83 B

My family recently made the trek north to attend a wedding, and logistics required meeting my son along the way. We left his car in a hotel parking lot before continuing on our way, and I remembered the exit, 83 B, so we could return to his car on Sunday. The problem came when we took the exit and found nothing familiar - no hotel, no car, nothing we remembered from our earlier rendezvous. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and each of us tried to solve the problem. An hour and a half later we found the car, but it was nowhere near where we thought it was. The exit was 92, not 83 B.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out how I got the exit numbers so wrong. I can see no misleading connection between the two numbers, and yet I was so certain I as right. While it remains a mystery to me, the experience points to something I hope I’ll remember in the future: don’t trust certainty.

Exits on highways are nothing to the other things we feel certain about: I’m supposed to be a doctor, lawyer, or priest . . . my father is perfect . . . financial security is all I need to be happy . . . my husband/wife loves me . . . my child would never do that.

So often we hold onto ideas as if they are made of stone and guide our lives accordingly. They provide security in an unsteady and confusing world. When something happens that turns those stones to dust, we’re left baffled, confused, and scared. “If that isn’t true,” we ponder, “then what is?” It’s as if the earth shakes and there’s nothing onto which we can grasp.

As awful as such moments are, there’s also a new freedom to be found as the dust swirls in the breeze. We find a new humility and acceptance that can literally make us breathe, and live, easier. When it comes to the life of faith, I am trying to hold loosely the things I believe. The landscape of life is beyond my full comprehension, and to claim otherwise is to search for stones. Yes, stones provide spiritual comfort, but they also keep me from flying.

Invisible Fences

Driving past the lawn with the little yellow flags around the perimeter, I knew another “invisible fence” had been installed. Poor dog. What looks like an open and free yard is now a deceptive cage. His new collar will teach him where not to go with electric shocks or vibrations and, if he is like most dogs, he will make peace with the imposed limitation.

We are not much better than the poor dog. Although we feel like we live open and free lives, there are invisible fences waiting for us all. I am not sure who installed them - parents, teachers, or events in life - but they were installed along with collars, and we have been making peace with our cages ever since. Each time we get close to an edge, we feel the shock or vibration and we pull back.

Just ask the obedient child who tells a “family secret.”

Just ask the wife who shares she wants to go back to school.

Just ask the banker who tells his colleagues he writes poetry on the weekends.

Just ask the church-goer who questions a theological doctrine.

Just ask the son who wants to admit he's gay.

Just ask the artist who wants to have an art show.

Our collars come is all shapes and sizes, as do the shocks that compel us to fall back in line. Most of us decide the potential freedom is not worth the discomfort, but that's the price for new life: discomfort. We must reach the point where the “yard” is not enough, when the promise of new life outweighs the pain of getting there. I know, that’s easy to say, the shocks and discomfort are real, but so is the life that lies beyond.

Landscapes

Sitting at the gate at Newark Airport, I can see across the runways the distant skyline of New York City. While the Empire State Building and other mid-town skyscrapers are impressive, it’s the ones to the right, downtown, that capture my attention and heart. If I didn’t know better, I would say it’s always looked this way. But I know better. I wonder what it must have been like to sit in this seat many years ago when two airplanes changed the landscape of the city and this country forever. I could focus on today’s landscape only, but to do so would shallow the meaning of all that sits in front of me.

Our lives provide landscapes of sorts, and, like the one before me this morning, it would be tempting to focus only on what is in sight and disregard what has been. No, I don’t advocate living in the past, but nor do I think we should ignore or deny it. The lessons held in the past are as important as the ones in the present.

{C}·               Yes, you are happily married and your career is thriving, but remember when you received that call about your daughter being in an accident and not knowing if she would survive.

{C}·               Maybe your life is in turmoil - the bank is after you, your life seems meaningless, or your boss has given you a painful review – remember when your child walked gingerly across the room with arms outstretched and said: “Daddy, I love you sooooo much!”

Somehow the landscapes are connected. I don’t understand how fully, I only know that life is diminished when they are separated.

In 12-step recovery, there is a promise that “we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” Given what most of us have done to earn our seats at such meetings, that is a bold promise, but it points to the importance of holding the two landscapes of our lives. The skyscrapers across  the way remind me that the dark smoke of the past is connected to the soft clouds of this morning, and I am trying to open my heart to them both.