Do I drive too fast?
I’d debate it, but Dave says yes, and the Universe seems to agree. Yesterday, on my way to school, a cop
pulled me over for speeding.
Even before purchasing my new Ford hybrid and embarking on
my quest for maximum mileage, the infirmities of my beloved old Caravan
necessitated sensitive and conservative driving. No sudden stops.
No revving. No
speeding. Together, we chugged
along at a moderate pace so I could react swiftly if her eccentricities
threatened a breakdown.
Now, moderate speeds are the means to hit my target mpg of
45. When the cop pulled me over, I
was gliding down the hill on Bronson Road, no gas, foot poised over the brake. I’d checked the speedometer moments
before and it read maybe 30 mph.
This officer was the kind of cop I wouldn’t want to
antagonize: visor pulled low, head
shaved, jaw tight, bottom lip out-thrust.
Stern.
“Lady,” he said, “When I pulled in behind you, just after
you saw me and jammed on your brakes, you were going 40. So I hate to think what you were doing
before. It’s 25 on this road, and
the Dogwood Festival’s this weekend.”
By his expression, it was clear he envisioned me plowing
down whole families as they crossed the road with their arms laden with craft
show goodies and bake sale cupcakes.
Still, I had not slammed on the brakes – just eased them on a trifle - and could not believe I’d reached
the speed he claimed. Still, I was
not about to argue with the man.
“I apologize, Officer.
To be honest, I just got this car and I’m trying to boost the mileage,
so I really have been driving carefully, and….”
“Lady.” He cut
me off, voice hard. He gestured
with one hand, thumb and forefingers opening and closing like a pair of
chattering false teeth. “You’re
going on and on, blah, blah, blah.
I’m just telling you it’s 25 on this road. You’re lucky I don’t give you a ticket.”
He turned to face forward, said, “Have a nice day,” and
drove off.
“Blah, blah, blah?”
Ouch. I do blather
sometimes, it’s true, but if he treated me that way, dressed as I was for work
in a blouse and black slacks, the epitome of a friendly Fairfield County
matron, I can only imagine how that exchange might have plummeted if I’d been
wearing my black hoodie.
I crept onward to school, amazed at how ridiculously slow 25 was, and finding it very difficult to maintain that speed.
The next day, I was driving Park Avenue on my way to Mercy
Learning Center, running a hint behind schedule. I stopped at a traffic light and you can imagine my joy when
a student driver took a left turn, placing himself in front of me once the
light changed. Great.
The young one did precisely what he should have, crawling
along at 25. I crept along behind
him, and arrived at MLC only a few minutes late.
Not to read too much into this, but I wondered if these two
incidents were cosmically related.
Were they reminders to prevent an accident that was otherwise awaiting
me? Or was the lesson
broader?
My route to work follows tree-shaded streets lined with
historic homes and centuries old walls, not that I notice them. And when he gets in my car, Dave is
always surprised that the same CD plays for months before I change it. To his raised eyebrow, I’ll say, “Don’t
even hear it, Hon. I’m inside my head.”
Truth. Too
often, I’m on auto-pilot and my faithful cars get me where I’m going. Oh, I’m watching the road and obeying
signs, but it’s amazing what one can see and hear without actually perceiving. I can
say the same of walks in the woods or even a busy day; my focus is inward and
my senses serve only to keep me on track.
In her book, My Grandfather’s Blessings, Rachel Naomi Remen recalls an old prayer: “Days
pass and the years vanish and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our
eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing. Let there be moments when your
Presence, like lightening, illuminates the darkness in which we walk. Help us
to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns, unconsumed. And we, clay touched
by God, will reach out for holiness and exclaim in wonder, “How filled with awe
is this place and we did not know it.”
Spring has been generous over the past few days. The air is rose-scented, soft, and warm
on the skin. Warblers astonish
with their range of showy trills and melodies. God’s roadside gardens bloom with wild daisies, purple
phlox, and clover. It is a season
that caresses, and as I walk, or drive, I do so more slowly, smiling at the
bounty of gifts. Maybe I owe
thanks to the cop and student driver for the reminder to pay attention.
