Article 3 - "THE YIN OF THE ROAD" April 2007 edition of First Church of The Streets

    A good day on the road is when the miles fly past, and the day drifts by like a dream that can be recalled in part like a memory. In many ways, it is a meditation that can be replayed at any time, absorbing itself into a life that holds its own spirit, as though it became alive on its own. Action is always good in its own yang way, but a generous dose of yin is beneficial too, especially at the beginning of a trip, sort of like an auspicious inauguration to the beginning of the journey.

    That was what this first full day of the road was like. Quiet and still, even though there was movement in almost every second that went by. Going from northern Virginia to Smoky Mountain National Park in Tennessee in one day, a lot of movement was necessary, a constant marathon of miles ticking away until we reached the destination for the day. Yet the whole thing seemed effortless, as though there was nothing to the whole idea of traveling hundreds of miles of unknown highways in a short amount of time. Hills loomed toward us in the distance, towered over us as we approached them, and then slipped back into the past as we made our way past them. The journeys of old weren't the kind we were taking, where walking, riding horses or other means that would truly show the distance of where we traveled. A vehicle had a way of minimizing time and distance, making them seem smaller and more manageable than they really were. At least, when the highways were as empty as they were now and one's schedule was as ours was.

    For a lot of people, many of whom who regarded the road as something to be endured until whatever the destination was, this would be a great time to go take a nap, and let the miles disappear in some subconscious realm that could be forgotten about in the light of day. But for me, it was a great time to see what was there, what was going on. As far as I knew, I had never been in this territory. There had been some vague trip that my family had taken to Tennessee in the distant past, but I couldn't even remember what road we took, or where else we had been in that trip. So even if I had been on this road in some other lifetime, it may as well have belonged to someone else. The experience of new road was just that, new road, something to be savored. And even though nothing stayed permanently in my memory, on some level it was recorded and stored away, acknowledged as a memento to alter the course of my life ahead.

    The plan was that we would travel I-81 until the end of its life, which terminated somewhere before Knoxville, Tennessee. Once there, we'd link up with I-40, which we would ride with until the end in California, or at least that is what was the plan at the moment. This trip was planned out to a greater or lesser extent, but it was possible that plans could change and something else could happen. But at the moment, we were exactly on course, making our way south closer to Tennessee and further away from our home in New York.

    Already, it seemed like a lifetime away from where we were now. It was strange how quickly I could discard the hustle and bustle that was supposed to be the life I chose for the life of a complete nomad, the kind that supposedly only derelicts and leftover hippies and bored retirees engaged in. But it felt like it suited me just fine. I could continue my life like this indefinitely, so far as I was concerned. Whether wandering around in a park, or burning rubber on a road, this felt more real to me than when I was sitting around in an office acting as though I was doing something important. Even the idea of my writing career, which was separate from my current working status, seemed relatively unimportant now, with all the marketing and worrying if I had the plot right and all the other things that seemed vital when I was doing it but was meaningless now. All of it seemed far away to me. At the moment, I didn't really know why I felt like this. But also at the moment, I didn't really care either. I was just enjoying the moment immensely, and that was what seemed important.

    It was ironic that here we were, all three in of us in a box that was smaller than the smallest room in our house, and yet it felt freer than the roomiest area in the place I called home. Everything that I needed was in this van, not the usual houseful of stuff that seemed to be vital in everyday existence. And even though most of my stuff that was supposedly so important was home being ignored, I felt freer with less of it here. Ironic that all the stuff that was supplely so necessary for a real life seemed nothing more than a nuisance at this point. Just food, some clothes, a notebook, and the fridge, and it was enough.

    Midway through the day, we stopped and let the dog venture forth, and wondered around the rest area. I don't exactly remember where we were, but it was still in Virginia, a long swath of land and mountains that seemed to continue along the state's spine for what seemed like an endless loop that had no exit. But I didn't mind it. It was just awesome to me how long each state could be, and how much existence it took up, somehow enveloped all under one flag. At one point, there had been the guns of war separating Tory from Patriot, Union from Confederate. But now, no more. The illusion of peace treaties set the stage for the illusion of unity. Now, everyone could mill in and out at this rest stop without any impunity. Virginia, Florida, South Carolina, New York , Ohio, and Kentucky alike were here, judging from the license plates. And to show our support with our northern neighbor, a couple of plates representing Ontario and Quebec were here as well. Racial tension, class warfare, and political partisanship seemed to melt like the asphalt in the heat and become its own mirage, at least for a moment of my choosing.

    It was a great country to be driving in. MacGyver agreed, leaving messages for his fellow American and Canadian canine friends. Leftover food tasted great when there was no hurry, too. Soon, I'd be taking the wheel for the second half of the ride, getting that much closer to the mountains that beckoned us. But everything around us seemed as real as anything that we had planned. People came and went as we ate, to be seen once by us and perhaps never again. But if we hadn't made our way out on the road, we would have never seen them to begin with. It was easy to miss life details loomed large like a mountain and life was nothing more than a passenger that went away, never to be seen again.

    It was time to head for the road again, and time for me to take the wheel. Time to live life in a different perspective than my passenger self, but still wide open and not shut out to everything but my own importance.