I do not stop thinking. From the time my brain begins to wake up each morning, a song or worry will turn on in my mind. It is consistent and reliable like the brown, rectangle, old school alarm clocks everyone had in the 90s. The rest of the day consists of much of the same. My brain constantly tries to build a taxonomy of prioritizations and rules I know don’t really matter. I ask questions like, should I do something else first? Is there something more important than what I’m working on? My brain is buzzing and busy every minute until I go to sleep at night.
Van life was the first time I realized a lot of those rules I made up about what was “right” weren’t real when I was forced to make choices that didn’t align with the way I told myself things should be. I had to take 2-hour breaks from my standard 10-hour work day to relocate the van at checkout from the campsite. I couldn’t work late because I didn’t have solar power to keep the router and computer charging. I had to break all my rules and to my surprise, the world did not end.
Marching through the discomfort was like throwing me in the deep end to learn how to swim. At first, I just felt like I was drowning. Then I kicked hard enough to get my head above water. As my mom would say, “you lived.” And I did, in fact, live. Those experiences changed me for the better. My endurance for uncertainty was at an all time high.
As a consequence, my mind was quiet when I returned to life in a house. Everyday living felt really easy. Of course it did. I went from 3 gallons of water for 2 days and a limited amount of electricity to unlimited power and water. I had a freezer. A microwave. Life was easier. I had less to think about.
It has been 2 years since that experience. In the last 6 months I’ve noticed myself falling back to the busy brain loop. A few weeks ago, that brain buzz was interrupted one morning by the joy of finding a tiny alligator at the gym. It inspired me to buy my own big bag of tiny dinosaurs (that story here) and distribute some joy. Since they arrived, I’ve had a handful in my pocket each time I leave the house. When I catch myself thinking too much about a choice or question, I pull one out of my pocket and search the room for a spot. Then, I carefully place the dinosaur for someone to find, hoping a stranger will get as much joy out of finding it as I did putting it there. It’s my hobby. Like a deep intentional breath, the dinosaur makes me stop thinking for a second.
What I didn’t consider is what would happen when other people saw me putting tiny dinosaurs in random places. To my surprise, they don’t usually ask me why or treat me like I’m weird. Instead, they usually ask for a dinosaur of their own. Someone even asked about my dinosaurs this week at a session for Central New Mexico SHRM during the Q&A.
Almost every person in the room came up to me afterward to ask for a dinosaur. Of all the questions I ask myself, I never wonder why they want a tiny dinosaur. Human joy has a silent language all its own. A light in their eyes. A smile that’s unmistakable. I think those folks and I both know it is an act of magnificent rebellion to do meaningless things and waste time. To be silly and frivolous. To enjoy the smallest things. To stop thinking for a moment about anything but where to put the next tiny little dinosaur.