This is a blog about the journey we share. We may be different people, with different beliefs, different life path choices, and even live in different cultures, yet this is about the journey common to us all. This is our shared story of fundamental insight, of growth, of awareness, of our mutual recognition of oneness, and our personal emergence within this unfamiliar landscape we have all been given to travel. It is not about our journey through life, our choices, or careers and relationships; it is about the journey of life, the journey inside.
A Millennial friend of mine whose empathetic perspective I admire and never tire of recently posted this:
“Hi, millennials! We don’t like being judged and having older generations throwing their crap at us. So idea: Let’s not do that to future younger generations. Break the cycle. Next idea: Stop blaming older generations for our current problems. Yeah, maybe they messed things up, but hey we’re gonna mess stuff up, too. And I know I certainly don’t want to be judged and blamed by future generations for the election of that monster we call Trump. Because you know that very well could be our legacy, right? RIGHT?”
As an (older) dad of a Gen Z eleven-year-old girl, having essentially skipped a generation, (god, I hope that “Z” classification doesn’t mean she’ll be the last generation on the planet!) I feel generational blame rather keenly. And so I offer my perspective to that of my friend, and for her friends.
Blames the one before,
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door.
-Mike & the Mechanics
Those that came of age in the 60’s and 70’s are the worst critics of those who came of age in the 00’s and 10’s, but their reasons may surprise you.
The ’60/’70 Gen, the children of the post-WWII generation were the “hippies and radicals” that would ruin society. Judged more by the length of their hair and their music than their race or economic background, they were not just criticized by their elder generation, they were reviled and even hated–blamed for the destruction of all that they and their parents worked for. It was far more than disapproval, it was war. And it was ugly. And think of the WWII Generation, they literally just saved the world and now these damn kids are going to ruin it!
Trump is most compared now to Nixon and for good reason. For Gen ’60/’70, they killed Kennedy (their Obama) and gave them Nixon. The parallels from then to now are truly astounding, and it looks for all the world that we haven’t gone anywhere.
Gen ’60/’70 fought, rebelled, and even died for their convictions for a free society and for open loving. They accomplished quite a lot (more than they give themselves credit for), but not all.
They imagined a future for their children; a bright, caring, peaceful, (hairy) and loving future. Those children are Gen ’00/’10, our Millennials. I want you to know that you, my millennial friends, are their golden children. The special ones who would live the beautiful lives that they dreamed for you. (Unfortunately, they told you that a little too often.)
When they blame you, it’s not because they see you as failures, it’s because they saw you as their hope, one they blithely embraced and never stopped to doubt. They look at you and say, “Why aren’t you living that life we wanted for you, what’s wrong with you?!”
You can’t be blamed for the life you have any more than they can be blamed for reaching too high for you. The world is a tough place.
When your elders criticize you, [minus the perennial assholes of every generation] it is not the criticism of hate and derision that they once endured. No, and you must realize this; it is the criticism reserved for those we love and cherish and want the best for. It isn’t right, but it’s human.
At the bottom of their anger and disappointment, is the fear that THEY have failed YOU.
Maybe the world still has Trumps and Nixons, maybe we still hate and kill each other. But, what I wish I could tell your critical elders is that they did NOT fail their golden children. Boomers, though they didn’t inherit the perfect world you promised to bring them, you did bring to the earth and rear a generation who believe in equality, who value peace, and who trust in love, just the way you hoped they would. You persevered, and so will they. Ease up.
I also harbor a hope that you, millennials, can reconsider your pre-contempt and distrust of your elders, who like you, took a naive shot at utopia and missed. You are SO MUCH more alike than not. I wish you could see yourselves from my eyes. Anyone who is really paying attention knows, you already have what is most important.
And when the time comes, take my friend’s advice and cut the Gen Z a break.
“Daddy guess what, there is no Santa Claus, my friends at school told me!” Two years ago December, my then seven-year-old daughter Madi came home from school to start Christmas break with the inevi…
There are times, few and shining when life’s struggles are overcome, and all at once happiness has no alternative but to grow.
