rear view

the day had been long; 

the evening all bone weary 

from the very first mile 

of the long drive home. 

but the music carried him 

for a little while; 

sweet sad country songs 

sung full rich and bronze strong 

by a forlorn goddess of sorrow, 

in white lace and red cowgirl boots 

on his radio. 

the day was gone. 

the night sinking and lost 

at a countless mile marker 

in the black drive home. 

the road was his heartbeat now, 

and so he rolled along and along, 

the white line marking time 

beneath his strong high beam 

and fading back and away and away and away, 

into his rear view mirror. 

He was a Californian. He was as much at home in his car as in his house. On an average day he spent an hour and a half or more behind the wheel, and actually looked forward to drive time.

Most of his time on the road was solitary, and the experience was therapeutic. He could drive for miles without any particular need to focus his thoughts, and found that this allowed for free association and unhindered explorations that were unlikely to occur elsewhere. He was a captive of the miles when driving, and could not engage in any focused task. The neural pathways required for driving were so well formed, so entrenched in his experience and habituated in practice that he could focus on the hazards and navigation of the road with very little mental and emotional expenditure. That left him free to feel and think and wonder and wander through the complexities of his life more or less uninhibited and undistracted for as long as the drive lasted.

Music was a profound key to unlocking the therapeutic power of the drive. There had been several stages in the process of his transformation in which different artists and specific songs had energized his healing. Early in his divorce, he had been drawn to songs of love lost and broken. He had passed through a fierce intensity of rage and anger and heavy metal. Then there were songs of sorrow and regret, hope and help, love rekindled, and joy. He could see a clear mapping in the choices he made as his transformation and healing progressed. In later stages he found it unpleasant or even unbearable to listen to some of the songs that at an earlier stage had carried him on their backs when he thought himself unable to go on.

With the help of his 100 watt Kenwood system, he could effectively flood his experience with whatever he chose. Sometimes it was raucous, forceful, driving rock and roll from Jimi Hendrix or Steppenwolf or the Rolling Stones. Sometimes it was the dark, brooding, psychotic thunder of Jim Morrison and the Doors, or the whining sad love songs of Neal Young. Sometimes it was ecstatic angelic choruses from Handel’s Messiah. Often, it was the cool California coast-cruisin’ melancholy of John Mayall or the youthful exuberant romance of Shawn Mullens, or the carefree lyrical rebellion of Tom Petty. But as often as not, it was the sweet rich country ballads of Emmy Lou Harris. He had a soft spot in his heart for the soul of her work. He knew that he had somehow merged her craft into his perception of the character and sweet wonder of the Moon’s little sister. He thought of her whenever Emmy Lou was on the stereo. In fact, she seemed to be present in the music, and he played it often, sometimes day after day, filling recesses and voids in his heart with the intoxicating melodies and rich sweetness of the music.

He loved the drive, and was grateful that he had discovered its healing power. It spoke freely to him and his heart responded readily and openly with insights as powerful as any he had ever received in religion or therapy. The road was his friend and counselor and guide.