Dear Vivian

Vivian van Gogh, patiently awaiting her glow-up alongside a bed of poppies

Dear Vivian,

I’ll miss her. I’ll say that upfront. At the same time, I think I’ve known longer than she has that it’s time, that it’s been time, for a change. You should know this about Holly: She’s stubborn and loyal and far prefers gritting her teeth to “giving up,” which means she can hold on too long.

It’s not about a change in feelings. To this day, every time she sits in my driver’s seat and rests her hands on my steering wheel (which, might I add, still turns like the wheel of a much younger van), a jolt passes between us, just like day one, a swirl of excitement and wonder and promise. If it’s been a minute since we’ve moved, she’ll say something like, “You’re a bad bitch, Ruby girl.” Or we’ll slide onto an empty, open road, and she’ll roll down my window and holler. On climbs or potholed roads, she can’t hold back her joy over my horsepower, my ready maneuverability. And I’ve lost count of the times I’ve caught her glancing over her shoulder to the home in my belly, pots and pans and produce swaying, plants vibrating, crystals in the window rainbowing everything.

We were in Idaho when this double rainbow emerged. A cop would knock on my window late that night when we misread the map and parked up a mile or so outside of BLM land. I wonder if you—being all shiny and new looking—will have fewer of these interactions.

Viv (can I call you Viv? I bet she’ll call you Vivvy), you should have seen me when she first found me. My belly had been gutted. Layer after layer of tar had been plopped into the spots along the back and sides of my roof where my rain gutter was rusting, pine needles and soil and all kinds of soggy organic matter trapped between each. When she sanded away the tar, she’d pull the gunk out, cooing, “Poor baby!” Then she rebuilt the gutter with steel epoxy. Was it like new? No, ma’am. It’s better. Look close and you can see the shape of her fingers in the edges. “Like a kid trying to flute a Play-Doh pie,” I heard her joke. But it did the trick. At least until recently. 

The gutter fix was a year or so in. The first thing she did was string lights from front to end in my belly, which she was already calling “the house.” Then we went to a hardware store. She disappeared inside and returned with a large slab of plywood, two more of sweet-smelling hardwood, and a bag filled with nails and wood glue; later that week, she added smaller, throwaway cuts of dark walnut from a friend’s carpentry project “for accents.” I could feel new life revving in my old gas line.

Let me tell you, Holly loved my indoor/outdoor kitchen. I’m glad yours has that dual capability too, though I’m guessing she’ll need a ladder to cook outside with you!

I won’t bore you with the details. You know what it is to be built in, to become a home. What was it like for you? To have your empty spaces transformed? (Or I guess for you it was spaces once piled high with packages.) To know you would, instead, carry the cozy nest where someone would curl up at night? The cupboard beneath a window where someone would stand (or in my case, sit), sunlight streaming onto wine glasses and chopped veggies spilling over the sides of a cutting board, new smells curling toward your fan?

(Oh my, the fan installation! I shouldn’t talk. You have two! I consider myself a van who fears almost nothing. But a fourteen-inch square hole in your roof during a deluge, only a blue tarp to protect you is no joke.)

The day of the fan installation turned out to be stormy. This photo was taken during a rare sunny moment, shortly after the hole in the roof was cut. Want more Rory, the man on the roof and a fascinating interviewee? See “Go Into the Forest and Come Out Completely Different.” Want to see a video of Holly and Rory installing the fan? See this note.

For me, it was magic, a perennial metamorphosis. I never could have dreamed all those textures and fabrics and paints and shiny trinkets and plants and books would find their place inside me. Not to mention the sheer amount of stuff that would fit in my nooks and crannies! (I should warn you. Holly has, well, let’s just say a lot for a nomad. I think it’s related to that whole holding on bit.)

Anyway, I know from the bottom of my engine she’ll miss me dearly. But I’ve seen her pain, the way it hurts now to fold her body into my small spaces. I’d give anything to raise my ceiling a few inches so she could stand without kinking her neck. (She’s actually considered that. Love or refusal to leg to? I’ll let you decide.)

Now this may be the thing I want you to know most: It’s not just the autoimmune diagnosis; the truth is she’s grown. I don’t mean physically. I mean in every other way possible. You should have seen her back in the days of our early uniting, summer 2019. She was bright and wide-eyed, moving forward despite a deep uncertainty she gave into, at times, alone in my belly, tears spilled against pillows. We explored together right away, beaches and deserts and forests. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the places in and on me where sand and soil got stuck. And I’m not just talking tire treads; I mean tires you can rub clean on the next open road. But she was also (what’s the right word? willowy?) holding back. She also held onto a part of her that believed there was virtue in fitting into the smallest of spaces, in needing almost nothing.

Over the years, I’ve watched her expand—her belief in herself, in her own vision, in her right to the life she dreams of, and in her ability to create luck for herself and others.

And I don’t mind saying the role I played was not insignificant. I mean, wasn’t it me who got us to the wild spaces where what she’d known in her mind about the rhythms and cycles of earth and its creatures (and the beings most humans see as insentient) became knowledge in her body?

