Too Much of a Good Thing

I enjoy the sound of cicadas chirping — a swelling and fading chorus concealed in the surrounding trees. It’s nature’s summertime white noise where I come from. If you’re outdoors and your mind is absent of distractions, it can effortlessly lull you into meditation. I enjoy this most when sitting outside on a shaded patio in a comfortable chair, alone or with the sole company of my wife or someone with the presence of mind not to interrupt their chatter. It’s practical perfection when the weather is just right and you find yourself miles away from the nearest neighbor or the distant, manmade white noise of traffic — a rare brand of solitude that’s afforded only where there’s more evidence of nature than of civilization.

I’m thankful at such times for these fat, ugly insects, whose only other God-given purposes, to be blunt, are to serve as food for fowl or divine amusement as they clumsily and randomly body or head-shot you on their way to who-knows-where, prompting you to drop whatever’s in your hands and, with all the reflexes of a startled chimp, furiously karate chop the air like a Jackie Chan understudy. These seeming unsegmented fliers talk to one another in the packed and populated city as well, their conversations encouraging Zen-like reflection, but it isn’t quite the same for the setting. Inasmuch as the sprawling suburbs try to offer escape, separating themselves from the bustle of the big city, they still can’t hold a candle to the peace and calm of a cabin in the woods.

While the kids all spent their time at sleepaway camps for the week, my wife and I chose to spend a day and a night at a sleepaway camp of our own choosing, sans counselors or camp staff. Nestled off a precariously rising and falling dirt road more ambitious to exist as a canyon riverbed than an even stretch of pavement, we arrived at what amounted to a cozy studio apartment next to a residence, the only other one in sight from the front door. We ate takeout, read, and watched the Olympics. We slept very well, woke the next morning at our leisure, exercised, and ate a modest breakfast. After a little work online, I decided to try out the porch. I wasn’t disappointed. I don’t know how long I remained there pleasantly still and silent, but it was long enough to feel inspired by the hidden but chatty bug muses and pound out the first couple of sentences read above.

Long before I was ready, my wife poked her head out of the front door and noted that it was time to go. In truth, I’m doubtful I would have been ready to pack it up even after a weeklong stay. The solitude and take-it-easy pace offered at the end of a long dirt road are always hard for me to leave behind. There’s nothing like it to soothe the introvert or settle the harried soul of a big city dweller.

And leave we did, but not before a couple of drive-bys to scout out properties on the market. One of my wife’s many dreams is to own a vacation home, though it’s not presently in the budget, which she manages with the precision and attentiveness of an air traffic controller — she knows exactly where everything is and where it’s supposed to be. Not to sound redundant, but her organizational skills are off the chart in an organization that prides itself on organization, which should tell you something. She loves creating spreadsheets the way some are thrilled by a trip to Disney World.

In any event, we hopped in the van and headed out. We had time to spare for just a couple of property stops before the two-hour trek to retrieve two of our three kids and return to responsibility. While I don’t necessarily share the dream with my wife, I fully appreciate the wish to have one’s own personal retreat from the world. I feel it more as we drive and the road on the return widens, the frenzy and rush of traffic growing closer as we approach the heart of the city. The building speed and press of cars starts to feel like the pressure and stress of a race I have to win. I wish I were instead gingerly testing the shocks on the dirt road we left behind and resting on the modest, quiet porch rather than in the driver’s seat.

We’ve all binged on “House Hunters.” I tease my wife that each episode is essentially identical to the last, and it doesn’t take an uninitiated viewer more than an hour to see that I’m right. There are several rebranded versions you may also have enjoyed — “Beachfront Bargain Hunt,” “Caribbean Life,” etc. Though the same runtime and formula, these variants feature couples who possess a disposable income most of us would envy and who, more importantly, endeavor to utilize their resources to make tropical vacation realty their permanent reality. As much as it makes for good TV, it’s difficult not to watch and wonder that what they’re veritably attempting to capture is a feeling, not a place.

I’m often curious about what a visit a year or two later to those who’ve purchased a piece of paradise would yield; I have a hunch they aren’t as satisfied as they initially were with their beachside acquisition. I could certainly be wrong, but I’m guessing that the novelty has worn off, that the dream now realized has lost much of it’s luster. Vacation can be be virtually anywhere. While we all prefer varied locations, the feeling of escape from responsibility — from jobs, bills, relationships — is near the top of the list of reasons that we depart in the first place.

But vacation made permanent is less a retreat than a surrender. I recognize this anytime I step away from the solace proffered at the end of a dirt road. I don’t want to leave, but the fact that it’s temporary makes it so much sweeter. I would lose my taste and interest in cake if I made a meal of it every moment of every day. It’s the business of toiling six days that makes the seventh so sacred and desired.

“Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish I will put up three shelters — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’” Hard not to hear in Peter’s request a wish to remain there on the mountain, far above the troubles they faced routinely closer to sea level. Matthew records no rebuke from Jesus, and it seems they descended shortly thereafter and got back to the business of living. I have to wonder what Peter was thinking as they made their way down, but it is clear that he moved on with his life and mission, no doubt never relinquishing the memory.

I wouldn’t object at all if one day we had our getaway. I don’t expect I would receive any more rebuke that Peter did; nothing reprehensible for simply having it. However, it is possible to have too much of a good thing, especially if, as an escape, it transforms into its own inescapable distraction and, ultimately, a surrender from the life I’m meant to lead. The next time I find myself reluctantly driving away, I can instead be grateful that it was afforded in the first place. The rarer the pleasure, the better the flavor.