postcards from nowhere

Greetings!

Last Tuesday morning, I had plans to hike with a dear friend in the 
foothills of Boulder.  As usual, I was running a little bit late.  
Approaching the first stoplight, I noticed cars stopped at the side 
of the road and people standing around.  But since there were no sirens 
or flashing lights, and no smashed up cars visible, I couldn't figure 
out what was going on.   

As I rubbernecked through the intersection, my cool curiosity turned to 
cold shock.  There on the pavement in the middle of the oncoming lane 
of traffic was a bicyclist ... flat on her back, her arms and legs 
splayed out and motionless, still wearing her helmet. 

There was a man standing near her.  Near, but not too near, maybe 10 
or 15 feet away, and I could see her mouth moving as she spoke to him.  
It looked casual, like they could have been talking about the weather, 
except that he was so far away from her, so tall above her horizontal 
form.  Her bright yellow bike lay a few feet away.  It must have just 
happened, because there weren't even any police on the scene yet.

I remember thinking how strange her body looked.  Her arms were 
extended horizontally out from her shoulders, but her hands were 
facing palms down, so flat on the pavement that it almost looked 
like a yoga posture.

As I left the intersection, my frozen shock thawed and I began to sob.  
I didn't know why ... she seemed fine.  I didn't see any blood anywhere 
on her.  She was talking.  Probably just lying still while she waited 
for the ambulance.  They always tell you not to move until the ambulance 
comes and someone can check you over.  She'd probably just hop up as 
soon as they told her she could go home now.  

I had no facts, no details, no real information about her status.  So 
I suspected that my upset was more about me than about her.  The 
innocence, the vulnerability, and the sudden fragility of it all 
simply overcame me.  

Incidents like this bring up my deepest fears.  Some part of me is 
convinced that I can prevent tragedy from occurring within my sphere 
of influence if only I'm prepared and cautious enough.  (I know ... 
it sounds like a delusion of grandeur, doesn't it?)

Maybe it's a form of magical thinking blended with compulsive behavior, 
like constant handwashing in an attempt to prevent illness.  It's also 
why everyone in my car wears seat belts, and why my kids are required 
to wear bike helmets at all times.  It's why I never have even one drink 
if I'm driving, and why I flip out when anyone else decides to risk it 
behind the wheel.  I still remember those pictures of accident scenes 
they showed us in driver's ed.  I simply don't know how I would live 
with myself if my negligence led to harm.  

It's a pretty heavy burden to bear, being responsible for the safety 
of everyone I love.  I'd have to guess that at some point during my 
childhood, this seemed like a very good idea to me.  But it is clearly 
no longer useful.  I am quite often paralyzed by precaution.  It's not 
really very much fun.

Accidents that happen during moments of innocence ... that could not 
have been foreseen or prevented by regular or even ultra caution ... 
are terribly upsetting to me.  They strip away my false layer of 
protection and expose the core of vulnerability that accompanies 
life in a human body.  

She was wearing a helmet.  She did everything right.  And still, 
there she was on the pavement.  One minute she was flying down the 
hill with the wind in her face, and the next she was flat on the road.  

The truth is that despite our best preventive efforts, terrible things 
still happen.  And this is hard for me to face.

So I drove on, sobbing and telling myself that I was a crazy emotional 
paranoid freak.  I cried hard for a few minutes, and then began to pray 
(in my own nontraditional way) for her.  As the tears slowed down, 
I wondered what she was saying to that tall man, and what he was 
saying back.  I prayed for him, too.

And then I got out of my car to walk in the mountains with my friend.

When I passed the intersection on the way home, I looked for any 
evidence of the earlier accident.  I saw nothing out of the ordinary.  
Breathing a sigh of relief, I immersed myself in the routine of my day.

I don't subscribe to any newspapers, so it wasn't until 36 hours later 
that I heard the news.  She had died.  Died right there on the road.  
I had witnessed one of her last moments on this earth.  

And some part of me had known that she was dying the second I saw her.  
It was just that I couldn't believe it.

