The Grasshopper Factor

Once upon a time there was an ant and a grasshopper.

The ant spent all day, everyday through the whole summer working to get ready for the winter. Stocking piling food and water and building a warm, comfy home so he and his little ant family would be safe and happy through the winter months.

The grasshopper, on the other hand, spent his summer having fun. The grasshopper sat by the river and played the fiddle. He danced and sang and generally partied down and whooped it up all summer long.

So when the snow started to fall, the ant holed himself up in his little ant house and spent all winter staying warm and catching up on his reading, presumably. While the grasshopper was stuck outside in the cold with no home and no food and he froze to death because he wasn't prepared.

It's a parable-- a story designed to teach a lesson. My grandmother used to tell it to me over and over again because, I guess, she was really hoping I would grow up to be an ant.

(Hang on, let me put down my fiddle.)

Many years and life lessons along the way, I have come to embrace the understanding that we each have a nature to us which we cannot change.

I cannot deny my grasshopper soul.

The best I can do is understand it, exploit its potential and mitigate its shortcomings, and make as many ant friends as I possibly can.

And that is where the blog title comes from, folks.

A Little Intro Music, Please

I don't have intro music. I'm not that cool. 

Putting together this intruductory post is challenging on so many levels: I'm talking to a lot of people who have known me for decades and I may or may not be talking to a lot of people who will find me along the way.

My story is long and melodramatic in places. No one really knows it all and this isn't likely to be the place I fill in the gaps. 

Traumatic loss is a bucket of tangled twine. You can't find the beginning or the end and every part seems to be connected to another part so that you keep finding yourself looping back where you've already been, trying to untie a knot you thought you'd already worked out.

And while you're doing that, someone keeps tying more knots in the rope for you to deal with later. 

Some days I'm irreverent humor. Some days I'm spitting mad. Some days I'm nonchalant shrugs and Zen level acceptance. 

For those who don't know: I lost a partner 4 1/2 years ago. It was the first domino in a massive collapse that led to parting with my home and my business. Within 18 months I'd also lost both our dogs and suffered a couple insults to injury that took a toll I wasn't prepared for. 

I got kicked a few more times while I was down and just when things were starting to come back in focus-- the COVID-19 pandemic ripped the rug out from under me. 

2020 wasn't much better for me than it was for most of the world. I lost a newly established business, I got diagnosed with a heart condition, I was in a major traffic accident that somewhat unbelievably left me uninjured but cost me a vehicle that I'd loved dearly and had held many good memories.

It also brought unexpected good fortune that has opened up some opportunities for me. And that's where this blog begins.

Nomadism is enjoying quite its time in the spotlight lately and I'm about to become "just another" aimless traveler among the hashtags. 

In my case, the timing is coincidental. (But I don't believe in coincidences, so who knows what the bigger picture might be?) 

Apparently, itchy feet are genetic.

My parents split up when I was a toddler and I grew up on my mother's stories of her marriage before I was born-- when she and my dad lived out of the back of a truck, drifting across the country and into Canada as Dad pursued what seemed to have been a never ending search for greener grass.

Mom told those stories like they were good memories for her and a very young Maggie often asked why they split up.

Mom said she wanted a home. And Dad didn't.

Four year old Maggie thought Mom was nuts. Five, six, and seven year old Maggie still thought Mom was nuts. Eight year old Maggie loved Dad's pickup truck with the camper shell and the carpet kit inside that she got to camp out in when he came to visit. 

And 13 year old Maggie befuddled her girlfriends by wanting a pickup with a campershell for her first car instead of "something cool" like a Volkswagen convertible. (My first car was not a truck. But I still managed to spend many nights camped in the Nissan Sentra.)

Stupid shit like being a minor, and then having a boyfriend, and then a different boyfriend, and then lucking into a line of work that fed my soul but anchored me to a desk, kept me grounded for decades.

But I've always been prone to wander, exploring the road less traveled as far as time and gas money allow. 

As the sun sets on my 50th year, I find myself no longer in an industry that requires me to maintain a permanent residence, without a permanent residence anyway, financially devastated, boasting a credit score that should never be boasted about, and sick and tired of trying to get it all back again. 

On one hand, I feel that life has thrown me into nomadism as a last resort. Like every other door I tried was locked. This is the only option available to me now. 

On the other hand, I have a chance to turn my life into an endless road trip that I never have to come home from! I don't need to be anywhere by a certain date or time. There's no one counting on me. I'm not obligated to anyone.

Universal access to the internet makes it possible for me to pursue an income from the middle of nowhere, and social media lets me stay in touch with the community of colleagues, (former) clients, friends, and followers that I don't want to lose touch with. 

The inner 8 year old Maggie is bouncing with anticipation, reminding 50 year old Maggie that this is a grand adventure that we have always wanted to go on.