Little Buddha Moment

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” 

I had finally arrived at decision time about my car, Blue.  It had broken down, repair was costly, and I had already purchased a used car for transportation.  Blue was housed at my mechanic's shop, awaiting my final decision.  I was offered $300 for it.  A friend's husband (one of my many borrowed husbands) urged me to try to sell her for more, so I put an ad on Craigslist one Saturday, in between my morning and noon dog sitting visits.  With picture posted, and full description of a car that did not run, I pressed 'post' and went to walk dogs.  

When I returned home and checked my email, there were over twelve responses; people who wanted to know more information, some who just wanted the car sight unseen.  I called one respondent, and because he sounded normal enough to meet that afternoon, I made the drive to Blue to meet my first customer.

I was not in my right mind as I mentally prepared for this look-see meeting.  As I drove the 10 miles to Blue, I felt unresolved (AGAIN!) about this thing that I was about to do.   I felt like a child who needed to ask his parent for advice, for support.  I was acting like an adult on the outside, driving a car I financed through my bank, going to meet a grown man with money to sell a car I had title on.  All grown up stuff.  But I was out of sorts, on autopilot, nervous inside and felt like I masqueraded as a grown up.  And then, I rounded the corner, stopped at the last stop sign before the turn, and saw Blue in the my mechanic's driveway.  My heart sunk.  I doubted my decision to sell.  I wanted her back.  I hated the great deal of a car I was driving at that moment; leather interior, sun roof and all.  

My 'customer' was due in 15 minutes.  I began to clean out belongings left in Blue, shoving them, throwing them, in the car I had begun to hate.  Damn stupid sedan!  Everything I pulled out of Blue reminded me of times with her -- the bumper stickers from the Outer Banks, from Ocracoke.  My peace symbol.  The cloth box of essentials -- a frisbee for the dog, sunscreen, car cleaner, my baseball glove, a yoga mat, blankets and small pillows for sleeping boys.  It was too much to bear, and I broke down, sobbing.  I felt like selling her was the same as ridding myself of all those memories, all of those wonderful trips, the seven years of times in that car.  How could I say goodbye to the conversations with my children, my first car of independence after my marriage had broken, the car my youngest, then around 7, helped me purchase because it was he who said, "Get the blue one, mommy."   I am not ashamed to say that I was fully and completely broken, stuck in trying so hard to hold on to the past, and in doing so, hoped it would bring back all those good times, like a rain of joy.  

I called a good friend and I sobbed to her about it all, and was grateful that she understood. While the talk helped me pull myself together for the meeting, I still was stinging when my potential buyer arrived.  He inspected what he saw as a hunk of metal while trying to calculate how much it would cost him to repair.  "I will give you $500 for it," he said, and I quickly turned him down.

As he drove away, I felt saved.  I felt like I could make another decision about Blue.  Even as the Craigslist email responses poured in and totalled eighteen, I could decide not to sell and save my memories.

It is then that I came to the clearing of the clouds.  Sitting in the sedan, looking at Blue, reading email responses on my Droid, I knew that not selling would not be the answer to keeping memories.  What had passed, had passed.  What was to be, is not yet here.  Who was to know if I could or would have wonderful times in the leather interior sunroof piece of metal of a yet-to-be-named car?  This realization changed me, moved me, although incrementally, from past focus, to future and present focus.

I drove that sedan home that sunny Sunday, and the following day, with back to back appointments to see Blue, sold her for my asking price to the first fellow who saw her.  He said he planned to fix Blue and his wife and his four young children would be using it.  

I hope they have wonderful memories.