And By February We Were Nomads
I don’t have a home office. I don’t have a break room. My co-workers are time zones and thousands of miles away from me — I may never meet them face to face.
As a freelance editor, I follow where the coffee overflows, where there is a table and a chair and an outlet for my computer. I follow the free wifi, the in-walking-distance snack shack, preferably one that sells baby carrots and bananas.
As an Uber driver, husband’s home office is our car. He follows the passengers, the gas stations and the road signs, the rest stops and the parking lots.
We don’t travel far, but we travel nonetheless.
I have planted myself in seven or more variations of a Starbucks, drank espresso and mint tea, earl grey and chai. I have walked to Fred Meyers and Targets, local coffee shops and a mall, one day a bookstore, another a Walmart.
I eavesdrop and people-watch, and have even almost overcome my fear of public restrooms.
I wait for the rain right now — flooding the cement that had only hours ago warmed me with reflected sunshine.
And this is what I have always wanted. No day the same, no day predictable. I work with the earth, follow its tidal weather. I follow my feet, follow my stomach, follow my fingers across the keyboard and follow the words and voices of the writers I work with.
I carry my pack — my computer, my lunch, my almonds and apples, a book and a journal, headphones, cell phone, hat, scarf, gloves, jacket, brain.
I never thought when I left Starbucks to freelance that I would willingly get up at 4:30 in the morning. I never thought most of my time spent at home would be meal-prepping and sleeping. I never thought as I followed the internet, I’d let go of Facebook and Instagram and Pinterest and Netflix. There isn’t room for them in my pack. I only have room for the important things, and I left them behind on the trail a few miles ago.
Every day is a journey, we put one foot in front of the other, deliberately take each step in preparation for the future we dream of together. The grass isn’t greener on the others side; we’re just following the wind, we’re following the sun, we’re following the seasons.
And home is waiting for us: the bed made, the dishes done, though not all the blankets folded — an open invitation to sit, to rest, to be.