A young driver, 23 years old, had turned in front of her bike as she 
was riding at top speed down a steep hill.  There was no time to divert 
her course.  She slammed head first into the passenger side.  They ruled 
her cause of death as trauma from multiple blunt injuries.

I became obsessed with this woman with the yellow bike.  I searched 
everywhere for information about her.  I found out she was only 34, 
and she was a triathlete and a coach, and had just moved to Colorado 
three weeks ago with her husband.  They were newlyweds.  I couldn't 
stop thinking about her.

Until I started thinking about the driver of that car.  My heart sank 
to the floor.  That driver.  Such a young woman.  In one split second 
of who knows what ... inattention, negligence, distraction ... she had 
taken a life.  And she will live with that knowledge, that responsibility,
forever.  Now it is the thought of her which brings me to tears.  

For I believe that the bicyclist has moved on to whatever the next 
place is for her.  She's not in pain anymore.  If what I saw were 
some of her last few words, then she met her death with grace and 
equanimity.  

But the driver ... she's still here.  She must live each day knowing 
that she took the life of someone's beloved wife, child, sister and 
friend.  That, to me, sounds like living hell.

I don't know why she turned in front of that bike.  What I do know is 
that it could have been me driving that car.  There, but for the grace 
of God, go I. 

It could have been me.  I drive through that intersection dozens of 
times every week.  I, too, could have become complacent.  I, too, 
could have habituated to the traffic patterns, after hundreds of times 
turning there and never needing to yield to a bicycle.  I, too, could 
have missed that flash of yellow until it was too late.

I ache for this girl.  I want to find her and put my arms around her 
and tell her I'm so very sorry.  I wish there was some way to ease her 
burden.  I hope that one day she will be able to forgive herself.  
I want to tell her that it could have been any one of us who made a 
mistake that day.

But I can't.  All I can do is put my arms around the place inside me 
that is terrified that one day I, too, will make a terrible mistake.  
Because in truth, everything I think about this girl is just a projection.
I don't really know the full story.  I only know how I would probably 
feel if I were in her shoes.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.  I'm not sure I have a point.  
Maybe I just want to ask you if you would join me in whatever your 
equivalent of praying is for everyone involved in this tragedy.  

Not only the obvious folks ... the bicyclist and those who mourn her 
loss, the driver and her family.  But also the others who were deeply 
affected -- the motorcycle man/angel who is now the custodian of her 
last words, and all of us who saw what happened as we drove by.

And then give your family members an extra moment of your love and 
attention today.  Every day ... in honor of the triathlete who went 
out last Tuesday for a bike ride and didn't come home, and the young 
driver who permanently impacted so many lives with a decision made 
in a split second.

Life seems to be such a fragile gift, except sometimes it isn't fragile 
at all.  We've all heard the incredible stories of those who survived 
the WTC collapse.  How did that happen?  Why did they live while the 
guy in the next cubicle over died?  Why did my dad, who was ready and 
willing to pass over, have to wait so long for his strong heart to stop 
beating?

This sounds so ridiculous that it is almost comical, but I need to hear 
myself say it:  It is not my job to decide who lives and who dies -- 
that responsibility belongs to the Giver and Taker of Life who is 
known by many names - God, the Great Spirit, the Universe, and Love, 
among others.  

It is not my job to prevent harm with my paranoia.  My worrying is 
not the crucial factor that will save someone's life.  It is ok for 
me to take only reasonable precautions and then let go.  

This accident forces me to come face to face with the reality that 
life and death are unpredictable, and not under my jurisdiction.

My job is only to live life to the fullest while I have it, and to 
respect the right of my loved ones to make their own choices about 
how to live their lives to the fullest, even if their decisions 
involve levels of risk that are outside my comfort zone.

The woman with the yellow bike died while doing something she loved, 
something that made life worth living for her.  And that, to me, 
is a beautiful way to exit.  When death comes for me, I hope it 
finds me fully engaged in life, not sitting on the sidelines 
afraid to play the game because it might be too dangerous.  

Goodbye and fare thee well, my teacher on the yellow bike.  
Your death has touched me deeply, and helped me to live more fully.  
I hope wherever you are, there are lots of hills.

karen