Nomadland

Fern, the film’s star, is a 62-year-old widow surviving in a rusting VW van packed with her belongings. From reviews and snippets, I judged her to be a homeless traveler wandering up and down our rural western states subsisting on part-time demanding seasonal jobs, nesting on roadsides, in RV parks and in desert spaces, stranded outside the mainstream, struggling and despondent. As a 74-year-old woman myself, just the idea of being Fern gave me chills. I couldn’t bring myself to watch it. I have choices and people like her don’t, or so I theorized.

Last week, this strange film won best picture, best director and best actress Oscars which forced me to reassess my perceptions so I paid my $14.99 on Amazon Prime, for a view. The is the same Amazon with fulfillment centers where Fern always found work. I hunkered down in my favorite chair with a Johnny Walker Black at my side and prepared for a night of unsettled sleep after the movie.

I was wrong. Nomadland is about making choices rather than not having them. Fern is kindhearted and personable, but no fool. She isn’t stupid, a drunkard, or suffering from dementia, nor were the people with whom she found community. After her husband died, their way of life vanished, leaving her with few resources and hollowed out emotions. Her choice to roam was a knowing one, made to preserve her independence. She passed on opportunities for new beginnings inside the fold of normal society. She let her inner self speak to what she needed and wanted to do, despite rough going. In this chosen life, she found abundant kind and sharing people, built close friendships with some, thrilled in simple pleasures, luxuriated in nature, and discovered a simplicity in living that made sense to her. Was she happy? I’m not sure. In the end, with her arms stretched wide on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean and her face in the spay, she embraced her choice.

After watching the film, I pondered my life choices. I have no regrets and am satisfied. I slept well.