I come from a line of route men who could transform mundane driving directions into poetry.
At family gatherings, the men of my family would huddle in a den, a TV room, or a basement where they instinctively knew to go to avoid having to carry folding chairs from the basement. Elsewhere, the matriarchs wrestled orange, pink, or green
JELL-O from copper molds. Here, over the low din of a sporting event, the men would grunt and nod until a new guest arrived. As uncles and great uncles, cousins and second cousins arrived, my grandfather would motion to an open seat on the autumnal patterned couch and offer them a Highball. I was a young adult before I realized that the majesty of a Highball at my grandparent’s house was simply Southern Comfort and 7-Up. To me, it was like Kraft Mac-n-Cheese; there was no recipe, no substitute, it simply was. Upon returning with a drink, my grandfather would ask the latest guest, “What route you take?”
My grandfather, who wired telephone poles up and down the alley ways and side streets of Chicago’s South Side, had built a wired television audio toggle so that he could mute commercials and annoying broadcasters without having to leave his chair. Until the day she passed, my grandmother thought he built the toggle so he could mute the television if he heard her calling for assistance. I knew he built it to silence the room for route discussions. Routes required the room’s full attention, and as such, the audience was looking for more than one word answers.
“So,” the guest would start, sitting forward to set down his Highball, “Your sister wanted to drop off a cake at the church – always a cake or something – and I wanted to stop at the car wash, you know the one on 159th and whatchacallit?“ This is what the men wanted. Details. Embellishment. Minute particulars. Conversation starters. From here, the conversation could branch into debates over the best car wash, the corner on which an older, better carwash resided, the location of the cheapest gas, and why women made cakes for other people.
Both the paternal and maternal sides of my family immigrated to the South Side of Chicago long before the expressways, clover leafs, and toll roads. These were unnecessary inventions of modernity because the grid system of Roseland and Cottage Grove Heights had long been mapped into their mental models. These routes were etched into memory starting when they walked to school, and took the street car to the theatre. I listened with fascination and longing. These men were from somewhere. These streets were more than a means of transportation. Pulaski, Kedzie, Stoney Island, 63rd street and 93rd street is where they grew up, where they had their first fist fight, their first kiss, and where they last saw a best friend before going to war.
My father, too, was a route man who loved a road trip. In late spring, he hunched over the dining room table – with an atlas, a U.S. map, and a pencil on a piece of string – planning the logistics of our next vacation. Every other summer, we drove to Florida to visit my great grandmother. In alternate years, Dad charted a course to a national park, a Civil War battlefield, or a fishing cottage in the North woods of Wisconsin. My father was not a destination man. He was a route man. Vacations started when I lowered and locked the garage door in pre-dawn darkness before shuffling into the family Buick. Hours later, he’d wake us as we approached a famous bridge, or a distant relative at whose house we were having a quick lunch and a brief visit.
It was on these summer trips that my love of maps, routes, and destinations was further nourished. I became the family navigator at an early age. My mother was relieved of her duties after she provided navigation to my father while holding the map of Georgia upside-down. Amidst the roar of my father’s cursing and our back seat laughter, the map was passed back to me, along with a stubby Ticonderoga pencil that had long since lost its eraser. On long trips I promoted it into service as a ruler by which I measured distance and estimated times of arrivals. From the tip of the pencil to an indentation I made with my thumbnail marked 100 miles. I would scan the highway shoulder for the next mile marker, and then ask my father where we planned to stop for the night. With this information, and an assumption that my father would maintain an average speed of 60 mph, I could estimate our time of arrival, ETA! ETA was key. ETA was the leading indicator of the night's accommodations. Early arrival meant a hotel with a pool. It meant swimming before a sit-down dinner, and night swimming after our food settled.
Late arrival meant a “Mom-n-Pop” motel. ”Mom-n-Pop” was code for places named The Manor Inn or Valley View Lodge. It was also code for “no pool.” After check-in, my father would venture out for take-out burgers for dinner and donuts for the morning. With my father distracted, my mother would hand us quarters for pop and the plastic ice bucket that happened to match our room’s curtains, pillowcases, and towels. Despite being independently owned, these motels had several similar features. There was the large, boxy television teetering on an aluminum TV tray and the combination suitcase valet and coat rack. Nothing was more fascinating than the bottle opener on the side of the vanity. Tonight there would be no pool, no elevator, no interior hallway down which we’d run with square, melting ice cubes bouncing from our bucket. Tonight’s entertainment would be orange flavored soda and a bottle opener in the bathroom.
As a traveling consultant, I spent my nights on the concierge level of hotels whose staff knew me by name. And while I’ve spent nearly 2,000 nights in these hotels, I have no time to visit their pools. No longer in the back of the family Buick tracing lines through mountain passes, but from my window seat, I lose myself in the cleanliness and symmetry of networked highways, farm fields, and clover leafs. My obsession with ETAs has intensified to an unhealthy level. On Mondays, ETA means arriving at an airport with time to deplane, racing to a connecting gate, finding wireless connectivity, and sending a presentation that I created in-flight to an impatient partner who sends it to an even less patient client. No less exciting than a kid wanting to swim, ETA on Thursdays means getting home to my family for three days. Being away from my family some 45 weeks a year has taken a toll. My calendars, airline status, and itineraries made me feel “organized and brave.”1 Over time, I lost track of where I had been, where I wanted to go, and why. Somewhere between the client demands, concierge lounges, and rental car kiosks, I lost touch with my true self.
Some months ago I began my present journey, which is to say a journey toward being present, toward mindfulness. The practice of Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) is credited to Jon-Kabat-Zinn. Originally used to treat pain and stress-based illnesses, today, people dealing with a wide range of issues practice mindfulness. My personal practice consists of meditating for 15-20 minutes as many days of the week as possible, and practicing simply being present throughout my day. It sounds simple, and it is. It may also sound easy, but it is not. I realized early in my practice that I was rarely present. Always charging down an old route, refighting past battles. Forever scanning the horizon for that signpost marking my success. Unlike my father, I was not a route guy. I was about destinations. Worse yet, once I reached a desired destination, I disregarded the journey, devalued the accomplishment, and set course for the next destination. Behind me, I left a wasteland of mental debris, and the firm belief that I did not belong.
Yes, mindfulness sounded easy, but it was not. Nonetheless, my initial mindfulness practice helped identify an inventory of necessary self-work. Not simply with eyes closed, but actively searching darkness, I see an outline of my true self disfigured by layers of outgrown, once-protective armor. Not simply sitting in silence, but actively listening, I hear echoes of my true self muffled by a soundtrack of doubt. Not escaping the world, but confronting and deconstructing myths of upbringing and expectation, I return to my “unsullied self.”2
It is a slow journey, turning toward presence. There are no mile markers, no measurable destinations. The paper armor of my calendars, airline status, and itineraries are of no use on this journey. Some days, the exterior world detours me from my true self, creating a void I fill with old doubts and current distraction. Other days, when the world is loud, I retreat to the ancient vibrations of singing bowls to quiet these cognitive distortions. But on many days, I follow my breath into an interiority that is home to my true self. A home to clarity, to warmth, a home of energy, of tingle. While it is a slow journey, this turning toward presence is a worthy route. This new route I take matters. What route you take?
Jeffry Osborne Tar ©️
31 Jan 2017
1. Isbell, Jason. "Flying Over Water."Southestern. 2013. 2. Blondin, Sarah. (Host). “Loving and Listening to Yourself”. Live Awake. October 3, 2016. http://www.liveawakeproject.com/show-reel
Comentarios