We found this spot out on the Nevada 50 early one morning in the middle of the summer. That day was scorching. But she was determined to wait it out so she could soak in the moonlight. So she threw open my doors and let the sand blow in. And she soaked until late, when the wild burros came. And they circled me and brayed till dawn.

Wasn’t it me who endured potholes, wicked ascents and dizzying descents, and (both of our least favorites) washboard roads that cracked my furniture and knocked my parts loose, inside and out, and dumped her belongings onto my floor—all reminding her she could go anywhere her heart was set on? Not to mention the thin paths lined with trees or shrubs; believe you me, I bear the scratches. Remind me, if we ever meet again (and I believe we will, on the road somewhere) to tell you about the “gate” with the protruding pole whose width we, um, misjudged. 

Wasn’t it the things that went wrong, a melted wire, rodents squeezing through my vents, a battery that kept failing, just to name a few, that reminded her she could solve whatever she faced? Wasn’t it our time together that reminded her of the gift of solitude, of learning oneself deeply and talking to oneself sweetly and honestly?

And wasn’t it in me that the Rolling Desk was born? I have no small amount of pride in the fact that I’ll always be the desk’s first home. The writing, the connections formed by her words and those of others’ was no small part of the expansion. You’re going to love those people, Viv. They’re like her—curious, tenacious, generous, seeking, always seeking.

I’m delighted by your creature comforts. I always felt bad about my AC having given out long before we met. We were a mess on hot days when driving was unavoidable—melted ice from the bags at her armpits and lower back soaking into my seat, windows all the way down, wind and dust whipping everywhere. And after the vents behind my firewall broke, making it hard to get heat into the cab, cold days weren’t much better. At least there was the mechanic who jury-rigged a switch onto the dashboard wired to my engine fan. And if you must know, neither set of barn doors ever really opened properly. But she called it theft protection: Only she knew what hidden levers to pull and in what angle to pop them open. 

What I’m trying to say, Viv, is she’ll get there with you. She’s already planning ways to make you hers. I’ve heard phrases like “splashes of color” and “sheer curtains” and “baroque theme.” And I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say she’s going to build a brand-new desk set-up where the couch now sits. What I’m trying to say is take care of her.

See you down the road, you gorgeous beast!

Yours,

Ruby van Jangles

PS. I love the name change. Vincent was perfect for your former life. But Vivian van Gogh suits you wonderfully for this new one.

PPS. I’ll be OK. I still have the home Holly built in my belly, the solar panels and house battery, the new tires she gave me not long ago, the shiny new radiator her friend installed, a new rear axle and upgraded alternator. She’ll find my next person, my next adventure partner. 

Vote for Viv's new splash of color! Vivian's getting a glow-up with splashes of bright color here and there on walls and in drawers. Which of these four samples do you like best?

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Thank you, all, for reading, liking, commenting, restacking and sharing! Please do.

For the comments, which of the four wallpaper swatches should be Vivian van Gogh’s new splash of color? In what ways have you transformed—self, spaces, anything else—in recent years? Who are the mothers or mothering figures in your life and what’s something quirky or wonderful about them?

Note: Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers and motherers in my life and yours. And much love and gratitude to my wonderful mom, who sewed curtains for Ruby the van—peach on the inside, blackout facing out, rear and kitchen curtains fitted snuggly with magnets sewn into the seams, large side window curtains flowy—my mom, who simply sat and slid down an iced-over mountain river when her golden retriever, Meg, slipped during a snowy morning hike, and Meg couldn’t claw her way back to the trail and my mom couldn’t pull her up; my mom, who instilled in me love of story before I could even read.

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🚌✎🚚✐🚐 Caravan News

Caravan Writers Collective

’s first writing workshops are now available! And for the next five days—until Thursday (5/15)—you can get a sweet early-bird discount for any of them. Check out all available courses. I’ll be leading two, and I would be over the moon to see you in either:

• “On Different Pens: How to See Our Own Work with Fresh Eyes.” Four generative sessions with prompts and exercises. We’ll talk four writing stages—drafting, developing, refining, and polishing—and ways to slide between each with ease and joy. Bring a project or work with a start generated the first week. Tuesdays, 4 pm– 6 pm PDT / 7 pm–8 pm EDT, 6/3, 6/10, 6/17, 6/24.

• Weekend Boot Camp: “Why Not This? When Revision Is Play.” A weekend of writing and playing and experimenting with form—speculative, hermit crab, romance, and more. Giving ourselves freedom to explore can open up work we may not have imagined. Bring a WIP to play with or play with the pieces generated in session. Mostly, enjoy. Friday 6/20, 4 pm–6 pm PDT / 7 pm–9 pm EDT, Saturday 6/21 and Sunday 6/22, 12 pm–2 pm PDT / 3 pm–5 pm EDT.

I’d be honored and delighted to have any of you join!

Words from writers who’ve attended my workshops

“Had the opportunity to take this workshop from Holly Starley. Not only did it give me some fresh ways to approach editing with deep questioning, using the process she shared helped me make a breakthrough on an essay I’ve been stuck one.”

—Emily Wick

“Yes, yes, yes! I was at Holly Starley’s workshop last week, and it was practical, helpful and so inclusive.”

—Noha Beshir

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