The New Nomads: Spiritual Sojourners With a Global Vision by Amara Rose Life Coach, Speaker, Workshop Facilitator and Writer We don't sleep at shelters or in public parks. You won't see us panhandling or pushing shopping carts. We blend right into mainstream society, with a discernable difference: we're nomads, living an eccentric lifestyle, sometimes out of economic exigency, but also by choice. We're on a mission to serve. Spirit may call us in an instant to far-flung coordinates. And we answer the call: by car, by air, by bicycle; by bus, by train, on foot. We're pilgrims with a purpose and a passion, doing what we must for a world in the midst of a birth process. We're planetary midwives, a job description you won't find advertised in any mainstream newspaper. There is no precedent for this scale of creative "homelessness." Our either/or, black-and-white society sanctions camping out for fun, but not of necessity: pay your passage to sleep on the ground and it's a holiday; slip into a park to sleep for free, and you're under arrest. It's an interesting double standard, upheld by the omnipotent dollar sign. Yet being without residence is not the same as being classically "homeless". The distinction is, the rainbow warriors I'm describing are "home free": without a roof—and, colloquially, all the way home (the dictionary definition of "home free" is, "to succeed without obstacles"). It's no accident that many of us include Ganesh in our eclectic spiritual pantheon, the elephant-headed Hindu deity known as the "remover of obstacles." This mobile lifestyle may not appear to be a conscious choice. When I first set out on what has evolved into an ongoing peripatetic adventure, I'd lived comfortably on one street for eleven years. By the time I embarked on my nomadic journey, I was in the throes of a profound spiritual awakening brilliantly disguised as physical illness (as wake-up calls often are), and thought I was heading East to apprentice with a well-known herbalist for three months at her farm. But I was selling or giving away nearly all I owned: furniture, artwork, clothes, computer, car; even my apartment. On an instinctual level, I knew I would never return, to either the outward or inner place I then inhabited. Living as a New Nomad is a fascinating odyssey. I was simultaneously bereft of everything I'd thought defined my life, yet deeply held in the Spirit. It's the ultimate training in releasing survival fears. And if you're a healer or one of the legions of lightworkers who feels called to assist the collective during these transmutational times, at some point you may be traveling this strange unmarked highway, at least for a little while. It took me a long time to begin to recast a nomadic lifestyle as perennial pilgrimage: like Heraclitus' river, always new. Years ago, I described our global relocation game as "galactic chess": attempting to place ourselves on the chessboard (planet Earth) relative to our unique gifts, so that where we dwell is where we can best serve in this ripe moment of co-creative possibility. Then I read Phil Cousineau's, The Art of Pilgrimage: "In ancient Sanskrit, the word for chess player was the same as for pilgrim. Try to see yourself on a chessboard. What is your next move?" Of course, there's an element of amusement inherent in these peregrinations: habitat is not habit! As we morph into our galactic citizenship, all places and no place can feel like "home" here on Turtle Island. Shapeshifters adapt to life without a "shell," because it's broken wide open—much like the pods in the early starseed movie, Cocoon. How do we cocoon without the chrysalis? In Sacred Contracts, medical intuitive Caroline Myss describes the Wanderer as an archetype. Since I view my entire life as archetypal, I now choose to embody this role purposefully. Intriguingly, the word "planet," from the Greek, also means "wanderer". We are all celestial embodied beings, traveling in ever-evolving orbits. Soulcraft by wilderness guide Bill Plotkin, eloquently speaks to one way we can align ourSelves with this Grander Reality: "Soulcentric ritual can help us draw upon the power inherent in being neither here nor there, neither this nor that, dead to the old life and not yet born to the new. This is the power of existential freedom, of maximal psycho-spiritual possibilities, of unfettered potential. It is the power of the shapeshifter. Ritual celebrates and enhances this liminal power by allowing the individual to live in the now in relation to truths not easily accessed from conventional awareness…(to) relax into a type of homelessness, a lack of stable ground…to enjoy the uninventoried possibilities encountered while wandering in the magical desert of our lives." So when, deep into my spiritual awakening, I literalized this wander-ful expression as a move to the Southwest, I understood at a visceral level that it was about learning to feel at home in the magical desert of my life, which could then transform into an oasis anywhere. My first night in New Mexico, I dreamt that my high school English teacher overlaid a complex travel map on the U.S. and intoned, as if giving me a crucial assignment, "You're practically the only one who understands what I mean." In the New Nomad curriculum, you create the syllabus as you go along, and the key to successful homework completion is how you feel. In 1994, I appeared "sick" and "in pain" to those watching my transformation from the outside, shaking their heads at the weirdness—even as I was uncovering a joy greater than anything I'd ever known, as the crusty layers of doubt and fear and judgment slowly peeled away, revealing the vibrant being beneath. My parched spiritual wells were being replenished from a perpetual subterranean source. Much later, when I was spiritually full and financially