Phoenix? What was I going to do in Phoenix? A few internet searches later, I found inspiration by way of Route 66, and a plan suddenly began to fall into place.

In trying to make sense of the emotions with which I’ve been flooded on a daily basis since Jenny’s death, I’ve renewed and more seriously pursued my interest in Buddhist meditation. As a part of that journey, I’ve also been feeling a pull to get out on my own, to get into the out of doors, and to clear my mind to the best of my ability. (If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend Awake in the Wild: Mindfulness in Nature as a Path of Self-Discovery by Mark Coleman.) I thought the woods was my calling, but I was suddenly overcome with the desire to be in the desert, to be out in the dry heat and blazing sun, to be alone with my thoughts with nothing to concern me or distract me but the open road ahead.

Route 66 is open road like no other. The route was officially named in 1926, and linked small towns that previously had no thoroughfare starting in Chicago, Illinois and moving south and west through to Santa Monica, California. The significance of such an endeavor, and the impact that Route 66 had on the life, economy, and cultural landscape that is the United States is well documented in books, movies, and music, not the least of which is John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. Route 66 was the road to liberation, transformation, and reinvention for untold generations from the inception of this first national highway in 1926 to its official decommission in 1984 when the last stretch of old Route 66 in Williams, Arizona was bypassed by I-40.

Having spent a considerable amount of time on the road throughout my life, I know that there’s a soothing quality to driving, to following the blacktop as it stretches ahead into the distant horizon; a quality that lends itself to getting lost in thought, to drifting, to meditating, and, hopefully, to redirecting a life that seems to have gone off track.

With its incredible history, and the lingering spirit of the many people whose lives were irrevocably changed by their journey on the Mother Road, I knew it was exactly what I needed to do and where I needed to be.

Arizona and New Mexico have maintained much of the original charm of old Route 66, passing through national monuments, and towns made flush by traffic, and then devastated anew by alignments that bypassed them completely, isolating them yet again.

And there’s simply something magical about the desert. I’ve found myself talking with friends old and new about the experience of the desert, especially in times of crisis, that lends itself to healing. I, for one, found it utterly fantastic.

There’s a liquidity to grief, a seeping wetness that translates into a physical sensation of swelling that is inescapable in the depth of that kind of sorrow. There is also a healing quality, a purging, a cleansing: salt and water flushing through the system clearing out the impurities, a visceral process that mirrors the psychic process of shedding the old and creating the new.

But so many tears, so much weeping, so much sobbing. The arid climate of the desert called to me, not only because of my need of sunlight, but also to start the process of drying out. Funny, isn’t that what they call it when drunks end up in detox? Drunk on sorrow. That’s how I’ve been feeling.

The vast, open landscape also mirrored how I feel inside. Having been laid bare by my grief, I find myself open — wide open, and not always comfortably — to other possibilities, a fertile field and a great opportunity to create life anew. Even in the dry, desiccated landscape of the desert, there is life. In the midst of one of the harshest terrains known to humankind is a hidden world teeming with vibrant, verdant forms of life if only one stops long enough to look and to see.

There is hope in life that survives in the face of tragic loss.

And there is hope to be found in the images, thoughts, and revelations of a road trip in a time of crisis. I found myself lost in reverie in the long stretches of driving and quiet reflection. I solved the world’s and my own problems more than once only to realize that nothing is that easily resolved, and tossing my now obsolete resolutions out the window. At the same time, I also knew I was headed in the right direction, whatever direction that might be.

Tears were shed, sun was had, and vitamin D deficiencies were processed. I still don’t know what I want to do with my life from this point on, and I’m still struggling with many of the same feelings I had before I left. But the emotional log jam is shifting, and there is something to be said for that.

The image that kept coming to me thoughout the journey wasn’t the snake shedding its skin, the symbol of renewal that I thought I was seeking, but the ouroboros, the symbol of unity, of the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth that kept coming to me, which is probably closer to the real connection to the universe that I am searching for.

Of course, one four-day, 2323-mile journey isn’t going to heal all the wounds or repair the broken track, but it is a start, and one that I want to share with those nearest and dearest, and with those who happen to stumble upon these words.

Day 1: Friends, Family, and the Open Road (Photostream)
Day 2: Getting My Kicks (Photostream)
Day 3: Yesterday’s Gone (Photostream)
Day 4: Communing (Photostream)

My Route 66 @ Flickr.com

As I headed out of town, I took a few quick snapshots of classic Route 66 signs — although I missed La Cita — and then headed back toward Santa Rosa.

