Morning Commute

I commute each morning. For some, it’s a short commute, for others long, but it’s just a part of my day, and I am growing to accept it. With my coffee and music, I try to make the most of the time.

Some mornings my mind also commutes, traveling to places far away . . . to the mountains west of here . . . in Asheville . . . in Colorado. I have designed the cabin waiting for me countless times. The land would open to an inspirational view that changes with each hour. The fireplace would be big, warm, and inviting. The furniture would be comfortable, beds soft and warm.

It’s a dangerous pastime, one built around leaving as it is arriving, about ending as beginning. Every spiritual book I’ve read tells me that I should become present in what is, accept all that surrounds me, and not look forward or back.

Easier said than done. I’ve always been a commuter.

My life in recovery has taught me about the dangers of a “geographical cure,” the thought that moving will solve one’s problems. As one person clearly stated, “You take you wherever you go.”

I understand all this wisdom, but my heart and mind wander still. Is there a place down the road where there are no banks or windowed envelopes? Is there a place down the road where everything runs smoothly and nothing breaks? Is there a place down the road where people care for each other, truly, and laugh often?

I’m weathered enough to know the folly of such thinking. There is no oasis down the road to welcome me, no cabin sturdy enough to shelter me, no mountain big enough to distract me.

The car beside me slows to let me in, as the sun enlightens the sky. I remember that tonight my children are spending the night, and I turn on my blinker to exit the highway for work.