On the road again, Goin’ places that I’ve never been, Seein’ things that I may never see again, And I can’t wait to get on the road again. (Willie Nelson)
Willie supposedly wrote this song on the back of a barf bag on a plane trip way back in 1980, the year I moved from New Orleans to the small Appalachian mountain valley where I live now. It makes it even more special for me. Oh, how I love to travel! Whenever I get in the car, and a road trip lies ahead, sparkles of joy bubble up inside me that hearken back to that song I used to carol when I was a child, little knowing what it meant, about faraway places with strange sounding names . . . calling . . . calling . . . me . . .
While I was growing up, our family didn’t travel; folks would sadly shake their heads and talk about my grandfather’s “wanderlust,” and perhaps that’s why my father was so sedentary — he’d had enough. And maybe that’s why I can’t think of anything that gives me the same kind of happy, bouncing kind of anticipation today. I never got enough of that kind of unplanned adventure.
And maybe that’s why I became a shrink in the depth psychology tradition: from a sedentary place on my trusty chair, I could invite others on an interior journey of their own, to those faraway places within themselves. And even better, I could go along. I loved my work, and it was such a privilege to share the journey of others.
All that aside, we’re keeping a 3 month old puppy for my stepdaughter over the holidays, and 2 a.m. awakenings for pee breaks have become part of my week’s agenda. My husband’s growling “No. No. No” in response to the whining and snufflings that follow those pee breaks usually results in me heading for the Keurig machine and my iPad.
And this morning before I braved the cold house for hot coffee, I got to thinking about Mary and Joseph, mythically “on the road” this week (it’s December 22nd, as I write). They must have been just about in the middle of their journey right now, mythically-speaking of course, since we really don’t know for sure what time of year this journey actually happened.
The bare bones of the story? Two thousand years ago, more or less, two people had to take a trip between Nazareth, their home, and Bethlehem, a hilltop town situated on a ridge near the edge of the desert about 5 miles from Jerusalem . . . a journey south through many small mountains, hills, and valleys, not an easy trip, that is about 80 miles or so walking, and would have taken maybe four to six days, probably more since Mary was nine months pregnant. A newly engaged couple is forced to register for a census in a town far away. When they finally reach their destination after an arduous journey, there is no place to stay. The woman gives birth in a stable.
Scholars and clergy differ on whether the Nativity stories in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew are historical accounts or symbolic narratives of Christianity’s beginnings, but one thing is certain: the world of Mary and Joseph was a dangerous place, one whose harsh conditions were not fully described in the rather sweet and sanitized versions of our westernized “Christmas story.”
At that time, this would have been a journey over unpaved hilly trails, with pebbles and boulders, overgrown with reeds, thorns, brambles and “wolf’s paw,” a ravine on one side, the mountain rising on the other. In this heavily forested valley of the Jordon River, one of the most terrifying dangers had to be the lions and bears and wild boars that lived in the forests and hills. And bandits along the lonely stretches were described as common hazards. They would have carried water in wineskins, and a lot of bread — dried bread for breakfast, bread and oil at midday, and herbs with oil and bread in the evening. Supposedly, Mary was able to ride on a donkey, although the discomfort of that bony beast probably made walking just as desirable.
Journeys such as these still take place today as refugees search for safety, entering into strange and unfamiliar places. But we all have to take a symbolic journey such as this, not just once during our lives, but many times.
Can you find yourself on that road to Bethlehem, on that unknown and hazardous road to new beginnings, new possibilities in your life? I did this morning in my imagination:
Perhaps, just perhaps, on the road to Bethlehem, on that hard, bleak road to new beginnings, is a valley, a hollow, a low place amidst the hills where there may be no view, no capacity to see the terrain of the future, no real vantage point. But it is not a horrible place — rather a place of sometimes feeling closed in, and sometimes even sheltered and protected. Am I afraid of what lies over the next knoll? — you bet. Do I expect it to be good? — no, I’m too afraid and gun-shy. Is the road weary? Yes, but at the moment it’s quiet. Are there bandits and dangerous animals? Yes, but they are not bothering me right now. Am I alone? Yes, and that brings tears, although I have the sense of countless unseen others trudging this road as well, on their individual Journeys, each at a different place.
And I do sense bands of angels, guarding, protecting, manipulating the surrounding forces at the same time that my freedom is complete. As I trudge onward, can I physically “dance where I’m lame,” or is it just a state of mind that I’m not capable of right now? It feels like maybe it could be just a small adjustment, a “relaxing into” what already exists, and I will perceive the world differently, that instead of being so hyper-vigilant and task-oriented and afraid, I could delight in the small things I sense on the way, the aromas, the sights, the sounds, tastes, touches . . .
But not right now . . . The road feels weary — or maybe it is not the road, but I who is weary . . .
I could sit and rest awhile . . . and listen . . .
And ye, beneath life’s crushing load, whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow, Look now! For glad and golden hours, Come swiftly on the wing; O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.
I wonder what angels’ singing sounds like . . . I betcha, I just betcha . . . my angels probably sound like Willie.