Route 66 passes right through the middle of Santa Rosa, and I decided to drive the length of it before turning back and checking out my detour of choice for the day, Puerto de Luna, a small town just south of Santa Rosa that is also one of northeast New Mexico’s oldest permanent settlements, the landscape and culture of which is beautifully documented in Rodolfo Anaya’s Bless Me Ultima.

On my way back from I-40, I took the exit back to Route 66 and toward Puerto de Luna, with a speed limit dropping quickly from 75 to 35 on a downhill stretch. Despite my drop in speed, I was pulled over by New Mexico’s finest for going 45 mph in a 35 mph zone. He was surprisingly accommodating, however, and gave me a written warning, a map of New Mexico, and directions to Puerto de Luna.

Puerto do Luna, while certainly quite old, wasn’t quite the mission town I was expecting. Puerto de Luna — Gateway of the Moon — is located in the middle of beautiful, deep red terrain. Founded in the 1860s, the town is still populated, with several ranches around the area, and Santa Rosa only 12 miles away.

Heading back into Santa Rosa, I stopped at the ruins of an old chapel and cemetery, Saint Rose of Lima. A lovely place, the cemetery seems to still be used on occasion, with at least one headstone with a date as recent as 2003. Along with these newer graves were much smaller, older, and long-forgotten and neglected graves.

After some time spent at Santa Rosa de Lima, I went off in search of the Blue Hole, a natural spring so deep that it brings scuba divers from all around. With a diameter of 60 feet, and a depth of 81 feet, the water is invitingly blue, although I’m not sure I’d want to go scuba diving in such a narrow and, I’m guessing, winding pass.

From Santa Rosa, I headed north toward Las Vegas, following the pre-1937 section of Route 66 that passes through New Mexico. This alignment is also a part of historical Santa Fe Trail. I followed the trail through Las Vegas and into Pecos, although a fork in the road led me along an alternate path. While it didn’t take long for me to figure out that I needed to backtrack and get back onto old Route 66, I stumbled upon another church and cemetery, the name of which I don’t know. But the American and P.O.W. flags remind me that it is, in fact, Memorial Day, and I take a few minutes to stop and think about the day and its meaning. If I had more time, I would have spent more time in Pecos itself, but soon I was off to Santa Fe.

I stopped at Blake’s — New Mexico’s favorite — for a green chili cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake before walking up to the Cross of the Martyrs, from which there was a beautiful view of the city.

From Santa Fe, I head south toward Albuquerque, following the Route 66 alignments wherever I could. Passing through Bernillo, I wished I was hungry enough to stop at the Indian taco stand out in front of a family home, with the entire family attending to the children running the stand.

Once in Albuquerque, I wound my way around, following signs toward Petroglyph National Monument. I was surprised to discover that Petroglyph National Monument is nestled in what is essentially the Albuquerque suburbs. What is extraordinary is how many petroglyphs there are in such a small geographic space. Truly amazing, and I’m glad I made it in time to see what I saw.

In making my way back to I-40, I followed Central Avenue, old Route 66 now a cruising strip through downtown Albuquerque. It would have been fun to park and walk up and down the strip, but I’ve miles to go yet, as I have reservations in Tucson, and many, many more miles to drive before I get to my destination.

I headed south on I-25 toward Truth or Consequences. If I had started earlier, drove faster, or stopped less, I might have made time to go to one of the spas that Truth or Consequences was once known for. Originally called Hot Springs, the town named itself after the radio show in 1950 when the host promised to do the show from the first town to name itself after the show. Show host Ralph Edwards visited Truth or Consequences (know by the locals as T or R) for the next 50 years for their annual “Fiesta.”

Passing through just long enough to get a feel for the place, I continued on to Hatch which, I was told, is the chili capitol of the U.S. Seemed like a good place to stop for dinner, except that when I got there around 8 p.m., everything was closed and all of the street lights turned off. Apparently they close up shop early in Hatch.

From Hatch it was a long, straight shot to Tucson, where I stopped for the night at a Motel 6. The key reader didn’t work, and security had to let me in, but I finally settled in for the night, more tired than I’d been in quite some time, and finally ready to sleep.

As it happened the night before, it was that long stretch of dark highway that had me most reflective. Again, it was the radio that helped trigger certain thoughts and revelations. I’d noticed — and not for the first time — that certain songs were played over and over again on the radio. Usually it’s the popular tunes, old favorites and new fads. But today, I heard one song in particular several times over and from several different stations: Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.”

Don’t stop, indeed. I know I can’t hang onto yesterday, that nothing will bring it, or Jenny, back. I also can’t stop believing that tomorrow has something in store for me. Better than before? It could very well be. In knowing only too well how short life can be, I know I need to shed the old habits, patterns, and behaviors that are no longer serving me, and live my life in joy, laughter, and compassion, in short, the way Jenny lived her own life, as brief as it was.

Song of the Day: “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac

Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow.
Don’t stop, it will soon be here.
It’ll be here, better than before,
Yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone.

Highways & Byways
Day 1: Friends, Family, and the Open Road (Photostream)
Day 2: Getting My Kicks (Photostream)
Day 4: Communing (Photostream)

My Route 66 @ Flickr.com

Sunset Crater was fascinating, not so much for the dormant volcano itself as for the long petrified and still very present Bonito Lava Flow. One thousand years later, and it still looks like it happened only recently, which, in geological terms, I suppose it did.

Wupatki National Monument, the site of ruins of the Wupatki pueblos that arose in the area just after the eruption of Sunset Crater, is amazing, an experience made even more compelling by the early morning sun and the dearth of tourists at that hour. Wandering the monument on my own, taking in the red rock buildings and imagining what it must have been like all of those years ago to live there; I spent much longer at Wupatki than I had intended to, I was so taken with the site.

From Wupatki, it was back through Flagstaff to old Route 66, and just a hop, skip, and a jump to Walnut Canyon National Monument, the site of ancient cave dwellings dating back to around 1300. The Island Trail down to and around the cave dwellings was closed due to a rock slide, but the pueblos could still be seen from the top of the canyon on the Rim Trail. There were more people at Walnut Canyon, as it was already much later in the morning, but not so crowded that the three deer frolicking in the parking lot felt any need to move on. By the time I returned from the upper trail, however, more people had arrived and the deer had long since disappeared.

Back on Route 66, I saw a sign for Two Arrows, a name I recognized from my Route 66 reading. What I hadn’t realized is that the now derelict gas station and diner with its signature twin steel arrows was all there was to Twin Arrows. An interesting site, definitely, and another sign that even the classic Route 66 sites that are easily accessible from I-40 are being lost to the ebb and flow of time.

From Twin Arrows, I continued my journey down I-40 toward Meteor Crater. Along the way, I caught a glimpse of a stone wall with the words “Mountain Lions” painted on it off to the side of the road. Driving too quickly down the highway with nary an exit in sight, I decided that I’d continue on to Meteor Crater and perhaps double back to see what I had missed.

Meteor Crater doesn’t appear to be much until you’re right at the top looking down. I can’t even imagine what the first people who saw the crater must have thought: seven hundred feet down and four thousand feet across, a perfect bowl in the earth with upended boulders the size of houses. I’m sure it’s places like these that reinforced and perpetuated early beliefs in gods and extraterrestrials.

My original plan was to carry on to the Homolovi Ruins State Park to see the petroglyphs, but that stone wall was still calling to me. I climbed back into the car, and retraced the few miles that took me to what’s left of Two Guns, Arizona, an attraction built in the 1920s, now a crumbling monument that is as much a ruin as any of the pueblos I had seen.

Two guns was originally just north of Route 66, and sits just south of I-40 along Diablo Canyon. The stone buildings were all that was left of an attraction built in the 1920s, when an enterprising couple opened a zoo featuring local wildlife, including, of course, mountain lions. At various stages, the site apparently also included a reproduction Native American cave dwelling, a “Hopi House,” a curio shop, restaurant, and other roadside attractions.

The zoo was discontinued at some point before 1950, but other attractions were built and attracted tourist for several years afterward, including a campground and twin water tanks featuring two old west gunfighters, one with two guns (of course). As with Wupatki, I spent more time and hiked much further around this site than I had intended, but it was so worth the time and the effort.

Like its kitschy counterparts in other parts of the country — South of the Border and Treasure City, for example — Meteor City turned out to be a geodesic dome by the side of the road that has a vast array of thing to purchase that you really don’t want or need. A photograph of the world’s largest map of Route 66 seemed worthwhile, and there were enough cars in the lot that I thought there might be something more of interest once I got inside. What wasn’t apparent until I got up close is that most of the cars in the parking lot had flat tires, and clearly hadn’t been anywhere other than the parking lot for years.

