Lance lingered over his morning coffee at the Quality inn in Franklin PA. It dawned on him that Sunday, on the road, feels like just any other day. Or maybe Sunday on sabbatical, feels just like any other day when there is no "Back to work on Monday" deadline staring him in the face. Are stolen moments of rest in the midst of a grind, sweeter than hours of leisure in the midst of retirement? Context is so important to value. A cup of water in the middle of a hot hike vs a gallon of water sitting in an air conditioned movie theatre. A few gentle words spoken by a total stranger in a strange land vs. the torrents of words heard everyday in the office. A single bird singing in a deep, dark forest vs. the orchestra of sound heard on ant street in any city.

Perhaps the trick is to control the context, not the sound...the signal/noise ratio. Reduce the noise (backgound) and the signal (the intended sound) is perceived to be amplified. Don't just up the volume of the signal. (This is a lesson for so many road techie sound guys that come through Strathmore. If you just lower the background noise, we'll hear your featured singer much better and without pain!) Focusing attention becomes a matter of stripping away distractions, not juicing the message. Whisper to be heard. Mime anything to get attention. Use one word when 50 are being spoken around you.

It was at that moment that Lance understood what he had intuitively constructed with this trip...a chance to strip away the noise of his life so might hear that little voice within that was...him. And there was so much noise in his life, most of it there for a very good reason. But the inability to stop and listen, to stop and think, to stop and see what was new around him...that was gone. And while he though the trip would be about seeking other people's advice on retirement options, the answers he sought may well lie within IF HE COULD ONLY GET TO A PLACE OF STILLNESS AND HEAR THEM.

Lance knew that "place" isn't a real place, at all. There isn't a village, town, city or country capable of conferring tranquility upon us unless we are smart enough to shut up, sit down and pay attention to our own voice. Perhaps, that voice doesn't speak clearly or loudly enough to us when we are young. In the arts, they talk about "finding your own voice" as a writer, a dancer, an artist or a musician. It is what makes one distinct from others. Lance remembered summer trips to Maine, quiet evenings at camp, living with a theatre company and dancing on a dock when he tried to hear that voice, but like prayer, it went unanswered too often. Because the voice wasn't fully there, yet.

Now, it was there..strong and sweet. Whenever he wanted to hear it, it sang out to him. This trip was teaching him to listen to it, to trust it, and to tune out all other noise that distracted him from following it's direction. That would have been a terrifying thought several years ago but now, it is comforting. The imposing, controlling voice of the drillmaster conscience he sees his fellow workers, friends and family listening to, the voice that keeps them safe while they build their life, has left his head. While others march to a drummer intent on keeping them on the safe road, his voice is pulling him off and into the unexplored woods on either side of the highway. Today, he can go into those woods and see what's there.