These are The Good Old Days
Years ago, when Sarah and I first met, we were in that place I’m sure many of you have known.
Everything was perfect.
Colors were brighter. Sounds were richer. Mistakes and misunderstandings were few. The word argument was still a foreign word.
During those early days, I took one of my trips to visit my brother and the property in Oregon. I love the solitude of that drive and the way the road completely unplugs me from my work.
It becomes a kind of driving meditation.
Time slows down as the road comes toward me.
My body settles.
My mind quiets.
My strength and resolve return.
But leaving Sarah behind, there was also a little longing.
Okay—a lot of longing.
And a healthy amount of desire.
Wink, wink.
After spending a few days with my brother—talking about our lives and where they were headed—I began planning the drive home. I felt rested and steady, but I was anxious to see Sarah again.
On a whim, I called her.
“What if you flew up to Oregon? I’ll pick you up, and we can drive home together.”
This is something I have always loved about her.
Without hesitation, she said, “I’m logging onto my computer now.”
Within minutes, she had booked a flight.
Let me tell you: that was a Herculean act on her part.
Sarah looks for the deal. She compares prices. She finds the smartest way to use her resources.
But that day, all of it went out the window.
We were in the heyday of love.
That place where you throw caution to the wind.
Where you act on impulse.
Where you let the heart say, Let’s try this.
When Sarah arrived in Oregon, I was filled with anticipation.
Not only the anticipation of seeing her, but of the road ahead of us.
I didn’t know what the next two days would bring.
I didn’t know every conversation we would have, where we would stop, or what might be waiting around the next bend.
And that was part of what made it so alive.
I didn’t know.
I was open to finding out.
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Something magical happens when life is new and exciting.
I become more willing to loosen my grip on old patterns.
I become more willing to be curious.
More willing to be adventurous and spontaneous.
More willing to forgive.
More willing to offer grace.
But as I become familiar with something—or someone—I can become less willing to explore.
We always stop our walk here and turn around.
But what is beyond the next bend?
What is around that next tree?
I know some of your likes and dislikes. I know what you enjoy and what you avoid.
But I learned those things a week ago, a month ago, or a year ago.
Are they still true?
Are you still the same?
Am I?
Being in my daughters’ lives as they become young women constantly reminds me that none of us remain still. The things they grew up liking, loving, and relying upon are changing.
They are changing.
And so am I.
Why would I imagine that the person beside me is somehow finished?
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That road trip home with Sarah was fantastic.
We crossed a mountain pass in conditions where chains were required—in my little Honda Fit, on tires that were nearly bald.
Our love took us over that mountain.
Although, looking back, love probably should have stopped and purchased some tire chains.
The roads were slippery. The turns required care.
But Sarah and I just chatted away, trusting in love and throwing caution to the wind.
We felt safe.
We felt open.
We were rich with experience and intoxicated by the wonder of new love.
We would drive for hours talking. Sometimes we would drive for hours in silence. Both of us occasionally forgot the ordinary needs of food, bathrooms, and time.
Well, not bathrooms for me. I know every one of them from SoCal to Eagle Creek!
For two days, there was simply the road—and us.
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It’s amazing how relationships can forget about those times when everything was rich and colorful and new.
But I’ve found that those times are always there.
In the early days, we are curious.
We ask questions because we don’t already think we know the answers.
We listen because the person in front of us is still being revealed.
But as we become more familiar with each other, curiosity can slowly become certainty.
I know what you like.
I know what you don’t like.
I know what you’re going to say.
Except—do I?
Maybe I know who you were a year ago.
Maybe I know who you were last week.
But have I taken the time to meet who you are today?
To do that, I have to become vulnerable.
I have to become willing.
I have to let my guard down.
But I’m also learning that our normal protections serve a purpose. They help us remain steady enough to be open. They give us the strength to stay present when the road becomes slippery.
Maybe wonder and curiosity need to be supported by strength, resiliency, and conviction.
Maybe love asks me to be strong and vulnerable.
Convicted and malleable.
Patient and persistent.
Years ago, I wrote a song called Wind Blow. One of its lines was:
Persistence—it paves the way.
Not persistence as pressure.
Persistence as returning.
Returning to curiosity.
Returning to the questions.
Returning to the person beside me and remaining willing to discover who she is today.
These apparent opposites, held together.
And somewhere in the middle of them, I find that there is always a place for us to meet anew.
As I read this and reflect on that trip—and on those early days of Sarah and me—I recognize that I am also in the early days of Sarah and me right now.
Not because we can go backward.
Not because nothing has changed.
But because everything has changed.
She is not finished.
I am not finished.
There is still another bend in the road.
There are still conversations we haven’t had and things about each other we haven’t discovered.
There is still anticipation.
The early days have never left.
These are the good old days.
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ROAR with Love,
Danny
The Emotional Driver
“Emotion Is the Note. You Are the Song.”
