It’s Just a Car

I sat in the Honda dealership feeling numb. I repeated in my mind over and over, I should be happy; I’m getting a new car. I’m blessed, lots of people would be happy if they were getting a new car. What’s the matter with me? I feel nothing, perhaps a little sad. I couldn’t understand why letting go of my old car was so difficult. Shouldn’t I want something new? It’s a car-be happy.

I chose a pretty green CR-V more fitting to my personality than silver, the color of my Pilot. The two cars sat next to each other in the parking lot. Old me, new me. I felt an urging to run up to my Pilot and give it a big hug goodbye. When the salesman told me it was going to auction, I felt hollow and wanted to cry. My baby, I’d never see it again. I clearly didn’t want to let it go.

I remembered how the Pilot protected me when the little old lady who could barely see over her steering wheel, ran a stop sign and slammed into my door. I walked away without a scratch. Eric and I drove the little old lady home with her front bumper in our backseat. I thought about my trip to North Carolina, getting hopelessly lost and sitting in Panera with Arielle, laughing and trying to figure out how to at least make it to Jacksonville. I looked at my Switzerland bumper sticker; I had proudly placed on my Pilot after our family trip to Europe. Goodbye. I repeated in my mind, it’s just a car you are being ridiculous.

Whenever I have difficulty in understanding what I’m feeling, I pick up Sue Monk Kidd’s, FirstLight. I’ve read it and listened to it on CD many times. Her writing and her continuous search for meaning, inspires me.

As I sat reading, my mind flashed back to my 13th birthday. My grandparents were having a huge garage sale because they were selling their house on New Pear St. I was sad. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the house I’d known since I was little. So many memories filled my mind of my days there spent swimming, playing barbies in the basement with my friend Ann Marie, my grandmother sitting on the edge of my bed reading to me, exploring the attic, getting stuck in the tree in the front yard, coming down stairs on Christmas morning and seeing a shiny blue bike, and trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach and fall a sleep knowing that I was getting up early and going fishing with my grandfather. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the home where so many memories were created. The house like the car had become part of me.

Woodrow Wilson said that if you want to make enemies try to change something. I can understand why. It is much easier to live complacent following daily habits year after year than it is to face the unknown. It is difficult to let go. In the times when I have the greatest fear of change I know that I lack trust. Spiritually, I am depleted. I know that I must slow down and listen to the silence. Trust is the ointment that soothes the sting of change.

I have had my CR-V for two days. I park it and when I return I look for my silver Pilot and remember. I climb in and smell the newness of change. When fear disguised as sadness tries to creep into my thoughts, I take a deep breath, pop in my favorite CD, feel the warm light on my face and remember that I am not what I possess, I simply am.

K.D. Rausin


A painting of my grandparent’s house on New Pear St.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Anonymous
    Feb 26, 2010 @ 00:42:06

    I also have very fond memories of New Pear St. My house was two blocks away on New Pear but your grandparents’ home was the only one I knew that had air conditioning, a seat that you could ride to get upstairs and I remember some sort of machine in the kitchen for ironing!!! Ask your mother and make sure I am not crazy!


    • kdrausin
      Feb 26, 2010 @ 01:58:37

      Re: Memories!
      I know my grandfather had lots of his inventions around the house but I don’t remember the machine for ironing or the chair to get upstairs.
      I’d love to take a tour of the house now. Boy do I miss them.


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Reviews of Children's Board Books, Picture Books, Activity Books, and Graphic Novels

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