My life has the luxury of no commute. Besides the parts of my jobs that happen from home, the places I actually drive to are very close. This is in contrast to the years we lived in California, where a jaunt to the park included three freeways. My son who still lives there spends an inordinate amount of hours wrestling with traffic. 

Because it does not impact my routine in a measurable way, I can be lofty in how I hold it. Today, for instance, there was a parade of cars in the short distance to my favorite café. It took me eight minutes instead of two to travel it, and I was not rushed. The only way I managed to get off my road at all was because a driver waved me in. It was a small gesture, but a kind one. I found myself behind a school bus, which by definition has an excuse to be timely, and yet that driver too paused long enough to let someone in at the next cross road. 

If I try to hold my time behind a wheel as a spiritual practice, it behooves me to remove myself from the center of the universe. If my destination upstages that of everyone around me, then I am justified in being annoyed by a delay. But it isn't. Short of interviewing the drivers in a one-mile radius, it seems likely that their agendas are at least as imperative as my own. More so, I dare say. 

Putting my needs at the circumference rather than the epicenter reminds me of the Garden of Eden. The Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil grew in the same garden, and yet they sparred for position. Those trunks pulled up roots and swapped places. For me, they represent the wrestling match between ego and altruism. 

It can help redirect my on the Journey that really matters.