From Meteor City, I drove toward Winslow, whose claim to fame isn’t not only the section of Route 66 that passes through town, but also “Standing on the Corner” Park, a tribute to the Eagles song “Take It Easy,” with the lyrical passage “standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, such a fine sight to see….” No girls in flatbed Fords, but apparently there was a biker rally, and everyone had stopped for their own photo opportunity.

There’s not much left of the old Jack Rabbit Trading Post in Joseph City, but I did take the exit just to view the old sign and get a picture of the famous jackrabbit before continuing on to Holbrook.

The Holbrook stretch of Route 66 is probably most famous for the Wigwam Motel — one of several “teepee” themed hotels along the old route — and for Rainbow Rocks, which was closed when I passed by. I should have stopped and asked to see inside one of the wigwams, but it didn’t occur to me until I was back on the road. Seeing them up close, even from the outside, was a treat, however, after having seen them referenced so many times in pop culture history books and travel guides.

From Holbrook, it was off to see the Petrified Forest National Park, a 28-mile stretch that covers much of what used to be woodlands in what is now the Arizona desert. I took the trail up to the petrified wood pueblo ruins before driving the length of the park, stopping along the way to see the designated sites, including a petrified log bridge and a stretch of Route 66 which is now overgrown and indicated only by a belt of now decaying telephone poles that stretch along the desert.

The Petrified Forest National Park road leads into the Painted Desert, which I had seen that morning at a distance from the top of one of the Wupatki ruin sites. The vast expanse of desert, and the layers of color — red, ochre, yellow, brown — which could be seen for miles was breathtaking. I also took a few minutes to stop by the Painted Desert Inn, once a functioning inn, and now a vistors center, designed by renowned southwest architect Mary Colter.

From the Petrified Forest and the Painted Desert, it was off to Gallup, New Mexico. There were a handful of sites I wanted to see there, but the most compelling was the Navajo Restaurant I had located online. Sadly, the restaurant had long closed. In the end, it was dinner at The Ranch Kitchen, which serves a range of American, Mexican, and Navajo favorites, including the delicious lamb stew and fry bread that comprised my meal that night.

My stop in Gallup also included a stop at the El Rancho Motel, “Home of the Movie Stars.” Built by D.W. Griffith’s brother, the motel has seen its share of famous guests, as many of the old Hollywood westerns were filmed in the area.

From Gallup, it was off to Albuquerque without a stop, as I still needed to get to Tucumcari for the evening. I watched the sunset through the rearview mirror as I headed east toward Albuquerque, realizing that with the extra time and all the hiking I had done, I wasn’t going to arrive in Tucumcari to get my night shots of classic neon signs. But still, the time at Wupatki and Two Guns more than made up for the disappointment. As I continued on, I tried to follow a few of the Route 66 alignments along I-40, but realized that there wasn’t much to see along certain stretches, and especially not in the dark, so stayed on I-40 for much of the way. I passed through Santa Rosa and finally found myself nearing Tucumcari, the now familiar “Historic Route 66” signs ahead.

I had called and let the proprietors of the Blue Swallow know that I’d be arriving late, and they left the key in the door for me. I pulled up in front of Room #1, and noticed that all the other rooms had motorcycles parked in front. Another bike rally, it seemed.

As I settled in for the night and reflected on my day, I knew that this trip was already good for me. Distracted by my day’s activities, it was the drive after dark that was the most reflective period, and more than a few tears were shed as I thought of the events of the last few years and this last year in particular. And, as with the day before, the radio brought back memories and lent a certain synchronicity to the events unfolding before me.

Song for the day: “Life is a Highway” by Tom Cochrane

Life is a highway,
I want to ride it all night long.
If you’re going my way,
I want to drive it all night long.

Highways & Byways
Day 1: Friends, Family, and the Open Road (Photostream)
Day 3: Yesterday’s Gone (Photostream)
Day 4: Communing (Photostream)

My Route 66 @ Flickr.com

As the trip drew near, people offered good wishes, hopes of their own for just such a trip, and moral support along the way. And as Friday evening approached, my new and very good friend Paul made sure I ate and, on far too little sleep and too much wine, made sure I got to the airport by 4:20 Saturday morning. One of the disadvantages of such a cheap flight is a departure at such an ungodly hour. But with only a carry on bag, and a very short security line, it was an easy task. Filled with anticipation, I watched out the window as we lifted into the air, watching Puget Sound fade into the distance as we departed Seattle.

As we settled into the three hour flight, I watched the light change as the sun rose, and managed to catch a glimpse of Mt. St. Helens from the air, an amazing sight, and a photo opportunity I just couldn’t pass up.

