The shocking arrival of loneliness

It’s like my pre-period mood swings and cramping: it faithfully arrives every single month, and yet every time I’m convinced my world has gone to crap. Eventually I think to check the calendar and then remember what’s actually happening.

The crunching of gravel under the car sounds as Wes makes his way out and away to work for a week or so of guiding. As I hear the car recede and then finally disappear, that feeling sets in: a sudden, gasping loneliness. It’s a wide, open, echoing sense in my chest. My mind probes frantically around in the sudden enormous cavern of space and time where I am entirely on my own, not just in this moment but for days.

With this feeling, I do what I typically do. First I instinctively try to stuff it away, scrubbing at some coffee-ring stained corner of the counter and going through the motions of putting away dishes. When my brain reminds me that what’s going on is a “feeling” and that it’s healthier to acknowledge these, I give it a little air time, feel the feeling and its contours – sad, scared, overwhelmed – don’t like it, and go straight back to the stuffing down.

The whole cycle causes me to feel pretty out of sorts for that first morning or day. It’s tiring, wrestling with my brain, while feeling intense, bright and searing flashes of loneliness.

Even so, I don’t sink into nothingness. My fear of not fulfilling my life overrides most any other feeling, so I always have a strong motivation to do something. In this case, it’s healthy because I’m not sitting around indulging. I’m moving around and indulging. I do whatever thing it is I had planned: I hike the hike, paint the painting, run the errand, etc. I just do it more moodily than I might otherwise.

Then, an interesting thing happens while I’m in the middle of whatever thing: I reach a decision point. It can be any decision point: which way do I want to go at the fork in the trail? What podcast do I want to listen to while painting? What do I want to eat for dinner?

I realize, like a giddy kid whose parents are away, that it’s entirely my choice to make. I don’t have to consult anyone. I can do exactly what I want, whenever I want, however I want.

This is how I tip away from loneliness, and instead have a sort of vague, philosophical missing of my life partner while he’s gone…but also, that’s suddenly quite siloed from the rest of me. This woman, right here and now, is drunk with autonomy! It’s getting pretty wild: she’s leaving her easel fully set up on the table for later because no one’s around to need the space; she’s opting for the watermelon, feta, and olive salad for dinner that is her absolute favorite but causes some people to groan because she made it ten too many consecutive nights upon discovery.

She’s going to binge exactly as much Netflix as her little heart desires before bed. And speaking of bed: she doesn’t need to make it! The front of the trailer couch is plenty wide enough for just one person, thus reducing her evening and morning chore to just making then stripping the bed sheets and making coffee. She sleeps the sound sleep of someone not dealing with another human’s annoying and nearby breathing.

I’m writing from another round of Wes being gone guiding a trip, this time in Joshua Tree National Park. My list this week is VERY long – no joke – because I’m preparing for a full month of soon-to-be-announced Alli Harvey Art activity throughout May. With all this in motion, I haven’t experienced the usual full loneliness upon his departure because I’ve been relieved that I’ll get so much needed solo focus time.

These kinds of extended times apart might not work well for everyone, but I actually think for me and for us it fulfills something that keeps us both together: our fullness and autonomy in each of our own rights. Wes and I have reflected that something we admire in one another is how we “don’t let the moss grow”. We each grow and change in our own ways, and that feeds into our relationship. We keep learning about ourselves and each other. And, we continually choose to be together: out of commitment, yes, but also out of a mutual awe in how the other engages in and is transformed by the world.

All that to say: I love Wes. And I also love this time on my own, after the hard start.

Here’s a commission I completed in 2020, because why not! I loved this one. And maybe the two dogs on the lead are like me and Wes? I’ll let you interpret, but I’m mostly adding this so you have something nice to look at.

The truth about floss

Between late 2020 and spring of 2022, I lost 20 pounds. It was the right move for my body which, especially as a runner, came to feel alarmingly cumbersome and sluggish during Covid lockdown.

How’d I do it? A precarious-feeling balance of walking a lot, amping up lean protein, weekly high-intensity living room workouts with whatever YouTuber, and the ever-dreaded and controversial calorie counting.

When I set off on my journey in 2022 to pick up the Mobile Art Studio, I fretted about leaving that precarious balance that had afforded me my spry-and-easily-runnable physical form. Road trips and camping, after all, are for garbage food, sitting, and beer. What would I do without my carefully timed protein smoothies? What if I didn’t hit my steps goal, and how could I do my HIIT workouts from the road?

The truth is that some of my fears were well-founded. I have had to do the following very scary thing throughout these past couple years: adapt.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

• If I eat garbage, I feel like garbage. It turns out that not “even” but especially during road trips (which we have many, hauling the studio around) I can have lots of good food around. It doesn’t take much – a trip to the grocery store and a cooler. The novelty of chips, etc, is delicious in theory and at first, but leaves me feeling sluggish and hangry. So I keep nuts, snack veggies, fruit, etc around and stop to make actual tailgate lunch with other fresh food, versus picking up whatever at a roadside eatery.
• There are seasons for focused workouts, and then seasons to enjoy the results. Sometimes I have access to a gym, for instance, and others I don’t. Right now in St. George, there’s a lovely little rec center where I can go and follow a focused strength program. Over this past winter near Tucson, the nearest gas station was 40 minutes away, never mind gym. The point is, over the winter I probably lost some strength, but I enjoyed using what I had on runs and hikes. My fitness will change somewhat depending on what’s around, and that’s okay.
• If I don’t floss now, I won’t. I bring dental floss on backpacking trips, because you know what? I basically am camping full time, in life. And, I’m lucky to go on a lot of backpacks. If I give myself the excuse of not flossing because I’m in the backcountry, that ends up adding up to too many nights of not flossing. That goes for the few supplements I take, too (fish oil, collagen), washing and moisturizing my face at night, and using sunblock. I am that gal hauling around a little baggie with those items on a backpacking trip, which makes my pack that much heavier – and my overall health/routines to support how I want to feel in my body that much more consistent.

I’ve ditched the scale, per se, for now because it’s too easy for me to get unhealthily fixated on a number, but I do continue to notice how I feel on runs or hikes, and how my clothing fits. What I do know fits, big picture, are my routines that support how I perform and how I feel. These are the practices that enable me to most fully enjoy how I experience an essential part of my life, being outdoors. Ultimately that translates into my artwork, because I’m able to move myself into those places that bring me awe, and feel enough energy leftover to inspire translating those into paintings.

The bonus is that my teeth are well-flossed, thank you very much.

A little secret about me and change

One side benefit of my wheezy childhood is how, emerging from it, everything was new and foreign to me. That wasn’t fun, but I do have muscle memory when it comes to awkwardly trying things and flailing (see: socializing, hiking, running).

Still, putting effort in to change something in my life is uncomfortable. As a human designed simply for survival, my default setting is to take the easiest, most frictionless path. That path looks like my couch. It looks like basking in the sun. It looks like lolling around thumbing through Instagram all the livelong day.

