Regular jobs have never suited me; I don’t like keeping set hours. I prefer to be on Indian time: eat when I’m hungry, rest when I’m tired, work and live interchangeably. Getting paid has not been top priority. I read somewhere once that stories are currency—in that case I’m definitely rich. I spend about 90% of my time alone, but the other 10% I really love people. You could call me a dharma bum in the tradition of Jack Kerouac, only female and sober and secretly quite industrious. Some things I take serious as the grave; others—like the grave—I don’t take serious at all. I roll out change from my change jar, throw some gear in the truck and go.
While on a ramble I am content to let events unfold naturally, at the whims of mercy and the mercy of the whims. I meet lots of good people that way, see all sorts of cool places, laugh much and learn my lessons. Later on I write about it. Sometimes I sit in a chair in the yard, sipping tea and watching tree leaves shimmer and sigh, and I think, I want to be just like that: life moves me yet I remain still.
To ramble is to pursue a winding course, to journey along in a cheerful laidback fashion, to stake few claims and remain largely unattached. Most stuff I don’t give a lick about. I have no kids, no husband, no house, no job, no credit card, no church, no politics; I try to do the right thing on my own. I am so grateful to all the people who help me. I’m not into drama but I love a good tale, and I’d rather laugh than cry; so if I can’t promise a happy ending since we’re all just runnin’ to our graves, at least I can make it entertaining….
This is a rambler’s life.