There’s no need to post an after photo. The devastation doesn't need to be regurgitated for the viewing public to register their shock and awe. Suffice to say that I was unhurt, and quite frankly, lucky to have been able to walk away.
The damage was, however, definitely more emotional. It was my mother's car, the one I got when she passed away unexpectedly about 21 months ago. That collision has remained fresh, and I had felt like I was able to take her with me everywhere on the road, even if only in spirit.
Now that was gone too.
As I sat in the wreckage, the Highway Patrol, a couple who stopped to help, and the other driver outside surveying my position, making a gratitude list still came to mind; my mouth audibly stating the items on it out loud: This happened during the day ... The kids weren't in the car with me ... I'm unhurt... People stopped to help...
In the midst of it my mother spoke to me: I don't care about the car. I only care that you're unhurt.
Though comforting, it didn't stop the wracking sobs that shook my body, nor those in the weeks to follow as reality started to sink in.
I'd been desperately trying to hold on to her, even though at her human end she was at peace about crossing over the rainbow.
“I've had a good life. Life goes on,” she said to all of us that last surreal November day.
I wasn't—then or now—ready to let her go.
It's no accident (pardon the pun), rather Divine Timing, that in the week’s preceding I’d been giving “Thriving in the Midst of Change” talks and workshops online. Apparently, I needed to, as a friend of mine often says, “Attend my own lecture.” I needed to gently let go of the old, in order to powerfully embrace the new.
Two weeks later, the paperwork barrage part of the ordeal concluded and I'd flown back to my beloved San Francisco for another month-long housesit, I was closer to accepting what had happened—to Mom and the car. Yet still I knew it was important to continue to allow myself the space and time to heal—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
She'll always travel with me, whether by train, plane, or automobile. The mode may change, but she will not.
I'll keep moving along—literally and figuratively—to the next adventure. Changed, yet for the better. Wiser. Stronger. More loving. More forgiving. Immersed in gratitude and love.
Life goes on and Mom will be there when a new set of rubber gets back on the road.