Recently I had the unsettling feeling that I have been settling into patterns again and it’s almost time for something new. Yes, my patterns are in the Mobile Art Studio, in beautiful, bright southern Utah; yes I have that right mix of painting, people, and consulting. This is a world away from what we left last year: snowy/cold Alaska, a mortgage, our laptop-bound, salaried jobs that covered said mortgage.

But even in this new context I could tell something felt staid and stale. That, my friends, is my spirit’s kryptonite, even if the comfort of sameness feels good in the moment (see: couch, sun, Reels).

Luckily I don’t feel like I need a sea change like the one we’ve endured over the past few years. But it’s time for some fine tuning. Some things I’m exploring:

• New painting techniques, specifically playing with color and contrast.
• New forms of exercise, including…maybe…rock climbing. This is a big deal if you’ve known me for a while. I’ve never been into rock climbing, as someone who preferred steadier state forms of exercise. But these days, integrating some strategy, strength, and socializing into being active sounds fun. And I generally find myself on more and more red rocks naturally clambering up and around, so why not get better at it?
• New Alli Harvey Art business development strategies, including refining what I already have (website, painting presentation), finally taking the bitter pill of actively learning how to improve my social media presence, exploring in person event opportunities, and more. I have a few active Notes App files open with ideas, and I try to pace myself by just doing one art-business related task a day because it can feel overwhelming, especially on top of simply creating art.

Writing it out here makes it seem like a foregone conclusion, but for me any change is hard – particularly when I’m in that early phase of knowing in my gut that I need it, but not yet knowing what it is. Still. Future me knows that now-me doesn’t want to dither life away. So, as always I come up with my elaborate hacks to coax myself to do the things I know I need to do to live the most meaningful life I can muster.

On that note, here are some examples of the color techniques I’ve been playing with in painting. There’s a theory that if you use contrasting color beneath a painting’s predominant hue(s) and let a little bit of that color come through, it helps brighten and lift the final piece. I know my paintings probably don’t need help with color – ha! – but I am really enjoying playing with this technique. Progress shots below, of one recently completed piece, and another work-in-progress.

What do you think? Can you see a difference?

The longest way to put away my damn phone

There are many reasons to not like backpacking.

One, and I’m just going to come out and say it: backpacking frequently requires either shitting in a hole or these days in heavily visited areas, a bag. At minimum I’m packing used toilet paper out. But if it’s a wag bag type itinerary, let’s just say eating the food from my pack doesn’t do much to displace the weight I ultimately have to carry.

(I can and probably should write an entire essay on the realities of excreting in the backcountry – remind me).

Two, it’s not comfortable. I don’t like being uncomfortable so I backpack like a princess, which means I’m carrying lots of creature comforts with me and loads of snacks. I bring my stargazing book, a sketch pad, a bag of peanut M&Ms, deodorant, a couple packs of emergency hand warmers, and cozy camp shoes. If that doesn’t sound princess-level, bear in mind that it’s all on my back. It’s all in the name, right? I get myself from point A to point B, carrying everything I need to survive – and then some. That bag gets heavy, and takes some effort to hoist up and across the miles of walking.

Sometimes, rudely, it rains. Other times, there’s not enough water because we’re in the desert, which means we have to carry extra. Water is life, and…heavy.

Other reasons to dislike backpacking: it takes boatloads of prep time, sometimes I get lost, there are evil plants that will sting or scratch me, I often feel cold, sleeping pads are uncomfortable no matter which one I have, I never really get enough sleep, there are bears in nature (generally, somewhere) which is very scary when there’s just a thin level of nylon between me and them, backpacking food is generally quite fibrous which can lead to bloating; when backpacking I’m often tired, thirsty, and hungry. There is no shower. There is no couch.

Yet, despite all of these truly unpleasant realities, I continue to backpack. What, you might wonder, the heck is wrong with me?!

Fair question.

My reason for backpacking is pretty unsurprising, and applicable even if you dislike or never try backpacking: it’s one of the only times in my otherwise pretty comfortable life where it’s easy to be fully present exactly where I am.

I write this flanked by two phones (art and personal), with my laptop in the middle as my fingers click clack across the keyboard. My mini-heater is on because it’s a tad chilly and rainy out. I can hear the drops drumming on the Airstream. I have a stack of books next to me. At any moment, a phone could glow with a text or an alert; or I could just notice it sitting there and wonder if anything on Instagram changed in the last seven minutes. Do I not like what we have in the fridge? I can go to the store. Heck, I can go to the (state operated, I’m in Utah) liquor store and get bottles aplenty; have a real-real fun Sunday night. (Actually no I can’t do that today because it’s the Lord’s Day in St. George, but I *could* conceivably drive the hour to Nevada…you get my point).

When I’m backpacking, I have exactly the “entertainment” I brought with me: maybe a book (maybe), definitely a map of the area. I have all of the food and maybe (maybe) a flask of whiskey I need for however many days I’m out there. I have it all: tent, sleeping pad, bag, inflatable pillow, first aid kit, toiletries, water filter, trowel, stove, fuel, etc.

When dinner’s done and cleaned; when I’ve eaten my allotted squares of dark chocolate and brushed my teeth, found my headlamp to hang around my neck, and fluffed up the down sleeping bag that’s waiting for me, there’s nothing left to do but…

Hang out.

This past week, we met friends from Reno in southeast Utah to backpack for four nights in Canyonlands National Park. There were many amazing moments in the trip, but I think my favorites were the ones where we really didn’t have anything to do.

We spent the better part of afternoons seeking out and inhabiting shade. Picture us five sitting out on cool, shaded slick rock, essentially hiding from the blazing (sixty degree, but it gets out out there!) sun, with nothing else to do but be.

We were silent for long stretches. We napped. We gabbed about whatever came to mind – the conversation ranged from geology to our favorite superbowl halftime performances; there was then a spirited conversation about reality tv. We couldn’t remember the lyric to that one song. We swapped notes on various family members and their quirks; we told stories about our mutual friends, we talked about our weddings and what they’d been like.

Nothing was forced; there was no “prompt” – it was just people together in this same situation, with literally no other entertainment than the vast thing there in front of us, and no phones to glance down at unless we wanted a picture.

Backpacking enables me to access this type of real presence. It’s similar to getting out of the country, finding somewhere remote to camp, doing an activity that requires my full focus, or even just putting my phone on airplane mode for an evening.

The price of admission for this kind of being wholly in the moment I’m in is worth it. Even when it requires me to poop in a bag.

Pics from our trip below! I’ve already started painting one…

What this winter taught me about luck

In retrospect, it was a long winter: Wes and I are finally walking away from our first full season with drastically reduced income.