I dozed off for a little while, so it didn’t seem long before I heard the pilot announcing our pending arrival in Phoenix. The reality was starting to hit that I’d soon be on the road and in the midst of my adventure. When I looked out the window and saw the sun casting a shadow of the plane encircled by a rainbow of light against the clouds below, I couldn’t help but think that it was a good omen.

I held onto the positive feeling as I stood waiting for far too long at the rental car center. What I hoped would be a quick pickup took an hour in line and five minutes at the counter. But, having signed my agreement and picked up the keys, I was on my way.

Flying down I-10, I was on my way to the first stop on my itinerary, past Parker to Lake Havasu City. Founded in 1964, Lake Havasu City bought London Bridge — yes, that London Bridge — for 2.5 million dollars. Dismantled, and each brick labeled and then loaded onto a freighter, the bridge was shipped to Arizona, and then reassembled across Lake Havasu. With its water sports, sno-cone stands, and hot dog vendors, Lake Havasu’s London Bridge is somewhat different than London’s own London Bridge, but it can’t be argued that Lake Havasu’s London Bridge doesn’t have its own appeal. A tacky appeal, perhaps, but an appeal nonetheless.

With London Bridge under my belt, I was off to Route 66. I headed north toward Topock, just outside of which I found the beginning of Route 66 in Arizona and continued on into the breath-taking landscape of the Black Mountains as I headed toward Oatman.

Originally an old west town, Oatman found new vitality as a stop along old Route 66. Soon bypassed, however, Oatman settled into its ghost town status, and now functions more as a Route 66 novelty town than a real settlement. In addition to its ties to Route 66, Oatman is known for being the honeymoon destination for Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, one of Hollywood’s most famous couples. In fact, the Oatman Hotel features Gable and Lombard’s honeymoon suite as one of its most visited — and, I assume, most prized — attractions.

One of the beauties of driving old Route 66 through Oatman is driving through Sitgreaves Pass, a winding road through the beautiful Black Mountains, a gorgeous and dramatic landscape that couldn’t be captured in photographs, especially with no shoulder to pull over to and rain looming on the not-so-distant horizon.

Approaching Kingman, recognizable Route 66 landmarks were becoming more common. First there was Cool Springs Cabins, closed in 1966, and then restored by Ned Leuchtner in 2004. Beautiful stonework and wonderful vintage gas pumps are definitely part of the appeal of this lovely little roadside stop.

Kingman is at the crossroads of Route 66 and I-40 and, as such, has survived in ways that towns like Oatman have not. Having grown into a respectable mid-size Arizona town, Kingman is teeming with residences and small businesses. It also manages to cash in on its connection to Route 66. The Powerhouse Museum is a tribute to Route 66, but one that really doesn’t have the charm or the appeal of the road itself.

Heading north from Kingman, following an alignment of Route 66 that was bypassed in 1978, took me to Hackberry, another town — or what’s left of it — surviving almost exclusively on its connection to the Mother Road. The General Store is a landmark, and the animal skulls with the hide slowly desiccating and separating from the bone left quite an impression.

From Hackberry it was on to Peach Springs, tribal headquarters of the Hualapai Nation. Like many of the reservations I’ve been through over the years, signs of rural poverty were quite marked. Businesses were long closed, houses were falling apart, and cars sat with no sign of having been moved in years. At the same time, families were sitting together in front of the houses, laughing and enjoying each others company while children played in the yard. The Hualapai Nation runs the only native-owned Grand Canyon rafting company. One of these days, when I return to the area to raft the Colorado River, I think it will be the Hualapai company I’ll be rafting with.

Just east of Peach Springs is one of Route 66’s oldest and most well known tourist traps: Grand Canyon Caverns. The stone and steel dinosaurs on the grounds had a certain Flinstones quality to them. And when I found out that I was “just in time” for the last tour, I paid the $14.95 to go down to the caverns themselves.

Apparently the caverns were discovered by accident when Walter Peck was on his way to a poker game. Convinced he’d struck it rich with a diamond and gold mine, Peck filed a claim and started his venture. Turns out there was nothing of real worth beyond the natural beauty of the caverns themselves — a rare dry cavern full of crystals and unique snowball-like formations. Thus, a roadside attraction was born.

Seligman’s famous (infamous?) Roadkill Café was hard to miss. Although not original to the route, it has developed quite a following, and I’ve been told the Armadillo Grill is worth a try.

