Getting There
Asking for directions is not a sign of weakness. Sometimes it shows our greatest strength
Driving on the open road provides a freedom all its own. It’s my “me” time; my alone but not lonely time. Just give me two hours (I’ll take twenty minutes too…), an EZ Pass, a familiar highway, not too much traffic, and a silenced phone. Blue skies are a bonus.
I eagerly fasten my seatbelt and whisper Tefillas Haderech because, honestly, I’m not sure where this will take me. My mind tends to wander a bit too easily and I find myself, more often than not, in the hands of my Co-pilot.
Sometimes, being alone with one’s thoughts gets crowded so I allow myself to free-associate, to coast, to resolve much of what’s walking around in my brain. Once in a while these random thoughts include solving the Great Problems of the World; but usually it’s more like: “What should I wear to that upcoming chasunah?” and “What should I serve our company on Shabbos?” and, after we moved from Cleveland to Baltimore, “Whatever did I do with the iron I'd packed — just for show?”
I might work out some precise phrasing for how to tell my spouse about some “very important and necessary” purchase I just made; I outline what I’ll say when I walk through the door and hope Amazon doesn’t announce it first. I even resolve to stay on my diet regardless of the (full disclosure) mints, nuts, and chocolate I bring along just in case — for “the company” of course.
In a more contemplative mood, I might turn on an old CD and sing along, sometimes at the top of my lungs — uninhibited by tone or talent or lack thereof. I harmonize with whomever singer or whichever song; I don't always know the tune or the words and I don't really care. I can convince myself that I sound really good because, after all, no one argues back.
Did you ever notice how innocently a song can trigger tears? When that happens I allow the floodgates to open and wash over me. This is my permission to simply let go and cry unabashedly. No one will call me, no one will knock on the door and no one will ask me what’s wrong because most of the time, nothing’s wrong.
Tears are the language of the soul, its musical notes and punctuation. Mine are the private, cathartic, healing tears of regret, tears of hesitation, tears of loss, tears of gratitude, tears of heartache, and tears of joy. It’s often a jumble of all of these very mixed and personal emotions that clamor for recognition.
There are journeys one travels with others and there are those one treks alone. If I have a passenger with me, I feel I have to engage them in conversation; I want a good review on TripAdvisor. If I'm travelling with my life-partner and another person comes along they have to abide by our cardinal rule: “what you hear in this car, stays in this car.” It’s sacrosanct.
Driving with a spouse is a great opportunity to argue discuss. Before we moved to Baltimore, traveling from Cleveland meant spending meaningful moments together in the car. Trust me, six hours is a long time to stay angry in a moving hunk of steel on four wheels with the doors and windows locked, but I’ve done it anyway. I’m a real champ that way.
The reasons for our arguments discussions boils down to this: When I drive my hands are at 10 and 2 o’clock on the steering wheel — I like to think of myself as composed, organized and in control. I’m married to a guy whose hands are generally at 5 and 7 — or sometimes only 1 hand on 3 or 9; never both. Get the picture? His idea of direction and mine are often at N and S. The E vs. W discussion has taken place a few times too.
Then there are the guilt trips. You can’t unhear, unsee, or unsay — just ask anyone whose mouse/thumb accidentally slipped and landed on the Send button. It can be quite rewarding to recede into my past and have a talk with those to whom I couldn’t (or wouldn’t or shouldn’t). These exercises allow me to practice the art of, “Why did you?”, “What happened when?” and “This is what I really need you to hear.”
I also practice saying “I’m sorry” a lot — and sometimes, I really am. Saying it to myself is a level all its own. There’s this interesting thing about apologies; if you start explaining after the first words “I’m sorry,” it’s no longer an admission of guilt. It’s an excuse.
It’s remarkable how much clearer my vision is in the hindsight of my rear-view mirror. You would not believe the brilliant bon mots I have hurled at the vexing phantoms in my imaginary reality. And in the age of blue tooth, whenever a car passes me by and sees me yelling discussing, they think nothing of it.
A trip down Memory Lane is a nice diversion as long as you don’t park for too long — otherwise you’ll miss the turnoff to the Future. Just because I was headed for Easy Street doesn’t mean that Complicated isn’t on the map. The speed with which this alternate route appears never fails to astound me. Be careful not to pass Judgement; I must have been asleep when they passed out the directions to Guarantees. Where’s a traffic cop when you need one?
We can learn a lot from these trips if we allow ourselves. Evaluating them should be done with a grain of salt, a pinch of skepticism, and a dash of humor. Purpose may be a destination harder to find as the journey progresses and guess what — worrying doesn’t get us there any faster.
Taking ourselves too seriously tends to get boring. I have a feeling that if you drive the road less traveled, that special highway unfolds best without a compass.
There seems to be a lot more room on this road, yet what confuses me is the amount of traffic going in the opposite direction. Did I miss a detour somewhere? Asking for directions is not a sign of weakness. Sometimes it shows our greatest strength. Just don’t tell the other gender I said so…
Standing up for what’s right cannot be done when you’re sitting down, and stopping to check your roadmap is an exercise in futility if you’re stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. Getting unstuck is the challenge, not the goal.
The road paved with good intentions does not mean that it will take me where I need to go, nor will getting there make me who I want to be. Potholes can’t always be foreseen and disappointment only happens if the expectations are too high. Sometimes they’re only felt after I’ve compared my journey to someone else’s.
I wish that life came with its own WAZE, recalculating when I veer off in this or that direction. I could use one. It’s hard to take off my blinders and allow myself to be His passenger. Getting back on track is the real test and I’m lost more often than I care to admit. That’s when I realize that I’m not the one at the wheel. Who knew?
Wanna come along? Hop in… it’s gonna be a great ride. Just remember: my car, my rules. And bring your own chocolate!
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 690)
Oops! We could not locate your form.
RELATED CONTENT
But there’s also this part of me that says, You’re not good at this, no matter how much you enjoy it
There was a method within the madness, and I was feeling complacent that all was under control
Or how will all involved parties know how to prepare for this event?
Back to Muskan. She felt awful, just awful, that I had received a dented Tjena
I’m left in a color wheel of confusion. What could I have done differently?