A quick recap: we made our big life change last May. We sold our house and left Alaska, moving full-time into the 19′ Airstream Mobile Art Studio and switching up work so that instead of both of us holding down stable and salaried jobs, I am doing art as my primary focus and Wes is guiding seasonally. We saved up as much as we could in advance, knowing our income would fluctuate and we didn’t yet have a clear idea of exact daily expenses living full time from the Airstream.

This Facebook memory from two years ago gives a sense of all that went into Wes/me preparing for this big life shift.

But you know how life is – it happens, and we pretty immediately flushed our savings into replacing our (now former) truck’s transmission, and then emergency replacing said truck this winter. Wes and I agree that we don’t like to think too much on how much money we spent on that damn truck. If anything, I suppose it’s a testament to our ability to scrap, save, and come up with the cold hard cash when necessary.

We’ve known that spring would arrive, and with it Wes’ work would tick back up and we’d have two incomes once again. But now that it’s finally here the feeling is less one of elated triumph that we have emerged unscathed, and more a cool, informed placidity that comes with the many ups and downs of simply making it through. We have had to watch our savings and income dwindle to the point where we’ve gamed out groceries for the coming week, and braced ourselves to switch from cash to credit cards, knowing that the income is on its way but still hating to go into debt. At times it’s been scary.

Now that we’re just about through, I feel like that meme of the guy walking calmly away from a fire.

To some extent, I have had to simply trust that opportunities will arise. I do not have control over who buys my paintings, when; who’s interested in my writing; how many guided trips Wes will be assigned in any given season.

But kind of like in exercise when you switch from the easy-burn glucose fuel over to drawing on fat stores, as a result of this winter I have adapted. There’s been a subtle, slow, and profound shift into how I view the bigger picture context of my work and how that informs my day to day.

As you may know, my word going into 2024 was “discipline”. Not onerous or too much, but just a tick up of buckling down, focusing, working more, and playing just a bit less than in 2023. Last year was a glorious free-fall into this new mode of life; this year is dialing that in just a bit.

My choice phrase to help me stay focused? Every morning I wake up and think: Make your own luck.

No, I don’t have control over who hits “buy” or wants to pay me to write stuff. But I do have control with how I present my art, how much I paint, how easy I make it to purchase paintings or commission me, how creative I am in my outreach and partnerships, and how consistent I am in my use of social media, email, and my website to help connect to people and share my process and artwork. I have control over how much I sit down to actually write, how much I keep my potential audience in mind, and who/how frequently I send pitches over.

Again, it’s a slow, step by step, daily process of “making my own luck”. I can’t control who hits go. But I can continually show up and put myself out there in the best and most earnest way possible. And that, my friends, contributes back in a positive feedback loop of creating the kind of meaningful work I aimed for when we made this life shift. My days carry purpose and meaning, alongside the fresh and also scariness of life threading itself through with uncertainty and possibility.

Death by texts and dings: on managing focus

Two pieces of feedback I hear a lot:

“You’re busy! You do a lot. Do you ever rest?!”

and

“You have excellent boundaries.”

The interesting thing is 1) both observations are true and not true (more on that below), 2) to the extent that they’re accurate, they’re very much related.

Some examples of what I do with “boundaries”:

First of all: yes I rest! If I didn’t set supposed “boundaries” for myself (I dislike that word and can’t wait to share why in a minute) that’s probably most of what I would do with my life. Loll, loaf, mouth breathe, bask. There’s nothing wrong simply inhabiting and enjoying life. Much of my own, and likely yours, is spent elaborately constructing opportunities to maximize that very feeling. But for me to fully experience life while also living my values I have to do something with myself.

I look at it this way: the most terrifying thing I can imagine is getting to the “end”, whenever that is, looking back at my life, and feeling regret about frittering it away. There will always be some fritter; that’s fine. But if I get to my deathbed and say to myself what did you do?! That prospect, my friends, motivates me into quite a bit of logging off social media, lest another hour of drooling and scrolling go by.

So this brings us to “boundaries”, a popular word that I – again – do not like.

The word “boundary” invokes something rigid. To me, it sounds like digging a moat-like trench around oneself and saying thou shalt not cross. A boundary is a protection; a safety. It’s a line on a map.

While the idea of a thick, wall-like protection sounds soothing to me, real life informs me that it rarely if ever exists in nature. Comets blaze right through the earth’s protective atmosphere. Animals ford rivers. Human beings raid others’ clearly defined space.

When I try to create rigid boundaries, usually an overcompensation, I fail. There is so little in life that is straight up right and wrong, as much as I crave the certainty of that worldview. Safety exists on a continuum. The nature of being is such that I am never actually fully safe, emotionally or physically.

Sorry. Something or someone could hurt me at any moment. That is completely out of my control.

But – BUT. I do have power and say-so over the decisions I make for managing my body and my attention, and how I explain and negotiate that with others and my physical environment. This gives me quite a bit of autonomy. After all, this mind and body makes up my entire perspective and lived experience of the world. This is me.

I don’t have a better word than “boundary”, but how I think of it is 1) proactive – doing what I say I will do, and 2) reactive – noticing if I feel compromised by an action or situation, and figuring out what I need to right it.

Proactive actions include saying: self, you will move your body daily because it makes you feel better and it’s good for your long term health or I’m going to use my good morning focus to immerse myself in a painting tomorrow. I’ll put it away by noon, take a walk, and then pivot into consulting, or put your damn phone on “Do Not Disturb” mode – you can miss one hours’ worth of the family text thread currently recapping Housewives.

Doing what I say I will do helps me follow through on my commitments to myself to create and inhabit meaning in my life. I can paint, write, consult, hike, or spend time with friends/family with my full self.

But that leads me to the “reactive” part. I do quite a bit to manage my focus which for me is a fickle, annoying toddler who is chaotically and giddily soaking up whatever happens to be remotely shiny and in grabbing distance. Usually my phone.

All sorts of predators lurk in trying to steal her away. I have to construct elaborate “hacks” to guide focus where I want her, and protect her from the elements.

Some of these include:

• Being scrupulous with use of my personal cell phone. I have a phone fully dedicated to art, and a personal cell. There’s often unspoken pressure in consulting to be available, all the time. I’m not. I give clients my cell only for logistical, and very rarely for other extenuating circumstances, and even then I ask them not to share it.
• Communication protocols and windows. With my coworkers, I’m available via my cell phone for time sensitive questions that, truly, only I can answer but I ask for folks to default to emails that I check when I’m ready. After all, when I’m painting and get a consulting-related text? My brain is now humming on work, and not being present. I keep a work calendar updated up to the hour so folks know when I’ll be available, and clients/coworkers are welcome to set up meetings with me even if I’m currently out of the office.
• Tracking tasks. Part of my focus is my limited memory. I don’t want to use much of my brain tracking disparate tasks/context living in phone conversations, chats, or text messages. I have an ongoing check list, notes from phone calls/meetings, and I use email as a living memory. Text or gchat is for quick coordination or fun.

