Several months ago, virtually and out of the blue, I received an invitation to a reunion from a high school classmate with whom I did not graduate. It was quite unexpected (since I left after the 9th grade), but surprisingly enough, I found myself intrigued. It is not my custom to reopen closed chapters in my life, but in the months since receiving the invitation, I have warmed to the idea. Not in the least because such a journey would give me the opportunity to visit a place I never expected to see again.
There is a danger in the going, however. The image that I have, real or fantasy, may be lost or irrevocably altered. The rich and fertile ground of memory, perception, and impression that so indelibly mark my understanding of things - particularly my past - may be revealed as veneer, unsubstantiated, phony. To lose the mystery, to have it revealed or to be understood as something else entirely, could poison the well that feeds what remains of my imagination.
Aside: I'm not a writer, but I often wish I were. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. Yet bridging the gap between formulations that are essentially disposable to those that weave vibrant tapestries of expression is no small feat, and often beyond my reach. I still endeavor to find ways to express that which, in hindsight, may better remain unexpressed. To contemplate the mystery without seeking its naked reveal. To appreciate that which cannot or should not be reduced by the application of language. And while this probably makes sense to no one but me, trust me when I say that I understand the tension.
On the other hand, what I find on this journey might very well reinforce, reinvigorate, and refresh that stagnant wellspring within me. Rather than rip the veneer, it may in fact enhance and deepen the mystery and wonder of it all. New impressions may be formed that indelibly mark my understanding, impressions that may bring something altogether different and revealing, a via positiva to go with the via negativa.
In the end, I have decided to go. Decided to reopen a chapter long closed, motivated by … curiosity. To see the places and people I last saw in 1986, and to learn what's become of them. You may think it silly of me, and accuse me of drastically overthinking and over(psycho)analyzing a simple high school reunion - and you would probably be right. Nevertheless, in my defense, I'd wager all of us have places and times in our lives that, given the chance to return, the idea would give us pause. What you have read is a product of my "pause". A mere expression of one's self contemplating the mark of time - my time, our time.
Lord willing, this road trip will serve as both a literal and figurative journey: one outward, one inward, yet the same. We need such journeys, each of us. What may be found remains to be seen, or perhaps, unseen. Chasing after the wind may prove to be meaningless, but there remains yet the possibility of surprise. And with it, hope.
If nothing else, of course, I will relish the solitude of a 2600-mile round trip on the road. My middle age body may protest, but my spirit surely won't. Because the best parts of a solo road trip are simply: solo, road, and trip.
