When I grew up, we did not go on many long car trips. Well, not as many as other families might have. I had cousins who lived on Long Island, and that was the only lengthy trip we took with any regularity. I used to look forward to the ride – I loved it, in fact. This was because my parents gave their best efforts towards providing us with amusements that would last the entirety of the trip. We would load up with the fire engine red station wagon with all of our suitcases, the cooler, the bag of snacks, the 8 track tapes, and lots of comic books. My parents always put the back seat down flat, allowing us to lay inside our sleeping bags and to use the suitcases as pillows, or foot stands, or night stands on which to place our various items. We never gave a thought to the fact that all of these loose projectiles “not to mention our unsecured bodies” would have been hurled furiously through the red station wagon in the event of a crash – what were the chances of THAT ever happening, right? And, in fact, it never did happen. The only things I remember being thrown throughout the interior of the big red wagon are a few foul words that my father would use when we hit the predictable traffic and would sit, or crawl through miles of beeping horns and smoggy highway.
And I was happy to be in the back of the car in my sleeping bag reading Casper comics, or with my eyes closed listening to the smooth, silky voice of Patsy Cline on the 8 track. One of my favorite parts of these trips was the fact that we often were allowed to stop at the McDonald’s restaurant on the way and to eat our meal in the car. This was a big deal. I would learn many years later that the restaurant we stopped at was one of the first 100 McDonalds built in the country. We did not go to the “drive thru” – it wasn’t there. We also did not consider this a way for mom and dad to give us a cheap, convenient meal. We considered it a treat. A special, wonderful treat.
We would always get the food to go. and then, with my bag of delicious edibles, my vanilla milkshake, my comics, my books, my comfortable sleeping bag, my wonderful view of the changing scenery, and my sister lying beside me for company, I was settled in for the 4 or 5 hour ride to the cousin’s house on Long Island – all was right with the world. Back then, I would have sworm that I never asked “Are we there yet?” until we were really close to my cousin’s house – 10 or 15 minutes away. In retrospect, I realize that I started asking when we were around Albany – a mere 40 minute drive from McDonalds. By that time, my food was all gone, I had finished or spilled the milkshake, I tried reading the comic but realized that it was going to make me car sick, Patsy was singing “Walking After Midnight for the second time on the 8 track ,and I seemed to be the only one who noticed, looking outside was boring – oh, and I had to go to the bathroom now because of the food I ate. I could not see my father from where I was laying, but I know now that he probably was doing the same thing I do when my kids ask this question early on in a long ride – squeezing his hands into the steering wheel, starting a slow grind of his teeth, and trying for a controlled, low growl of “no, sweety – you just relax back there.”
The truth be told, I have not changed much from those days in the back of the bright red wagon. I was reminded of this recently while driving along and listening to one of those spiritual radio stations I have recommended in the past. The speaker brought up the topic of asking God “are we there yet?” He pointed out several examples of characters in the Bible – Old and New testaments, that have asked the same question. Trial after trial, waiting for years and decades for a promise made by God. Wondering when it would come. Keeping faith. It’s a good topic for me and my wife right now. We want to be “there” with her medical issues. We are learning what it means to live with cancer. To live with it. Every day. It means that every bump, or lump, or abnormality is a potential catastrophe. We learned just last week that some tests she had which we were told originally were “fine,” actually picked up some odd internal bumps and lumps. These may have been there a long time – her whole life in fact. And the only reason they were found was because of these thorough tests. They could have been there all along – her whole life… We thought we were “there”. Are we there, yet God? How much longer? How much more? Where, in fact are we going? We thought we had the map. We thought we were reading it correctly. Didn’t we go through this already? Why are we still here?
In the early stages of my sobriety, I thought I had “recovery” figured out. In fact, I had things figured out so much that I had some suggestions for those who had been sober much longer than myself. I know now that they are called “old timers,” and that the term is in no way derogatory. In any case, at that time my thinking was that the whole “12 Steps thing,” was O.K., but 12 certainly was a big number. It seemed like a lot of work. I had it down to just 2 or 3 steps. Because I was busy, and smart, and different from many of these people. The fatal flaw with my revamping of the steps was that I told my ideas to the man who would be my first sponsor. He listened to me – he actually sat there and let me get all of my “suggestions” out. I don’t think he even cracked a smile. And then he told me these words which would become the cornerstone of my faith in the 12 Step Program:
“You know what, kid? It doesn’t sound like you have realized yet that you are just another Bozo on this bus. I think you need to sit down in the front row of every meeting and pay attention to what is going on – just take the cotton out of your ears and stick it in your mouth for awhile and you just might stay sober.”
And then he walked away. It was deep stuff. Even in my smart, different, busy mind, I could not escape the truth of his words. Another Bozo on the bus. Sit down. Shut up. Listen. I had forgotten this conversation for awhile, but his words came back to me as I was listening to the spiritual speaker last week. A new bus. Some new Bozos. But the same driver.