Again: I can’t control who does or does not call me, or when. But I can control who gets the number, what I say about it, and the request(s) I make if/when something isn’t working for me.

Maybe it sounds scary or overly onerous to have these kinds of conversations with people, like I’m throwing a hammer down. It’s gotten a lot easier over time. For me, part of it is not framing these conversations as “boundary setting”. I actually never use that word. I approach them as stating an action, likely intent, impact on me, and request for the future.

Example: “Hey, when you texted me on my off-day about that consulting related thing, I was painting. The text threw my focus for a loop. I don’t think that was your intent. Will you default to e-mail and only text me if it’s something that can’t wait?”

Then we talk about it, and it’s fine. Rinse, repeat next time it inevitably happens with someone else – after all, people have wildly different approaches to using their phones and managing their own attention.

I share all of this because this impression of me “doing a lot” coupled with my supposed excellent boundary setting is really simply about guiding attention. When I art, I art. Consulting, I’m both feet in. When I spend time with my friends, I’ve finally gotten to the point of putting my damn phone away. There’s plenty of in between and off time for the scrolling and Wikipedia rabbit holes, because life is long, but in the big scheme of things there’s just so much I hope to do. Most importantly I want to experience it all, to the very best of my ability.

Striving for more isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

As a born and bred American, I think I have a f*cked up relationship to ambition. Societal cues have encouraged me to work hard, buy more, upsize, and above all, to dream and strive for ever-better.

Sound familiar?

While I can identify it, I haven’t rid myself of this conditioning. Actually, I accept and enjoy consumerism and even maybe a stroke of hedonism as part of what I enjoy in life. Listen: I love – like, love – a nice hotel. Give me a thoughtfully designed room, a good shower, and a bathrobe and I will giddily sit amidst a pile of pillows watching whatever’s on TV. I relish in occasionally dropping a small fortune on an excellent meal out.

You get the picture. But, also, I live in a 19′ foot trailer. I just took a shower for the first time in three days after boondocking out of the back of my truck over the weekend. I am scrupulously and at times painfully aware of my husband’s/my income, since it varies so wildly. We are at this point adept at reigning in our spending. So, while I enjoy the extravagances money can buy, my life is not about maximizing my income to afford more. I’m better set up for what brings me the greatest joy and fulfillment: being outdoors, and painting/writing about it.

Yet. All that being said, it can still be hard for me not to tip into the “what if’s” of wanting more.

Wes and I just spent the weekend on an exploratory trip to see parcels of land for sale in the region. Our long-term plan is to eventually buy some land that either has a (small) structure on it already, or to build something. Recently we’ve both had some stars in our eyes imagining buying land as soon as this spring so we have a place to be next winter that’s ours.

This weekend provided a reality check. As we looked at parcels, we realized our plan and potentially quick timeline could be unreasonable due to many factors – price, county restrictions on the length of time we could live in our Airstream on land, subdivision restrictions, some that outright ban RVs, available utilities or cost/timeline to install (water, septic, electric), or covenants that require you to get to building within a certain period of time. We spent the weekend feeling deflated, drilled in further by really enjoying some of the region we were witnessing and feeling somehow that it’s out of our reach.

As we lay in our tent at night with the full moon arcing its way brilliantly across the sky, I laid awake feeling a grasping sense. There it was: that striving creeping in. I began focusing on what I do not have. I started questioning our entire existence of right now, which is something we worked – and strived – very very hard to bring about.

The thoughts festered: did we make a huge mistake in selling our house? Why don’t we have enough to be able to afford the land we like? What would we have to do in order to build a home within xyz covenant’s requirements? Are we going to live like this – seasonally, moving around – forever, because of the decisions we’ve made?

Pleasant little spiral, right? No.

Ambition is so good for helping me live my life to its fullest. At its best, it helps me see what I love most in this life and make space for more of that. But at its worst, it eclipses today thinking tomorrow could be that much better “if only”.

On the final morning of our weekend, we sat on our truck’s tailgate drinking coffee in a lovely, warming desert sun. We had real talk: given everything we’ve seen and learned this weekend, what do we do? Do we throw our towels in, sign up for a big ol’ bank loan, and go back to full time jobs and salaries? Basically pull a 180? Our answer, of course, is no.

To remain present, we have to mentally reconfigure so that yearning doesn’t poison right now.

We decided to reign in and manage our “land dream” by setting some discrete next steps and check in points. We made a Google Doc list of parameters for what we’re looking for informed, helpfully, by what we’d learned over the weekend. We decided to look into enlisting help from a realtor(s). We set up a system for periodically checking in on various properties and search parameters, and to prioritize checking out various places in person to get a sense of what we like.

When we find the right place for us, we’ll go for it. Maybe that’s this coming winter? But likely not. We have to reconfigure in order to trust that we’ll find the right thing for us at the right time.

And, to pull me back in to this moment and this phase of life – the living in the Mobile Art Studio, prioritizing flexibility and freedom of time over steady income – I’m basically doing some self-parenting and instituting a daily gratitude practice. Even having one day of this has helped re-ground me.

The creosote smells amazing. Our dinner last night was delicious. I enjoyed some time in the shade in the afternoon, feeling a warm breeze on my skin and listening to birds. Today I get to put in a full day of painting at the easel. I’m grateful for all the things my body can do. Etc.

Striving threatens to rob me of these and many other moments. The trick is to have enough of it to press me into continually creating the life I want to inhabit, without sabotaging right now.

I hope this sounds familiar to you in your life. I share it, even feeling pretty raw, because it’s the first true spike I’ve experienced in questioning this life choice we made, at all, and then talking myself back down. I suspect that’s pretty normal. Many of us work hard to bring about a much needed change, relish in its novelty at first, and then find that there is yet more to do on that other side.

The big question is really, how to live a life in which we can improve it but also enjoy it right now? I welcome aha’s and advice!

Strength to be a better artist

I wasn’t a natural runner. When I started, I thudded awkwardly along the ground, heart pounding in my ears and cheeks brilliantly flushed. I felt like everyone must be watching and judging me: why is she even trying? It took me years to finally feel the identity of “runner” fit. Why’d I keep up with running, if it was so often difficult and embarrassing for me?

Running, and fitness/strength generally, became part of how I engage myself and the world. Through consistent work of accepting physical discomfort and feeling humbled in the awkwardness of trying something that feels new and outside of what’s easy for me, I learned to access more of who I am and my environment, leading to a richer experience of both.

The practice of working through running also translates to my art. I’m being real with you: I was a natural when it came to art as a kid. I drew from a young age, and continued to draw until that translated eventually into painting. Around the same time I took up painting I also started running. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I took my “luck of the draw” talent of creating images and honed it, borrowing from what I was learning in running. I was unwittingly teaching myself how to self-discipline and work in order to get better. I was becoming competent at being fully alive.

