Of light and heat.

(Written August 30, 2022, near Hollister, CA)

Last night, we sat underneath a blanket of piercing stars, roasting s’mores over our first firepit of a waning summer in an area of California that actually lifted its burn ban. We fixed our gaze upward, and our eyes began to ingest more of the extraterrestrial view, identifying the Milky Way spread like a nimbus cloud behind layer after layer of stars in the ink-black sky.

It was the first night in three years I’d been able to gaze at that many stars simultaneously. The only lights in a Portland sky are those of the neon variety. It’s almost never dark enough to see more than Orion’s belt, faintly peeking through the cloud cover.

And this is what I’ve needed all year, to gaze at the burning, twinkling lights traveling millions of miles over the universe, never reaching a destination, reminding me of my minutia stature in a world that rambles on infinitely. As our life in Portland was exacerbating my claustrophobia, the ability to feel small again compared to the expansive sky brings so much comfort. It grounds me. And stars burn brighter the older they get, which gives me hope that the best is hanging over us somewhere out there, still yet to come, waiting for us to catch up just like those stars in the night sky.

Glowing embers radiate their heat underneath my chilled fingers, brilliant hues of orange dance together with blackened ash. Burning flames lick the cold air above them. The moment comes down to light and heat. Above and below me, light and heat.

We are somewhere south of San Francisco by about two hours. Every time we check the weather report, it calls our location by a different name, so I honestly couldn’t say where exactly we are. This campground is set on sprawling acreage that houses a few families of wild boar and a community of black-tailed deer, including some doe who are still fawning, and an unchartable number of ground squirrel and quail. Miles of walking trails surrounded by those high desert mountains keep my secrets as I work out my thoughts on their worn paths. They have secrets, too, I bet.

The other day a young buck spotted us walking near. He high-stepped his front legs, announcing his next move would be a defensive one, and he charged at us, protecting his nearby spotted fawns and their mother. We had wandered into his territory, parked our home on his. We respectfully retreated, and he relented.

Across the park on another evening, I watched five piglets trail single-file behind their mother as their father rooted for rations underneath the soil. Parents caring for, protecting, nourishing their young all over the park, whether wildlife or humanity.

RV life demands intention with every action. Turning off the shower water while I lather instead of absentmindedly allowing it to rain down the drain, knowing that once our family of five is clean, it will be time to empty the tanks again. Hand washing, drying, and replacing every dish in the cupboard after every meal brings us a new awareness surrounding mealtimes, where dining together is nourishment and work. Making every inch count in our 200-square-feet of space, while at the same time being mindful of the weight we carry as not to strain our vehicle’s towing capacity. Counting our quarters and calculating what’s needed to wash our clothing and linens in the communal laundry facility.

There is no autopilot in RV life. Every action is thought through, for this is not an indestructible house. Laminate and particle board delicately hold us on a set of wheels. Precarious materials, and we hold it together with intention and gentleness, mindfully weighing the effects of our every action to minimize the reaction.

Just what’s needed and nothing else. But true needs must be assessed within the limit of space and mass. As in, we need clothing, but my musical instruments must stay behind under the supervision of lock and key. We need food, but not paddleboards. Light and heat and little more.

RV traveling is not the stereotypical dirty-transient lifestyle we once thought it was. We are houseless but not homeless, and the same can be said for others on this same property. Even the boars and deer have cozy spots to bed down, just like us. And as my husband and I stroll through the spacious rows of RVs, motorhomes, and fifth wheels, we see homes—not just vehicles—and the hands that have created them.

For the longer stays, there are gardens or potted plants and outdoor furniture and lawn decor. Families staying temporarily set up their portable homes, placing tin signs showcasing their namesake on the door, introducing the family behind the threshold. Outdoor canopies covered in netting create safe dining areas protected from insect invaders. Some mobile homes have outdoor lights strung from nearby trees, picnic tables covered in cloth, creating a sideyard oasis for barbecues and firepits with neighbors and fast friends. Family pets tethered within portable fencing greet us as we pass. Kids’ bicycles and scooters lean against aluminum exterior walls along with folding chairs and paddleboards. The stray neon palm tree or rope light Christmas tree feels festive. It’s like walking through a suburban neighborhood, though this one could be emptied within hours, its inhabitants driving away to their next destinations, where they will once again construct their castle of laminate and particle board.

The RV community is just that, a community. The quest to conquer the open road and the innate desire for simplicity and even frugality are the ties that bind us, as are conversations about Wifi connectivity and diesel engines, hosing adapters and couplers. Most people here are friendly, and as different from each other as the spaces we originated from across the country, we actually aren’t so different after all. We share our family’s stories and traveling tips, encourage one another, find common ground behind genuine smiles. Generating light, radiating heat.

Like John and Gail, a couple at our previous campground who, after listening to us squabble for an hour over our failing attempts to level the RV and secure the tongue jack on blocks at our campsite, sauntered over and offered aid. Without being prompted (or invited), John jumped behind the steering wheel of our idling SUV, our dog Ranger curiously sniffing his ears and examining his balding head from the backseat, to line up the truck’s hitch with the RV jack. While he took charge and got us set up, shedding light on how to do it right the next time we faced the same challenges, I chatted with Gail about their life in Arizona, her disdain for California gas prices and her volunteerism within the Baptist Church—but not like the Southern Baptists, she assured me. We laughed over some of the heated arguments she and John have had through their more than 30 years of RV travel. At the next campground, Kelley was the one to show a new RVer how to stabilize a tongue jack, just as John had shown him.

Or the former Desert Storm U.S. Marine who lives in the Southern California campground full-time with his war stories and his inoperable brain tumor. He introduced himself as The Hammer during the campground luau when he joined our family in our hiding spot to evade the hula dancers, who were calling up people from the crowd to dance with them. He later tried to volunteer me to join the fire dancers and laughed his magical, gravelly deep belly laugh as I told him how I’d caught a roll of paper towels on fire in our RV the previous night trying to light the gas stove, so I’d had my fill of fire dancing to last the summer, thank you very much. We said our goodbyes to him the night before we left, surprised by our mutual achy sadness over having had such a short time together. He brought light and warmth to our stay in the dry California desert.

Last night, as I held my daughter in my lap near the bonfire, her sun-lightened locks swirled under my chin, the smell of her orangesicle shampoo mingling with campfire smoke, the heat of her little body going limp in my arms under the lure of sleep and the warmth of her cozy sweatshirt she had layered over her sundress. Above me, below me, all around me—it all comes down to light and heat.

Home is wherever we are together. That is the motto we all share, whether we are enjoying retirement or working remote, empty-nesting or growing a family, whether full-time travelers or part-time vacationers. We aren’t so different in this community we’ve created, pieced together—wildlife and lone wanderers and crowded families turning travel into a lifestyle and miles into memories.