Are We There Yet, Dad?

       In many ways I am still that little Tishabug of the past, trying not to cross the imaginary line in the backseat of the faux-wood-panelled station-wagon (so my Dorkfaced brother won't whine that I'm on *his* side of the car),  popping her head out from behind a large book to ask "are we there yet?"  
        I've asked this on hundreds of such trips, by station-wagon, plane, bus, train, bicycle, and boat. (Sometimes staying merely days, others lasting years. I've lived, so far, in 6 US states, and even 1 foreign country.)  And still usually from behind the pages of a book (or, more recently, from behind the cover of my trusty nook.)   For years I've pushed forwards to the "next" destination:  a degree, a promotion, marriage, a better company, a higher title, a larger salary.  Then, one day, I found I'd "arrived..." but was too stressed and tired to enjoy the benefits.  
       It was then that I finally began to understand there is no 'There.'  Life is an ongoing road trip.  Focusing on the destination misses the point, which can be found only in the journey itself.  The happy accidents of the roadside stands, wildflowers, unfortunately worded signs, and delightfully cheesy tourist traps are, perhaps, themselves the point. So I've resolved to slow my speed, take the byways, roll down the windows, put my feet on the dash, stop for funny signs, and enjoy the ride!