Once, a long time ago, but not so far off as you would think, there was a young lad and a fine Spring day. His bright outlook and innate wisdom, gifts more of nature than of experience, had brought him to just such a time.
In the earliest part of the afternoon, he followed a woodland path through the bristling August countryside, under a great blue sky, that led to a pretty little glade on the far side of a brook. It was a bright place, peaceful, safe and alive, and he knew he belonged there.
He walked along thinking about his foregone troubles, and how he had dodged them or tricked them into disappearing. He was a happy lad, perhaps happiest when he was alone with nature as he was on this day.
Just as he began to think how little of his joy he shared with others, he came upon the brook that was deep and wide like a pond at one point and so clear that it returned a beautiful blue to the open sky. Spanning the width, and very low to the slow-moving water, was an old wooden bridge, the kind they used to carry livestock and farm folk to and from the town. As the young man approached the pond he heard a dreadful moaning and thrashing of water. It sounded as if some animal had been trapped in the mud and was desperately trying to free itself.
He stepped onto the bridge and could see that it wasn’t an animal at all but a girl; she was quite beautiful by the look of it, although it was hard to tell for she appeared to be drowning. Her face was set, cold and hard. Her brow was furrowed almost to the point of being grotesque, but her features were fair and childlike. Her slender arms and shoulders were visible only now and then as her clenched fists pounded and thrashed the water in a desperate attempt to keep her head above it. Her garments dragged her down in a spot where cut flowers lay strewn; she was like a vision of Ophelia waked from her deadly reverie. The ferocity of her flailing was truly frightening. It was a mortal battle, an ugly dance of death.
The young man leaned his elbows on the railing of the bridge and lazily crossed his feet. He called out to her, “I’ve seen people drowned before, you know.” He saw himself in his mind leaping headfirst into the water at first sight of the troubled young maiden to rescue her the way any gallant would. He shifted his weight and crossed the other foot. You see, he had indeed seen people drown before, and by experience learned the danger in attempting a rescue.
The beautiful girl gasped and choked and made pitiful gurgling noises in her throat as she twisted and splashed under the warm summer sky. He spoke to her again, “If you were going to jump in you might at least have learned to swim first,” no reply. It was a terribly cruel thing to say to someone in mortal peril. “It takes a dreadfully long time to drown you know, it’s a very messy business,” he added. He could afford to be flippant, he didn’t plan on rescuing her. He intended only to walk on by and tend to his own business, no doubt the same way everyone else had that day.
Besides, he held the belief that anyone in trouble wanted it that way, for why else with they have it in the first place. He knew for himself that all the trouble in his life he brought upon himself, and all his problems solved were solved alone. Still, he didn’t really want to see her drown. He almost regretted not trying to save her, as he turned to go. She was so beautiful and so helpless, like a monarch butterfly caught in a web. He loved Monarch butterflies.
Just then, she caught his eye. Her eyes were a cold gray-blue, but her glance was warm like sunset, highlights touched the black of her pupils and made two stars in the night sky, distant and clear. He remembered her then; having never seen her before, even so, he remembered. Two children sitting by the still waters dreaming each their own dreams, yet dreaming together. His gaze softened and warmed her a little. Everything was still as they watched each other, everything but the rhythmic sound of her thrashing.
The young lad inhaled sharply and looked skyward. He let out a long sigh then said aloud to himself, “How silly of me to think I was done with trouble.” He turned and raised his voice so that she would hear him over the thrashing. “Don’t get the idea that this is as easy as it seems. Rescuing is dangerous, and it just might kill us both.” He spoke again to himself, “I must be a fool for trying this again. She’ll only drown, I know it.” But inside he had already decided that this one wasn’t going to drown.
He dove in and glided effortlessly across the pond to where the girl was. As he reached her, a cold fist smashed across his face, a rake of nails tore across his cheek as he was pulled by the hair down beneath the foaming water. He tried to grab her waist from the back and force his way to the surface but a knee planted itself firmly in his chest and the wind was driven from his lungs. He tried again to surface but was scratched and bruised until he was finally kicked to the bottom of the pond. Feeling dizzy and out of breath, he tried to swim away from the frenzied legs that pummeled him into the stream bed pinning him to the muddy bottom.
