87 in a 70
I had just crested the Rim Station, southbound from Jackson on a 13-hour round trip for a three-hour meeting. (One test native Wyomingites always pass is a love for driving across the state.) In less than an hour, I had been captivated by antelope, hawk on wing, a thousand shades of green, truthful blue sky. In good weather, I look forward to time like this, with bad cell service and skies big enough for me to empty worry into, passing each mile in the lap of such familiar beauty that my mind settles to stillness, openness, insight.
Giving the morning sky center stage, however, I didn’t notice the highway patrol car as I picked up my pace to catch the car in front of me. It’s a game we serial speeders play—car relay—where we follow for a bit, and then pass to take the risk, then drop back.
I began to slow and pulled over before the lights even went on. Sometimes it’s better to take the medicine, and I was in a hurry, obviously, to make my meeting. The young officer who approached the passenger window didn’t seem much older than my sons at first. Then I noticed faint lines around his eyes, worry at his mouth.
“I clocked you at 87,” he said sternly. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
I told him my destination was the University of Wyoming campus. “For some meetings,” I continued, trying to minimize my responses, still watching the clock. “For some programming to teach resilience and mindfulness to faculty and staff.”
I knew I was getting a ticket, and, really, I deserved it, so I simply handed over the paperwork. “I’m really sorry,” I apologized. “I knew I was speeding, but I didn’t know I was going that fast.” After a few more questions, likely to establish a rapport, the officer disappeared into his mobile office, lights still flashing, and returned minutes later with my license, registration, and…a warning.
“I want you to slow down, because those meetings sound important, and I want you to get there,” he explained. “I’m not giving you a ticket today because you were accountable, and you were polite.”
What?
I tried to keep from grinning as my mind traveled back to the time—before I practiced any kind of mindfulness and could sometimes be kind of a brat—when I was stopped not far from this spot and given a warning. Two days later, traveling back on the same road, I was stopped again for speeding, but instead of handing over my registration, I handed over the warning citation. Needless to say, I got a hefty ticket, delivered with the complete disgust of the officer.
I then fumed for the next 200 miles, trapped in the notion that I somehow didn’t deserve such expensive correction. I don’t remember the beautiful landscape that was surely presenting itself. My memories are only of my bad mood and the “you’ve got to be kidding me” look of disapproval on the patroller’s face.
The juxtaposition of my former clenched mind, with its illusions of outmaneuvering or outrunning or outsmarting tricky situations, with my present-day experience, in which I was enjoying the morning and my conversation with this young professional, could not have been clearer.
I cast off all worry about getting to Laramie on time and began telling him of the partnership between Becoming Jackson Whole and our local police department, of our officers' willingness to explore mindfulness techniques in their daily routines as a way to reduce stress and increase feelings of humanity and connection. (That’s almost verbatim from one of our local officers. Inspiring.) I was just there on a bright Wyoming highway, in a real conversation, attentive to the young officer’s worries and hopes—and his obvious relief for a connection with a human being who saw him as a human being. It was…nice.
The whole funny interlude reminds me of the Eastern parable of two monks who had taken vows of right speech and pious action, including the avoidance of physical contact with the opposite sex.
When they came upon a woman on a flooded section of road, and she asked for help crossing the raging waters, one of the monks picked her up, ferried her safely across, and resumed walking. The two men passed several hours in silence, until the second monk, clearly bothered, finally spoke. “We have taken serious vows,” he said, “and you broke them in a moment.”
“You’re still carrying that woman on your back?” the first monk asked. “I set her down hours ago.”
May the Wyoming skies open for your troubles and worries, too, and may you find freedom in letting go of rumination over the past. The joy and beauty are right in front of you.
