Transitions: Bluebird
09.28.23 | 29205
For Reflection:
When have you felt the most at ease in your life? What were you doing? Where were you? Who were you with? How can you lean into aspects of that time?
Is there a place you associate with the opportunity or ability to feel uniquely you? What specific aspects of that place create this feeling?
What spaces feel most aligned with your identity - your values, priorities, and personality? How can you prioritize those elements of yourself?
Where are you right now? What is different about this new reality from where you were before this transition?
When we lived in Minnesota, I had a job that required me to drive quite a bit. Our little Toyota Corolla carried me from place to place and became so familiar that it almost felt like I didn’t have to think about driving it - Bluebird, as I named her, did all the hard work herself. I would blast music in that car, during my morning and evening commute and during the day. I would listen to podcasts, enjoying mini conversations of my own with the host, laughing or crying with their stories. And the little car held me, during my own moments of both pride and disappointment as I navigated my way through my first job. In our car, I learned how to admire the sunrise and sunset as it came over the bridge, how to admire the birds soaring overhead - how to be present in the moment I found myself. In that car, I felt joy in the work I did, and I shared that joy with others.
I drove Bluebird across the country last month. We cruised through Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina, finally making it to our new home in South Carolina. And I found myself surprised at how pleasant the experience was, overall. I enjoyed listening to music and relishing in the beautiful landscapes out the window. I felt calm.
These days, I don’t drive nearly as much as I used to. I walk to work now, as we live much closer to my office than we did in Minnesota. And as much as I am glad to be conserving gas and preserving the environment one morning commute at a time (I realize this sounds a bit tongue in cheek - I mean it genuinely), I am also strangely sad to not have my alone time inside my little metal box with wheels. I still listen to music and podcasts on my walk, and brisk morning air (now that we’re getting toward something even remotely resembling fall) is a lovely pick-me-up each morning. But I am also very aware that I am no longer inside a space that I control. I am more in the world, and I am learning to be comfortable with that reality.
But my emotional connection to our little car runs deep, unexpectedly. Our previous Toyota Corolla protected me in one of the scariest moments of my life, in 2022. When a pickup two cars ahead of me lost its bed cover, which then hit my windshield, that car protected me from that impact.
I was on the way to work then, too. While that car ended up being totaled (somehow the impact of the truck bed cover had punctured the firewall of the car), and we had to search for a new vehicle, that Corolla, too, felt like a place I had grown within. A place I could rely on to give me space.
I know it may sound silly to be talking this way about a car, but the places we spend our time in our everyday lives ultimately become the backdrops of our lives. They provide familiarity; they provide comfort; they provide reassurance. Like an old friend, they feel a little bit like coming home - even if they are just a metal frame and some parts.
This car, my office, our kitchen sink, the stoplight at Blossom and Saluda – these are the most mundane of spaces. If we are brave enough, we will one day outgrow them. But what about for the time being? If we are intentional, can we find meaning in them? How do we influence the spaces we spend our time, right now? How can we be more deeply to them? How can we enjoy the time we have here, before tomorrow comes? Until next time, friends.