, I'm actually getting to grow fond of the critter, even looking forward to his visits.
In the hammock. Skritch-skritch.
Thanks for the butt-rub little guy.
No worries, mate. Have a good day.
I love you, Flower! If this has been a test, I've aced it. I now feel I'm walking the earth as an incarnation of Francis of Assisi, Patron Saint of Animals. Only in the many pics of Francis I pull up, I fail to pick out a skunk in his forest following.
Raccoon, check, Deer, check. Skunk demonstrably absent. Am I breaking new ground here?
We can all talk a good game about enlightenment, but try doing it with a skunk present. And Flower meant business. One fine evening, Daisy—the dog we were looking after when I was with Buddhist Nomads—engaged in a bit of a tete a tete, resulting in a minor disagreement. Flower responded by giving Daisy a piece of his—uh, you know.
Now I've moved to a nearby spot smack dab in the middle of Flower's migratory route. Every night without fail—sometimes twice or more, he would turn up, tail ominously raised. If you were able to look past the fear, you would be treated to a magnificent display of ethereal black and white stripery.
If I were designing a flag for a country, it would be a simplified rendering of Flower's tail and I'd be asked to give a TED Talk. The fact that there is no such flag is proof of our fear of skunks.
One fine morning, I woke up to muddy footprints on my van windshield. How he got up there, I'll never know, but if I ever write a murder mystery I'll spend three rewrites trying to figure it out.
The plot thickens …
I’m doing most of my sleeping in the “clam” Shakti has gifted me. As you may recall, this is a five-sided mesh-walled canopy. The unit has no built-in floor, but an outdoor carpet creates a sense of home.
I'm also taking afternoon naps in my hammock. I settled in. A skritching from below. The feeling of my butt being rubbed. For any linguists reading this, the word “amygdala” pairs very nicely with skunk.
So do glucocorticoids, fight-or-flight, panic, and holy shit!
I settle into my sleeping bag in my clam. Skritch-skritch. I switch on my headlamp and look out. A pair of yellow eyes. The tail!
Please, Mr Skunk, I implore you. Would you be so kind as not to …
Not working.
Woof! Woof!
A definite calculated risk. After all, the last thing we want is for my amygdala to set off his amygdala. Don’t want to deal with that “end” result.
I'm rewarded with the sight of the tail receding into the darkness. Whew! Not Phew!
Days and nights of siege warfare. I left something behind in my van. I unzip the door to my clam and step out. There's Flower, midway between clam and van, not about to budge. Instantly I see the merit in deciding that whatever it was I left behind in my van cannot possibly be important, and so it is that I slink back into my clam fortress, tail between my legs.
His tail, of course, remains fully raised.
The passage of time …
Skritch-skritch.
“Hi, Skunk, how's your day been?”
“Hi, Human. Not half-bad, I suppose.”
Flower and I have reached a modus vivendi, an accord, a meeting of the minds. We have decided that each other falls into the mostly harmless category and we go about our appointed rounds accordingly. My amygdala is now wholly nonreactive. I pee freely in the forest, looking out at yellow eyes. I ply back and forth between clam and van, Flower practically by my side.
You know, I'm actually getting to grow fond of the critter, even looking forward to his visits.
In the hammock. Skritch-skritch.
Thanks for the butt-rub little guy.
No worries, mate. Have a good day.
I love you, Flower! If this has been a test, I've aced it. I now feel I'm walking the earth as an incarnation of Francis of Assisi, Patron Saint of Animals. Only in the many pics of Francis I pull up, I fail to pick out a skunk in his forest following.
Raccoon, check, Deer, check. Skunk demonstrably absent. Am I breaking new ground here?