Yes, exercise, fitness, and being outside is that profound to me. When people remark that I’m constantly running up mountains (untrue: my husband does that; I walk) or marvel at my adherence to whatever strength plan I’m on, it’s not because I have some kind of superhuman ability to endure. For me, the draw of what I get and who I am on the other side of challenging exercise is so good, it’s worth the temporary discomfort of a workout.

And when I have a solid routine of challenging workouts, it means I can more easily access places that inspire my art. Fitness enables me to experience awe readily while outside, with less of the physical struggle it takes to hike, run, ski, etc. I then use the same self-discipline required to exercise when I sit down at my easel, accepting that the hard and uncertain moments in painting are what will ultimately lead me to the ease and reward, if only I continue going forward one step and one brush stroke at a time.

I believe better inhabiting our bodies, at whatever level is right for each of us, leads to a richer experience of life.

If you’re thinking about starting or getting back into some kind of exercise routine, here are some tips that have worked well for me!

• Quit while you’re happy. As you’re starting, or starting back up, the most important thing is to create an association of “fun” with your routine. If you push yourself too fast or too long during a workout, you’ll dread and likely avoid it. Your main goal for the first two weeks, or heck month, is simply to start a routine and quit while you’re ahead. You’re tricking your brain that this is something intrinsically enjoyable and rewarding (over time, it IS, but maybe not as much at first).
• Tell the world. Announce what you’re doing. Tell me! Tell your partner, your family, your friends; block it off on your calendar by way of alerting your coworkers: xyz time is dedicated to this activity. Especially in the beginning, creating some external accountability to move helps reinforce the routine.
• Start small and doable. Do not start running every day. One, I’ve had it drilled into my brain that daily running can easily lead to injury. But also, especially in the beginning of a routine, it’s a recipe to set yourself up for disappointment in yourself when you inevitably can’t or don’t make a day. Try, say, 20-30 minutes, three times a week. Ditto with strength training. It actually doesn’t take enormous volume to make a marked difference.
• Pace yourself and do not compare. Goodbye, little voice inside your (and my) head that says you’re too slow; too weak, etc. Get in the habit of cheering and congratulating yourself for showing up and putting in effort, at all. Focus on your own breathing, body, movement, and your surroundings. Do not get side tracked by comparing yourself to others. The race is just within yourself, and especially early on the only goal is to create a routine at all, and follow through with it. Over time, motivation can come from learning/being pushed by others, but especially in the very beginning the intrinsic muscle is the most important one to train.

There are so many more, but I’ll leave it here for now! What are your tips for getting into or sticking with fitness, and are there any activities that you find particularly support you in this time of life?

Various pics of me exercising below. Tough to get shots of the “struggle bus” parts, but there’s one choice pic in there of when I decided to double down on speed training at the track…

Reality check: art and life in 19 feet of Airstream

For five years, my husband and I shared 1,800 square feet of log home with a stunning Alaska mountain backdrop. My sister, visiting from out of state, referred to our home as “Narnia”.

Now, we live full time in a 2022 19 foot-long Airstream Caravel customized for creating and displaying my art. It’s about 75 square feet inside. We sold our house and made the big leap to living in the Airstream in May of 2023. I call this place the Mobile Art Studio because it’s where I create and show art, but in reality this is also functioning as our home.

We made this change for many reasons, but getting right to it: what’s it like here?! No, really – what is the setup for painting, how on earth do I store things, and have Wes (my husband) and I killed each other yet, sharing such a tiny space?!

Here are some anecdotes from daily life in the Airstream, followed by photos.

• We chose the Sonoran Desert as our spot for this winter because there isn’t a hard freeze here. I wake up in the morning at the very first light, excited to see the sun rise over saguaro and in a firy glow on nearby mountains through the wraparound windows at the front of the Airstream where our pull-out bed is situated. Wes and I take turns in the morning: alternating days, one of us makes/puts the bed back together into a couch for the day, while the other makes coffee. We both prefer coffee duty because it’s much less work. The quietest and most still either of us are on any given day is the hour when we sip coffee, wake up, and read – news on our phones (we have internet through a MiFi device or tethering, depending on available service) or books.
• This past summer, we were in St. George, Utah because Wes’ work as a wilderness guide is based there. It was a lovely and brutal summer managing and enduring extreme heat. The Airstream air conditioner is small and mighty, but given that it needs to constantly work in order to keep the shiny aluminum tin can cool, it needs breaks every few hours. In July, we timed our days so that mornings were for work – I set up to paint either just outside, or on my table easel inside – and mid afternoons we’d turn off the AC and head either to the rec center or the library. During the night when it wasn’t cooling down below 90 one of us had to get up in the middle of the night to turn off the AC when it was no longer producing cool air. We slept with a sheet which typically ended up kicked mostly off the bed by morning.
• I have a dedicated, narrow and tall cabinet to store my easels, canvas, and display boards. It’s just behind the bathroom and in front of a bench that functions as a hangout area, guest sleeping nook, storage (under the cushion), and coat/laundry rack – some day I’ll write my love letter to Command strips for all they do for me/us. My paints, brushes, and often works-in-progress (if they’re 12″x12″ or so, or smaller) are in a dedicated art drawer, above the one we use for toiletries, and below two drawers dedicated for cooking (pot, pan, steamer, two small plastic cutting boards, knives, cutlery, plates, bowls, other assorted utensils – cheese grater, can opener, spatula, etc).
• We have a tiny, metal trash can that lives either in the cabinet under the sink, or on the counter.
• Coffee and coffee-making accoutrement occupy a metal basket in a cabinet that is essentially a pantry.
• But – “The Pantry”, in our marital shorthand, is a collapsible, Costco-purchased bin that lives behind the driver’s seat in the truck. That’s where we stash extra food and staples that aren’t immediately needed on the trailer.
• We purchased two zero-gravity lounge chairs for our ten year anniversary in October that are unusual in our assorted belongings in that they are giant and cumbersome – not qualities we are typically after in this phase of living – but, honestly, delightful. We have a little stargazing book that was maybe my top read of 2023 that has sparked our interest in astronomy, being as we are in dark sky country.
• There’s usually a notepad lying around on the counter by the door, or on the swivel table next to the couch, that has a running grocery list and one or both of our to-do lists. I love checkboxes, and if I’m feeling particularly proud of a task, I love fully striking it through. Usually on my list: run, paint, write, social (media), and other random art business administration tasks, like website updates and accounting.
• You’ll laugh: we use Google Calendar to manage our schedules, coordinate use of the trailer if one of us needs it (often me for facilitating remote meetings via my consulting work; sometimes Wes for work-related calls), and manage use of the truck and Prius. For instance, right now I have my calendar fully blocked for Wes’ trip up to St. George to guide a trip. He gets the fuel-efficient little Toyota, and I have the big ol’ truck. I’m fine with that: more quality time at camp!
• Longer term discussions are around where we will live/work for any given season. Right now, we’ve figured out the spring (St. George, where Wes will be guiding), summer (Reno, where Wes is leading a trail crew), and fall (back to St. George). We have several potential art events in those regions that we’re tracking the application process for.
• Laundry means quarters means we have a little zip lock baggie of them (medication canisters work great too, FYI) and detergent that lives in the side door of the truck. Laundry day is a chore. We switch off. When I go, I bring my laptop so I can use the free WiFi and get some work done: either consulting, art social media, or writing (like this!).
• Managing waste is a constant dance. The usual questions: Did you plug the grey water tank? (We strategically save up the grey water so it flushes out the black water hose). Do we need to dump? (Dumping the blackwater; as pleasant a chore as it sounds!).
• Our little trailer shower is beautiful, with teak wood slats underfoot that resemble a sauna. Only problem is that the floor was built fully flat, so it doesn’t drain properly. This means either lifting up the teak and squeegee-ing out the extra water toward the drain, or very very very strategically positioning the trailer so the water (mostly) drains. This is a thorn in our side and likely something that will require an overhaul-level fix someday, maybe, but then again…maybe not, because:

We often get the question: will you live like this forever? The answer is no. I don’t know what the “other side” looks like yet. Right now the rhythm of moving the trailer roughly once a season – winter, spring, summer, fall – is just enough movement to enable change, without being too overwhelming. But it still requires a lot of advance planning, and packing/hitching up and moving is an Event every time. Towing a rattle trap trailer means that everything in our little home is shaking as we rumble across the highway, and even in a device designed to do that it means that things wear and break. It’s stressful and exciting to move somewhere new. At some point, the stress will outweigh the novelty, and we’ll want to find a more permanent spot to unhitch.

That said: the more we inhabit this seasonal type of living, the less we can see ourselves in any one fixed location year round.

I am grateful for all of our years in Alaska, in “Narnia”/our log home with the beautiful view and the many people who were part of creating a rich trove of memories there. But I don’t miss it. I love the view from here in this semi-outdoors way of living; one foot constantly out of the door and taking in fresh air, my hand on a paintbrush or clacking away on this keyboard.

And speaking of: I am running a 24% off for 2024 sale right now to help create more space in this tiny 19′ Mobile Art Studio. If you’re looking for beautiful artwork to inspire your connection to the outdoors, and a sense of everyday awe on your home or office wall, check out this collection of paintings on offer. You can simply scroll through and browse, find what you love, and purchase it right there on my website before anyone else has the chance. This sale is only running through Monday, 2/12 – don’t wait!

Pics from our lives in the Mobile Art Studio below! I would love to hear what you think and happy to answer your questions or swap tiny living stories/anecdotes.

A painful pivot and new start

Like (apparently) many millennials, I have this thing where I loosely track my horoscope to see if there’s useful insight/encouragement in the summaries. What helps me absorb the guidance is telling myself a story about how I don’t give it much credence. Did you know modern zodiac signs are actually an entire month off? And some people, like Wes (born on 12/1), were born at a time that isn’t even technically assigned a sign due to the positioning of the constellations and simply falling “in between”?

Yet, despite the story I tell myself about how little I believe, whenever I see the warning that mercury is going into retrograde I feel immediate dread. You see, despite appearances of someone who pursues challenges, I do not actually like hard things. I like the horoscopes that promise things like “fruition” and “realization” more than something about a shadow self and facing the past, whatever that ominously implies.

Sometime before December ’23, Zodiac-Instagram was abuzz about the coming retrograde. I saw it, dreaded it, and decided to file that away in the “I don’t believe in this shit anyway” category (while screenshotting the horoscopes for myself I liked).

On that note, I am finally ready to share about why we no longer have Brian the Ford F350 as our towing vehicle and now have an unnamed (and will remain that way because, superstition) Toyota Tundra.

A brief backstory of Brian: we bought it/him in Alaska in early ’22 when it became clear that our 2013 Ram, named “Fluffy” was not up to the task of, well, working as a truck. Fluffy had had a pretty chill life up to that point; zero towing but a healthy dose of schlepping us/our worldly belongings up to Alaska and on a few adventures within the state. However, when a certain 19′ Airstream Mobile Art Studio loomed on our horizon for pickup, Fluffy did the truck equivalent of suddenly developing the flu. Did we feel Fluffy (named in 2013 by a then-eleven year old Reesa who likened his white color to marshmallows, which are…) lived up to his potential? No. Did Fluffy disagree and decide on an early retirement? Apparently. So we needed a truck with towing capacity. Fast.

Enter, in February ’22, Brian the behemoth diesel F350 with an 8′ bed and cap: aptly named by a friend who offered “Brian” as a “zero-drama, hard working, Gen-X dude” name. Yes.

For the first year, Brian served us well. This was, of course, with the help of a hefty investment of cash up front to tune him up for safe towing, but he worked. However, earlier this year (’23) a little something called the transmission failed. Following that, it seemed like his AC was not quite working – in St. George, Utah, in July. His rear shocks gave out one day, suddenly and spectacularly. Plus, did he have something akin to a truck UTI? We brought him to our (wonderful) mechanic in St. George who affirmed a Toyota dealership’s assessment that there was some kind of charming engine clogging issue that over time would prove, in a word, fatal.

Cool, cool.

Wes and I decided to limp on through with Brian for winter ’23 and ’24 anyway, knowing that this is our first full year with intermittent income and winter’s a low for his guiding. We’d just cross our fingers that he’d make it and come spring, with more flush/known income, we’d trade him in and get another vehicle.

It’s cute the decisions we think we make, right?

We loaded up Brian to head north to Reno for Christmas ’23, with intent of continuing on to Death Valley National Park afterward so Wes could make use of the truck’s clearance (vs our Prius) to scout a route for work. We were feeling the jingle bell spirit in our way – a mix of holiday songs playing on the radio, a decadent tailgate breakfast in the PHX Trader Joe’s parking lot that included Eggnog Greek Yogurt, the promise of a tree and quality time with family – when, four hours into our journey, the truck began to shake violently and uncontrollably at speed after rolling over your standard bumps in the road. I gripped the wheel as best I could as I hit the emergencies and looked for the nearest safest pullout. As cars rushed past us with menacing “whooshes” that sucked in air, Wes inspected: the shocks? No.

We rolled very cautiously on and into the nearest town with a viable shop (two slow hours away) where professionals gave their official assessment: our truck had a Death Wobble.

I’m not joking. That’s not my usual hyperbole. “Death Wobble” was their diagnosis of the truck, which in a way was validating because it certainly described the terrifying experience we’d had. Further, they recommended that if we were looking to sell the truck, we get to it. Fixing aforementioned “Death Wobble” could run us up to $5,000. Whatever was happening in the front was, in their words, “heavy“.

Visions of sugar plums recent $8000 transmission replacements danced in their heads.

Blessedly, the shop charged us $35 for the news and sent us on our way after two hours. It was 2pm on a Friday, and Wes and I weighed our options and (very) cautiously continued north.

