Mom and son driving east,
November fields sleep below
first snow, the atmosphere a white swirl,
Making steeples of dark pines.
In this month of remembrance,
A shared reverence for quiet places,
Something like prayer,
as we talk of the past and the what could be.
I’ve never been able to drive on the highway. The handful of times I’ve had to, my heart races and my chest tightens from the moment I enter the merge lane. There’s an overload of speed and motion. So when I need to be the driver, I look for other ways to get where I need to go. The back route to my hometown, London, is beautiful. Since my kids were born I’ve been taking them on unhurried drives past Brantford, Woodstock, and Thamesford to visit their grandparents and childhood friends. The roads run past fields and farm markets. There’s always room to stop for a closer look.
My son has mapped his own set of alternate routes over the years. He has needed extra support in his development. The more slow time he had for learning to talk, to read, understand how things work, the more likely the right neuropathways would open up so things made sense. Extra time to make meaning. My daughter is finding her own go-rounds too. Starting high school last fall, she was hurtling down the social media highway. Now she’s realizing that ultimately it’s a road to nowhere.
Maybe this space will become a highway of sorts for me.
“As you start to walk out on the way, the way appears.” – Rumi