Traveling down the highway at 75 miles per hour, I'm focused on the road ahead. Way ahead. I'm nestled in the bucket seat of a 1980 Chevrolet Chevette, my seatbelt on before the law required it because an occupational therapist friend of mine told me horror stories of car accidents and injuries. I feel safe enough. Above 75 mph the car starts to rattle, so I can't go any faster. I've rolled the windows down to save the gas the air conditioner would burn, and the wind in my face creates the illusion of greater speed. But that's not what I'm thinking about. I'm not really thinking about anything, except how long it will take me to get to my destination. How many more miles do I have to go?
My eyes keep adjusting to the farthest distance, the horizon I've not yet reached, which gives way to another horizon, and then another, and then another. An endless succession of destinations. I'm lost to the passing of time, and well into my journey. At one moment I notice a crossing road, an overpass, at the farthest reach of my vision. In the next moment I'm passing under it and driving on.
And this experience finally startles me back to consciousness. I wonder at how quickly I seemed to traverse that stretch of pavement, then realize that I have no memory of the road between my first sight of the overpass and my now leaving it behind. How did I get from there to here so quickly? And why can't I remember anything about the road in between?
My eyes keep adjusting to the farthest distance, the horizon I've not yet reached, which gives way to another horizon, and then another, and then another. An endless succession of destinations. I'm lost to the passing of time, and well into my journey. At one moment I notice a crossing road, an overpass, at the farthest reach of my vision. In the next moment I'm passing under it and driving on.And this experience finally startles me back to consciousness. I wonder at how quickly I seemed to traverse that stretch of pavement, then realize that I have no memory of the road between my first sight of the overpass and my now leaving it behind. How did I get from there to here so quickly? And why can't I remember anything about the road in between?
It has been a long abiding curse of my life to be gifted with moments of insight I consider for a time and then set aside, a sort of collection of bits of wisdom that grow dusty on the shelf of my intellect but never really find a place in the midst of my living. As if the insight were sufficient unto itself and warranted my self-satisfaction. I used to pray for wisdom when I was young. I should have prayed for the capacity to live by it. But for some reason this summer finds me pensive, and I recently remembered that moment of insight on the road between Louisville and Indianapolis, when it occurred to me that I could live my life from destination to destination, from horizon to horizon, but miss all the living in between.
Some twenty-five years later I look back and wonder how often that bit of wisdom has come true. I can remember all the landmarks, I think, the big moments on the map I knew to watch for, or the surprises, for good or ill, that meant some change in direction. But what about the mile after mile moments, the day after day moments? Do I remember these? Did I even notice them? The big moments are important to me, but they are not all there is. Collapse them on themselves and they make for a pretty short journey. Destination after destination after destination, when in truth there were miles and miles of road in between.
Today, I want to remember the miles, every one, each one. I want to celebrate the beautiful monotony of the road, the speed bumps, the potholes, the sleepy straightaways, the exhilarating curves, the narrow shoulders, the wildflowers defying the authority of pavement, with less concern for the destination and more attention to the road I'm traveling, and the simple fact that tomorrow it may look much the same. For that is, after all, where the real journey takes place, in the mile after mile, in the day after day. It would be so easy to reduce your life to an ongoing journey of waiting to get to the next place, waiting for the next thing to happen. But something is happening now, this day. Something is happening in this moment. And it is all a part of your life.
It's not a new idea, of course. It's part of the spirituality of pretty much every religion I've ever encountered. And whether one holds to any particular religion or not, the principle is sound. If you don't want to miss your own life, you need to pay attention.
I think I've been driving too fast lately. Every day I'm up at five and on the road by six, flying down the highway at 80 mph, the Chevy Chevette a distant memory, to arrive at a destination that will not be anxious for me if I arrive a moment later. I think I need to slow down. Better yet, I think I'd like to stop the car, get out, and walk, and finally feel the road beneath my feet, and finally start paying attention to the journey itself ... to where I am, right now, in this moment.
Some twenty-five years later I look back and wonder how often that bit of wisdom has come true. I can remember all the landmarks, I think, the big moments on the map I knew to watch for, or the surprises, for good or ill, that meant some change in direction. But what about the mile after mile moments, the day after day moments? Do I remember these? Did I even notice them? The big moments are important to me, but they are not all there is. Collapse them on themselves and they make for a pretty short journey. Destination after destination after destination, when in truth there were miles and miles of road in between.
Today, I want to remember the miles, every one, each one. I want to celebrate the beautiful monotony of the road, the speed bumps, the potholes, the sleepy straightaways, the exhilarating curves, the narrow shoulders, the wildflowers defying the authority of pavement, with less concern for the destination and more attention to the road I'm traveling, and the simple fact that tomorrow it may look much the same. For that is, after all, where the real journey takes place, in the mile after mile, in the day after day. It would be so easy to reduce your life to an ongoing journey of waiting to get to the next place, waiting for the next thing to happen. But something is happening now, this day. Something is happening in this moment. And it is all a part of your life.
It's not a new idea, of course. It's part of the spirituality of pretty much every religion I've ever encountered. And whether one holds to any particular religion or not, the principle is sound. If you don't want to miss your own life, you need to pay attention.
I think I've been driving too fast lately. Every day I'm up at five and on the road by six, flying down the highway at 80 mph, the Chevy Chevette a distant memory, to arrive at a destination that will not be anxious for me if I arrive a moment later. I think I need to slow down. Better yet, I think I'd like to stop the car, get out, and walk, and finally feel the road beneath my feet, and finally start paying attention to the journey itself ... to where I am, right now, in this moment.