void, I began accessing ever-deeper wellsprings of ingenuity and grace—usually from "strangers," soul family in disguise. In 2001, camping at yet another state park, at my limit, crying in frustration over my odd lifestyle, I met a young man who was camping by choice, having released his apartment and stored his belongings. He was moving from campground to campground, "finding out what's necessary." At that time he still had a job; he just couldn't see the point of spending all his income on rent when he was "only there to sleep." I was awed that he'd made such a decision without the kind of impetus I'd needed, and although he had only been at it a month, his perspective realigned my inner axis. Walking Between the Worlds As with all initiations, you journey into Nomads' Land in developmental stages. In February 1993, with my arm pain reaching crescendo, I put my thriving marketing communications business on hold for a month and flew to Boulder, Colorado, where a dear friend had recently moved. I knew something peculiar was happening to me, and felt a yearning to be in Michael's energy field, though I couldn't articulate why. It was a practice run for my subsequent three-plus year initiation in the wilderness of my soul. I packed extra everything, as though being consigned to Siberia. Upon arrival in Boulder, I discovered the additional bottle of conditioner had exploded in my suitcase, and all my clean clothes needed to be rewashed. Talk about "unconditional" surrender! This was an early example of Divine humor. Caroline Myss recounts a similar experience in Sacred Contracts, when she dreamed of being asked to board a plane to a foreign country without even a purse or passport, trusting that all she needed would be provided. It always is. By 1996, I had evolved to living in a forest cabin in northern New Mexico. The cabin had no plumbing. There was an attached outhouse with a composting toilet, and a fabulous clawfoot tub that could happily have accommodated an entire family—but no running water! This was a major gateway for me in getting close to Nature, especially for a former city dweller whose experience until then was: water came out of the tap, garbage went down the chute, and if you had a problem you called the landlord. The cabin's owner left me four five-gallon water drums and one ten-gallon drum. Once a week, a friend with a truck (who helped me move regularly during my tenure in Santa Fe, while I midwifed his awakening—although neither of us had so clear-cut a concept of our energy exchange then) drove up the mountain and helped me haul water from a neighbor's well a mile away. I learned to heat what I could lift onto the stove, take it outside along with a gallon of cold water at midday, soap up, mix the water to desired temperature, and pour it over my body. What a glorious feeling, bathing outdoors in so primal a setting! Toward the end of each week, I'd drive to another friend's house to take a "real" shower and do laundry. I developed a keen conservation consciousness, living on thirty gallons. Later still, when I lived year-round in my tent in southern California, I matter-of-factly bathed in cold water from my water jugs, becoming adept enough to wash my hair and body in just three gallons. In 2006 I camped most of the summer at 6500' on Mt. Shasta, bathing from my trusty jugs. It's a cinch to do this now! In fact, once you become a Master Nomad, Spirit will invite you to teach. A librarian in Mt. Shasta who'd heard me speak about how I was camping on the mountain referred a visitor, new to camping, to me. She wanted to know how to find a place to bathe. I suggested several possibilities, from showering for $5 a pop at the KOA campground in town, to buying a "solar shower" at the sporting goods store, or using water jugs as I did. Inspired, she came up with the additional creative idea of asking local hotels if she might shower in a vacated room before it was cleaned. I commended her ingenuity. The degree of faith the Nomadic path engenders is extraordinary. Feeling that you've stepped off a cliff into an abyss, with nothing recognizable to hold on to, you're nevertheless closer to Spirit than ever before in your life. You're walking a corridor between dimensions: terrestrial and celestial, personal and planetary, genetic and galactic. And you discover that you are always taken care of, often in the most remarkable ways. Following are some of the unusual places I've stayed on the Nomadic path. In many instances, a form of exchange emerged once the agreement was forged that wasn't apparent beforehand. The Universe has been supporting me all along—not with cash in the bank, but with incredible souls showing up, opening their homes and hearts to me at exactly the moment I need it. I've become highly resilient in living this way; more and more people ask in wonder, "Aren't you afraid?" or they say, "Wow, I could never do what you do!" When I surrender to "gravitation" (where I'm pulled, or guided), I am provided for; fearing or forcing, I'm lost. I wonder if one day, as in the tradition of George Washington, there will be signs erected that honor the transient transformers: "Amara slept here!" A church pew somewhere in the Midwest. I slipped in before they locked up, awoke to Spirit's urging to "Get out, now!" and was in my car thirty seconds before the minister arrived—at 6 a.m. Two women met in health food stores, one in Washington State, the other in Arkansas. In the first case, at her request, I shared my extensive knowledge of non-toxic products and environmental sensitivities in return for a B&B. (Her husband thought this was very strange indeed.) In the second instance, I informally coached the woman's husband on growing his musical career. A small retreat center in southern California. I showed up just as their