What changed was, in the two hours between the shop and Las Vegas, Wes pulled up our credit union’s information, called on speakerphone, and we asked again about that car loan for which we’d been pre-approved. Over the course of the next hour, as both of us winced when we approached any bump on the road (again, in our MASSIVE diesel F350), we secured the loan.

As I drove us through lowering, late December light on the golden Mojave landscape in the Hoover Dam area, Wes googled Tundras that fit our specs in the area. We found several and honed in on a few at one location.

By 4pm, as the sun was setting, we’d rolled into a reputable used vehicle lot in Vegas (I know that sounds like a contradiction; I just don’t feel like getting into brands here so am staying general). We moved quickly with their salesperson: here’s what we wanted, yes it was on the lot, yes we wanted to do a trade in, yes let’s take a test drive.

When the assessor swung by to grab Brian’s keys, he offhandedly said something about the title of the car.

The title. The TITLE. Wes and I turned to stare at each other in horror as the keys were handed off, and our lovely sales associate kept enthusiastically relaying steps/information to us.

We hadn’t set out with more than a vague notion that we wanted to sell Brian. In our **plan**, that wasn’t supposed to actually happen until spring or summer. The idea of selling sooner had just arisen in the mere hours since the Death Wobble. We didn’t have the title on us – why would we; that’s bad practice to roll around with one’s fully owned vehicle with the paperwork that entails you (or a fraud) to legally sell it. The title was six hours behind us, locked safely away in the Mobile Art Studio on our lovely little rented saguaro-filled property outside of Tucson.

I needed to be in Reno by Monday for a series of consulting-related meetings that required me to cosplay professional person that does not take meetings visibly disheveled and likely unshowered, tethered to her phone network for Internet from some random campsite in the desert, and can be trusted to be someplace when she says she will (I realize this is a caricature of myself that is inaccurate, but listen: sometimes I flirt with it, let’s be real). Plus, this was our shot to spend quality time with Reesa and family: the more days we spent parsing this out, it started eating into the time we actually wanted to invest, and that potentially eroded Wes’ need to get to Death Valley for work. There was a looming domino effect and, even in our pretty flexible lives, some urgency.

We got the car purchase as far as we could pending the actual signing of the paperwork and, after checking multiple scenarios under the fluorescent lighting of the waiting area – could one of us fly from Vegas down to Tucson, rent a car, pick up the title, then fly back? For the tidy sum of $1500, sure! Nope – we decided to spend the following day driving to retrieve the title, coming straight back, and finalizing the purchase on Sunday morning.

Instead of camping – the much more frugal and otherwise pleasant option – we booked the best, proximate and least expensive on what seemed to be a particularly high-rate Vegas weekend, and also rented a one-day Turo car so we didn’t have to diesel/Death Wobble our way to the trailer and back.

And, yea, folks. Saturday dawned just as Wes and I peeled out of Vegas at 7am in a (smaller) rattle trap rented vehicle. Seven hours later we arrived back at the trailer, having just left the day prior. We spent a total of five minutes there retrieving the title which was exactly where we’d responsibly stowed it, taking cross eyed selfies, and turning around in the late afternoon light. We took a video of ourselves hollering along to the chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer” (we’re half-way-the-re) to send to a friend.

By the time we got back to Vegas, it was 9pm PT. The most difficult part of the day? The three mile drive to return the Turo, when both of us were cross eyed. We made it back to the jangly, smoky casino hotel that unique kind of tired/flat you get when you’re just utterly done. We tried to use the coupons the hotel had offered to spend $5 on the penny slots, and while I got one free drink out of it we couldn’t even figure out how to effectively use the machines.

Yes, we were so fried that Wes and I were too stupid to gamble. With that we went to bed.

What will go down in (our, tiny) history as Brian’s final “Eff You” occurred the next morning as we prepared to take his final drive over to formally swap him in and retrieve our new (used) Tundra. The hitch wouldn’t unlock where we’d safely secured it so no one could steal it (…no one, apparently, would have, so it was effective in that way). Turned the key, wiggled it, WD40’d – nothing. The $300 hitch was fastened quite securely and snugly to freakin’ Brian.

The value of calling a locksmith was less expensive than buying a new hitch, so that’s what we did. The locksmith sat determinedly on the pavement in the morning hours of this pretty desperate old-school Vegas casino with Wes crouched next to him. Me, I was trying to ignore them to save myself some stress, and instead focused on consolidating all of the many disparate belongings we store in the truck to prepare for transferring to a significantly smaller truck (boxcutter? Keep. A zip lock baggie full of bold multicolored sharpies? Sure. A slightly stained and crumpled N95? …trash).

First the locksmith tried finesse. Then, he pulled out a drill. Sparkling shards of metal sprinkled the pavement around him in a pretty, glittery powder. Finally, with nothing else working, he and Wes took turns with a method Wes later described as “wailing on it”. Apparently the locksmith wasn’t wailing hard enough at one point, and when Wes asked to take a turn he “wailed” with sufficient force to free the hitch.

The last song to play in Brian as we made his final, rumbling and lumbering F350 drive was on some local station playing a set of 90’s hip hop/R&B. I turned it up as “Party Up” by DMX (rest in peace) aired, and we pulled into the lot.

With our new (used) 2018 Tundra, we drove once again, this time (finally) toward Christmas in Reno. We arrived late that night, fairly, I will say: wrecked.

This sounds silly, but being a “watch person” as I am now I track my trends. Not obsessively (I don’t think), but consistently. Looking back at my heart rate throughout December, isn’t it curious that it spikes and stays that way mid-month, when we were on this journey, all the way through 12/31?

When Wes and I were on that 14-hour roundtrip errand to retrieve the title, the two of us were digging deep to endure – a skill we both have through physical endurance races, but also, you know. Other chapters of life. I wondered out loud at some point if this chapter was teaching us something. I wanted to take something away; I wanted this crappy, long errand to have meaning.

Since then, I’ve calmed down. I managed to be present enough through the holidays, and then Reesa’s 21st birthday (!) to enjoy it all even through the undeniable stress and how long it took me to decompress. We got to Death Valley in fairly rough shape emotionally, but that trip served as a welcome reconnect with impromptu friends and a re-set in the best setting possible: outside. In response to what we’re calling TruckGate23 and inheriting, along with most people, debt we didn’t have before in order to pay down this truck, as well as a general desire to create, I decided while scribbling in my journal at a backcountry camp over New Year’s Eve that my focus for 2024 is the word discipline.

Do I mean that in a punishing sense? Absolutely not. What it brings up for me is the relief of ticking up work a little – through art, consulting, writing, and my physical/emotional well being that is the through line of it all – bringing in a little more income, and pressing on even when it’s hard or unclear.

