With All Good Intentions For A Calmer, Nicer Lenten Season
I was out for a run last night, and three miles into it, I was attacked . . . sort of. I suddenly felt like my head was being scraped by several small branches, so I stopped and looked to see what I had run into. Nothing there. I always carry a small flashlight when I run after dark, so I began to shine a bright LED ray all around me, but I couldn’t see anything. Confused, I decided to keep on running. A few yards later, I had the same gripping, scratching sensation. I was wearing my headphones, so I quickly tore them from my ears and began looking for what was causing the pain. Again, nothing there — no sound, no silhouette flying in front of a nearby streetlight, nothing.
I never heard nor saw my assailant, but it had to be an owl, bat or some other winged creature. Falcons are not uncommon presences in our older neighborhood due to the full trees and small tasty creatures who inhabit them. Whatever attacked me broke the skin drawing blood in a few places — nothing severe, but it definitely got me. Yet as I write this, I cannot tell you (short of anything other than deductive reasoning) what attacked me or why.
I should probably explain that it was 50 degrees when I got home last night, so this was the first evening of the year I decided to run without wearing a hat. I had also donned a neon yellow running jersey to make me more visible to the cars that might pass me; after having almost been hit a few times, I’ve learned to run defensively. See, logically, I know that my aerial assailant and incautious motorists bear no grudge toward me. The owl wasn’t sitting in my driveway this morning daring me to come outside for a battle to the death, and no motorists have ever turned around to see if they could hit me on a second pass. Last night’s event was merely an animal whose attack instinct was triggered by what appeared to be a brown-haired meal highlighted clearly against a bright yellow backdrop. It was natural, and despite my bloodied head, there was no ill-will directed toward me.
As I head into the beginning of Lent, I need to keep in mind that not everything that causes me pain is the result of someone’s intention to harm me. In fact, most things are done without any thought of me at all. I share a world with people who are, for the most part, trying to carve out a good life, provide for people they love and protect what’s most important to them. We don’t always share the same values, but the foundations of our lives are the same — we want to be healthy, fulfilled and safe.
This year, I’ve decided to take on two Lenten penances; one is private, the other involves driving. I think the roadways provide a snapshot of human existence in microcosm — we’re all going someplace, we must get there along the same or similar paths as others, and the actions of one person affects everyone else. For example, the one person who chooses to drive 10 miles under the speed limit will cause those behind him to miss stoplights, delay their trips or, perhaps, take unsafe measures to pass. So, driving provides a great opportunity for me to correct some of my less-pleasant personality traits.
During Lent (and hopefully beyond), I’m going to be a nice motorist. Oh, I know, that sounds rather simplistic, maybe immature, but hear me out. When that guy runs a red light and almost hits my car, I’m going to be nice. When someone cuts me off during rush hour only to make an illegal turn in front of me, I’m going to be nice. In each case, aside from someone actually hitting my car or causing an accident, I’m going, with the help of God, to be nice. I am going to choose to S.T.O.P.: Stop myself from making a knee-jerk reaction; think about the consequences of my actions; oblige the person’s actions as if I were doing them a favor; pray for the other person, for myself and for God’s assistance to deal with unexpected circumstances. Will this be easy? Oh no, I’m a Chicagoan who lived in D.C., so roadway restraint is not one of my strong suits. Will this accomplish good? I think so; after all, have you ever heard a good ending to a story that began with, “So, I followed that joker into the gas station and I confronted him about his rude driving . . .”? I can’t think of one. What I can think of are several stories where controlling my response to utter rudeness made a huge difference in my peacefulness and demeanor. That’s my goal this Lent.
Flying somewhere over the skies of the east side of Evansville today, there is an owl, falcon or bat that will never read this column. It has no idea it caused me harm; in fact, it has no idea I even exist. It saw a lovely meal sometime around 6:30 last night, but it wasn’t able to secure it with its talons — there was no malice in its actions. I’d imagine that there are others all around Evansville who, similarly, never even knew I existed when they cut me off, turned in front of me or made some other dangerous move. Maybe they did, I don’t know. I can’t control what drivers (or owls do), but I can control whether I let their actions affect me. For now, I have no plans to launch a hunting expedition against my neighborhood’s flying predators, and this Lent I hope to control my emotions of anger or resentment against other motorists. It may cause me a bit of pain, but it would be foolish to assume that everything that discomforts me, whether by owl or motorist, was done intentionally for that purpose.
