06 June 2018

Holy Leisure, Batman

4,056 miles. Thirteen gallons of gas between stops. A dozen donuts. Ten states. Six museums. Four Catholic masses. Three barbecue joints. Two beaches. Two state parks. One wedding. One Mississippi River. One broken windshield.

As we traversed the Mississippi Delta and the Atlantic coast, Cerise and I walked in the footsteps of the enslaved and the assassinated, of the Big O and the King; we sang to the tune of Yebba and Abba, to drumbeats and a tambourine; we skipped meals and skipped rocks; we wandered through parks; we smelled jasmine and magnolia and meats smoking on a fire; we skirted around roadkill and planned Cerise's death on a pyre. From the Tennessee mountains to bad margaritas in Mississippi, from the poboys and drunk boys of New Orleans to the pork rinds and early nights of Birmingham, from the sands of Florida to the Glass Doctors of Wilmington, from quiet Shenandoah nights to shouting at a T-ball game under the lights, from wishing love to the bride and bride-to-be to wishing we didn't have to go back home at all.

Much can happen on a two-and-a-half week road trip. Much to be seen; much to be tasted; much to be learned. Contrariwise, so little can happen on a two-and-a-half week road trip. Those moments of respite and relief, of peace and quiet. Those long hours in a car with nothing to look at but flooded crops and mud and asphalt. Nothing to look at but taillights and medians and South of the Border signs. Yet it is precisely in those moments of nothingness that I found true enjoyment. Those moments that some might see as wasting time, but I see as enjoying time. Those moments of true leisure, or as the priest said in his homily on the final morning of our trip, holy leisure. It is good, that priest said, to just sit in each other's company. It is good to simply be and not have to do. 

"I need a vacation from my vacation." How many times have we said or heard that? When we visit new places, we feel compelled to explore them to the utmost, or else we have failed in our efforts. We must be on our feet at all times. We must be seeing and doing and learning. And how beautiful all that is! How much I learned about Civil Rights and how the Catholic Church played a complicit role in the Louisiana slave trade. How much I learned about soul music and blues music and Elvis's dire need for companionship. How much I saw of colorful homes, of Creole cottages, of big front porches. How much I ate and drank to say "beignet, done that." How beautiful, but also, how exhausting at times!

But some of my favorite moments of the trip? Sitting on the porch of the Airbnb in Birmingham in the middle of the afternoon just sipping wine and intermittently napping; Resting in Jackson Square writing in my journal as some people rolled on by and others lounged in the grass; Lounging poolside in Orlando catching up with old and new friends; Jamming in a drum circle on the patio until 2 AM; Watching a hard-earned fire crackle and burn.

In these moments, I understood why we needed to get away from Philadelphia. In these moments, we relaxed and breathed and took advantage of the fact that really, we had nowhere else to be and no one else to talk to; we had no jobs demanding work of us, no commitments demanding our time. We could simply dwell. Dwell in place and time. Dwell in thought and mind. Dwell in song and conversation. Dwell in the things that make us who we are, that make our country what it is. Dwell in the past, present, and future. And even, as Emily Dickinson would put it, "dwell in possibility." The possibility of uprooting and moving to any of these new places; the possibility of finding the man of our dreams in Memphis; the possibility of being uncomfortable or - sometimes even more frightening - comfortable in this new place; the possibility of finding the best fried chicken in the United States (which, by the way, we did).

Slow down, every drawl from their Southern lips seemed to imply. And I aim to listen. I aim to go forward knowing it is good and holy to give myself moments of leisure, if only to recharge and restart and keep moving. The world moves so fast, but it is good and holy to slow it down in order to truly enjoy our loved ones, ourselves, and all of creation. Won't you join me in wasting some time?


This is the fourth installment in Reflections on the Road,  which documents ways in which my physical journeys and my intellectual/spiritual/emotional journey intersect through traveling, in a more concerted effort to explore the title of this blog. Ride along!

1 comment :

  1. Holy Cow! Love your Holy Leisure message! Thanks for sharing your trip in a way which both entertains and inspires. Keep these memories forever!

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