To celebrate our fifteenth wedding anniversary, my wife and I went camping. The trip was my idea, which feels important to name before I tell you that I don’t like driving long distances. For me, that is an act of love. I enjoy nature. I enjoy being outdoors. I enjoy camping. I don’t love sleeping on the ground. That is another act of love.
But my wife loves camping, and I love my wife.
So we loaded up my 2013 Prius, which I also love, with our tent, sleeping bags, food, games, books, and mats to put a little buffer between me and the ground. We were headed to Cape Disappointment, about three hours from home. A three-hour tour. Shout out to those of you seasoned enough to remember Gilligan’s Island.
The plan was two nights camping and home on Sunday. About two hours into the drive, the check engine light came on.
My wife looked over at me, understandably nervous. I was already returning to a meditation I practice often: I’ll have what I need when I need it. Those words bring me back to the present, where I can notice what’s available and respond.
I told her it was just a check engine light. There wasn’t any indication of something worse happening. And I promise you, almost as soon as I said that, another warning appeared, telling us to pull over in the nearest safe place.
I had never seen that prompting before. And I’m not even going to hold you. I was scared.
Even with that meditation moving through me, this was uncertainty I hadn’t expected. I recognize the irony in that. I can be comfortable with the idea of uncertainty and still find myself gripping tightly when it becomes something I can’t plan my way around.
We pulled over and found a mechanic in the area. He identified a failing electric water pump. After checking the car, he thought we could make it to the campground, with the recommendation that we get it looked at again before heading home.
And we made it. We camped, explored, and enjoyed being together. There’s nothing disappointing about Cape Disappointment once you get there. Beaches that seem to extend forever. A lighthouse. Neighboring towns with markets full of artists and creatives. We had a beautiful time.
The question of how we would get home was still there.
We extended our stay, spent two nights in Astoria, Oregon (Home of the Goonies 😀), and tried to find somewhere to get the car repaired. Eventually, we found a dealership about an hour away that could see us Tuesday morning.
There were kind humans making time for us. I could feel grateful for that. And I was still a little bit afraid. Like, how we going to get home, though?
I’m generally pretty good with uncertainty when I’m by myself. Having my wife beside me brought up something different. I kept imagining us stranded on the side of the road. I wanted to keep her safe. I wanted to tell her we would be okay and know exactly how I would make that true.
As I reflect on it, I can see how easily my desire to care for her became a responsibility to know what was going to happen. That’s a lot to ask of myself.
My wife was already with me. The uncertainty was already with both of us. We could meet it together.
By Tuesday morning, the car hadn’t given us another warning. Part of me wondered if we could just make it to the house. We left early, keeping the appointment but not fully deciding whether we would stop or keep going.
Now, it was dark. The road was rural, with long wooded stretches and few places to pull off. I drove that first hour gripping the wheel, with what-ifs moving through my mind faster than I could catch them. When we reached the town where the dealership was, I pulled into a gas station and told my wife I thought we needed to take the car in.
She agreed.
We still didn’t know how long the repair would take or when we would get home. We knew enough to make that next decision together.
The dealership confirmed that the water pump needed replacing. We spent about five hours waiting for the repair. Our two nights away had become four nights and five days.
It was inconvenient. And we had still been enjoying ourselves.
When something is unresolved, I can start living as though everything else has to wait. Enjoyment can wait. Connection can wait. Being where I am can wait until I know how this is going to turn out.
But our anniversary was happening while the car needed repairing. We had camped, explored Astoria, and spent time together. I was afraid of what could happen on the drive home, and there was still so much to enjoy with my wife.
This is what I’m exploring when I say life is happening with me. Not to me. Not for me. With me.
I can tell the story as something that happened to us: we went away for our anniversary, the car had problems, and we couldn’t get home when we planned. I can also tell it as something that happened for us: we got more time together, and eventually we got home.
But I’m interested in what was happening before I knew we would get home. When I was still afraid. When the mechanics were offering what they knew. When my wife and I were deciding whether to stop or keep driving.
I didn’t choose for the water pump to fail. And I was participating in what happened next. My wife was too. We could ask questions, receive support, change our plans, and keep enjoying being together.
Everything is creating with us, all the time. The way we meet what is happening becomes part of what happens next.
So the question I’m sitting with is how to allow myself to feel what I feel and stay close enough to the present to notice what else is here.
On this trip, my wife was here. We had gone away to celebrate fifteen years of marriage, and we were still celebrating, even as we figured out the car and rearranged our plans.
Life is happening with me. Right here, right now. And I want to be here for it.