{"id":560,"date":"2023-05-26T13:06:43","date_gmt":"2023-05-26T17:06:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=560"},"modified":"2023-05-26T13:06:43","modified_gmt":"2023-05-26T17:06:43","slug":"the-journey-reconsidered","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/?p=560","title":{"rendered":"The Journey Reconsidered"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cHow many more miles, daddy?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The 1954 Pontiac was well-equipped for a car of its day. Which is to say four wheels (and a full sized spare, usually inflated), bench seats (unheated, and one small step away from ironing board rigidity), ash trays (my father still smoked cigarettes, purchased by the carton, \u2018over the river\u2019 and spirited home in the generous sleeves of my mother\u2019s Persian lamb coat, all times of the year), and a reliable, six cylinder engine that burned fossil fuels at a modest rate.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Our family\u2019s first \u2018automatic\u2019 had posed a bit of a steep learning curve, prompting a call to the dealership shortly after delivery with a complaint from my father that \u2018it won\u2019t start\u2019 \u2014 reference the car\u2019s mute response to a turn of the key on its second day. A driver, well-schooled in the wisdom of \u2018leaving a car in gear\u2019 to minimize the risk of its rolling down the nearest hill when left to its own devices, my father had dutifully and reflexively placed the transmission in \u2018D\u2019 (just to be safe) for its first overnight in our driveway.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Guidance was still managed via a collection of paper maps, prepared at source by experts in origami (and never able to be quite replicated)\u00a0 <\/span>and stored in the glove compartment \u2014 the maps, not the expert \u2014 (although I don\u2019t recall ever seeing so much as a mitten therein \u2014 the glove compartment, not the map nor the expert). Windows ascended and descended with turns of a crank. Devices to amuse the back seat occupant (aka, me) were comic \u2018books\u2019 (with the clear instruction not to risk motion sickness by reading with the car moving). And, for longer trips, a small stash of my mother\u2019s (amazing) chocolate chip cookies, carefully loaded into a repurposed Christmas cake tin and typically sufficiently tightly sealed that the back seat occupant could not prise it open without alerting the front seat passenger. Audio entertainment was limited to an AM radio, connected to the outside world via an antenna, generally telescoped into its fender cavity \u2014 to prevent it being savaged in parking lots \u2014 and, hence able to \u2018tune in\u2019 nothing. This seemed to well suit my father, grateful for the solitude and respite from the hurly burly.<\/p>\n

And so travel became about the journey.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A toss-in paragraph in a novel I\u2019ve just finished reading, set in immediate, post-WWI England, made brief mention of a minor character\u2019s celebration of train travel. Nothing about the urgency and barely concealed irritation or intrusive behaviours of fellow passengers. No toe-tapping or watch-checking to ensure \u2018things are running on time\u2019. Instead, the trip became a kind of time-suspended interlude that would take as long as it took. The \u2018world\u2019 one entered was equipped (bearing in mind this was mid-1920\u2019s) to meet one\u2019s immediate needs (good seating or even a closed compartment, \u2018dining car\u2019 amenities perhaps). It became an occasion to introspect with points of departure and destination removed from consciousness \u2014 at least for a time \u2014 leaving the opportunity to essentially \u2018just be\u2019.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

From the mid-50\u2019s rolling along in that cream coloured pod of my parents \u2014 with little else to do but gaze at the passing landscape \u2014 to any number of modern echos. Trains in particular have been host to that state, wherein the pressures and demands of our normally purposeful and directed activity are simply moth-balled; and we\u2019re held completely captive to the surrounds of this moment, in most cases, these hours \u2014 with naught to do but engage it (or them).\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

High speed \u2018bullets\u2019 are a favourite. Traversing the breadth of France from Aix to Paris was a first experience. Travelling in this quiet \u2018seam\u2019 between the early morning launch from the country\u2019s southeast corner \u2014 but before being dropped back into it, Gare de Lyon, then navigating the M\u00e9tro at rush hour \u2014 gifted 3 hours of suspended bliss. 600 or so kilometres, moving in the upper 200\u2019s, rekindled early memories. The odd paradox of moving through space, but removed from it, free to look and appreciate, but absent any of the compulsive, purposeful participation that occupies so much of our\u00a0 <\/span>time.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Giving oneself up to the space and time, to reflective moments, is a rarity it seems. Distractions, intrusions, the imperative pull \u2018to do\u2019, and to schedule our days is typically consuming \u2014 leaving precious few \u2018remnants\u2019 to spare. Leisure itself is often fully \u2018booked\u2019, slotted in along with all the other diarized entries. Discovering venues where this is not the case, finding those surreal gaps, wormholes connecting one obligation to the next with \u2018nothing to do\u2019 serve as reminders to distance from not only multi-tasking, but from tasking itself. A 30\u2019 sit, an \u2018aimless\u2019 jaunt on the bike. . . or a train ride are the quiet presents we can give ourselves. Restorative, grounding, \u2018pointless\u2019 \u2014 but increasingly necessary.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s gentle response to my backseat query: \u2018Not sure. . . but we\u2019ll get there when we get there\u2019.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cHow many more miles, daddy?\u201d\u00a0 The 1954 Pontiac was well-equipped for a car of its day. Which is to say four wheels (and a full sized spare, usually inflated), bench seats (unheated, and one small step away from ironing board rigidity), ash trays (my father still smoked cigarettes, purchased by the carton, \u2018over the river\u2019 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=560"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":561,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/560\/revisions\/561"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=560"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=560"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidhowardpsychologist.com\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=560"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}