No, I Don't Mind the Commute

Breaking the news that we've moved our family into the Ozark mountains and away from the city is like announcing that we've decided to become monks and nuns. "Why would you do that?" our suburbanite friends ask, not out of impoliteness, but out of genuine concern. "That's so far away - doesn't the commute kill you?" Monday through Friday, I drive an hour and a half into the city to teach literature and composition courses at the university. Some days are a breeze, and I'll arrive at my destination in an hour fifteen, giving me time to run to the ladies' room and dispose of the two cups of coffee I'd just sipped down from my enormous travel mug. Other days, if it's raining, if there's an accident or construction, or if it's rush hour, I'll make it there by the skin of my teeth. That's an adrenalin rush, let me tell you. But I've never been late.

I understand my dear suburbanites' concern. Commuting from home to the grocery store is a traumatic experience in the suburbs. Before we leave our houses, we check every door and window to make sure they're sealed tight, and then we head out, defenseless, into the world from which we've just protected all our most precious things. Out there in the world, we encounter road rage and gridlock, awkward social exchanges and the constant possibility that something we are doing could at any point be found offensive by somebody in our vicinity. It's why we speed; it's why we double park with our flashers on. We want to get in and out as fast as we can, and return from our thirty-minute adventure to the secluded safety of our den. My commute, however, is not a minor part of my day. Driving is not about transporting my body from one block to the next to pick up a gallon of milk. Three to five hours of my day are spent in the driver's seat of my CRV. The road has become an extension of my consciousness.

Wayne Dyer tells us that before we speak in public, we should take some time for quiet meditation. At the university, I'm on my feet speaking to more than a hundred students for more than six hours per day. My commute has made me a better teacher. Because most of my ride is through the open, rolling Ozarks, I am not bombarded by the overstimulation of towering glass buildings and flashy billboard advertisements. All is quiet, except for my thoughts. It is autumn now, so the land is covered with a patchwork of orange and red, yellow and brown. As I ride up and over, down and through the hills, it appears as though the earth is breathing, dreaming, occasionally adjusting herself to find a more comfortable way to lay. I transcend loneliness on that road, and I succumb to aloneness. It's the kind of aloneness I knew as a child without siblings; my mind bubbles with imagination and creativity, inspiring me to write with wild abandon, the way I did before I was seduced by the constraints of literary criticism.

Often I find myself wishing that my hands were free to do some knitting or writing, but I've found that forcing my hands to stay quiet has also opened the door to some lovely inspiration. With my hands and my eyes occupied by the drive, I've only my ears to entertain me. My commute has made me a better listener. My darling husband has burned CDs of audiobooks for me, catering to my love of stories. The other day, I brought down Professor Moriarty with Orson Wells (who, that day, was the voice of the great Sherlock Holmes) and I was later attacked by an army of little green men courtesy of Stephen King. Today I get to share some time with Garrison Keillor, a gift from a student of mine, and I'm sure that by the time I arrive home I will have laughed, cried, and cringed at the nostalgic stories of Lake Wobegon.

My commute reminds me of the long hours spent on the road with my father during cross country trips, and the seemingly endless rides on the Garden State Parkway when he and my mother would have their custody exchanges. I'm often reminded of my Pop pop, who at the dawning of his Alzheimers' could comment on how the trees in the parks made it look like we lived in a forest, and how every telephone pole was Christ's own cross. It is good for me to consult with the ghosts of my past during my ride. No matter how fast I go, no matter how windy the road, I can't outrun them. I'm forced to sit and talk with them, straightening out any residual confusion of my childhood, and reclaiming the optimism that confusion threatened to snuff out.

I am forced to confront the stress, worry and concern that all adults deal with during our hectic days. That stress is compounded by the fact that I can watch the miles tick down on Highway 44, knowing that there is nothing I can do to control my situation until the commute has had its way with me. I must sit with my obsessions, become nearly maddened by them, and then watch as the anxiety melts away on its own. Had I not taken that time with my stress, it would have been bottled up, occasionally coming out in minor explosions throughout my home and work times. I still act inappropriately, of course. I'm human, after all. But because I've been centered by the commute, my recovery time is much faster, and that recovery is more meaningful.