"Go placidly amid the noise and haste," the middle-aged woman whispered to the stopped traffic in front of her. Great lines from Max Ehrmann's poem "Desiderata." Strange title, she had thought as a schoolgirl. But, she learned, desideratum is a Latin word meaning something needed or wanted. A car honked. "No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should," she whispered.
She shook her head as she surveyed the long line of unmoving cars on I-40. Nibbling on granola and pushing blond strands from her eyes, she took a quick glance in the mirror, catching a few gray hairs. She shook her head again and exhaled. The interstate had become a cattle run with cars moving slowly, painfully forward around an unseen obstacle up ahead.
The woman had just moved her daughter five hours from home to the bright lights of Nashville. A pandemic college grad, the daughter had run out of options here. She had to move to find work. The old Suburban inched forward so slowly the woman could hear gravel and bits of rock under the tires. She looked to the mirror again and thought she looked tired. The ride home had given her time to think.
The pandemic had impacted everyone, opening up unexpected wounds. The woman had just placed her grandmother in hospice, moving her from a nursing home that couldn't allow visitors. The idea for the move was that her grandmother could be seen, touched, and could go into the afterlife in the embrace of her family. Though her grandmother's life had been full and exciting, thoroughly enjoyed and adventurous, it was still hard to make this final change. What a bookend, the woman thought. My daughter moves to start a new life while my grandmother moves to finish hers.
She pulled into the westbound rest area near Forrest City to stretch her aching legs. Autumn had touched the high limbs of trees, and a breeze blew alongside the hum of cars and 18-wheelers on the interstate. She arched her back, massaging it, then walked around the car, inspecting the tires because that's what you're supposed to do when traveling. Looking up, she saw an older man fiddling with a phone near a sign, obviously trying to take a selfie. Amused, she walked his way.
"Need me to take that picture?" She called out with a smile.
The man, in his late 70s, smiled back, answering, "Lord, please take this thing from me. I can't get it off my navigation map to take a damn photo."
The woman looked at the unfamiliar phone and made conversation while poking at the screen. "Interesting place for a selfie."
The man looked at the sign behind him that read, Eisenhower Interstate System, Arkansas I-40 Veterans Memorial Highway. "Yeah, I don't usually take photos at rest areas," he laughed. "But I heard Ike speak once when I was in the military. Thought I'd snap a shot of that for the photo album. My wife gets a kick out of my old Marine stories."
The woman looked sideways at the line of cars in the parking lot, all empty. "She here?"
"She is." The man paused. "She passed a few months ago and I've got her ashes with me. We're from California and I'm spreading a few in all the places she loved. Married 48 years ..." he said, voice drifting.
The woman felt her eyes welling.
"Started in New York last week. That's where our daughter lives. I called my daughter when I got there and she said, 'where are you?' and I said, 'drivin' through downtown right now.' She screamed, 'No one drives through downtown!' And I screamed back, 'well, apparently I do!' Made it through OK. My wife would have gotten a kick out of that, all the honking and everything."
"You're heading back to California and stopping along the way, huh?"
"Yep, she loved to travel. Loved every state. Except Arizona. Hated Arizona so I'm not dropping ashes there."
The woman smiled, still fiddling with the phone. Another woman walked up, "You need me to take your picture?"
The middle-aged woman said, "No, I'm trying to help out this gentleman but I don't use this kind of phone." The other woman took it and said, "It's exactly like mine. I'll take the photo then it's on the road to home again."
"Where's home?" the old man inquired.
"Arizona."
The middle-aged woman smiled at the old man.
"My son just finished Marine boot camp and I was trying to spend a little time with him."
"Well, hell, I was a Marine," he said. As the conversation picked up, the middle-aged woman excused herself, extending sympathies to the old man and congratulations to the Arizona mother.
Spreading ashes across the country's a sad way to spend a Saturday, she thought. Or is it? He's getting some peace from this, she told herself. He's still taking care of his wife.
She started the Suburban and waved as she passed by the old man and the Arizona mom still talking. Hopping on the interstate, the car bounced rhythmically, feeding her meditative mood. Life is about guideposts, way stations along the route. We learn beautiful things in school, move out of state for jobs, graduate boot camp. Eventually, we'll spread ashes like a one-of-a-kind fertilizer, enriching every inch of ground with the weight of memories and heft of irreplaceable nutrients. Family is more important than ever these days, she thought, and even the faintest moments with them have power.
And, if we honor those moments and listen closely, allowing ourselves to see those strange moments of confluence, those instances when circumstance and the spiritual intersect, we'll find what we need.
We'll find our desideratum.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle.