The image comes to me with stark clarity: I am seated, hands on the steering wheel, facing a blanket of fog so thick I could be buried underground except for the mirrors. Inexplicably the rearview mirrors display clear images; all that has gone before is in view, distorted only by nostalgia’s lens. With yesterday clear and yet gone and the road ahead indiscernable, the sensation I have is that of clinging and I feel the tension in my hands at the wheel.
“Take your foot off the gas,” is the invitation of a loving voice when I convey the troubling image. Feeling the sensation of my foot lifting, I feel my relief and realize that my heart has been racing. The words of release speak to the panic of driving in dense fog, a panic that has crept unbidden and unseen into my heart. I had been unaware of the forward motion and the fear it engendered.
“Put the car in park, turn on the music, rest until the fog lifts.” With new breath filling my lungs, I begin to take stock of where I am. My hands are still shaking, but relaxing now as they hold the wheel; my feet at ease, neither braking nor pushing. The seat beneath me is comfortable and I melt into it taking another, deeper, breath. Most remarkable, as I explore this seat, is the discovery that I am not alone in it. As I take notice of the breath that has filled my body and grounded me in the moment, I feel the touch of my beloved’s hand who is sitting beside me and has been all along. A smile moves to the center where it belongs.
“The fog always lifts.” As the sun rises in the sky, sometimes sooner than others, the warmth burns the fog and the way becomes clear. Always. Until then, I will rest with gratitude in this place of nurture.