Friday night, I exited my car and was splashed by a car racing through a puddle. Annoyed, I gathered my coat and walked towards the yoga studio, where I would co-facilitate yoga teacher training. It was chilly and wet. I approached the cross-walk and looked for on-coming traffic. Seeing none, I began to cross. I saw lights, heard screeching, and then realized a car was barreling right for me. There was nothing I could do to get out of it's path. For a split second I thought: this is going to happen. This car is going to hit me.
Somehow, the driver was able to stop in time. There was screeching and a little fish-tailing given the damp conditions. Both the driver and I were stunned. I realized that I was still in the street, dazedly looked, and continued crossing to the safety of the other sidewalk. The driver rolled down his window. "What was that?" I shouted. He shook his head, "I didn't see you." I nodded and continued to the sidewalk.
I was wearing a dark coat. He was driving too fast. He hadn't come from either lane of traffic but from a side street. In retrospect, he couldn't have paused long before turning, and he accelerated rapidly into the turn, which is why he came so close to hitting me.
I was annoyed at having been splashed, but wasn't too preoccupied. I think I was fairly aware when I entered the cross-walk.
We both behaved fairly normally. He certainly drove too fast. Without intending, we almost altered one another's lives permanently.
I reached the yoga studio and began to tell the trainees and my co-facillitator what happened. I started crying and couldn't stop. I just wanted to get home to Kevin and Laz. My friends at the studio made me wait until I was calmer. Cautiously, I chose another cross-walk that's well lit and at a stoplight to return to the car. Kevin received me with open arms and Laz came running to check on me.
The following morning, I decided that I should be OK. I was a bit surprised and unnerved at how shook up I felt. Nothing happened. I wasn't hit. I should be over it.
Towards the afternoon a friend checked on me. She said that I did seem a bit weird. I called Kevin and he said, sure, you'll be a little weird for a bit.
Last year, Kevin was held at gunpoint. It took him some time to comfortably re-inhabit his own skin. My experience didn't seem nearly as grave as what Kevin endured. I felt a bit impatient with myself, or like I was milking sympathy from others.
This morning, I turned on NPR to hear Krista Tippet's On Being rebroadcast an interview with Brene Brown. I'd heard some of the interview before, but am always grateful to be reminded of Brown's research on the power of vulnerability. She's found that those of us who are able to be more transparent and human experience more powerful intimacy with others and a greater sense of well-being. She shared about the gendered nature of vulnerability. Even though many of us want the men in our lives to be more emotive, we still want to lean on them. There's often inconsistency between a desire for them to communicate about an equal range of emotions as we allow for women and then the inability to hold space for men feeling afraid or powerless. I remembered the process of Kevin and I working through his feelings after being held at gunpoint last year. I remembered the time it took and that ultimately, both of us felt closer and more real. Real in the sense that we were reminded of our own insignificance, as well as our importance to one another.
Brown spoke of courage being born from struggle. Some dynamism, or tension, is necessary for growth. If we always shield ourselves from adversity, we also stunt our abilities to grow.
Throughout her conversation with Tippet, she reinforced feeling. Patiently. I realized that I was trying to rush past the fear I experienced Friday night. I wanted to will it away because, thankfully, I'm OK. The conversation reminded me that I can feel what I need to without taking up too much space or wallowing. I can just feel.
As soon as I realized that, I started feeling calmer, and more like myself.
I'm driving more cautiously. I'm walking with more awareness. I shared this during my yoga class this morning and after class, several students confessed almost being hit as pedestrians recently. We hugged each other, grateful that we're all OK, and making space to feel.
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