The young lad knew just what to do to save himself, he pulled his legs in tight to his chest, planted two feet firmly on the bottom of the pond, and pushed as hard as he could. He came up with a great gasp into the sunlight. As he fell back into the water, he realized that he was standing in water that barely reached his chest. The water level where the girl was thrashing was well below her shoulders!
The young man walked over to the girl and stopped just outside her reach. “What are you doing?!” he said, “Stand up, the water isn’t even deep enough to drown you!”
“I can’t!” she said.
“Why not!” he said, annoyed, rinsing the muck from his face and clothes.
“I’m… afraid! she said between gulps of water.
“You see me standing, don’t you?”
“Well then, stand up. The water isn’t deep enough to drown you. It’s not over your head, it never was. JUST STAND UP! All you have to do is plant your feet and stand. Come out of this cold water, and we’ll find a nice grassy hill and dry out in the sun.”
“I can’t.” said the girl.
“Try it.” he said.
“I can’t, I’m too afraid!
The young man struck his palm against his forehead. He shook his head and slowly trudged back to shore.
“Please help me!” she said, and as he walked he thought he wasn’t quite sure what she meant by help.
The poor confused fellow consoled himself while drawing himself out of the water by pointing out the fact that drowning people are not the most rational kind of person one might meet. Besides, it was clear to him now that this was not the proper technique for rescuing, despite the popular traditions. He shook off some of the water, wiped the blood from his cheek and limped back along the bridge. There was no question of giving up. What he started, he had to finish.
He sat himself down, dangling his feet over the edge of the little wooden bridge, watching her struggle. He watched silently for a long time, trying to remember her, watching her every expression. After a long while, he said, “What made you decide to drown?”
“Because my mother drowned,” she replied.
He wasn’t really expecting an answer to the question. He leaned toward her, and his voice grew very soft and warm.
“That’s really very sad, but it doesn’t mean that you have to as well.” he said.
He thought of how good it feels to speak from the heart, to speak from the house of kindness and not out of defense. He truly cared for this girl, for her own sake, and it made the best in him show.
“Don’t be so smug, and stop patronizing me; shut up and help me, please!”
The young man’s face turned sullen, the wound on his cheek began to bleed again. There was a long pause. Finally, she spoke,
“You don’t understand, she was my mother; I loved her. They came, they did terrible things to her, unspeakable things, and she drowned! Now I drown.”
Her head submerged completely for a moment before she resurfaced and resumed her pounding.
“You don’t know what it’s like to carry this! My fear is SO heavy! I am so sorry!”
“It isn’t your fault; it was your choice.” he said.
“You will walk by like everyone else!”
“I am not everyone else.” He was beginning to take this exchange quite personally.
“Do you know how it feels to drown?” she said.
His look was midway between love and contempt as he spoke, “Do you know how it feels to hold out the key to someone’s prison and watch them turn away?”
“She…drowned.” She said it slowly and looked right at him so that he could see deep inside her. He didn’t need to ask if she had once tried to rescue her, it was understood. Both of them knew how hard rescues were, and how they never seem to work.
The sun was high in the sky now. The young man laid across the hot planks of the bridge and began to dry in the sun. The light, he thought to himself, from that great fountain filters down to touch every living thing. He was staring at the light pouring through the tops of the great Oaks and Maples that lined either side of the brook. The sky was a deep blue. Tufts of clouds rolled by. Across the bridge to the west was his meadow. The path sloped upward through stands of bramble and flowers, and beyond it, grassy drumlins rose that shimmered with a hint of silver. Clover, he thought. A place bettered only in the sharing of it, he mused.
He drew a deep breath as if to drink in the sunlight. He smelled the moist earth and moss that surrounded the pond. The scent was pleasant but cool and thick. He took another breath as a warm breeze blew from the meadow, setting the leaves in motion. Its scent was of sunbaked grasses and wildflowers, the smell of summer memories; friends on the porch, sandals and swings. His mind drifted and wandered through Augusts of long ago.
