Amazing Grace

Fears taught, and relieved.

I’ve easily driven my current commute to work over 1000 times in the last ten years—the fastest route including a 12 mile stretch of tollroad between Elgin and Rolling Meadows, IL. Knock on wood, never had an accident or a ticket, traffic moves along even during rush hour, and it cuts my drive time by 8-10 minutes.

Lately, though, I’ve been choosing a slower route into work.. one that offers vast panoramas of the Fox River Valley, a stretch of tree-lines paths along the river, rolling hills through hardwood forests and wetlands— all as I head directly into the rising sun. It’s mostly one lane, plenty of stops, and very few choices but to take in nature and let it soothe me. This is how my days welcome me, beckon me—that 45 minutes is the closest I get to an experience of pure, present moment awareness. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, what’s ahead in my day, or even how I’m feeling—because I’m enveloped in my surroundings and the music or meditations I play. Everything slows down, my movements, my thoughts, and my breath. That drive can bring me so much clarity, revealing insights about myself and where I’m REALLY headed.

But on my homebound commute—I’ve stuck to the tollway due to a sense of urgency. I just want to be home and done with my day. And if I get mathy about it, I probably would be in my car another 15-20 minutes if I decided to take the back roads. It’s been a no-brainer, until now.

Over the past six months, I’ve developed a complicated relationship with highway driving. On ramp trepidation, followed by some of the most uncomfortable sensations: heart pounding, hands and feet tingling and sweating, a feeling that I’m losing control of my body or the car. Panic like this is the antithesis of safety, so I will often change course, exit to the slower roads, spewing some choice words at God and the universe about how much this suuucks. Sometimes, these episodes lead to vivid flashbacks —a lil trip down memory lane of all the times that I’ve felt this kind of fear. And then, as panic dissipates—a deep sadness at never feeling truly “free” of this type of suffering. For good measure, I’ve thrown in a bit of cynicism and resentment. For all the work I’ve done on myself, all the feelings I’ve felt, fear can still engulf me and drag me back to the place I was when I was not so “wise and evolved. “ HA!

One morning, as I was listening intently to a contemporary rendition of Amazing Grace—my heart stopped at the words “Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved.” My eyes welled up at the suggestion of my need for fears—and I was overwhelmed, once again, with gratitude for the way TRUTH can slap me right in the face. My panic is not something to try to outrun or wrestle away—it’s much more than a burden to endure. It’s been here to shake me out of my slumber, and has called me into a deeper conversation with who I really am, where I’m meant to be, and why I struggle to trust everything—including my own self, and my own body.

So what was Grace teaching my heart to fear this time? Why did I suddenly feel like expressway driving was so scary? Because it represents everything that has bound me to the prison of keeping up. It’s a metaphor for the constant work of assessing my progress and position, the pressure I’ve felt to merge with all that’s happening around me. And there’s a minimum allowable speed—a literal mandate of NO STOPPING-which makes me feel like a dragon is breathing at my heels. Stopping is considered dangerous on the expressway. This race track of life requires me to tune out all that is flying by in my periphery—so that I can focus solely on the road ahead.

All of this is a problem, because I have a soul that wants to slowly drink in my surroundings—eyes that want to linger on every soft, beautiful thing. And by not allowing this very sacred part of me to have its way, I become disoriented. In my attempt to “stay focused”, I can’t take in the sky, the reflection of the sun, or the trees—only the pavement and tail lights ahead. In all of its wisdom, my body cries: “This is NOT my path.” And Grace says “then don’t take it.”

I remember as a child, my mother telling me she couldn’t stand to watch me when I was fearful, or panicking. That it was too much for her, and that I needed to try to ignore all of my sensitivity and worry. I learned to do just that, until ferocious surges of dread would take hold. But in recent years, with the guidance of some really beautiful meditations and wise teachers, I’m learning to sit with my fear, let the feeling come, because it was, indeed, Grace that taught my heart to fear. And Grace has relieved every one of them.

Life is saying: choose the path that has plenty of shoulder for pulling off, the one that has space for breathing and crying, the one where Grace speaks. It’s as simple as that and very hard to remember in a world that wants all of us to keep charging ahead and accomplishing stuff. But when I do, I’m reoriented to the gift of what is real, right here, right now, with my Self. A Self that can easily drive the busiest expressway or any back road, as long as she is tuned in to the only Voice that can bring relief.

The time I’ve spent with fear over the past few weeks has not been in vain. I’ve now driven down I90 without an ounce of panic. I’m realizing, as I approach the anniversary of my mother’s death, that the most terrified parts of me are finally able to be heard, and calmed— and I can hear the sweet sound of Amazing Grace playing, on repeat.