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fter nearly three decades of marriage, I called it quits late one March afternoon near Baja’s Sea of Cortez as a waning moon sunk low into the western sky. I had waited nearly 36 hours for my soon-to-be-ex-husband to show up and hear me out. While it was no surprise to either of us that our marriage was finished, I hadn’t expected to succumb to the critical mass of our imbalances in such an abrupt and urgent manner. In delivering the unwelcome news, I essentially marooned myself in a foreign country without money of my own or any clear route into a fresh, new life.

I knew I could no longer sanely exist in the partnership, but I didn’t know much else. Supportive friends slipped cash into my hands, twenty dollars from one, a hundred from another, promising me temporary refuge in their homes should I need it. But what I really needed was a plan, some protocol to help me zero in and lock onto a new direction.

When I said “no thanks” to the old life, I opted out of the financial support I’d been blessed with in that long-term marriage. Those who loved me felt certain my circumstances called for immediate employment, and for some reason, many favored my landing a receptionist position in a doctor’s office, but the truth was, I didn’t want a job. I was 55 and had spent most of my adult life raising children, making a home and performing a supporting role in the family construction business. Declaring myself single felt like a hard left turn into expansive territory constellated with opportunities for personal choice after personal choice. Convincing a prospective employer to buy the minutes and hours of this new life clashed with my goals and ideals in a big way. I had no clue how to reconcile my needs and desires, but I didn’t intend to give up before the game began.

Twenty days later I caught a ride to San Diego with friends and flew home to Idaho, taking my dog, my winter coat and about $70 in cash. When I arrived, our adult daughter had opened the house; a fire crackled in the heat stove and the office window stood wide open. The smell of damp particle board permeated the air - a mishap with the water heater during re-introduction of flow to the house pipes after a winter of disuse had caused a slight flood. Stacked boxes of files and supplies stood chest-high in the sunroom, topped by bedraggled icons of the spent marriage: a framed photo of me and my husband on our 25th anniversary, embracing at a restaurant table; a glass box engraved with endearing words I once knew by heart; a receipt commemorating two nights at some Canadian hideaway where we celebrated two decades together. According to feng shui’s bagua map, that room held the love and marriage energy of the home and water damage wreaked havoc on its contents within a week of our break-up, even though neither of us was within a thousand miles.

Days passed and I cast my thoughts in every direction, exploring any possibility smacking of potential income. I scribbled on sticky notes, posting them in odd spots around the house: “workshops/raw food classes,” “board animals/dogsitting,” “help seniors compile memoirs.” I registered with Job Service and sporadically checked online, scanning for unusual or temporary listings. I checked out programs for older workers, finding that a long-term commitment was required of anyone who accepted government-sponsored training. Applications gathered dust on my desk.

When my husband arrived in Idaho a few weeks later, the circus of our divorce commenced, and the ensuing festivities magnetized my focus and attention. My angry spouse dedicated himself to providing lush and plentiful opportunities for me to experience the most intense and piercing levels of pain and/or degradation he was capable of inflicting. Since paychecks had come mostly in his name for our entire marriage, he believed my decision to divorce him should decrease my share of our joint assets by significant percentages. He unearthed legal loopholes to abolish any possibility of my receiving cash or cushion to ease me into the new life he didn’t want me to have. Liberating myself cost me dearly in “value,” but when I held that final divorce decree in my hand, I knew it symbolized a priceless victory for my spirit.

I still haven’t taken a regular job. On my own for less than a year, I’ve scored two short-term positions that provide me with respectable amounts of non-traditional income. One of them even matched a blue sticky-note I found under the bedside table when I moved out of my house. Living there held no appeal to me, and the reliable couple who signed the lease contribute greatly to my peace of mind about meeting the mortgage payment.

I’m tasting the freedom I fancied last spring when I made my leap; I’ve got money in my bank account and work lined up for months to come. Those offers of temporary haven are a much-needed blessing, and at this stage, still a pleasant novelty. I’ve turned myself loose on the world, abandoning my children, grandchildren and aged mother. They’re getting along perfectly well without me, though I call frequently to make certain that’s still the case.

I don’t have what most people perceive as a legitimate plan for my future, but my comfort level and appreciation of this flexible, spontaneous lifestyle grows as time passes. For all I know, my ideas about direction, distance and trajectory will transpose themselves into an entirely new configuration without warning, and what appeared to be my own true north will suddenly seem skewed or false. Perhaps this time next year - or the year after - I’ll boomerang back, evict my tenants, empty my storage unit, refurnish my home and pursue a secure and satisfying position in my home town. Or I could be stowing supplies and sharpening knives in the galley of a research ship, off to count sea turtles or swim with dolphins in some warm, sunny place far, far away.

I have no regrets at turning my life upside down and inside out. There are times when I long for the love of a sensitive man, but I didn’t have that when I was married anyway, nor did I enjoy financial security or health insurance. Yet I can’t help but notice I’ve never gone without what I needed, whether I was married or single, younger or older, encumbered or free. I don’t know what my future will bring any more than I did when I embarked on this leg of my journey, but if I can connect the dots between “marooned” and “self-directed,” I guess there’s no need to earmark any minutes or hours for worrying.

Which is perfect since I’ve got plenty of other ways to spend my valuable time.

Ann Clizer carries a 2010 Road Atlas in her Subaru Outback and feels comfortable winging it without benefit of a GPS. She believes both her parents contributed to her strong sense of direction.