A drop of cold water touched his lips and brought him back. He turned his head to watch the beautiful drowning maid. Her face was red as she snorted and spit. Her head was sinking lower in the water now, her leaden arms rhythmically pounding the surface, vaulting long splashes into the air. He turned his face back into the sun, took another breath and let out a sigh, then shot up fast,
“Damn you!” he said as he rose to his feet. “Inhale and lean back or by God, I’ll drown you myself!” This she did, and gradually the pounding subsided for the most part. She was now able to keep her nose and mouth consistently above water.
I wrote this story when I was twenty-three years old.
I never wrote the ending. (I didn’t know how.)
I found it recently in an old journal. Notes scribbled in the margins suggested several endings. Neither involved the maid being “rescued” by the young lad, owing to the author believing, then as now, that it isn’t possible. The main theme of this little tale is that we are the progenitors of our own misery, and our own sole source of rescue. Help from others comes only in the form of support and illumination—the key for the lock, the latch for the window. We ourselves crawl through the chinks and cross the thresholds. Do we really choose to create all the terrible things that we experience, even the ones that other people do to us? Yes. Not with our conscious mind certainly, that would be ridiculous. But in the great ocean of our unconscious, that sea granted us by some unknown hand, we are the writers of the story that when told will lead us to preserve the learnings we seek. This is the great and perilous Truth that once embraced, frees us utterly. The boy never asked the maid how she got there or why she was drowning, he asked, “When did you decide to drown?”
In one ending, she finally gives up her struggle, goes completely still and sinks to the very bottom, then she just stands up and walks out of the water.
The other takes place after several more bruising attempts at rescue and sees the battered lad walking away alone across the bridge to his beautiful sun-lit meadow, the sound of fists thumping the water slowly receding behind him.
It’s worth noting that the characters in this allegory can be seen as separate individuals (pick the one that applies to you), but also can be regarded as two warring aspects of our own psyche.
How would you end it, my friends? My experience in life has been much like the latter ending. What have I learned in the thirty-five years since my “young lad self” wrote it? This:
“If you choose to help others, choose only the ones who are swimming toward you.”
If not, you’ll find yourself buried in someone else’s darkness, and this serves no one. In love, there are takers and there are givers. If you are one who has built your house among takers, know that you deserve a giver.
It isn’t your fault; it was your choice.
ADDENDUM TO: “The Drowning Woman: A Rescuer’s Story”
The more I re-read this piece the more fascinating it is to me. It is so weird looking into my head 35 years ago, and the stunning thing is that so much of what I thought was a growth in awareness over the years was already there, it was just unproven. (I have stood on that bridge since, more times than I would like to admit, and have also spent some time in the water.)
There is actually more to the unfinished story buried in the notes. The two may have actually known each other, through letters only, and betrothed having never met. And it offers some very timely insights into how we know each other through words conveying how we want to be perceived as opposed to the visceral connection of being present with each other.
The notion that we must take responsibility (response-ability) for our lives and embrace the belief that we choose or are “at cause” with all the events of our lives (somehow), is the very thing that gives us our personal POWER and allows us to create the outcomes we desire and frees us from a self-imposed and unjust victimhood (drowning). Cool stuff! Smart lad!
If you are curious, and you can read my ancient chicken scratch, have at! The first and last pages containing notations are pictured here.
So I further the question, “How would you end it?”
Strange how our values become galvanized when threatened.
So, we’ve somehow managed to elect the poster child of hapless, self-serving, demagoguery who has relit the old fire sticks of hatred, intolerance, and isolationism (as if they ever really went out).
So, we take to the streets and we protest.
The Flower Power movement was birthed in Berkeley, California in the late 1960’s as means of symbolic protest against the Vietnam War. Beatnik writer Allen Ginsberg, promoted the use of “masses of flowers” to hand to policemen, press, politicians and spectators to civilly fight violence with peace.
