Morning Travels
Chris Peterson

Christopher Peterson is a freshman history major, working on minors in both Spanish and global studies. This was his first assignment in Dr. Grice’s Honors World Lit II class. The assignment was to write a descriptive travel narrative with haikus in the style of Basho’s travel narratives. Besides Basho’s work, Chris really enjoys watching Disney movies.

Like the travelers of the past, I ventured out with a set goal in mind, and while I did not intend to walk an entire country or even a city, I saw a path ahead of me: a journey in its own right. With only my father, my copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Basho’s Narrow Road to the Interior and various school assignments – things that I would either need or want – I sauntered towards an old grey car on just another cold, grey morning. Stepping out of the door of the garage from my warm kitchen with only my mind to take notes, I captured the image of the morning:

Strange, cold suddenly

Grey skies touch black streets

And slow weary travelers

          Conversation did little to either shorten the ride or ease my mind; coffee did even less, making me jittery on top of the anticipation of needles and tubes. What now passed as “nature” failed to capture my attention as I rode through a world made of asphalt and tar, where the only colors were streetlights.

          “Right…no next light…right here…the bigger building…”

I felt that directions deserved no more attention that the shortest phrases with a complete absence of verbs.

“I’ll let you out here and meet you inside,” my father said in what amounted to be the largest attempt at conversation the whole first half of the trip.

“No, I’ll walk with you. I’m in no hurry,” I tried to mask my nervousness with calm collectedness.

Wool hat for my head

Distorts my nervous eye brows

For once, thanks for cold

A barrage of I need to’s came my way along with the feel of heat once again. I need to find the right office; I need to leave here by nine to make it to class; I need to go to the bathroom; I need to finish my reading from last night; I need to remember the name of the company that is taking care of these fees. At this last one I contemplated the fact that there were fees to take something out of me that my own body produced. Cynically, I hoped bone marrow could be traded for good Karma.

          I no longer had any contact with what little existed of the day’s sunlight as I tried to concentrate on my schoolwork. It was an exercise in futility as I was really more interested in the book my father was reading about returning to nature. When I finally made it to “the chair” I realized that it was possible to see the sun even less. Just one goal at this point: seven test tubes; don’t pass out. I had dressed warmly, but the cold of my exposed right arm caused an off balance sensation throughout my entire body, and then it all began.

Artificial warmth

I could plainly see my life

But I wouldn’t look

A journey within itself, this stage proved to be full of surprises: a splash of my own blood on my arm – still four test tubes to go – and then I realized how much we take breathing for granted. The grey that I had seen outside somehow had begun to erode my vision and I got out a few words as the seventh finally finished: “I’m passing out.” Apparently sometimes asking for help gets you into trouble; the nurse violently fanned and talked at me, which was not conducive to relaxation. I became thankful for travel partners, especially one who understands the simplicity of a cup of water and a cool towel.

          I managed somehow to switch chairs and remembered the fine art of breathing. At an earlier point in my life I practiced how to breathe in the manner of the Buddhists, but now I was practicing breathing in the manner of a living organism: breathing for its most basic function. This return to a primitive state, the recognition that all of my body had to work in conjunction or not at all, purified me for a moment. For a moment I forgot what outside felt like, what anything felt like. For a moment.

The asphalt and mass of grey that passed for the sky still awaited me outside, colder than ever. There were even added dimensions to the cold world:

The journey back home

Signs: “For Sale: This old forest

Where only sticks bloom”

Returning to my home, it seemed as though we were simply rewinding the previous part of the journey: still no notable conversation, no glimpse of the sun, and no refuge from the cold. Once inside, bragging about almost passing out was only a story suitable for a mother’s ears. Where else could my pathetic return to helplessness be appreciated?

So many times a journey ends right where it begins, and such was the case here. If only my journey had begun from my bed.  I prepared for a new journey.

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