When I think about it, our whole human experience could be compared to a bus ride. It begins when we are born. We enter the bus of the living, kicking and screaming, and we soon become aware that each day alive brings us closer to the end destination – death. When school begins, the concept of transferring buses within our bigger journey becomes a glaring reality. The “school” bus requires branching out from relatives, a circle of friends, and neighbors to a whole new group of “riders,” teachers, many children, school staff, and new friends.
This transfer onto new buses continues throughout our lives: Teachers get off our bus each year, friends exit the bus for various reasons, and often new friends get on, our interests and skills direct us to new buses with whole new groups of riders: the “sports” bus, the “musical” bus, the “academic” bus and so on. Some people get off the “school” bus earlier than us. Leaving at a young age to fulfill other obligations that they can often times not control. Some students transfer to the “college” bus – bigger, nicer, and with its own set of directions and challenges.
These bus rides continue. Newlyweds, running hand in hand from the church to the honeymoon to the new house to the joint bank account to the sharing of every intricate aspect of their lives – all the while riding together on a bus – hoping and praying that they will stay healthy, that they will stay together, that they will always stay in love. For a perfect “visual” of this moment, watch the closing scene of the movie: The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman.
Another example is when a child is born. The parents climb on the “parent bus,” wanting and hoping and planning the best for your kids – trying desperately to believe that you can protect them and shelter them and keep them from ever feeling pain, or hurt or loss. Knowing, somewhere deep down in your soul that you are not really driving the bus of their fates. A similar but far scarier bus is running near the parent bus – it is the bus of parents who have lost children. I do not know how they get by, how they get on, how they function from day to day. But they do. Other parents pile on the sick child bus every day, sometimes pushing wheelchairs, sometimes on their way to the intensive care unit of some hospital, sometimes just gathering enough strength to go one more day. All the buses, all the routes, all the people – and the same driver.
The problem I have with sitting back and enjoying my ride on these various buses is that I often feel like I don’t belong on them. That this is not the correct route – it is not the bus I meant to get on. More accurately, I have no real idea about where this bus is going. What is the destination? Furthermore, the ride often seems to be taking longer than I had thought it would “did I read the schedule correctly?” And the roads this driver takes make no sense to me. They are sometimes bumpy, and they are often dark, and isolated, and the only view I see out of any of the windows is of an impenetrable fog.
The other riders on this trip can be annoying as well. Some are constantly hovering around the front of the bus, pestering the driver. You can hear them loudly asking and shouting in the driver’s direction “Are you paying any attention to the road? Are you paying any attention to us? Are you even competent to drive this bus?” Occassionally they shout the question that is on all of our minds: “ARE WE THERE YET!” I assume they are also offering some “back seat” driving skills, or at the very least questioning the long and indirect paths our journey is taking. Others congregate near the back of the bus. They are not happy either, but these people never confront the driver directly. They are content to talk in low tones and hushed whispers about how horrible this bus ride is and how unfair it is that we good people are having to endure it. Although I’m not proud of it, this is often where I sit. And I listen. And I join in. Stupid bus. Stupid driver. Someone should do something. Something should change.
The group in the middle annoys me the most, but I have recognized that my irritation is based on those profound words of my sponsor spoken years ago. These people don’t say much, but when they do speak, their words are words of gratitude, courage, and acceptance. They say that the ride isn’t that bad. They point out other buses that we pass, or that overtake us on the way. They remind us, if we ask their opinion, that others on many of those buses aren’t as lucky as us. I do try to sit with them, sometimes, briefly. And in those brief moments I experience quiet, and stillness and peace on the ride. I have a strong feeling that this section of the bus has held on to something, or rediscovered something that we could all use. These people trust their driver. They also remember that “This too shall pass,” and that the choice to sit and worry and complain and question and moan will not make the ride one mile or one minute shorter. They realize that these actions may actually extend their ride – think of people in your own lives whose trials and troubles and bus rides ended long ago, but their bad memories and their harsh words and their lingering anger all point to the sad truth that they never left the bus – they are still sitting in the same place in their minds.
This too shall pass. All is temporary. The people in the middle of the bus have made a conscious and tenacious decision to sit tight, to stay calm, to tolerate the current situation in the hopeful expectation that their driver is with them, awake and alert at the wheel, and in the end this ride – this short, bumpy, beautiful, treacherous, fleeting ride will end in a place that is beyond their greatest dreams or expectations. I doubt that these people would tern themselves “Bozos,” but my sponsor might – and he would advise me to sit right in the middle of the bus – with them – and with the cotton in my mouth.
Once again my words have gotten away from me – a sure sign that I have much work left to do on this issue. I hope that in some small way my reflections and ruminations will give you a degree of peace and silence on your current bus ride. If nothing else, I hope you’ll try switching your seat to the middle of the bus for awhile – maybe I’ll see you there…
Just message. The older I have gotten, the more I ask where is There? So many people when faced with the end of their life, say they want to do it all over again, especially the hard parts. That’s when they learned the most, and appreciated life the most.
as you say, each step on this journey is not about “being there”, but about the journey.