Today reminds me SO MUCH of the nineteen sixties. I remember the images of race riots, bloodied faces, nightsticks, state funerals of fallen leaders, Buddhist monks lighting themselves on fire. Death by gun violence then was two points higher per 100,000 than it is today. I was a few years too young (to my eternal gratitude), but the nation’s young were being forced from their homes, shoveled into boot camps and used as cannon fodder to fight an unjust war.
So, they took to the streets.
In 1967 they protested against violence and the war in Vietnam.
In 2017 they will protest against hatred and intolerance.
When we were kids, whining was not tolerated in my family. If my siblings or I cried too much about something that made us unhappy, we would hear that infamous question, “You want something to cry about? I’ll GIVE you something to cry about!” which was followed by a few swift smacks. It was meant to force us to consider whining as a poor strategy, but it always made me think, “Great, now I have TWO things to cry about!” Whining, you see, is complaint without action, and my parents couldn’t stand it.
The often-maligned Millennial, accused of laziness and whining, a generation coddled then forgotten, suddenly feels that sharp slap and the taste of iron in their mouths.
Now it’s different, now it’s personal. A once lost generation has found its purpose.
For someone like me, it is so deeply painful to watch innocence come of age in an ugly world, but it is equally inspiring. What will they forge in their crucible? What outcomes will they gain–for all of us.
Of all the images my young mind retained in that era, the most powerful and transformative one was the image of a flower stuck down the barrel of a gun. It takes some balls to face down an adrenalin-bathed military guard with a bayonetted rifle pointed at your head and approach with nothing but a flower. The symbology was perfect, “Make Love not War”, and the insight extraordinary in its time–You can’t fight violence with violence. The message of Love did an end run around the mind of violence and spoke directly to the heart of peace.
The protests mattered, and we eventually won.
I’ve been stricken lately with how much the protesters today against ‘he who must not be named’ look like the protestors from 50 years ago. They are just as brave, just as determined, and just as full of purpose. There is a laser focus to their intention that reveals a beauty in them that has lain dormant until now. Adversity reveals true mettle.
I hope they continue to know that you can’t fight hate with hate.
And we’re going to need more flowers.
I woke up this morning with the image of little Omran Daqneesh in my head and it finally dawned on me why he looked so familiar to me.
THAT is my inner child.
Seriously, no joke–that is what he looks like right now. I’ve spent three years in a kind of slow free-fall of stress, private anguish, trauma, and loss that my skill could not diminish no matter what I tried. Sometimes all we can do is persevere.
If by “inner child” we mean a personification of that source within our core that is pure, joyful, innocent, trusting, playful, and loving, then we should be able to picture it, recognize it.
This morning I have, and THAT’S HIM.
As that image resonates with what I see in myself, it is heartening to know just how durable the little fellow is. As I begin to crawl out from under the rubble of things I needed like a hole in my head, the proof is there, of the ineffable, indelible innocence and goodness that is the origin and seat of who we are.
Persevere, my friends. Whether it be by fire, flood, war, or personal strife, sooner or later, someone will walk by that pile of rubble you are buried under, and pull you back into the daylight.
(5-year-old Omran Daqneesh suffered head wounds but no brain injury. Workers feared internal injuries, but an X-ray and ultrasound revealed his wounds were superficial. Omran’s three siblings, ages 1, 6, and 11, and his mother and father were also rescued from the building. None sustained major injuries. The Russian military said Thursday it was ready to back a U.N. call for weekly cease-fires for the city of Aleppo. …curious, what opened eyes can lead to.)
SMS (short message service) began in 1992 and was initially a way of sending brief informational messages like “I’ll be late” or “there’s an emergency” or when you need a quick “yes” or “no” answer. It has evolved now into… well, I don’t have to tell you what. There’s no question it’s useful, I use it all the time now, but it is SO easy we let it rob from us the quality of our human communication. SUCH an easy crutch to use NOT to face each other, NOT to be spontaneous, immediate, genuine–REAL.
