“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
~ C. S. Lewis
Ten days ago I had a near death experience. There’s no outward sign it happened. I have two bruises no one can see, and insides wobbling to find center.
I was 5 hrs. from home and an hour from my destination. I marveled at the surreal beauty of the snow-capped Rockies to the west. How white the snow was. How defined the peaks. I drove with the flow of the early rush hour traffic. Calm. Glad my trip would be over soon. Then, with no warning, the car was vibrating, savagely, and didn’t stop.
My arms rocked back & forth fast & furious, vibrating-jostling-shaking, like you see in movies, the inside of a rocket lifting off to outer space. But this was no lift-off. A thought hit me, so fleeting I couldn’t hold it: I’ve crashed with a semi. Was it instinct, or did I hear the words ‘keep the car straight, keep the car straight.’ My hands gripped tight on the wheel, arms contracted, muscles bulged, I fought the car as I was drug down the highway by the big truck. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t disintegrating, or what had happened.
Finally ripped free, I drove across the left lane to the shoulder. My tire was shredded, the thick alloy hubcap nearly destroyed. The bar on the back of the truck had hooked my fender. I looked at the busy road, the cars streaming by. If I’d not kept the car straight, I would’ve slammed into the truck with force. The second miracle, no pile up or mess other than mine. But those two miracles didn’t register ‘til later.
This is not a story about loss. This is a story about Life.
The what if AAA hadn’t sent the tow truck ten miles in the opposite direction, and hadn’t chosen a body shop they thought close to me, but in fact not. Would there have been someone waiting after hours, willing to take me & a carload of stuff 12 miles to the airport, the only place open or with cars. Because it turns out Spring Break in Colorado means no last minute rental cars. Going to that distant body shop in the tow truck carried me 17 miles closer to the airport. And the young woman who waited, and stayed with me ‘til I was on the road. This crazy AAA snaffu caused me so much worry & anxiety, and what I see now is the blessing in it.
When I checked in at 10 instead of my expected 4, I was shook, tired, and OK. . . disappointed, concerned, and grateful. And my message to the world on Facebook: Hug someone you love. Right now, this minute. And hug yourself.
The following day, shell shocked, I immersed in art and writing with a friend. I felt cocooned at the Degas exhibition in dark rooms protecting the works on paper. I was engaged with the lessons in myth, legends, & icons at the American Museum of Western Art that tied in with paintings. Pleased by the writing exercises that drew out the characters in my novel in progress. Dinner felt special, too. The place was popular, noisy. We said we needed pampering. You can sit longest at this table here, the hostess said. Seating us in a coveted, quiet room booked with reservations.
The next day I woke covered in fear. I laid an hour saying over & over ‘I am OK. I am OK.’ When my meeting with a marketing director went well, I was heartened. Then I slipped into some sort of whirlpool. I drove what should’ve been easy, short distances, and never arrived at my destinations. I made too many trips to rental car places to satisfy insurance and my own sense of safety. I felt I was in a dimensional reality that was not Denver on the ground. Stress felt like a thousand little birds pecking at me. I fell asleep to Gone with the Wind on the TV.
I can’t explain how or why things changed, and they did. Like getting on a new road, I noticed the tap water was easy to swallow, tasted delicious. I never drink unfiltered tap water. I felt lighter, the gray veil dissipated. I was able to reframe to the positive once again, and once more say to folks ‘have a good life.’
At a mineral springs, it didn’t matter we arrived to big wind and noisy road construction off the tub decks. Or that I later had to wait 45 min. for the 4th car. When Skype forced a new download, making me miss my Friday call with little boy in Taiwan, I wasn’t devastated. And at the writing workshop the following day, when 12 people exclaimed Wow after I finished reading what I’d just written to a visual prompt, I felt turned right.
Coming home I traveled highway 295 thru high plains, down canyons, and over passes. 14ers (lingo for 14,000 peaks) rose snow capped and jagged above the tree line in front, back, and around me the entire Colorado way. I passed places with names you might see in the Appalachians – Long Meadow, Boxwood Gulch, Buck Creek. Bull Dogger Rd., Bigfoot Museum, and High Plains Ranch definitely said Rockies.
The road was never busy. I was rejuvenated. I wanted to drink the textured golds & yellows of the grasses, so different from the camels and buffs of New Mexico. I was surprised by a Great Sand Dunes National Park, and marveled how at a distance the dunes seemed to ride up the base of the range. Later I heard the snow predicted for my path home came late that day, as if the angels held those laden clouds at bey for me, too.
That night on PBS I watched a show about how we face Death. The last thing I heard before dozing: Greet each moment & experience as if it’s the last time. How that changes our presence in life. In the morning I looked out with thoughts, the last time I see flowers budding on trees; the last time I see the blue sky, wild clouds, the color of sunset and sunrise, birds playing in water; the last time I feel my body dance in a store to music coming thru speakers, me without care who sees; the last time I read a string of words exquisitely strung; the last time I feel kindness from someone I don’t know. As John Travolta (Archangel Michael) said in the movie ‘Michael:’ This is what I will miss most.
I read a piece by poet & educator Laura Hope Gill. She ended with this: “I needed to write this <her piece> because I woke up this morning feeling all full of feeling–agitated, stressed, worried, sad, but also so alive and appreciative of the blue sky, the Canada Geese on the little lake, the gold of my dog’s fur.” She spoke for me. Exactly. All that fullness of feeling. Extreme presence, appreciation, gratitude, and wonder. Like it was all orchestrated. I’m alive.
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
I was taken care of. Special Thanks to Meghan for waiting & staying by my side after the event. To my friend, poet Jane Hillson Allelo, the best guide & companion ever. To author & teacher extraordinaire Page Lambert, who I’m thrilled to reconnect with.
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Live every day as if it’s your last. Trite but true.
Not every day….every moment. How would that change your presence. Perhaps I should change it to ‘Live every moment as if you’re dying.’ Because that’s the true message. The deeper meaning turned trite with posters and sound bites. In the show, the story was about a man who was dying, and faced it completely present with the things he loved. Every moment alive.
Wow, Heloise! What a scary and enlightening experience. Glad you’re alive and okay. More than okay.
This reminds me of a podcast I listened to yesterday, about identity. How when we experience a near death we are changed, we’re opened up and rearranged.
Thanks for sharing this!
Definitely rearranged. I think all these events are meant to do that for us. For me, the natural inclination is to see the positive I can find in any situation, and learn from it. Even the truly awful stuff, like the terrifying minutes you think you’re gonna die. And, of course, that’s what keeps us going!
Wow, I’m so glad you’re OK…and that the writer in you turned this experience into a powerful share
Thanks, Jesse. I admit I’m still processing and moving a tad slower than usual. When a friend said don’t write it, I thought this is something real, a gift for others, too.