The Zen of Keys and Other Things

I have a wonderful little Honda Civic--

It's been through three bumpers, one large accident, and a freshly-tarred Alaska-Canadian highway.  I got it brand new, my first new car.  It's silver-gray, affectionately named  "Kitten" because of the soft purr of its engine and its tendency to stalk people for parking spaces unawares.  It's not that old, really.  A 2003, it's only got 75,000 miles on it because for one summer it sat in a garage in the middle of Illinois cornfields and for three years I drove it within the tiny 4+ mile radius of Greenville, my college town. 

As faithful as it is, it does have its quirks.  I used an auto-start on it for years and got so used to it that I never used the manual locks.  When my auto-start key fob broke, I decided not to replace it and went old-school with the doors again.  Problem is, like the brain, if you don't use it you lose it.  The lock on my driver's door is now half-shot from lack of use or corrosion, one of the two.  My brother, Kitten's designated mechanic, took apart the door and the entire locking assembly to get to the heart of the matter.  Apparently nothing showed amiss there, and I now know that my brother can take apart car doors and wiring and put it back together again. 

So my driver's door lock works sporatically or sometimes, not at all.  I've experienced the rare embarrassment of having to climb in from the passenger's side over my purse and books and gearshift and awkwardly crash into the seat like a gangly teenager.  Most times, however, Kitten's locks can be coaxed.  As my brother explained it, I have to face the key a certain way, and carefully insert it through the squooshy gears until I feel it turn.  Most of the time, however, I'm in a hurry and jam it in with frustration on my way to work or someplace.  Of course, this does nothing, and the lock won't turn. 

So I have learned a sort-of ritual or key mantra, if you will.  It goes like this:  Breathe in deeply and exhale with pleasure.  Recite calmly, "I have all the time in the world", and smile.  Gently ootze the key in through the gears, and turn.  It never fails. 

Life is something like Kitten, my secret-loving Honda.  So often I see it as utilitarian, just something to get through in my impatience to get to the next big thing.  I forget to notice how it's marked by occasional reminders of grace.  Like the crack on Kitten's latest bumper from the semi tire I ran over in the dark at highway speed, I have to pause and remember all the hard things I've been held together through.  Like my driver's door key, I must intentionally slow down or I'll find myself on the road to nowhere.  Like that lock, I remind myself to just breathe, and the key will turn;  Just surrender, and life will purr along at Kitten's pace to the perfect parking place where you feel right at home.