Professor Albert Mehrabian has pioneered the understanding of communications since the 1960s. Mehrabian’s research provided the basis for the widely quoted statistic for the effectiveness of spoken communications.
Here is a representation of Mehrabian’s findings on the communications of feelings and attitudes:
- 7% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is in the words that are spoken. (or, presumably, written in a text?)
- 38% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is paralinguistic (the way that the words are said; tone, inflection, etc.).
- 55% of message pertaining to feelings and attitudes is in facial expression. (This includes body language and physiological ‘presence’)
Think about this the next time you try to explain your feelings and attitudes by texting. Think about how you can pop that paltry 7% all the way up to 45% just by pressing a button on your phone. With this bonus, do you really have to fake not seeing a text just to give yourself time to think about what you want to say? Your voice is beautiful, and the way you search for the right words says as much as the words you find. Any premeditated communication bears an inherent falseness to it. Do you really want that burden?
The written word can certainly be powerful in expression if used in poetry or full-blown, quality prose, but how many excellent writers are out there? I’m the guy whose texts are very long and complete, with fully spelled words and correct punctuation when I try to express my feelings and attitudes. It often makes me feel self-conscious, wordy, and verbose, but I don’t care. Having my meaning heard as I meant to convey it is important to me.
Truncated, abbreviated and “emoticated” messages mock the beauty of language do they not? How many times have you said less or left out a thought because it was too long to text? How do others perceive you when your average response is under five words? What kind of value will they grant you if you present yourself as the equivalent of a coloring book outline? And, what treacherous depths of misunderstanding will you never even be aware of?
I’m as guilty as you, nearly. I use it. I do my disciplined best to preserve language, craft my words, use metaphor, allusion, (and try not to use) etc. But, if you take the time to write well when you text, you will more often find yourself saying, “Aw hell, I’ll just call and talk.”
I don’t know about you, but I like hearing peoples’ voices.
The warm and sunny February day was not to be denied. I left my computer and my phone and went for a walk today. I usually choose the rural direction from my house, quiet roads with no one to see me, but today I decided to walk toward the human race. I’ve driven Searsburg Road up from town a thousand times, heading to and from home, but realized I had never actually walked it.
One particular spot stopped me cold, I had stood there before. I was next to a low flat trailer home on the edge of a rise, I turned to take a picture of it. I didn’t notice a man standing on the porch until he spoke in that slightly defensive tone you reserve for strangers staring at your house.
“Can I help you?”
“I had an accident here a few years ago.”
I had always meant to knock on their door and explain the tire tracks in the snow that went right up to his front wall, so this was a small but welcome closure. I briefly recounted the accident, one where no one was seriously hurt and how it nearly ended with my Prius in his living room.
“Oh, yeah, I remember, geez we only left the house for a little while and when we came back we were like, what happened here?”
We laughed and shook hands. His name was Nick. “Now if you ever do find a car in your living room, you’ll know what happened.”
What happened was that as I was driving home on a very cold fifteen-degree day in January five years ago, black ice on the clear pavement and a wheel grabbing mealy slush on the shoulder, I saw the car in front of me, about a hundred yards away, suddenly swerve to miss an oncoming vehicle that had crossed into his lane. This Subaru station wagon now headed for me and began to fish-tail as the driver woke up and over-corrected.
As the car got closer, I could see that the driver was a woman, and alone. I watched her swerve back and forth across the road and my options dwindled quickly. A Prius is little more than a glorified golf cart, they don’t GO when they need to go and they do not STOP worth a god damn. There was no way I could slow down enough to lessen injury, if I braked too hard I’d spin myself. Our closing speed was about 80 mph. I tried to time my passage by her, between the swerves, but she fish-tailed with her driver’s side broadside right across my lane. Nowhere to go.
There were trees and a telephone pole off a four-foot embankment to my right—no escape there it seemed. To pull into the snowbank would clearly pull both wheels into the ditch and I would end up sideways headed straight into a large tree that would take the top of my car off, and my head along with it.
