Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I have been driving for many decades now. I always thought of a car as a mechanical conduit, a way to get from Point A to Point B efficiently, holding my breath till my life could begin again at the next imagined existence.
But now I view it differently. It is insular, closed off, a cloister from the world trafficking in ideas and actions. Like the Mustang inventing the individualized bucket-seat, rather than the Plymouth or pick-up’s family bench seat, here is a chance to will one thing, a Kierkegaardian meditation.
And yet, out of that solo prayer, there is a yearning for more: a communion of travel, a connection with something greater than myself, a parish of motion. Rather than the sign of the cross, a rudimentary “finger wave” marks the driver’s first evolutionary step on dry land from the swimming life, sliding over on the family bench seat to relate to a new congregation.
“I see you. You’re beautiful. I am you. Who are we. Hi!”