I've determined this year to be more adventurous. At the very least, I want to look at how I spend my time and own the adventurous things I'm already going.
Today was a drive to Moscow and a later afternoon session. That meant I was driving home completely in the dark, something I've never done before.
I drove slower because it was raining the whole way. I knew it would be dark so I intentionally wore my glasses and not the monovision contacts I'm wearing that makes night-time depth perception more challenging.
Everyone seemed to be driving slow; I was only passed once. The roads weren't slick and I didn't mind the slower pace. I listened again to the Rob Bell podcast on boundaries ("The One about Boundaries"). I think I could listen to it another ten times.
As I came up the last several hills into the Spangle area, we started to pick up fog. I don't understand the topography enough there to know why but this area is often blanketed with fog when ten miles north in Spokane, we won't have any.
The lights in the fog - lights from the small towns, houses, highway lights, cars - created halos in the rain and fog, sharp cones of white against the black, pinpricks like stars moving down the highways and sideroads.
While coming into Spokane, I drove up the back way on Hatch Road. While climbing, I caught glimpses still in the fog of houses lit well, rows of them on the west side of the highway. I heard a few drops of rain prick the sunroof cover; I couldn't resist a crack of fresh air while driving. The fog continued to swirl on into town even up on top of the hill along High Drive, a scenic arterial the follows the edge of the bluffs overlooking the highway I'd just left.
As I turned down toward home, I realized these are the moments you look back on and realize you did something different, something unique. I don't count these moments much. I still struggle to accept the positives of these experiences because so much still revolves around healing.
In Centering Prayer this morning, I focused on the image of a road for my consent to God's presence and action in my life. I knew I would be driving and I want to be open to what comes my way.
I thought about the story of the Wise Men, people who had a vision that carried them across continents. My guess is, their ideas were probably not well-received by friends, family and colleagues. People may have tried to stop them. They were following a road of their own making based on reasons of their own deduction. I can assume it was lonely.
How are the roads I'm traveling any less marvelous, any less worthy of my own respect at least? Will I look back in twenty years and smile when I think of driving to Moscow every week in all kinds of weather, just to talk with someone and inch closer to healing? Will I tell that story and see people's eyes widen in wonder? And does that matter?
Tonight I know that pulling into the driveway, I could say to myself: I am not going with the flow. I am not copying anyone. I am going across continents on a camel, and I am not asking for permission.
I don't quite know where I'm going, but it's better than where I've been.
And that alone is absolutely enough to keep me going.