The Naturist Driven Life

Am I a naturist first, and a nomad second, or is it the other way around? What exactly is my true calling?

The California Desert bemoans its desolation laying solitary as a melancholic figure on the canvas of Nature. Its vast expanse, painted in hues of ochre and amber, whispers tales of abandonment and contempt.

From atop a mountain ridge, I can see perhaps ten or twenty miles of jagged backbone across an arid expanse, seemingly fragile in its rocky demeanor, hiding the weight of despondency beneath the Spring sun.

Solitude is a sorrowful entity much like a lone prospector dragging his mule through a mirage of illusions in an fruitless quest for redemption. It welcomes me into its heart, beating a slow poignant rhythm, resonating with the poetry of loneliness, while mirroring the fragility of human spirit.

I’ve sat up here for nearly three hours in the sun's wake, nude against its radiance as it replenishes my spirit. I’m convinced I was here at this same space in the desert, centuries earlier, perhaps as another nude girl, with flaxen hair, bronze skin, grinding corn and drying meats. I feel strongly connected to this place. I want to stay here forever, I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to go to work, I want to just fuck it all.

And who am I anyway in this present life?

To be honest, I don't know that needs to be defined.

It’s interesting that people ask who they are and why they exist, as if they’re so bold to question their existence, as if they have the right to protest being here, as if there is a call center to yell at and a manager to complain to.

Time to Leave

Every April I retrace my tracks north, following a route up US-395 towards the Eastern Sierras. My van doesn’t have an air conditioning unit, if you don’t count the one that blows out of the dashboard.

And the forecast for the greater Anza Borrego area later this month shows it’s going to hit the 90s.

Tom and Leslie have a place up in the mountains not far from Bishop. They were friends of my mom and dad when I was growing up. They were part of a network of naturist friends and families that we mingled with when we lived in the suburbs. After my parents divorced, they drifted away from us. But when I moved out from my mom, and moved into this van, I called them to reconnect. Now twice a year I visit them on the way north and on the way south.

They’re nice enough to let Emily and I stay with them for a few days to hear about our travels. Tom fixes broken stuff on my van, and they usually have a box of shelf-stable food waiting for us that they procure from a natural food store, because Tom sees himself as having to parent my health and well-being.

Even after all these years, they’re still dedicated naturists.

Leslie loves to go hard into the metaphysical. She peels away at the proverbial “onion” with the same slow, methodical pace as a Medieval torturer nursing a victim alive while skillfully flaying off layers of skin. We all hang out in their “den” while she goes on about aliens tinkering with our DNA, about ancient societies having conquered Space and Time, about the CIA, the FBI, and the DOD, all the while passing around a pipe of their best homegrown.

Tom is usually reliable for texting me Google Map coordinates of free, secluded camping sites across the Pacific Coast. He also tells me about his favorite naturist hot springs and swimming holes, and shows me routes of how to get there.

It’s also one of the few times Emily gets out of the van for any significant amount of time.

Both Tom and Leslie seem to live through my naturist travels up and down the West Coast. No longer do they embark on extended excursions in search of new naturist niches. They seem content to remain home, aside from the occasional nude hikes in the nearby forest, and enjoy the photos that I text to them.

What I love about Tom and Leslie is that they ask little of me and are never disappointed. They give me inspiration to continue doing what I’m doing. They’re like a gas station where I fuel up and reaffirm my nomadic life as my true calling. Each time I leave them, I feel ready to take on another six months of living on the road.

The Nomad Driven Life

“It’s not so much about finding your purpose in Life, but to follow your calling,” says Tom, as he pours another bottle of pinot noir in our glasses while the four of us relax in their hot tub. “You really don’t have to look too far.”

And the funny thing is that I’ve always known this, yet fail time and time again to give it any serious thought.

Just like today, I often take long hikes away from my van in an attempt to channel in some obscure transmission through the cosmos, or from deep within the terra firma, that will give me a clue as to where I should go and what I should do.

However, the message is pretty clear when I actually take the time to read it; I’m here to wander. I’m not a homebody like my mom and dad who were born in Southern California and will remain for the rest of their lives. I imagine at some point, when I’m much later on in years, I’ll do just as Tom and Leslie have done, find a place away from civilization and enjoy my little abode.

Both Mom and Dad get their energy from interacting from other people, which is why Southern California is a great place for them to be. I’m on the other spectrum, the side where I need solitude and peace to feel fulfilled, hence why I want so much to keep moving around.

Otherwise, I don’t have a purpose nor want one. I just want to be the creature I was born into, just as Earth created me, for this brief moment in time when I spread my wings and celebrate the glory of all that I am, just as butterflies awaken from their cocoons and as cicadas crawl up from the ground.

I’m here to just “be”.

The phrase, “purpose-driven life” is a construct I've come across several times in my readings. The idea that each of us were born to seek out a purpose, or to discover what our purpose is, and therefore rely on God's strength to get us there, is in fact a device to reinforce our investment into the institution of church.

But there is no investment that needs to be made in order to find your calling. A calling is something that is already in you, whereas a purpose is something you take on. A calling simply requires you remove all external forces, all foreign influences, and all barriers that block your actions.

Perhaps naturism is exactly that… a symbolic act of removing all man-made constructs we surround ourselves with towards the goal of returning to the pure, simple, human beings we were meant to be.

So What is My Calling?

While I still have ample daylight, I make the climb down from the mountain ridge and hike back to the van.

Emily is there on the bed, looking at her phone, swiping through her Tinder account, flirting with guys and girls she has no intention of ever hooking up with. I’m not sure what her calling is, though from all appearances, I think she’s following it.

Supporting her is not my purpose nor calling. I get about as much companionship from her as she gets food and a roof over her head. I’m just as much as along for the ride as she is.

And this van I’m driving doesn’t really belong to me. That is, the title may have my name on it, but that’s yet another human construct I’ve surrounded myself with. Otherwise, this van is on its own journey. At some point our paths will separate.

Otherwise, as I stated elsewhere, my calling is to be a wanderer. Being naturist is not technically a calling, it’s just something I was born into and don’t see myself ever growing out of. It’s always good to set up camp in a new location and stay put for awhile, but getting back on the road fills me with hope for new adventures.