I’ll never forget that drive home.
My parents, little brother and I were making the 13-hour trek back from my grandparent’s home in Kentucky after the Christmas holidays to our home on the eastern edge of Pennsylvania. In the mountains of West Virginia, the fog became deadly thick. You could barely see the white lines in the road, let alone the road itself. My mom was driving; my dad was guiding. Every turn felt like we were heading off a precipice. We slowed way down. Our collective breathing became shallow. There was silence except the soft tones of my dad’s supportive voice.
As luck would have it, we soon came upon an 18-wheeler whose bright back lights served as our guiding star. My mom never lost sight of those lights. When its speed changed, our speed changed. There were no diversions, no stops. I remember because that was the trip where my little brother learned to pee in a bottle.
Our guiding star came to us hours from home. We dreaded the moment when the truck would exit without us. Love prophets, that moment never happened. Through those West Virginia mountains into central Pennsylvania turning right at Harrisburg and proceeding all of the way to Exit 13. Our exit. Home. My mom flipped on her blinker indicating our departure. The truck’s lights flickered. On. Off. On. Off.
I see you. Safe journeys.
My mom’s lights flickered back: Thank you and God bless you.
I have tears in my eyes, just remembering it.
Martha Beck begins The Way of Integrity by naming all of the ways we human beings get lost in the fog, unable to see the lines on the road, convinced that we’re about to drive off a precipice. “The experience of noticing we’re on the wrong path, in what feels like the wrong life,” she says, “comes to almost all of us at some point.” We may love our lives, and yet, we don’t feel like we love our lives.
My moment first arose in a story. Right as I entered the first years of “middle age.”
Back in the 18th century there was a great Hasidic master, known for his piety and emotion-filled prayers. Rabbi Zusia was a teacher. The story is told that his students had gathered around Rabbi Zusia as he was dying. He was weeping. It troubled his students; they wanted to comfort him.
“Reb Zusia, why are you so sad? You are almost as wise as Moses, you are almost as hospitable as Abraham, and surely heaven will judge you favorably.”
I’ll admit that this seems a strange way to comfort a dying man. You almost made it. Plus, why are you sad? Goodness, the man is dying. He is allowed to be sad.
Apologies, I digress.
It is said that Zusia responded to his students that he was afraid that, upon his death, God would ask him why Zusia did not live his one, precious life more like Zusia. Not like Moses, not like Abraham. Like Zusia. Why didn’t Zusia live from his true nature?
The story breaks my heart.
That said, I have now heard it so many times ~ often referenced in a weekly inspirational column or blog from faith leaders like myself ~ that it almost feels cliche. Like a corporate athletic commercial: be yourself. A feel good message in a world that mostly rejects and too often eradicates any attempt to actually be yourself.
It’s the horrible Catch-22 relationship that exists between our true nature and cultural expectations. Fully live as God created you, but you better pray that God created you “normal.” Whatever normal means in our many conflicting cultural settings. From the cultures of your families to those of your different identities, from friends to school to work ~ and everything in-between. Martha Beck says that our nature is “forever colliding with a force that can tear it apart: culture.”
Like much of America, I watched Barbie in the theater with multiple generations of women ~ my teenage daughters, middle-aged friends, and my mom. I was skeptical. (I tend to hate hyped-up scenarios.) Yet, my laughter at America Ferrera’s character’s words to her daughter “You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin” turned to some weird sob ~ a gasp for breath ~ that came from deep within as she became more serious “You have to answer for men's bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you're accused of complaining… stay pretty… not so pretty… or threaten other women… stand out… always be grateful… never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line… And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.”
That sob was my true nature, stuffed so far down inside, finally kicking her way out. “Finally!” she said, “Someone has named this insanity!” As they filmed that scene, it is said that the film crew was crying. It didn’t matter your gender. The scene was evoking some of the countless ways that our conflicting, crazy-making cultural expectations tear our true natures apart.
That’s why the story of Zusia haunts me. It was one of the first times my true nature raised the red flag and said, “Mind the road! We’re entering the fog. Danger ahead!”
Martha Beck defines this moment as the one where we enter the “dark wood of error.” Martha reminds us (early and often) that we’re not failing at life. These symptoms are red flags. Slow down. Pay attention. Listen! Look for the guiding lights.
There, at the end of Chapter 1, you can see how true or false the dark wood of error syndrome is in your life right now. It’s not easy to face where we are. Our ego just wants us to drive faster through the fog, pretending it’s not there. Unfortunately, that really will lead us off a precipice.
Instead, the first step is to tell the truth about where we are.
I am lost in a fog. I’m scared. I’m angry. I don’t know what to do. I need help.
Then, and this is essential, begin looking for your 18-wheeler. A guiding light ~ and often there isn’t just one ~ for the journey. They will lead you all of the way home.
love the story of driving and acknowledgement and relief