Sometimes the way ahead is foggy

Earlier this week I drove to Sequim for a lunch meeting. I have fond memories of a weekend spent in Sequim when our girls were little, with some great photographs of them playing on the Dungeness spit (long before we lived on a spit of our own!) so I went early and drove out to the Dungeness park to see what there might be to see.

As I approached the shore I could see the fog getting thicker and thicker. When I finally parked and left my car it was so thick I could barely see in front of me, and could only see a tiny edge of the surf below, so I took a quick shot of the path along the cliff, jumped back in the car and headed back into town.

In their conference on the Wise Heart and the Mindful Brain, both Jack Kornfield and Daniel Siegel remarked upon the fact that one clear sign of neurological and psychological health is flexibility; the ability to make rapid course correction when necessary. So a case could certainly be made for the possibility that I was being very flexible: having single-mindedly pursued the opportunity to recreate a moment in the past, I was able to change my plans when it was clear that wouldn't work.

But is it possible I scrapped this opportunity too quickly; was too caught up in making sure I was on time for my lunch meeting (and used the time before that to best advantage) to allow myself to sink into this new experience?

Many of us have a tendency to second-guess our opinions; to wonder if we made the right decisions, to question our wisdom, to wish we'd taken a bit more time to evaluate. I met with a friend yesterday who is newly divorced and regretting what now looks like a decision made in haste.

And, yes, the decision itself was made quickly, and in anger. But it had been building for at least 20 years of difficult situations, unacceptable and hurtful behaviors and embarrassing incidents: there was a part of her that had been longing to escape for years, and was grateful to the anger for setting her free at last.

Now, of course, she is having to deal with the reality of raising alone a family of dogs, cats, pigs and children, and it can look pretty overwhelming -- rather like the view that greeted me when I left my car to stand on the Dungeness overlook. The path ahead is obscure, there's no way of knowing what's around the corner, the beautiful open views I had expected to see are blocked, and retracing my steps just seemed the sensible thing to do.

But of course, you can't really go back -- any more than I could go back in time to that sunny day when my girls were little and the beach was a miracle of unfamiliarity, covered with exciting shells, sticks, and stones and sparkling with the fun of wading into the light, safe, surf.

This morning I read that when Buddhist monks go on a three-year retreat they begin by meditating on the following four precepts:

1. Life is precious.
2. Life is short, and death inevitable.
3. Difficulties are inevitable.
4. Our ethical choices mold our lives.

So, yes, difficulties are inevitable, and, yes, our choices -- whether ethical or otherwise, do mold our lives. And to my friend, should she read this, I will say that I believe with all my heart that hers was the ethical choice: a choice that declares she has value; a choice that declares to her children that they, too, have value and that some sins are unacceptable; a choice that, while it leaves her vulnerable and alone, will also firmly say that there is a limit to what humans can or are willing to tolerate, and that we have a right to set that limit for ourselves.

But the way ahead may be foggy for a while. Don't turn back: just keep walking. The fog will lift eventually and I suspect that when it does the view will absolutely astound you.