office manager was leaving on a medical emergency. For the next three months I intermittently slept on a spare mattress on the office floor or, when a room was available, in a heavenly bed, supporting the retreat with invaluable computer and marketing assistance for three hours each day. A different kind of housemate. My funds at low ebb, I called a referral who was seeking a roommate. Though I admitted I didn't have the money, Sandra generously invited me over. Within a week, I'd manifested a new job for her that doubled her salary, so she no longer needed a housemate (which she didn't want) to help pay the rent! I stayed at her townhouse for two months; she stayed in the position for two years. An Archangel in disguise. With $1.50 in my pocket but in a high state of faith, I attended the Center for Spiritual Living's Sunday service in Encinitas, California. After walking to my car, I returned to the church to pick up a brochure—and saw a man who had a halo around him, massaging his friend's shoulders. He invited me to join their group for lunch, offering to pay for me (even though, I later learned, was out of work). When he discovered I had nowhere to sleep that night, he offered me his apartment and went to his girlfriend's house. In the morning, Michael gave me all the cash in his wallet (about $18). Later, I was able to assist both him and Talia* on their respective life paths. Many healers' offices, including those of two Network Care chiropractors, a colon hydrotherapist, and an oxygen therapist. 52 undeveloped acres minutes from a small town in southern California. I'd met the landowner at a Fall Equinox celebration on his land; when I needed to vacate my cottage because the property was being sold, I asked whether I might camp there for a day or two. Not only did this kind soul set up a spare mattress and boxspring for me (upon which I perched the tent, tarping it to stay dry), I slept there on and off for the next 18 months, in between housesitting assignments and forays elsewhere. Sheltered amidst the trees, nestled next to his old storage trailer, with a port-a-potty, bathing out of my water jugs, I was alone in an absolutely magnificent natural setting, healthy, happy and free. As an exchange, I made phone calls to help him move forward with the process of building a road into the property. Sanctuaries. Using guidebooks such as Sanctuaries by Marcia and Jack Kelly, I stayed at various monasteries and similar retreats as I traveled cross-country. Housesitting. I became proficient at finding housesits, through bulletin boards in health food stores, online resources such as Craigslist.com, and word of mouth. I housesat consistently with only minor gaps in assignments for one entire year. Along the road, I've met many other New Nomads who are walking this path for various purposes: When I lived in Santa Fe, a man named Lee, who preferred to sleep in his truck, once came to shower at my casita. How strange I thought his lifestyle—until it was my own. In California, I spoke with Nick*, who slept in his storage locker all winter and camped in the summer, using the money saved to launch a business. Jaris, a musician who lives the magic, travels without even a car throughout the U.S. for half the year, playing at fairs and other events. He trusts that transport to his next destination will show up at the right time—and it does. Marissa* gave up her apartment and camped at her adult daughter's house to save money until she left to lead ceremonial workshops in Mexico. Kalima*, following in my footsteps, is financially destitute after a long illness that catapulted her into spiritual emergence. Called to serve, she is without residence—and people keep welcoming her into their homes and hearts. Across the globe, Jasna's path in Slovenia is similar; she hears the call to planetary midwifery, and currently has a roof over her head but a dwindling bank balance. Jolene* separated from her husband nine months ago and has been on a nomadic spiritual journey since then, mostly housesitting. She didn't realize how resourceful she's become until I validated her path. We discussed how the mere presence of someone living this way threatens others ("There but for the grace of God…") and propels them toward awakening. Labyrinth creator, quilter, author and teacher Meryl Ann has been couch-surfing or staying in friends' spare bedrooms for years, and it's never slowed her down: she wrote and published a book while "homeless"! Finally, there are the famous whose service keeps them on the road, such as Peace Troubadour James Twyman, nomadic for years while playing concerts in war-torn areas such as Bosnia and Croatia. He appears to have settled in Ashland, Oregon—at least for now. Thus, the passport to this expanding itinerant lifestyle is resilience. New Nomads may be willing to settle in, but not settle for, and this can keep us wedded to the wander way a while longer. When you're living fluidly in the flow and in the know, you are at home anywhere and everywhere, and you feel the exhilaration of a certain ineffable freedom. My friend Peter calls it being homeful. We are galactic citizens, pioneering leading-edge adventure service, and we are always Home. If someone decides to make a DVD about us, they might title it, "It's A Wanderful Life!" * This name has been changed. Amara Rose is a metaphysical "midwife" for our global rebirth. As a life coach, speaker, workshop facilitator and writer, she guides others to create spiritually successful change. She is the author of the inspirational CD/cassette, What You Need To Know Now—A Road Map for Personal Transformation, and a contributor to many health, business and new thou ght publications. Learn more at liveyourlight.com Amara may be reached by email or 800-862-0157 in the U.S. RETURN TO OMPLACE HOME