To be perfectly honest, a lot is unclear right now. I don’t really need an answer to that question of whether that errand had a purpose or not – I just know it was difficult, and we got through it. Similarly, I am once again looking at reinvention when it comes to this mode of our lives, how we dovetail both Wes’/my interests and professions all while sharing 19′ of Airstream trailer, and – related – how to continue to grow Alli Harvey Art/myself into this year. Some of this entails maintaining the discipline to do; some of it requires knowing when to (and actually taking) rest.

But those horoscopes, amirite? Even though I absolutely, of course, don’t give the zodiac any actual merit (nope, not me, never!), no more mercurial retrogrades for a bit, please and thank you.

Searching out awe in Alaska

I was facilitating introductions around a seventeen-person room to kick off a two day planning meeting in Juneau, AK last week. Participants were asked to share the usual – name, role, etc – and also something that inspires them to do the work they do.

In the role of facilitator, my job is to maintain neutrality on the “what” that’s being shared but hold keen attention for group dynamics, participation, and process. So I had to momentarily tamp my personal, excited reaction down when one woman shared her inspiration: awe.

Later, after the meeting, I shared with her that what she’d said resonated with me personally. We had a quick, slightly awkward exchange about it (switching in and out of participant/facilitator role to human-to-human can feel that way, and especially outside of the “safe to talk big picture” zone that a meeting space can create) and then the evening moved on.

In making the big life change to officially depart Alaska and move to a general, geographically mobile existence based out of the Mobile Art Studio I declared that I wanted to stay connected to a place that basically taught me awe: Alaska. How did I want to stay connected? Partially through art, although I knew my surroundings would lure me in different directions (ooo red rock!). Facilitation, difficult though it is, is something I do well in that I am always and forever learning it but it is suited to who I am and how I can contribute to causes I care about. So, I decided my intent was to remain connected to Alaska through this kind of service.

Miraculously, it’s panned out. I’ve visited Alaska for work three times for a total duration of about a month since we made the move in May of ’23.

Thing is, until this trip to Juneau I think it was still too soon for me to truly experience awe. I was grateful for the trips north. I loved getting to see people I care about and enjoy working with; I was pinching at myself to be there in person. I enjoyed hikes, walks, and runs. But that dopamine flooded part of my brain was for the most part unactivated.

Until last week.

Thanks to you, Juneau, first place I ever visited in Alaska for firing up that part of my brain again that is simply gobsmacked and giddy at beauty. And here’s to all of us finding and connecting awe in our own ways, and regularly. I believe it is a keystone to what it means to be human and to live a fulfilled existence – and that’s what keeps me going, in working through the muck to create what I can to inspire myself and you too.

Pics below!

Shrunken shoes and change

It may come as a surprise to learn that Crocs can shrink in direct sun. It’s a sad, sad thing to find one’s pair of shoes have reduced by an entire size in an afternoon. It’s why I’ve scrupulously shoved my (many) pairs of my beloved Crocs under seats in the car or, as was the case this past summer in blazing southwest Utah, under the Airstream.

The thing I forgot was that it’s not sun, exactly, that shrinks the shoes: it’s heat. So in August, when I pulled out my Crocs and found that they didn’t quite fit right anymore, I knew why.

At first I felt sad, knowing that the Crocs were unwearable. I was disappointed in myself for not taking better care of my things. And then, weirdly, I felt self-conscious thinking about how I’d have to discard the Crocs, and probably wouldn’t – at least not immediately – replace them, and what did that mean about who I am as a person? Everyone knows I love Crocs. What kind of poseur am I if I talk a big game but don’t even own a pair?

As you may or may not know: I’ve talked, written, and posted at length about my love of Crocs. When I had a small, but respectable little platform to wax poetic about being an unlikely outdoorswoman in Alaska, I proudly and stubbornly published several pieces pertaining to Crocs. Loved ones frequently gift me Crocs and Croc accessories (see: my furry yellow booty Crocs; my pink platform Belanciaga knock offs; my Croc Shine polish); many of you send me Croc memes. I love it. I am an early and ardent Croc enthusiast and champion, and proud to be so deeply associated with the uglybeautifulcomfortableutilitarian shoe.

But Crocs aren’t the shoe for every occasion (this came as a shock to me, too). For instance, in the heat of the day and especially in the desert spring/summer, they’re too hot for my feet. The plastic rubs uncomfortably and can even cause blisters.

When camping in sandy environments, the holes let in gravel that’s hard to expel without fully taking off the Croc and shaking it occasionally. This makes what should be a pleasant camp-shoe experience, not. 

These two things are what led to the Crocs being stuffed under the trailer for the better part of an entire season to begin with: they were out of commission, because they weren’t appropriate for my broader environment. I was keeping them around because I had them, and maybe vaguely as a kind of touchstone for something I enjoy about my personality, but when they weren’t wearable anymore it forced my hand. 

Was I going to replace these shoes that I didn’t really need? If I did, would I just be buying new Crocs so that I could have them and not even really wear them, and how would that sit with me?

2023 was a year of majorly slimming down our earthly belongings to fit in our new mobile setup. It was also a year marked by major adaptation to new, and constantly changing, circumstances. In this life, but in any life, there’s a choice each of us have to make about how much we want to superimpose ourselves onto and influence our environments; and how much we want to let the world and the places we inhabit/people we spend time with change us. Somewhere within that continuum of actual personal needs and personality/identity markers, and the ability to absorb other influence and grow/change as a result, lies who I am and who you are – at any given moment, and over time.

But really: how much stuff do I want to have in tow with me is now a constant question. Did I really want more shoes to lug around?!

Pretty philosophical to get over Crocs, but we humans do it about all sorts of things: you can be a Swiftie, a fan of this or that sportsing team, a Wine Mom.

I have been a Crocs person. Getting rid of them meant that to some degree, I wasn’t. I was something else, something new, something not yet defined.

Other personality markers I had to evaluate about myself over the past year: Alaskan (I don’t live there anymore), cocktail enthusiast (I drink significantly less these days), extrovert (I’m much more quickly drained by some kinds of social gatherings than I used to be), writer (I don’t have a paid venue for it right now), artist (what does it mean to earnestly pursue art as a means of income vs ‘pure’ expression, and where’s the line between creating pieces of value for me vs for others?). 

I think part of the beauty of being human in a constantly changing world is that we are able to make decisions about how and when to put our foot down (…or in, like with my shoe choices), and how and when to adapt. While I miss aspects of all of the above pieces of myself being more prominent, they aren’t gone completely – and I find that I enjoy what’s on the other side, even as it is still coming into focus. I appreciate the possibility and openness of letting go of some things in order to make space for the new and, as of yet, still coming into focus or unknown.

Back to the footwear, though: my feet are currently sheathed in what my stepdaughter refers to as “sleeping bag shoes”. They’re Chaco brand (oy), rubber-soled and down lined slide-in camp shoes that make much more sense for my gravely, chilly-at-night desert environment. And they don’t shrink in the heat.