October Crash

My October crash came this year in the form of a T-bone collision. I was completely blind-sided by an uninsured man with an expired license driving a large black sedan. He was racing to make the light. My heart has raced ever since. Facing the intersection of wanting to get out of his way and needing to protect my son, Mama Bear won; my 10-year-old minivan lost. We all walked away, traumatized but thankful. It could have been worse. His day was undoubtedly worse than mine — he left in handcuffs. My son started driver’s ed three days later, with eyes wide open. The real possibility of a crash is not a bad lesson for fearless teenage boys to know, firsthand.

For weeks prior to the totaling of my car, I had a heightened sense of the fragility of life. Nature’s beautiful transformation show this fall brought me to tears nearly daily as I walked through Lindberg Park. I cherished the few days I had with my oldest who returned home from college for fall break on the day she turned 18. (She did not need to, but she did remind me: she is an adult now.) Also, I noticed near misses and had a foreboding sense of accident. Things really do change in an instant. Kids leave the nest, forcing us to reimagine relationships. Material possessions are lost, broken or ruined, requiring replacement. Our bodies need daily attention, especially when hit by a Mack truck. And so, I dial up the self compassion, see my chiropractor and try to cope with the fact that the gorgeous sugar maple has now let every last leaf go. Another new season is blowing in as I type. It feels heavy, cold and dark. No wonder our ancestors hibernated, cocooning in the darkness of possibility, the fertile field of winter that necessary lies dormant for the seeds of spring to come.

What has or needs to crash for you to create what’s next? What are you blind to seeing? How can you create islands of calm within the seas of change?

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