Passing Cars

It appears to be a normal thing, noticing with some regularity the state of oncoming traffic when travelling the freeway. This morning was no different. As I headed north on the 101 toward the hills of Thousand Oaks, I noted the rhythms of the southbound lanes; the knotted clusters of slow moving traffic, and the torrents of high speed vehicles when the knots loosed.

Today, though, I found myself marveling at them. The darting lime green bug festooned in lively advertising, the old battered pickup filled with random objects once someone’s dearest possessions, the convertibles, the wagons of numerous shapes and sizes, the ubiquitous SUVs. All of them in glorious flight toward the sunrise. I envied them. In that moment, they drew from deep within me a longing so great that tears welled softly in my eyes. They were the embodiment of a new day, of unfettered opportunities, of hope. They headed full tilt toward beginnings, as I headed in the opposite direction, toward life’s untidy middle.

How many times each day? How frequently could we catch ourselves envying others, yearning to start over, or longing to move toward the sun, eager for the newness of the unknown? How can we cease this measurement of our lives against the perceived richness of others’? Life’s middle is as alive and affirming as any beginning. It is rich with action and emotion, and rife with pleasure, its wrinkles as affirming as the moments of calm predictability and enlightenment. Yet our breathing becomes shallow, our vision narrows, and our desire moves away from our present, toward a past or future.

Tomorrow I will wake to the early morning blackness of pre-dawn, and I will choose. I will decide that my life is ample, is enough. I will decide that those driving toward the sunrise are only, in fact, driving toward the sunrise. I will accept that when they arrive, they will find themselves in the same untidy middle. At least for today.

What will you do?