Between the lines of the highway, I am neither here, nor there. In the middle, between homes, I drive 70, 80, 90 miles. Through fields of yellow flowers, smoking tobacco barns, and gas station billboards I pass and think.
I think of the time I spent at my last destination and the time I will spend at my next destination. I think of the friends I have made and the friends that I miss. I think of all the fertile fields I am passing, the tiny houses, and the bumpkin shops. There are breathing lives in those spaces and a breathing life in this car.
The car goes fast and the landscape passes in a fog. One place slipping behind and another that is approaching closely. Half way there, living on a prayer.
With my voice rising up, I talk through the air. As time goes on, this trip is slogged more and more through the roads and bogs. What once seemed like a troublesome trek has become a moment in time, feeling like a sanctuary. The landmarks imprint on my mind and the directions become mechanical. Now I travel with feelings of fondness toward the familiar in between.
In between the places, time is moving forward, but it feels like a pause. There is nothing for me to do but be. The folds of road are monotonous but invite deeper and deeper thinking, meditating, prayer. Through the words jumbled up in my mind comes a piercing peace. It is soft and sweet, humming to the rhythm of the engine.
The engine has puttered through 317 miles, one more to go. A close must come to the interim, but the last bit can be savored. Now, I am home.