My house is filled with stuff, and it stifles me calculating the square footage it occupies. Downsizing my material footprint into a home with decreased floorspace concerns me, yet I manage to sleep at night, but pondering fitting my life into a teardrop-class trailer makes me quiver and deprives me of shut-eye.

Heart-filled memories attached to possessions roosting in cupboards and on bookcase shelves, occupying floors and drawers, hanging from walls, hiding in closets, and taking refuge out in the garage obstruct the goals of the nomad within me. How do I unwind 63 years of life into a thimble? My parents are gone, but I carry their memories inside me, hence in likeness, I should survive to separate myself from objects that hobble my momentum. One scenario, however, frightens me more than death, and that’s downsizing my footprint to the minimum and regretting it if life as a nomad didn’t work out for me.

I want to avoid putting myself at risk of seller’s remorse, where I regret having liquidated 99% of my possessions. Placing items that can’t be replaced or that I desire to retain for sentimentality into storage is an option; another is buying a ‘basecamp’ domicile for the stuff I want to keep, plus it affords me of having a home base from which to plan and launch my adventures. If I were in my thirties or forties, I’d just get out there without preparing for contingencies. I’m 63 on a fixed income, and I like having contingency plans, and I’m too old to start over from step one. Proceeds from the sale of the house and the stuff I can part with may permit me to purchase a basecamp and a rig for adventures as a nomad; the possibility appeals to me, and I want to explore the feasibility.

My inner youth tells me to hurry up, and time is a force that imposes constraints and overthinking a plan can paralyze achieving a goal. I need to generate momentum, instead of bleeding the idea dry. “Do it,” says Frank.