Hydroplaning

The other day I was driving down to teach in White River, and found myself, alarmingly, fishtailing down 91, between Thetford and Norwich. Instinctively—as one does—I slowed down and tried to ride the high spots, avoiding the deeper pockets of water.

Hydroplaning is deeply unsettling. And deeply familiar.

We all know that feeling of suddenly losing your grip on the road, sliding around, no purchase to be had. I found myself thinking that my own life has felt a bit like this lately. Emotional and spiritual hydroplaning. A lack of mooring, of solid footing. Trying to pick my way through to firm ground, but feeling undermined by uncertainty.

I believe wholeheartedly in the wisdom of the body, and yet my own is radically unreliable at the moment, the process of recovering from shoulder surgery has been thus far neither reliable nor predictable, but shifting and sometimes even shocking in its absolute fickleness.

I may be in the driver's seat, but I can't control what's beneath the wheels.

The rage, fear and horror that bubble up daily in response to the news is a sure sign that I do not control the universe, never mind my own body. Here too, I try to pick my way through to higher, firmer ground. Whatever gives me purchase. Tidbits of good news, reminders of our humanity. Witnessing small kindnesses. Whatever keeps me from sloshing and sliding around in my own despair and disgust.

From the experience of hydroplaning my way into work I offer the (admittedly unoriginal but ultimately helpful) advice: slow down. Slow down, and choose your way carefully, mindfully. Ride the solid spots, slow down through the less reliable parts. Notice where you are placing your feet. Pick your way. Remain responsive and keep moving forward.