The only reasonable option was to hit the car. Cars crumple, airbags go off, this would easily be survivable and I might even walk away unhurt. I resolved to hit right behind her driver’s door square on her passenger door—the soft spot, don’t hit the wheels, don’t hit the driver. I had just totaled another Prius the year before, because, guess what, the brakes failed.
“God dammit I don’t want to total another god damn Prius! This makes sense, but it’s wrong. I WILL NOT DO THIS.”
I glanced to my right and saw the last fleeting chance at a trajectory that MIGHT take me between the trees and the pole. It’s not an easy sell when your brain tries to tell your body, one that spent a lifetime learning to keep the car ON the road, to suddenly fly your car off an embankment and into the midst of big scary trees. In the fraction of a second left of my fleeting window of opportunity, my thoughts returned to the Subaru’s passenger door.
( “GARY. DO. NOT. HIT. THAT. CAR!” )
Still going 45 mph, I yanked the wheel just past the passing bark of the last tree and aimed for the right side of the distant telephone pole, then felt the wheels leave the ground. There was a lot of snow, and I honestly thought it would cushion the fall. It did not. I lost both bumpers on my little sleigh ride and missed the pole by less than six inches. Next I realized that there was no way my Prius was going to stop before going into the house. In the spirit of “I really don’t give a fuck anymore” I turn the car sideways intending to stop like a downhill skier after the finish line. It actually worked. A Prius will stop…sideways.
The car still ran, and I walked away although my back was pretty fucked up. The young woman, barely past twenty, was in a ditch by now on the other side of the road. I approached and asked if she was okay as she got out.
“Yeah, I’m fine… I was working late last night and I… I was so tired I…”
“Don’t worry about it (YOUR insurance will pay for everything) as long as you are okay, you need to sit down?”
“I’m okay, I just don’t know what’s supposed to happen now… my dad will be…”
“Don’t sweat it, I’ll call 911, they’ll send a police car, they’ll write up an accident report, you call your dad, he’ll call the insurance company, it will all be okay. They’ll fix your car, everything will be fine, okay?”
I peered through her dirty windows into her station wagon. I could see that one half of her back seat was down and could make out that there was junk all over.
“Hey, it could be worse. You could have a kid in the back there.”
“Oh, I think he’s alright. Just got jostled around a bit.”
She opened the door, the one I was about to hit, and there was an seven-month-old little boy in a car seat right behind the driver’s seat.
“…umm… Let’s get him out of there and out of this cold.”
It was cold, but only then did I go numb. Neighbors came out to let her stay in their house to wait. I stayed out and directed traffic around her car which was partly in the road and just over a blind rise.
I can tell you, as sure as I am writing this, that I would have killed that baby, had I decided to hit the car rather than taking the harder choice.
Do you know how people who experience tragedies sometimes spend a lifetime asking themselves “Why did I do this”, “Why didn’t I do that?” They torture themselves with “what ifs” because they know that one tiny decision could have changed the course of their life or that of someone else. I know that this outcome was a happy one, but those what ifs still make my blood run cold, even five years later.
I never told the girl just how close she came to losing her child, or spending the rest of her life hating and questioning herself (or how close I came to it). I spared her that.
It makes me think, though, how easily we forget how incredibly powerful we are; how with every passing instant we can change the course of our destinies. I think about this most in relationships, especially these days, of how if our choices are not genuine and right, or if they are made out of panic and fear instead of love and compassion, how they can injure the lives of those around us, and perhaps rob us of our own best destiny.
Have you ever noticed that the decisions that are hardest, so often turn out to be the right ones?
Do we speak up or hide our feelings? Do we answer or remain silent? Do we stay or do we walk away? One quick turn of the wheel and our lives diverge forever. Or is there a way to circle around again? I’d like to think there is, but I am also a dreamer.
I’m glad I met Nick today, I’m glad I chose to walk toward people instead of away, I’m glad I solved his mystery, and I’m glad for my small closure. I’m glad I turned the wheel on that very cold day.
I can’t explain how connected I feel to that little boy, I think about him a lot. He would be as old now as my daughter is in this photo.
I would like to meet him someday.
Just to see how he’s doing.