Just off I-40, Williams, the last town on Route 66 to be bypassed by the Interstate, has managed to keep a stretch of old Route 66 alive and well. Arriving at dusk, the neon signs were just a hint of what I might expect in Tucumcari on Sunday. Bustling with Route 66 pilgrims and Grand Canyon tourists, the sidewalks and restaurants were full, but I was neither hungry enough nor tired enough to want to stop. And somehow, wandering the few blocks of Route 66 in Williams, Arizona, alone just didn’t have the same appeal as continuing down the stretch of highway to Flagstaff.

My itinerary had me getting into Flagstaff earlier in the evening than I would the next two nights, and having rousted myself — and Paul — out of bed at 3:45 a.m. to get to the airport, it wasn’t such a bad thing to have a relaxed evening.

Flagstaff was chilly, especially by Arizona standards, and people were shivering or wearing winter coats as they walked along the sidewalks. I wandered a bit, catching a few of the sights, before stumbling on what has to be a classic emblem of 1950s American multicultural influences: the Grand Canyon Café & Chop Suey. Established in the mid-to-late 50s, Grand Canyon Café and Chop Suey still serves American and Chinese American classics and is staffed by Chinese Americans and Native Americans. I think the woman who served me was Navajo. Despite all the other dimly lit restaurants with enticing sandwich board signs placed outside their doors, it was at the brightly lit Grand Canyon Café & Chop Suey that I had to have my first real meal out on the road. I opted for the house special, Grand Canyon Chow Mein (Soft Noodle) with Beef, Shrimp, and BBQ Pork. Soon after, an enormous plate of food was set in front of me, and I relaxed and enjoyed the kitschy ’50s diner atmosphere.

While looking for the hostel where I was to spend the night, I stumbled upon another gem, the Monte Vista Lounge, and decided to take some time out and have a drink in honor of my mother, who told me that Seagrams’ 7 & 7 was her and her companions’ drink of choice when driving along Route 66 all those years ago. As I sat at the bar sipping my drink and making notes for my diary, Charlie from Phoenix stopped to chat. He, like so many others, thought it was a “crazy” journey I was on, but one that seemed to appeal to him the more we talked and the more he thought about it. “What are you writing,” he asked. “A love letter?”

“No,” I replied, “Just notes about my trip.”

“Make sure you mention me,” he said.

“I will,” I said.

Du Beau hostel turned out to be quite nice, and I was woman #5 in a dorm-style room for 8. In and of itself, it’s not that significant, except that I was the last one in, and it meant there were no lower bunks left. I climbed into one of the top bunks, and thought of my friend’s message regarding his own adventure with ticks in Florida that day, and reflected on how the first day of my adventure had panned out.

Many of my thoughts were about the novelty of my trip, and the sheer relief of being out and doing something, anything, even if it wasn’t as sunny and warm as I had hoped for. But other things were coming together, too, things that struck me as notable, and signs of what was to come over the next three days.

Among them, I had brought a book and a fully loaded iPod for the trip. With my car adapter and my just-downloaded unabridged audiobook version of the Grapes of Wrath, I thought I had everything I needed to entertain myself during those long stretches of highway. What I realized was that by setting a soundtrack, scrolling through my song list or listening to even a classic American novel, I was setting an agenda for my thought process. Wasn’t that what I was trying to avoid? Wasn’t I trying to let go of thought; be, as they say in Buddhist meditation, mindful, present in the moment, and not guide my process?

In the end, it was the radio that accompanied me throughout. While I sought out new stations once the station I was listening to started to fade, I found that the radio itself had a meditative quality that complimented the stretch of road ahead. I could listen, but not listen, let the words and the music drift in and out of my consciousness, since I wasn’t specifically trying to listen to any one song, any one story. In being able to get lost in my thoughts with the songs in the background, I was opening my mind to an expansion and expression that would have been completely inaccessible if I’d tried to create my own soundtrack.

As it turned out, there’s also a synchronicity to listening to the radio on a road trip in a time of transformation. Songs that I hadn’t heard in years brought back memories, lyrics that lay hidden in the recesses of my subconscious came back to me unexpectedly, sentiments expressed in song resonated with my own emotional state, and brought a depth and breadth to my exploration that may not have happened otherwise.

Song for the day: “Take It to the Limit” by The Eagles

So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time.

Highways & Byways
Day 2: Getting My Kicks (Photostream)
Day 3: Yesterday’s Gone (Photostream)
Day 4: Communing (Photostream)

My Route 66 @ Flickr.com