Accidental story
Meditation on what we choose to fill in, 10.31.24
Yesterday I pulled out in front of someone —
accidentally, of course —
I was watching my worry about the world,
so demanding and heavy in my chest,
and I didn’t see
that I had the stop sign but they didn’t.
Honk, swerve, screech of tires, the car pulled up alongside.
I made the gestures of contrition: my hands folded,
praying for mercy.
My bad, my bad, I’m so sorry.
I’m actually a really nice person
if you get to know me.
The car waited, for what felt like a long time,
just sat there, its windows staring blankly at me,
a wall of tinted darkness.
I couldn’t see who was inside or what
they were saying, doing, thinking.
Finally the car lurched forward, pulling ahead,
and I followed behind, chastened, remembering
how many times through my whole life I have been spared
the worst consequences of my own inattention.
It is easy, in an anxious mind,
to prop up a thousand condemning stories
about who we are,
who I am,
who the stranger in the comment section is,
who the person in the car is.
I heard a gentler voice say:
Since I know my own error, and made my amends,
and put myself back in my body where it always belongs,
and since I could not see what was happening inside the car,
and since, of the thousands I pass each day,
I cannot see inside one single heart,
I might choose a story of grace: the person looking back at me,
hand out to preemptively bless me, as if to say:
It’s okay. That was scary, but it’s okay.
I’ve been there, too.
Let’s both get home safely today.
