This essay was published in Display Magazine 102nd Edition.
The Nameless Rhythm
I had, after long consideration, and many failed starts, determined it was finally time for a transcontinental odyssey. I had resigned from my comfortable career. What money I had was fully allotted for spending. The previous night, I had loaded my Jeep with anything I thought I would need and nothing I thought to be unnecessary. A tent, my worn but reliable combat boots, a dependable hat, plenty of rugged clothing, maps, basic tools and sundries – all were there, checked over many times. I wouldn't be staying indoors; I saw no reason to do things the usual way. My vehicle was in good order and was shining brightly in the morning's light, as if for some grand send-off.
On this day, I would begin my travels across North America. I had refused to make any firm plans, because I had decided that itineraries would have been an impediment to adventure. I had some destinations scrawled in a notebook, but no way of knowing exactly how I would arrive, and most liberating, no concern for that either. That was the point.
I knew my first destination. That is, I knew a certain city in western Wisconsin, and I set a course, ready to see what there was to see. That was the only real plan. I bid my family farewell, concealing both excitement and apprehension. And then, I was off. There was no ceremony, and no need for it.
Somewhere on the rolling southern plains of Minnesota, I began to consider turning back. This was a major commitment, and I was feeling uncertainty as to whether or not I could complete it. I stopped along the highway and watched the wind turbines whirl high above the verdant fields. I smiled as all uncertainty was lifted from my mind, and I chased the light of the setting sun.
Thus, I traveled. I crossed empty plains and prairies as if I was upon the warm wind that swept over them. I ascended the ancient rocky slopes of mountains and looked down upon the world. The scarcity of atmosphere at those altitudes made it feel that much more thrilling. I plunged into the valleys and listened to the silent stillness found between the folds of the earth.
I crossed mighty rivers and nameless streams, sometimes by bridge, other times from hopping from rock to log to slippery bank, and still other times by immersing my tired, worn feet in the purest waters. I forged into the darkest depths of primeval forests, losing my thoughts as I became woozy from the heavy perfume of redwoods and evergreens wafting amongst the damp humus. I trekked across burning deserts, some defined by drifting sand, others by shattered stone and colorful soil, all characterized by the fiery air above them.
I ran giddily across meadows in the mountain heights and in the balmy hills of the Deep South. I trudged through the mud and tangle of swamps and bogs as hungry insects pursued me. I did not limit myself to exploring what lies atop the land. When the opportunity came, I crawled down beneath it all to stumble onto yet another astonishing unexplored world.
Not content with only the natural things, I occasionally took a stroll in a thriving city. I might have looked out-of-place, but my eloquent language and sophistication spoke more loudly than the dirt on my clothes. Everything from a rich hamburger and a cold beer in Montana to San Francisco’s finest seafood on the wharf to elegant French cuisine in Charleston, South Carolina was my fare when I desired it.
I traversed topography for which I had no name. My boots were painted with soil, sand, and dust in all their mineral colors. I gazed upon the open sea and the open sky, both of incomprehensible vastness. When daylight departed, they sometimes appeared to be one. The emptiness of this world is truly staggering.
I would sleep when it was dark, and every day I rose with the sun. I ate when I was hungry, and drank when I was thirsty. The rhythm of civilization faded into background noise and instead I began to move to the rhythm of the natural world. I had absolute freedom, and my old identity was lost in the unhindered joy of vivacity. I laughed when I recalled how I used to live my life, because it was absurd compared to my new ways.
Summer yielded to autumn's inevitable approach, and the flaming colors of the New England mountainsides were the finale as the chilling rain and fog reminded me that winter's grasp was not far off. This was how I knew what the date might be, but it was no more precise than “early October”. Calendars were not something I needed any more. Reluctantly, I turned home, or to what I once called home. I was unsure what “home” meant. I knew that it was not what most people meant when they used that word.
I arrived back where I had begun all those months prior. The reunion was what anyone might expect, and I began an attempt to reintegrate into normal society. I knew the expectations, the customs, and the right words to say. But none of it made any sense now. I began to question some of the most fundamental aspects of modern human civilization. My questioning was not so much doubting as it was simply asking why we do what we do in the way that we do it.
Things did not move right. The pacing was off, the rhythm was uneven and hard to follow. I felt lost. I felt alienated. I was an explorer in some exotic land. Perhaps I had been to this land at some time in the past. Or had I? Questioning was replaced by frustration.
I knew I had to return to the old ways, because there is always the matter of survival, which of course requires income. I had a number of different jobs, but none of them lasted very long. To me, they seemed to amount to the efforts of insane people. Senseless toil using ridiculous methods – that is how I saw it. I drifted from place to place, hoping I would climb out of bed one day and understand it again. That day did not come.
Then I asked myself why I made that journey. The answer was simple. I was rising up against the accepted “modes of being” that we have in the 21st century United States of America. It was an act of rebellion. It was to prove that there are other ways. I wanted to show that being confined to one's home town and a limited surrounding area, stuck in an endless pattern of weekdays and weekends, trading freedom for paper, was a path to unhappiness. Perhaps I could start an uprising, inspiring people to discover what is really out there.
I realized that to rise above that state, one leaves behind one's old identity. I was a different person now, because I had experienced so much. I of course knew that eventually I would have to at the least pretend to reintegrate into society, but I would never again be a true part of it. But the trials I had overcome, from being lost in darkness in the nocturnal Appalachian wilds, to dodging tornadoes and hurricanes, made these problems seem insignificant. I had survived, and I would continue to survive, and thrive, in any environment, mundane or otherwise.
My level of confidence rose again and again as I smashed obstacles that had been stopping me for years. I took a machete to mental clutter, trod over mountains of needless drama, charted a route through the flowage of possible futures, and carved out my own place in life. I abandoned my old mental models of society and erected new ones on a proper foundation.
The world was new, now that I could see it for what it is. It was yet another challenge to overcome. It could be tamed and even reshaped. There were methods to subdue its perils. And, I had become something greater than the sum of my parts. I had risen above all expectations. I knew there was only one course now: onward and upward, forever.
