Faith Formation
After thirty-plus years of living on an off-the-grid ranch forty minutes from stores and conveniences, I now live in the town of Solvang, and many of my walks involve streets and cars and human encounters. At a busy junction the other day, I pushed the button on the traffic light and waited a long time until the little walking symbol appeared, granting me thirty seconds to cross the street.
I was heading to the trail behind the bank, a popular dirt path that’s managed by California State Parks. It meanders by an historic stone grist mill, Alamo Pintado Creek, and an olive grove, then up a hill to the Santa Ynez Mission. (Currently, there’s a poignant cardboard sign on the fence at the entrance, asking folks to be on the lookout for a tortoise—he is somebody’s pet on the loose.)
Anyway, the light finally changed, and I stepped off the curb into the pedestrian crosswalk, and I was startled by a car that was turning right onto the main street, veering very close and fast, nearly swiping me, or so it seemed. “Bitch,” I muttered. I cast my meanest New York scowl-face in the driver’s direction, made some kind of arm motion, and shook my head in indignation, all very dramatic, but I was angry. I get that way sometimes. I guess I’ll never make it as a Buddhist, observing my anger in a detached way without acting upon it, as one of my mentors advises. No, I expressed myself and then moved on.
I reached the other side of the street and continued on my way, through the open gate and along the dirt path, keeping my eye out for the missing tortoise, saying hi to the dog walkers, and trudging up the hill to the Mission. The walk revived my spirits, as it always does. There’s a wooden fence where the hill climb ends and my bad hip makes it hard to lift my leg over the top rail, but I successfully maneuvered, then walked across the parking lot toward the buildings.
A thin woman with yellowish-white hair stood in the doorway directly in front of me. It happened to be voting day for the California primary, and she was in the spirit, all dressed in red, white, and blue, including red high heeled shoes and navy blue star-studded socks. She was inexplicably calling out in my direction: "I'm sorry, I am so, so sorry. I'm not that kind of person. Please forgive me. I would never hurt anyone.”
"I think you're talking to the wrong person," I said. I had absolutely no idea what this was about.
"I'm talking to the right person," she replied. "I'm the woman who almost ran you over! Please forgive me! I'm so very sorry."
"Are you kidding?" I said. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I over-reacted. It was no big deal."
But she was insistent. "No, it was wrong of me. Even my son said I could have killed you!"
"I don't think you came that close," I said. I had been surprised and angry, but I did not honestly believe I’d narrowly missed being mowed down. Mostly I had wanted to let her know that she’d been inconsiderate. (My husband calls this being “instructive” and I do have that tendency. What can I say? I was a teacher for many years.) Now I felt a little sheepish about my theatrical response.
“Really, it wasn’t that significant,” I said.
But she was genuinely remorseful and upset. Despite her festive, patriotic attire and a little “I voted” sticker on her white denim jacket, she looked sad.
Unable to resist the opening for philosophizing and not-so-subtle political commentary, I expressed my belief that we are all feeling vulnerable, traumatized, and under duress right now due to the current 'situation' and it was understandable that we might over-react to things. (I was assuming she was on the same team as me, which is not really a safe assumption in the Valley, but in any case, we were just a couple of old broads trying to communicate.)
Maybe she is resolved to drive more carefully henceforth and watch out for pedestrians.
As for me, I’m still working on my anger, but I will definitely look around before stepping out into the street, no matter what the signal says.
We forgave each other. We hugged. (Yes, we really did.)
And she gave me a peppermint.
"This is how people are supposed to be," I said, as if I were wise.
She went back to her parked car, and I walked ahead carefully, paying attention.
The building in front of me said "FAITH FORMATION CENTER".
And I pondered faith, my own in particular, whether formed or amorphous, the mystery and surprise of it, its kinship with defiance, and more than anything, where it is placed.
