Devotion and the Shallows

My crazy road trip to Oklahoma City.

I’ve always loved road trips. I have visions of holing up in a motel that has seen better days and finally writing that epic novel. I pack my camera and at least three or four books, but invariably, I spend little time taking photos, the books remain in their sack and I certainly don’t write my novel. I might stay in some dingy motels, but only to indulge in internet porn, television and Facebook.

I embarked on a two week road trip down the eastern seaboard and I yearned for this trip to be different. I wanted to spend an hour every morning writing my novel and I didn’t want to lose my newfound ability to focus and work deeply.

I left on January 22nd and drove headfirst into the worst winter storm to hit the eastern seaboard in quite a few years. The blizzard stretched from the Maryland coast to west of Pennsylvania and dropped over two feet of snow in less than eight hours. I slept in the car that first night and spent my morning in a small gas station, deep in the Appalachian mountains. A kind woman behind the counter cooked me an epic breakfast. She kept bringing me little extras as I sat typing in the corner while locals trudged in through the drifts.

I managed to write for over an hour and it felt amazing.

I set off at noon when the snow had stopped, but the roads quickly grew impassable, so I checked into a motel room out of a 1980 horror film. One lamp flickered feebly and the other was burned out. The faded wallpaper clashed with the torn curtains. There were no floorboards, as the stained and frayed carpet curved quite a few inches up every wall. A dusty and faded painting of three roses was the only other decoration. Don’t even ask about the bathroom.

Rather than reading or writing, I found myself checking email, updating all my social feeds and calling people. I even tried turning on the television. I was doing anything and everything except focusing my attention.

Some might say I deserved a break and I would agree. I had already fulfilled my daily writing quote at the gas station, so there was no harm in spending some time in mindless activity, only something didn’t feel right.

Eating junk food, watching television and using the Internet had somehow lost much of their charm. I longed for that quality of deep focus and attention that I had learned to achieve through work and writing. But I couldn’t figure out how to apply it to my current situation and mood.

I made it to Florida the next morning, packed my Mom’s stuff into a rental truck and set off for our first destination – New Orleans.

My camera never came out of my bag, but I did begin to shoot on my iPhone.

My addiction was winning. I was spending more and more time checking my phone or trying to find a connection to the Internet. The false promise of pleasure was overriding any sense that these activities were not as fulfilling as they once had been.

It was the third day of driving when the truck broke down.

We were on a lovely, if tiny, road on the banks of the Red River somewhere in northeast Texas. We managed to limp a mile down the road to a small store. The ramshackle, but recently painted, red building had been a gas station in a previous life, but now just sold beer by the case.

Our day would be spent wandering this tiny patch of land, waiting for roadside assistance and then for a tow truck. There was nothing but the building, our vehicles and the dusty driveway leading back to the road.

I remember standing on the track-worn ruts of red clay, mesmerized by the light and the way the wind moved through the scrub. The sun was going down and I felt the call to apply my attention to the present moment. I could grab my camera and head off on a safari in the Texas outback. Instead, I chose to slip back into the shallows. I spent my time rigging an internet connection from the one working cell phone and uploading photos and updates to Instagram.

We were towed all the way to Oklahoma City.

Two days later, I felt the call to apply my attention again. This time I listened. I grabbed my camera and took off to explore the east side of Oklahoma City. This was play and exploration, but I set the same ground rules as when I am working: there would be no social access or checking of my phone. I would focus my attention on just driving and walking.

I heard David duChemin’s voice in my head. I wasn’t searching for an image. I was on an adventure and I was waiting for that magical moment of being alive and connected to what was around me. Only then would I start taking photos.

I may, for the first time, understand why so many of the artists I admire are so committed to heading out into the mountains or the storm. It was enchanting to be alone and fully present as I explored and got lost in a new place.

I realize now that this magical state of focus can be found anywhere. I can be curled up with a good book or taking a walk with my dog. It requires only a commitment to disconnecting from all distractions and a sense of adventure and openness to what the world may bring. It is very much a form of active meditation. When I find myself drifting and thinking of my worries, or my shopping list, I just bring my attention back to the present moment and continue the adventure.

There is a fulfilling and lovely sense of being that comes with focused attention that deserves to be applied to more than just our work. Like most things, it is simple to describe, but requires practice and devotion to achieve.