When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. - John Steinbeck, "Travels with Charley"
At last, a solo road trip. Destination, purpose, route - all planned out and ready for the undertaking. I said my goodbyes, filled the tank, and pointed the nose of my truck to the north, toward a gathering 33 years in the making. Those first few hours of that first day I succumbed to the impulse to get away, to put as much distance between me and my starting point, reasoning that the further away from the familiar I was, the sooner I could begin to relax and settle into the journey.
Driving has always been therapeutic for me, if not always pragmatic. From the day I got my license, and the job that paid just enough to put gas in my car, behind the wheel was my sanctuary. Each night after closing up shop at the theater, I'd get in the car and drive up and down the main drag, through the McDonald's drive thru once or twice, and round the circuit on the backroads before finally heading home. Windows down, music blaring, the occasional illicit cigarette, it was all part of the routine. Whatever chaos might have been going on in my teenage self, the road was my refuge.
The miles passed by, long stretches where the cognitive engine that so regularly animates me finally took a break, allowing me to simply drive with nothing to distract save the ambient noise of the road and the minor irritation of others with whom I had to share the trail. No talking, no radio, minimal musing - just the drive.
This is what I craved, what finally pushed me to make this trip - five solid driving days and 2600 miles of relative silence and psychological rest. Of course, the mind and the spirit are not always cooperative. Finally given the space and peace to process, the subconscious went to work, offering up to my greater awareness things I had forgotten, problems which needed my attention and analysis, options which required my consideration.
And what do people think of when they drive? On short trips perhaps of arrival at a destination or memory of events at the place of departure. But there is left, particularly on very long trips, a large area for daydreaming or even, God help us, for thought. No one can know what another does in that area. - John Steinbeck, ibid.
Unbidden, I began to ruminate. Ruminate is quite the interesting word. It means to turn things over in your mind, to "chew the cud" as it were. A ruminant, such as a cow, chews that which it regurgitates from its rumen, or its first stomach. A necessary process, but clearly not a very pleasant one. Still, in the solitude of my truck, and the flattening of the landscape flying by outside my window, I allowed my psyche the space it was demanding.
So many things, taken one at a time and yet haphazard. This reunion, opening a long-closed chapter of a tumultuous time - filled me with anticipation and apprehension. My kids - one home from college for the summer, soon to depart again - is he on the right path, is he happy, have I done everything I can to help him including giving him the space to discover, the independence to live his own life? The other kid, newly licensed, just starting to come out of a period of teenage angst (or is he), what does he need, what boundaries can be relaxed, which ones must yet hold? My marriage - am I doing all I can as a husband, where am I falling short, what should I be doing that I am not doing today? The empty nest is just a couple years away, are we prepared relationally for that? My job, my work: a company I helped start, people with whom I've worked for almost 17 years, do I still believe in what we're doing, the direction we're going? These feelings of marginalization and lower value, the sense of an atrophying skill set - is it time to move on, search for other opportunities? What opportunities? The same, or something altogether different? Which is more important, my sense of purpose and fulfillment, or the security of the present and the ability to provide for my family? Is that even a binary choice? And after the reunion, on the road for home, trying to sort out an experience that was both surprisingly delightful and yet deeply melancholy. What a mess the mind can be when left to its own devices.
Round and round it goes, and one would think that my escape to solitude was an abject failure. Just the opposite is true. I need the quiet and the space and the time to work these things out. Time: the all-important resource that one cannot "make". One can choose to spend it various and sundry ways, but its creation, its invention, is beyond the scope of man. Did I stumble upon any answers? No, not really. But just the act of picking up each piece of my life and examining it from various angles provided its own benefit - more knowledge, more understanding, maybe a little less fear. And between each, a momentary return to the mindless passing of the miles.
On the fifth and final day, on the home stretch so to speak, I found that same anticipation and apprehension, this time focused not on the journey to the past, but the return to the present. Looking forward to being home with my family, not so much the rest of it, and still processing the results of the past few days and the changed landscape of my childhood. But without question, I found myself in a better place emotionally and spiritually, as a result of the time away. Of course, three months back in the real world has allowed the clutter to pile up once again, making me already wistful for another drive. Such is life, I suppose.
But when the opportunity presents itself, I'll be ready. Because, in the end, it'll be another chance to drive. To just drive.
