Love Letter to My Life #28: Something about picnic tables

by Joyce Wycoff

(We know the day we were born, but most of us do not know the day we will die. This love letter to my life is written on the day I've designated as my death day, the 17th of every month, and reminds me to be grateful for my incredible life.)  

There is something about a picnic table. It’s not particularly comfortable, or lovely even in its cross-legged simplicity. However, the sight of a picnic table prompts a happy reaction in me. Maybe it’s the picnic table from childhood under the shady shelter of a large pecan tree; maybe it’s the symbol of years of camping trips and excursions; maybe it’s an ancient memory of eating in community out doors around a fire. 

My reaction to picnic tables seems to be deeper than its form or function. Something happened yesterday that started me on this path of thinking about picnic tables and called to me at 3:30 this morning until I surrendered and began this letter. 

 

San Diego County ... ocean to desert

 

I’ve been here in the hill country of east San Diego County for a week and a half, long enough to settle in and begin the familiar routines of writing, photography and making art. Yesterday, as the shade laced the yard, I spread my laptop and notebooks across the picnic table and settled in to think about a new project.

It was a perfect fall day: the air fresh and that perfect temperature that feels neither cool nor warm.. And, even though I’m in a rather large RV park (250 spaces), my neighbors were gone and the only sounds were a rustle of leaves and an occasional birdcall in the distance. I drifted into the project, writing, revising the related art work, mapping the project which slowly emerged like a developing photo in a dark room. When the day softened into evening and turned cool, I picked up my work and went back inside.

That's when I noticed the quiet. Not just the quiet of outside, but the silence in my head. I could hear, or rather feel, the silence, like being wrapped in a blanket of calm and peace. I thought it would go away when I noticed it, but it didn’t. It seemed to be in my body as well as my mind. It was part of  my breath.

In the past six weeks, I’ve been called to make this change, not understanding why. Every time I would have a doubt, it would be whisked away by the ease with which everything was happening. It was like walking through a maze of blind corners with no clue of which way to go until suddenly a “this way” sign would appear. 

I still don’t know exactly why I’m here but it feels right and the peaceful silence is still with me even though it did wake me up in the middle of the night, demanding that I get up and write about this.

The Gift to Be Simple

Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free

'Tis a gift to come down where I ought to be

This morning, a Facebook friend posted these song lyrics which struck a deep chord within me and helped me find the words to talk about changes in the works.

My path, once again, has zigged. And, while right now the upcoming move feels a bit overwhelming and complicated, I believe it comes from my yearning to be simple and free, coming down where I ought to be.

I’ve long admired stability … lengthy marriages, family homes filled with generations of memories, decades long careers growing within the structure of a single organization. Solid bedrock. Reliable. However, my path appears anything but stable and as much as I hear words like “wanderlust” and “gypsy,” I feel like all these many moves have been part of the process of looking for home, that place where I belong.

Earlier this year I spent a lot of time thinking about my life and what I want the rest of my years to be like. I created a 5-year plan focused on living in delight. During that process, I distilled the actions that bring me joy into four words: LEARN - CREATE - CONNECT - SHARE. The one that has driven me the most in the past few years is CONNECT … to myself, friends and family, and the world around me.

As we have moved further into this strange year, those words have helped me make choices, including the one that resulted in my buying a travel trailer parked on the shore of Lake Almanor in Northern California as part of my yearning to be more connected to nature.

I’m going to blame this current explosion of change on my new neighbor Bob who sold me the trailer. This has been his summer place for many years. He also has a house in the Bay Area and a winter place in San Felipe, a sleepy fishing village in Baja … or it used to be when I went there so many years ago.

In one of our conversations, Bob talked about how much he loves the lake and how he gets a little depressed when it’s time to close up for the season. I had just gotten here, so I wasn’t thinking about leaving. However, after a few weeks of being surrounded by shimmering ponderosas and kayaking different lakes any time I wanted, I began to feel the wind shifting: I didn’t want to leave this peaceful place that fills me with such delight. 

 

And when I am in the place just right

I will be in the valley of love and delight

Lake Almanor is in California, a place I fell in love with at age 22 and never wanted to leave. I did leave, however, more than once, including two years in Mexico. When I returned from Mexico, I was convinced that I could never afford to live in California again, so with family there, I chose Reno, determined to love it as much as it deserves. However, living on Lake Almanor showed me that Reno wasn’t my “place just right.”

At first, I thought that Reno plus five months on the lake would be a good combination. That changed to thinking maybe living in one of the little towns around the lake would make sense. The average ten feet of snow per year nixed that idea, plus living in a new town in a single family home sounded too isolating.

I’m not quite sure where the “what if” was born, but one night I found myself online looking for a place where I could spend the 7 months when I couldn’t be at the lake. The idea of giving up my house and living in two RVs each parked in a spectacular place shocked my sensibilities but quickly became a “wow! That could be cool.” 

 

The next several days were a bit crazy as I chased an RV possibility through the 113-degree temps in Quartzsite, Arizona, finally finding the right one in my own back yard. Quickly though, the thousand-piece puzzle started falling into place with the final picture showing me spending summers at the lake and winters at a beautiful RV park in Julian, California, a small mining town whose main claim to fame is its apple pie. It’s in the mountains east of San Diego so there will be some snow but friends and the beaches will be only an hour away. 

Will this be my “forever” place? I truly don’t know, but I’m delighted for the opportunity to explore this simple way of living, always free to adjust as needed.

Here is a video my friend Pat took as we discovered Pinezanita, the RV park in Julian, and celebrated with apple pie. 

 

Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free

'Tis a gift to come down where I ought to be

And when I am in the place just right

I will be in the valley of love and delight

When true simplicity is gained

To bow and to bend I will not be ashamed

To turn, to turn will be my delight

'Til by turning, turning, I come 'round right.

— Joseph Brackett Jr. (May 6, 1797 – July 4, 1882) was an American songwriter, author, and elder of The United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing, better known as the Shakers.