It was over in a split second. But the memory lingered like a scratched LP, playing over and over,  chafing annoyance to indignation that could be dismissed only a moment until the replay. There was wisdom itching to be heard, if I paused and allowed it.

Would I dare let myself do that?

And so began my Saturday morning, one like so many others made revolutionary by the engagement of quantum processing.

I was leaving my mom’s place in the city, headed home as I have done hundreds of times in the 10 years she’s lived there.  A shiny silver Civic whirled past me in the roundabout and ended up ahead of me on the ramp leading to the highway away from the city.  The irritation began as a mild annoyance – as swift as it was in the roundabout,  the Civic was now taking a nap when speed was of the essence, holding at 80 clicks when at least 100 was needed to merge into the double lanes choked with weekend traffic. We weave into the lineup and I pass the Civic, gliding among the slow-movers and the serious speeders to find my own space and settle into my 90-minute commute. But there was too much traffic to find my rhythm,  and a slow-mover hogged the passing lane while each new on-ramp pumped more cars into the fray. I braked and held my space in the thru-lane, watching for the passing lane to clear. I checked my shoulder, my side mirror, and the light on my mirror that blinks to warn of cars in my blind spot.  A car approaching beside me. And another. And another. The car ahead of me brakes suddenly and I did another quick check. Finally all clear and I pulled out to get around the halting lineup ahead of me.

And there it was. A blur of silver directly beside me, out of nowhere. I did everything right, everything I always did to drive safely and I was about to sideswipe a car in the lane beside me. And not just any car. That silver Civic.

I yanked my wheel to the right, pulling me back in my lane until the car went by and I pulled out behind. It braked hard, I matched and hung behind until it completed its passing and pulled back into the slower lane and I passed, kept passing,  glancing back only to ensure the way was clear and the Civic was well behind me, before pacing my speed to the fastest cars ahead, feeling nothing but the need to get home, as fast as possible.

Then I took a breath, and felt everything. The heat of the past few seconds – or minutes, maybe? – swept over me, through me like a firestorm. The horror that I had nearly caused an accident. The surprise: I checked for cars and there weren’t any. Where did it come from? The indignation: I looked and signaled, they should have seen me coming and waited. Another breath, and it surfaced, underneath it all, churning and festering: The Shame.  A sensation I knew all too well, had felt most of my life about anything I did or said, too loudly, too quickly, against the rules or against the grain, any time I ‘stepped out of line’ or ‘crossed the line.’ according to those scolding me. And here I did it to myself. I crossed the line into a lane I thought was ready for me and did something wrong. I nearly caused an accident, could have injured or killed someone, and it was my fault. How could I.

I glance in my rearview mirror, stomach clenched at the sight of every grey and silver vehicle gliding behind me as the darkened air filled with light rain.  I had not seen the driver of the Civic, didn’t know if there were passengers, knew nothing of their reaction to my inadvertent lane change other than the braking after I pulled behind them, braking that could have been their scolding, their retribution, or a simple compensation for the steep hill we had just descended. In the vacuum of facts, my imagination spun wildly,  replaying the flash of silver beside me over and over as the driver, also imagined, shouts obscenities, calls the police, is the police, flips me the bird, grabs a gun. I contemplate not stopping for gas, for fear the Civic behind me would follow me off the highway and confront me at the pumps. But letting my body lead, as it did when I avoided the crash, I pulled off at my usual station and coasted to the pump with the yellow stripe, the one that with every use provides a donation to the children’s hospital. Giving to sick kids brought a moment’s relief from the relentless harangue in my head, the yellow strip reminding me I wasn’t that bad a person as my inner voice punished me more than any irate driver or highway patrol officer ever could.

I breathed as I turned off the car and glanced around. A few cars at the pumps, scattered pedestrians entering and exiting the restaurant, going about their Saturday, not paying any attention to me at all. I breathed again, opened the car door and prepared to face whatever awaited me outside the safety of my tiny metal cocoon. Still nothing except my beating heart and the scenario running in my head. As I stood there, nozzle in hand, filling my tank, I chose to empty my head and let the scenario take form. I imagined the Civic driver,  not in appearance but in behavior. I saw no gender or hair color or outfits; I only heard the heat of their words, words I would have said if I were them. You fucking idiot! You nearly killed me! Where did you get your licence, in a Cracker Jack box?  How dare you risk my life like that! You don’t deserve to be on the road! 

As my tank slowly filled with gas, I allowed the words to be real, allowed the ghostly image of the driver to pace in front of me, furiously awaiting a response. I invited myself to stand my ground, feel the heat, and let words slowly flow from my heart, authentic and sincere. I’m sorry, was my response. I honestly didn’t see you, but my actions no doubt scared you.  I am sorry for that and grateful you’re not hurt. 

I breathed, watching the numbers on the pump spin slowly upward, feeling the heat in my body inching downward to the base of my spine .  There was more to say.

I know it seems like I’m a crappy driver because I almost hit you, but it also seems it’s because I’m a good driver that I didn’t. 

The numbers on the pump stop spinning. The image of the silver car looming out of nowhere in my side window stops its replay. It’s because I’m a good driver that I had the reflexes and presence of self to pull back in my lane without hitting cars ahead and behind, safely out of the way of  your car beside me, all in a split second. 

I don’t believe I’m  a crappy driver. I’m a good driver who is human. I make mistakes. Thank you for enabling me to learn today from my mistake. 

Heat flowed downward, following tissue and nerves into the ground as the ghostly figure melted into the damp rainy air. I created the entire situation, as clearly as I created the scenario playing out in my mind. The early irritation with the silver car. The near-miss that shocked my system but caused no harm. I needed to allow that being ‘good’ does not always mean being ‘right,’ that my capacity for reaction is an equally powerful tool of creation in a world that we are not of, but in.  On the highway of life, cars will come out of nowhere. The fact that we don’t see them is neither right or wrong, it just is. How we react and move forward is our choice, our creation, our gift, whether it looks that way to others or not.

When in danger, I let my body choose and my body chose not to die, crash or break anything. My body chose to do the next thing I needed and avoid an accident, and then chose to keep reminding me to learn the lesson, all while my intellect remained frozen in the moment of near-impact,  The lesson I needed to learn took not a literal smack to the head, just a proverbial one.  I allowed that the encounter on the highway was not one of incompetence, but of brilliance.

I pulled back on the highway as the light mist intensified to heavy rain. I merged into traffic, found my spot, and felt my rhythm.  During the drive home, the flash of silver would appear on occasion in the corner of my minds’s eye and catch the breath in my throat. Then I would breathe and rerun my new  scenario. I’m a good driver who is human. Good by my standards, because the word ‘good’ in this moment still holds some lessons for me. A good driver.  Of my car, of my life. Exactly where I want to go, not always recognizable, but always what I need to follow my signal and live authentically in the moment.