From Jerusalem to Jericho

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Then who (then who), tell me who (tell me who)
Tell me who was this neighbor kind and true?
From Jerusalem to Jericho we're traveling every day
And many are the fallen ones that lie along the way
-Hank Williams

If I have my way, this will be the last long driving trip I ever take in my life.

We left Apocalypse State Park (Motto: Enjoy Our Rotting Cactus) late Wednesday morning and made our way south and east through the heart of Texas (Motto: The Really Big State) down to Austin (Motto: The Dark, Blue Rose of Texas) to finally meet in the flesh our good friends Carol Anne and Jerry. We had a lovely evening with them, speaking of the world, and ourselves, and our paths through this world, and our paths through ourselves, and eating a wonderful meal, and laughing, and listening as they performed a beautiful song. This was one part of the trip I’d been looking forward to for weeks, and was glad to share this restful and inspiring time with them. It was too short, and we left wanting more.

Late the next morning, we put Austin behind us and continued on east. We were treated to a 45-minute Interstate parking lot experience right in the middle of Houston, only to find a nothingburger of an accident at the end of it. One of many things to set us back on our schedule. Then on we went, and on, and on, and further on, into Louisiana (Motto: Land of Many Wet Spots) along I-10, where I had to let Sally drive so I could sleep a bit, and then finally into Mississippi (Motto: The Fog State).

Sally had found a little Indy campground/RV park in Biloxi. Due to the traffic accident, and the heavy fog (a relentless driving condition we had managed to escape the previous few days), we got there two hours later that we’d anticipated. The owners had failed to leave instructions out for us, but a friendly guy-in-a-truck showed us where the open sites were, and we parked and got out and walked around the park in the warm night air, admiring the many Xmas decorations (many of the people there were obviously long-term residents) and listening to the constant hooting of an owl recording. While walking, we realized that without our check-in package, we had neither WiFi password nor the code needed to get us into the bathrooms and showers. We crawled into Betty and went to bed and slept, but only after I went and peed in the woods near the electronic owl. We’d driven eleven hours.

Next morning at 6:20, I crawled into the driver’s seat while Sally stayed in bed and we took off. With no amenities, and another long drive ahead of us, there was no reason to stay. Sally has had us singing Dona Nobis Pacem in the mornings, so as we headed into the dawn, Sally started singing, and I changed the words: Donuts. Coffee. Bathrooms Bathrooms. Donuts. Coffee. Bathrooms. Soon enough, the magic worked, but even though we got our coffee at Dunkin Donuts, we got no donuts, because poison.

We drove through Mississippi (Alternate Motto: The Spelling Bee State) and into Alabama (Motto: The Other Fog State), through heavy morning fog and heavy Mobile traffic. We noticed that, as viewed from the Interstate, the Gulf Coast looked no different than North Carolina, save for the occasional alligator sign, a few functioning Stuckey’s, and the preponderance of the word “bayou.“ At last we reached the state line for Florida (Motto: The DeSantis State). We ripped off our masks, drove through the automated Spike Protein Transmogrifier, put the fog behind us, and zoomed into the orange-scented sunshine.

There was something palpably different about Florida. There were more State Troopers on the road. There’s an alternative Road Ranger system for motorists in need of help. There are functioning Rest Stops about every thirty miles, just like in the old days, but now with nighttime security. The grassy verges and medians were neat and well trimmed. And the roads were in good repair, smooth and clean and fast. We had clear sailing all the way across the northern part of the state. I think I heard a choir of angels singing far above. But then we hit I-75 and turned south, and the two lanes turned to three, and the traffic increased as the road quality decreased, and we hit backups and slowdowns and stoppages near every major city, and we kept losing time. Sarasota seemed but an endless mirage, like we were following in the footsteps of Ponce de Leon. But we made it to our friend Erin’s. We made it. It was dark by then. We were hours later than we’d hoped. But we made it. We’d been on the road another twelve hours. Maybe more.

We’ve been going through a process, Sally and I. A process of letting go, or of letting something die. A process of grieving. A process of acceding to reality. It’s been ongoing for some years. My words are that we are fantasy prone. Sally’s kinder assessment is that we are both idealists (she’s an INFP and I’m an INTJ). We can see the good and best and highest possibility in people and places and situations. And then we project the possibility we see onto that person or place or thing. And then we have to go through the process of acknowledging how the reality does not align with the possibility we see.

In this case, we’re coming to accept that the US is a really really BIG place, and that we’re getting older, and that driving around in this really big place can be really stressful and demanding and difficult, and risky, and even dangerous, and that if we’re going to live in Montana, and really settle into life in Montana, and embrace new friends (including new animal friends) in Montana, then we‘ll have to give up the notion that we can just jump into a vehicle and drive all the way back East, and that we can do that and somehow escape the reality of life in America right now, and that we can somehow magically remain in the little bubble of peace and sanity we call home, and take it on the road with us.

We said weeks ago that we just might drive Betty to North Carolina, find out we don’t like it, sell her there, and fly home. It appears that this is where we are now, that this joking comment has become our manifest plan. “This is too hard,” Sally said yesterday morning upon waking. “This is nuts,” I agreed. And Sally spent time on the road yesterday speaking with auto repair people and used RV dealers, to get the ball rolling.

We gave it the old college try. We did our best. But the sharp edges and rough surfaces of this culture are simply too much for us. And spending sixty hours over five days traveling 70 mph in a metal box surrounded by other metal boxes also moving 70 mph is just not a sane and safe option for us now. The rent is too damned high, the benefits incommensurate with the costs. We gotta just accept this and stop trying. If we need to get back East, we’ll have to take an airplane, or not go.

And I could blame it on Betty, who amplifies every hard thing about traveling, making the driving of her a constant wrestling match. And I could blame the culture, which offers so few options that feel life-giving and sane to us as we travel through it. And I could blame it on car problems, and weather, and traffic, and people, and my own unique sensitivities and needs. But really, it‘s just that it’s all too much, this great “out there.” Too big, too far, too long, too loud, too busy, too everything. And it does not serve our work, and it does not honor who we are, for us to project our fantasies of somehow being in control of it all, of making it be what we want it to be, or think it could be, rather than let it be what it is. We’ve spent our entire lives honing our abilities to go deep, to get quiet, to sit with feelings, to trust and follow our innate sensitivities. What the hell are we doing taking our finely-tuned instruments out and bashing them up against this harsh, rough world?

I’m sure Sally will touch on other aspects next time she writes. It’s morning in Sarasota now and we’re all awake and there’s a shower over there with my name on it. So I’ll leave this as unfinished as it feels, hit the buttons, and move on, trusting that there will be time enough along the road to say all the things that need saying, and hear all the things that need hearing, and feel all the thins that need feeling. For now, I wish you all the peace of the day, frens. Thanks for being there.
Pax-T

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Photos

From Jerusalem to Jericho
An old Masonic poster. I used to have a large copy of this on my wall. No idea where it is now.