Last week I was trying to decide if a short trip to Arizona would be worth the long drive. I had some days off work, I missed my kids, and there were some friends’ events that I wanted to attend. But gas is high, and money is low, and it meant two all-nighters driving for a three-day stay. I found myself weighing the value against the cost. I chose to go, even though on the surface, the cost seemed to be nosing ahead of the value. I just had this feeling that getting there was important. So I got in the car and started driving.
I drive a lot. A LOT. This practice started early for me. I was in a really big hurry to get my drivers’ license, so the minute I turned 16, I was there. With bells on, whatever that means. Bells, but not shoes. That’s right, I was so excited that I couldn’t even keep my shoes on. Although the examiner was unaware of it, I took my test in my bare feet. I felt like I had more control with nothing between my skin and the gas pedal, so I slipped off my sandals and kicked them under the seat. I still often drive this way. (Don’t tell anyone. I am not sure it’s legal.)
I took my drivers’ test in downtown Phoenix in the spring of 1977, in a gigantic green beat-up Dodge van that seated something like 16 people. Well, maybe 12. It was big. Parallel parking was out of the question. Which is why I went to Phoenix, instead of Tempe, where I lived. No parallel parking required. Since I was the oldest of 9 children and therefore the first to acquire a license, my mother took full advantage of my constant desire to get behind the wheel, and she used me to shuttle kids from place to place wherever possible. I of course worked these jaunts into detours to pick up my friends and cruise around places like Main Street in Mesa, and the campus of Arizona State University, where many “foxy” (hey, it was the 70’s..) college boys could be found. It did not take long before my identity was somewhat entwined with that of the big ugly green van.
In my early 20’s, I found myself travelling in a white Ford Econoline cargo van, which did not have power steering or back windows, and belonged to my future husband, who was, at the time, a dark and brooding temptation to me. He was a drummer and I was the Chick Singer. We had a road band, and I was certain we were on the path to all of our musical dreams coming true. We covered a vast portion of the country over the course of a year or so, playing in hotel lounges and bars in places like Roswell, New Mexico, Lawton, Oklahoma, and yes, even Nashville, Tennessee. Play for a week or two, drive for a day or two. Talking, listening to music, dreaming of the future by the full moon. As long as we were driving, I was enveloped in the illusion that I was actually going somewhere. Often the destination was disappointing, but the next drive always gave me renewed hope.
After we were married, we moved often, with several of these moves being cross-country ones, as my husband followed contract jobs from place to place, and we followed him. The vehicles shifted, from cargo van, to mini-Blazer, to mini-van(s), to gas-guzzling Suburban. Moving was exciting when the kids were little, before it meant uprooting them from their friends and the things that they knew. The big moves were to places like Seattle, Detroit, Albuquerque, St. Louis, and Dallas. There were many smaller moves about the Phoenix area, and many trips between family in Utah and New Mexico. We moved at least once every single time that I was pregnant, (3 times with kid number 5) and some of those moves I made on my own. I really didn’t mind, because although the job was hard without him, it was also easier without him. Once I had all of my children contained in their seatbelts and carseats, I felt, at least briefly, that I had some control over my life. I could choose the music, escape into my mind, (where there was far less stress than in my real life) keep the wheels between the lines, and just GO. Forward motion. All was well. For 8 hours, or 12 hours, or 3 or 4 days. My life between the long drives was considerably more difficult.
In the 5 years since I got divorced, the long drives have been even more frequent, and approaching the destination has been increasingly fraught with varying levels of drama and stress, as I have shuttled my kids between Arizona and Utah to visit their father. He remarried and relocated very quickly, and the transition has not been a smooth one, particularly for my youngest son, who is the only one of my 6 kids who still lives with me. But a surprising thing has happened, along this bumpy road; I have really internalized the concept of embracing the journey. Even (perhaps especially) when I know there will be ugliness and difficulty at the end of the road.
My 12-year-old son, who used to be filled with anxiety and anger every time we had to make the drive from the desert to the mountains, now often turns off the music because he just wants to talk. We solve all the problems of the Universe, we hash out movie script ideas, we discuss religion and relationships, and forgiveness and possibility. He reads me song lyrics he has written. We eat Cheetos and drink YooHoo. He regales me with the plot of every episode of South Park, in spite of my protests. He wants to know what life was like for me in the 70’s. He asks me to sing “Blue Moon” for him, and then tells me, in all sincerity, as we drive in the moonlight with the sunroof open, that it is the most amazing thing he has ever heard. This from a kid who knows every word to every song that “Linkin Park” has ever recorded. (Which we also listen to, with the volume up.) We are planning a cross-country road trip for the summer of 2012, to see all the coolest landmarks. You know, just in case. Perhaps we will make our own documentary about that, and enter it in a film festival. My life on the road is a rich one, where all things are possible.
Since we have been staying in Utah for the year, the place we used to live has become the place we visit, (and vice versa) and the emotions and the homesickness that go with that have been challenging for us both. But the long drives that tie these two places together have often been where we gain our strength and perspective. When you feel like your life is not going where you want it to go, it can be refreshing to throw it in a car and drive it in a direction of your choosing for awhile. You at least have the illusion that you are going somewhere, and maybe you can figure some things out on the way about where you really are.
My long drive to Arizona and back last weekend was filled with questions and answers, respectively. The short stay in between was fulfilling and clarifying, in ways I did not expect. It was also fun. Never underestimate the value of fun. And although the cost was fairly close to what I had calculated, the value continues to increase even after my return. I don’t think this would be true if I had taken an hour and a half flight instead of making the long drive. There is no shortcut to embracing the journey. So put the key in the ignition, roll down the windows and crank up the music, put your bare foot on the gas pedal, and move forward. And don’t forget to buckle up.
