SUSPENSION

I drove up to Sacramento a few days ago. It's a six hour drive straight up the 5 freeway and most people find it boring - once you're over the Grapevine, the drive is flat across the San Joaquin Valley with nothing but farmland running away from the road. But I like long car drives alone and I'm never bored. I note the landmarks I've made for myself on the many trips I've taken up this road, I try to figure out what's growing on those very small trees in an orchard I pass, I note that the heavy rains have turned some low lying land into marsh and I see a white heron. I wait for the road signs I'm compelled to say out loud. Don't ask me why but I have to say "Twisselman", "Avenal", "Coalinga", and most especially "Panoche" and "Little Panoche". I get to repeat some of them three times - on the miles-to sign, next-exit sign and finally this-exit sign. It's a ritual I've made for myself and does what rituals do: grounds me in the familiar, in repetition. And, not incidentally, makes me happy.
   What is it about long car trips? I like that no one knows exactly where I am.  Nothing is required of me; I'm free for any possibility. Sometimes, I investigate the little towns that are a few miles off the freeway: Lost Hills, Gustine, Maricopa. I ask myself if I could make a life in one of those towns, with their people who I imagine are so different than me. But I know I would get to know them, the woman who knits and can show me a new stitch, the teacher who has read some of the books I have, the bacon and eggs place that has two eggs poached easy cooking the moment I walk through the door.  The answer is usually yes, a life could be made here. If I had to.
     Driving a straight flat road requires only minimal attention and I like to let my mind wander. I have faith that something interesting will emerge - a remembered idea I had a few weeks ago I meant to write down, memories of the people I met when I was twenty-four, how to explain the modern world to Ben Franklin who has suddenly appeared in the passenger seat. (Over the years, I've often tried to look at my world through his eyes and see how strange and magnificent it all is.) I think about the state of the world and, of course, the state of me. What could be more interesting than that? And, when time is suspended, there are hours of the present moment to bask in.
     This love of time suspended is related to something else that comes to me, not often but from time to time. I'll be moving through my day and suddenly I'm possessed by a desire to throw it all away, chuck it, snap the cord, let it all go. I suspect many people have the same feeling, the same wish to get out from under all our obligations and responsibilities, our individual fears and desires. But I keep coming back to a particular moment, the movement of flinging as hard as I can, my hand at my heart and then with great speed, flinging, as if my life is a discus or boomerang. For an instant, I reside in that gesture beyond anything but pure being, pure energy., and even though I'm only there for a moment, it's among the most intense feelings I have.  
     I see how interesting the concept of suspension is. It's anatomy, psychology, philosophy. Very interesting. I'm going to forget it now. It's something to think about on my next trip north.