I’ve been gone for a while. I regularly travel the Great American Southwest, and this year has so far been no exception: 4,000 miles through California, Oregon, Arizona, Nevada, and Utah.

I spent time in medium-sized towns like Grant’s Pass, Flagstaff, Redding, and St. George. I talked with people in tiny outposts like Gray Mountain and Weed (yes, really), and Kohl’s Ranch. And I visited the occasional metropolis — Las Vegas, Phoenix, San Diego, Salt Lake City.

I love to fly (myself, that is — I’m a pilot), but this kind of trip demands that I drive. I need to be able to see a sign pointing somewhere I’ve never been and go there — spontaneous and unscheduled.

The side trips frequently become highlights, like the ancient Wupatki pueblo, settled and farmed and then dried up and abandoned nearly 1,000 years ago. The structures are mostly still there, a silent testament to the resilient Ancestral Puebloans who would give rise to the Hopi, Navajo, Zuni, and others.

More importantly, I need the silence and focus that a drive of several hundred miles demands.
While I had several smaller side quests, I had one primary goal for this month-long trip: clarity.

What Comes Up: What Silence Reveals

If you are a regular reader of my work, you will know that I advocate long drives with no other distraction: no radio, podcasts, or audiobooks. On a train or commercial aircraft, you can read a magazine, pull out the laptop, or walk around. On a drive, you have to…well, drive. There are very few pursuits that lock you in an enclosed space, inspired by the world rolling by, alone with your thoughts.

Most people find this specific type of active meditation difficult. My experience — as a driver, a counselor, and someone who has talked with other mindful drivers — is that folks get “antsy” after a period of undistracted silence. Depending on the person, this might happen in the first 30 seconds or the first few hours. Some people have to have distraction all the time; they run the TV even when they’re sleeping.

There’s a reason for that: it isn’t the silence that makes them uncomfortable — it’s what comes up when nothing else occupies the mind.

Left to its own devices, the mind will sooner or later acknowledge the content that bubbles up from the subconscious depths. That feeling of unease is not random; not boredom or idleness, but uncomfortable truth. These are existential facts of the human condition: thoughts of meaning, memento mori, and other inescapable — and unanswerable — questions of who we are, where we come from, and where we’re ultimately going.

I think and write about these topics extensively, but this is not the place to explore them.

Because what comes up can also be channeled — directed into productive, actionable avenues that lead to a better life.

In the 80 hours or so that I was behind the wheel on this trip (and during the many long hikes, and time spent in spectacular hot tubs in the red rock), I redirected my solitude-induced thoughts into three areas: where I am now in my ideal vision of life and purpose; what I want less of in my life; and what I want more of.

The Recalibration Process

My exact thoughts are, of course, highly detailed and specific to my purpose and wouldn’t be appropriate or particularly useful to discuss. What might be useful, however, is the process of my thinking — something you could adopt for your own use.

Keep in mind that this process is only loosely directed. I keep a general topic in mind, then let the silence do its thing. Eventually, answers — and more questions — arise. The beauty of this approach is that we tap into a consciousness less restricted than if we sat and forced an essay on the subject.

The first topic I invite to consciousness is what I call a recalibration. I have a very specific purpose that I have chosen for my life. I write it out in as much detail as I can, then live according to that vision. I am also imperfect and, as a human, ignorant of ultimate reality, so there is more than a little hit-and-miss involved.

The recalibration step allows me to consider what is working — what feels right and moves me closer to my goals and purpose — and what I had hoped would be useful but has fallen short.
I keep my overall vision of who and where, existentially speaking, I want to be in mind. Then I drive. When my mind wanders, I gently bring it back to the question at hand. This routine will be familiar to anyone who has practiced meditation. It is as simple as: What’s working? What feels right? What could be better? What didn’t pan out as I had hoped?

Eventually, I get a sense of the thoughts and actions I want to keep — and those that should be replaced to be more aligned and effective.

What Stays: Choosing What to Keep

I allow my mind to wander within this question and consider my right thoughts and actions. Here, “right” means aligned with my chosen purpose and identity. If any recent pursuits feel forced or inconsistent with the ideal vision I hold, they go into the other list: thoughts and actions to be replaced.

As an example, say my previous modus operandi was to write more and develop an audience that could benefit from my efforts. When I consider the writing I have done, it feels aligned and productive: readers engage and comment that my work helps them. This feels like time well spent and is consistent with my vision of how I want to be in the world.

I list this as a successful action. It goes on the What Stays list.

What Goes: Letting Go of What No Longer Works

Part of my last recalibration included exploring marketing for courses as part of the business side of my purpose. This was a “you don’t know until you try” situation.
Then, a year later — I do this recalibration annually and whenever it begins to happen by itself, which it will with practice — I look back and the thought arises: It’s not time for that yet. My efforts are better spent elsewhere.

That’s an entry for the What Goes list, at least for now.

It’s important to realize that cutting actions that aren’t moving you closer to your purpose is at least as important as adding new ones.

Realizations - Lessons From the Road

One of the wonderful side effects of mindful driving is the epiphanies that arise along with the list-making.

These realizations differ for everyone, but I’ll share a few from this journey:

I can only do the best I can do. Much is out of my control. All I can control is how I react.

An old thought with new clarity: What if I really am worthy of abundance?

Writing feels like shouting into the void — until one day you learn people would miss it if you stopped.

I can survive anything except death itself.

Thoughts of Thankfulness

As always, make room for gratitude. One of the great benefits of this nonjudgmental meditation is the joy of being alive in the present moment.

I’m thankful I can still enjoy a 700-mile drive in one day.

That a cool breeze in the red rock feels like a blessing.

That I can hold my head up and fight the good fight — free to pursue my purpose and maybe help someone avoid mistakes I’ve made.

That I can still enjoy the steam room after lifting heavy at the gym, on the doorstep of 70.

And that I can take these thoughts from my consciousness and present them to yours.

My novel, The Calling is available now in print and as an eBook.


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To learn more about how to use these concepts or to inquire about working with me, go to the Jeff W Welsh website, subscribe to my Substack or Medium accounts or the Hardcore Happiness blog page, and follow my Instagram account for daily insights.




- JWW