The Art of Not Knowing What’s Next
Maybe we’re not supposed to know the whole route before we start moving.
I’ve always been a planner.
I like knowing where I’m going, what happens next, and preferably what happens after that. 😂
But this summer had other plans.
We packed up our RV, loaded up Diesel, brought entirely too much stuff, and headed out on what would become a five-week journey across the country.
This wasn't just a vacation.
There were a few important reasons we wanted to make this trip.
We'd talked about doing something like this for years, but there was always a reason to wait.
Work. Money. Responsibilities. Timing. Life.
But if the last couple of years have taught us anything, it's that time isn't something we're guaranteed.
Losing my mom made that painfully clear. And with Mike's health, we've had to become more honest about the fact that there may be things we want to do someday that we shouldn't keep putting off until someday.
We wanted more time with family. We wanted to see places we'd talked about seeing. I had a mural to paint in Ohio. We wanted to slow down, get out of our normal routine and actually go while we could.
So this trip wasn't really about checking destinations off a list.
It was about deciding that now was a good enough time.
Those were the anchors.
Everything in between?
That was the adventure.
We had a route.
What we didn’t have was any idea how different life would feel by the time we came home.
Sometimes You Just Have to Go
We left Colorado and headed east.
There were miles and miles of highway. Campgrounds. Storms. Long travel days. New places. Familiar faces.
And Diesel, who quickly decided RV life suited him just fine. 😂
We spent time with family. I painted the mural in Ohio. We made our way to Wilmington, North Carolina, then down through Charleston and Savannah. We visited the place where Mike's mom had spent her final days in Georgia. Then eventually landing on the Florida Gulf Coast in Pensacola.
And somewhere during all those miles, I started noticing something.
I felt different.
Maybe it was waking up without everything at home demanding my attention.
Maybe it was having fewer things around me.
Maybe it was being outside more often, seeing somewhere new and having absolutely no idea what the next day might bring.
Or maybe it was simply slowing down long enough to notice my own life again.
Whatever it was, I liked it.
I started thinking less about everything I was supposed to be figuring out and more about what was happening right in front of me.
Where are we going today?
What haven't we seen yet?
Where can I take my camera?
What would I want to paint here?
What happens if we turn down that road? 🤔
For someone who likes having a plan, there was something incredibly freeing about not needing all the answers.
Then Came the Phone Call
By the time we reached Florida, we were a long way from Colorado.
My dad had flown down to spend some time with us,
and I was soaking up something I've become much more conscious of lately: time with the people I love.
And then our daughter, Kaitlyn, called.
She was pregnant. And we were going to be grandparents!
I was going to be a grandma. ❤️
There are certain moments when the future changes instantly.
Nothing around you physically moves. You're standing in the exact same place you were thirty seconds earlier.
But suddenly the picture you had in your head of what comes next looks completely different.
This was one of those moments.
We certainly hadn't put becoming grandparents anywhere on the RV itinerary. 😂
But there it was.
Life reminding us that it doesn't particularly care about our plans.
And suddenly going home felt different.
There was something new waiting for us there.
Coming Home... Sort Of
Eventually, after five weeks of traveling, we pointed the RV west.
Back through Mississippi.
Louisiana.
Texas.
And finally Colorado.
Home.
You'd think after that many miles I'd be ready to stay put for a while.
Apparently not.
Because not long after getting home, the mountains started calling.
So we went again.
This time we headed toward Ouray and Telluride.
And somehow, that little Colorado trip felt like it belonged to the same journey.
Telluride
There are places that are beautiful.
And then there are places that make you physically stop what you're doing and stare.
Telluride was that for me.
The mountains seem impossibly big. Waterfalls spill down the cliffs surrounding town. The water is this ridiculous shade of blue. Trails disappear into places that look like they belong in paintings.
And tucked right in the middle of all of it is this little mountain town.
I loved it.
Not because we had some elaborate itinerary.
Quite the opposite.
I loved wandering around.
Looking.
Taking pictures.
Finding waterfalls.
Watching the light change on the mountains.
Thinking about what I might paint when I got home.
Just being there.
And standing among those mountains, after everything we'd experienced over the previous several weeks, something clicked.
We Spend So Much Time Waiting for “Next”
I think a lot of us do this.
I'll be happy when...
I'll start when...
Once I figure this out...
Once things settle down...
Once I know what I'm doing...
Once I have enough money.
Once I have enough time.
Once I'm sure.
And meanwhile, life is happening. Right now.
I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out what my next chapter is supposed to look like.
What do I want my art business to become?
Where do I want to live?
How much do I want to travel?
What kind of artist do I want to be?
What kind of life do I actually want?
Those are still important questions.
But somewhere between Colorado and Florida and back again, I realized something:
I don't have to answer all of them before I start living that life.
I can paint today.
I can explore today.
I can spend time with my family today.
I can take the road I've never taken.
I can stop when something is beautiful.
I can make something simply because it makes me happy.
I can change direction.
And I can let what's next reveal itself when I get there.
Maybe Wandering Isn't Being Lost
I've always thought wandering meant you didn't know where you were going.
I'm starting to see it differently.
Maybe wandering is being willing to move without demanding that you know exactly where you'll end up.
There's curiosity in that.
There's creativity in it.
There's freedom in it.
And there's a surprising amount of trust.
When we pulled out of Colorado at the beginning of the summer, I couldn't have known that somewhere along the road I'd start imagining an entirely different way of living.
I couldn't have known we'd get a phone call in Florida telling us we were going to become grandparents.
I couldn't have known that after traveling thousands of miles across the country, one of the places that would stop me in my tracks would be right back here in Colorado.
And I certainly don't know exactly what happens next.
For once, I think I'm okay with that.
Maybe we're not supposed to know the whole route before we start moving.
Maybe we're just supposed to pay attention along the way.
To the people.
To the places.
To the unexpected phone calls.
To the things that make us curious.
To whatever makes us stop for a moment and think:
I want more of this.
So that's what I'm practicing.
Creating more.
Exploring more.
Being with the people I love more.
And worrying a little less about where all of it is leading.
Because if this summer taught me anything, it's that some of the best parts of the journey were never on the itinerary in the first place.
Create boldly. Explore often. Find your wild.
— Keri
