The Bridge Is Closed

I'm driving along. I just dropped my son off at school and I've continued my loop back to the house. We always take the highway to get to school. It only takes 5 minutes and it's easy. When I leave the school, even when I go pick him up, it's become my habit to drive through the town square and then down along the river the the low water crossing at the end of my street. The drive reminds me of why we live here. Cruising through our vibrant little town and then slowly meandering along the banks of the Blanco River is just beautiful. Windows open when the weather cooperates. Trees and tall grass. Even in winter, the air along the river is different. Richer. Sweeter. I can look in the sideview mirror and see my dog, smiling as her head hangs out the window behind me.

We've lived here ten years and I still sometimes cross the river, climb the hill that curves around at the end of my street, look up at the canopy of trees across the road, and get filled with a sense of gratitude and wonder. "I Live here! This is my street!"

Today I'm driving along completely lost in thought, likely not noticing the beauty around me, and when I approach the low water bridge to cross, it's closed. Of course, it is. I knew it was closed. It's been closed for days. There was an accident there last week. I even went to a meeting in town about it last night. WTF? I was gone—lights on, but nobody home.

I decided to make the best of it and take a drive. I took a long loop around and then back through town, the highway, then home. About halfway through my unplanned morning drive, a friend calls and says "Did you forget the bridge is closed?" (Shit. Somebody saw me.) He'd been behind me dropping off his son or stalking me ??, and must have seen me take the turn towards the river. We had a good laugh.

When he called back I didn't think much of it, but we ended up talking a bit about how we can easily get lost in the routine tasks of life. Taking the kid to school is a major part of my morning routine. I realized that once he got out of the car this morning, I crawled up into my head and got lost. It's not the first time. I used to spend a lot of windshield time on the way to and from shows, performing all over Texas and other parts of the U.S. There were times while listening to a book, or music, or just working something out in my head, I could look up and realize I've driven way down the road with no memory of it. It's amazing that our brains can do that and still pilot the vehicle safely. (We can argue safe driving another time)

The thing is, I think I've been hanging out in my head a lot lately. Doing all the things we humans do up there. Trying to solve my perceived future problems. Figuring, Worrying, Ruminating. Telling myself stories. Looking for answers, or asking more questions. Planning my life, etc. All of it. It's not always a bad thing. There are things to plan. Some of the stories I tell myself are good ones, but when I'm spending too much time stuck rambling around the vast noisy spaces of my mind, I miss things.

When I'm gone like that. I'm not doing anything, or not doing anything well. I'm not present so how focused or efficient can I really be? I miss social cues. When my wife asks me a question or shares a thought, I react with annoyance or confusion. It's usually because I wasn't plugged in. I was lost in my thoughts. I can't listen well. I can't give my son or my dog, the attention they ask for when I'm stuck up there. I can't do my best work. Life isn't happening "up there." Life is happening "out here." It's easy to miss it.

I was in my driveway when we hung up, and was grateful for the conversation and the reminder. It allowed me to drop out of my head and into my body. Drop out of the someday, one day, used to be, and into the right here, right now. That's where my life is actually happening. That's where the juicy stuff is. That's the place where the canopy of live oaks over my road fills me with grateful wonder.

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