“I would come back home but home comes with me.” Houseless in America.

I’ve learned I will probably never want a house and all its things again.

Brick and mortar, floors on joists and walls on a frame, things on every shelf and in every room, and all the pieces that make a home for others make me anxious.

I sit in my brother’s house and my mind begins to wander, seeking escape. It’s the stuff; it crowds in and it isn’t even my stuff. I enjoy the time spent talking to my brother and my niece, but I grow restless after a while and ready to retreat to my little fiberglass womb (a 2006 Casita named Blanche). Even there, I am anxious to get anything out of Blanche that doesn’t belong there: my sewing machine, gifts for others, provisions I store in Betty White (my Chevy Colorado), and small bags of trash that accumulate with each day’s living. All these must go by the end of the day if possible.

I am reading a book about the uptick in RV/van life that occurred in the United States in the 20-teens when the recession hit. The author reached the point of attempting this nomadic lifestyle herself (rather than just interviewing and chronicling others’ lives) and found, after a couple of months of van living, that being back in her Brooklyn apartment was uncomfortable. There was too much space. She mentions missing the “womb” of her van.

I once described a lover’s trailer bedroom that way. I found peace sleeping in that space barely larger than his king-sized bed. I would return home the following morning and feel the space of my house like a looming animal crouching around me.

Let me take a step back. In 1991, I got remarried and moved into a 2300 sq. ft. home with an atrium. I loved the place and fought the idea of leaving it. I had thought I’d end my days there. Instead, in 2005, we moved to a 1900 sq. ft. home and, some 13 years later, moved into a 1300 sq. ft. beach house. Lastly, before Blanche, I moved with the dog into a 630 sq. ft. rental house in 2020.

And now? I live in about 100 square feet—being generous. I have storage in my towing vehicle for some essentials that aren’t required daily, but most of my daily life is contained relatively comfortably within Blanche. All my peace and comfort remain within her curved and carpeted walls.

Some days I wish I could get by with even less. I imagine, in time, I will whittle my belongings down further. I already regret not selling many things that are back in storage near the coast and that will require a couple of weeks of clearing-out effort next year.

The feeling of people, space, and things holding me captive is hard to quantify or qualify. I used to hear stories about people who gave everything up to go live off the grid or join a commune and I thought it rather nutty. About three years ago, I began joking with my family that I was going to do just that. Maybe I’d even go “live in a van down by the river.”

I knew, deep down, as my daughter waved off my comments or as friends laughed at my Facebook posts about these escape fantasies, that I wasn’t joking.

I just didn’t believe I’d have the guts to do it, nor could I pinpoint exactly why I was so anxious to go; not just to leave my marriage but to leave a fixed address as well and no longer be surrounded by stuff that meant nothing to me.

No—not nothing. Worse than nothing. Stuff that meant suffocation. Drowning. Spiritual starvation in the face of capitalistic gluttony. It was Hurricane Nicholas that finally made this clear to me. Living in a house I didn’t own and worrying about losing material objects of little value made no sense.

I’m still a glutton. I still have more than I need and better than I need, but I’m making do with less. I’m giving up my favorite coffee beans and switching to whatever half-decent coffee I can find while on the road. I’ve pared down my clothing to a minimum for most seasons. I have enough paper to write on for a while but left most of it behind. I gave most of my pens and ink away and will sell more. (Now that is a sacrifice for a writer. Ha!) I forgot to pack all my warm, fuzzy socks, so I’ll be having some Raynaud’s fun.

More important to my survival are the supplies to keep Betty and Blanche running: food for Sammy (I could stand to lose a few pounds since the Christmas splurging), and cleaning supplies for all of us.

Beyond that, there are bigger consumables I need to maintain my home on wheels: propane, gasoline, batteries, and spare parts.

Lastly, I have a handful of items that will keep me on the grid because I am not ready for that last hurdle yet.

Somewhere on the upper Texas coast, a man I clashed with on the beach last spring is parked in his truck with his dog, living as he wants to live without phones and laptops and making do with odd jobs to pay for the odd meal. I didn’t quite understand that a year ago.

Maybe I do now. Maybe I am seeing the simplicity of his life as a value-added life versus a something-missing life. Maybe I’m seeing how easy it would be for me to slip into a little of his unique reality so different from what mine was last summer.

I am starting to understand that, while I see the line between “houseless” and “off-the-grid” less clearly, the rest of capitalist America just sees failure. For now, I am houseless (but still, very much connected and not, technically, without a home) because I choose to be so and because it makes sense from a financial, economic, spiritual, and emotional standpoint for me. As yet, it is not my only option but my best option. It may be my only option eventually and that’s okay, too.

Regardless, the tradition of being in the smothering carcass of a house is anathema to me; fine for others, hellish for me. How odd that so much space is as disturbing and suffocating to some as the lack of it is to others. Give me the space of a desert canyon or the expansive sea (as long as I can live in my “two sealed bowls on wheels”) over the expanse of vaulted ceilings, landscapes of furniture, and tchotchkes scattered like waiting vultures.

This song was often in my head as I considered the move to an RV or van. The “sea” mentioned in the lyrics being all the open country that lay before me.

Last Updated on March 28, 2023 by Lee Ellis