The other night (like many nights), I had to move my car. And, like many nights, there were no parking spots near my flat, so I was forced to park three blocks away. During my short walk home, I happened upon a sight that gave me a sort of discomfort that struck an unusually relevant chord.

On the sidewalk, all alone, moving slowly was a snail. I bent down to view it closely; it was beautiful. Delicate antennae, long neck, it moved slowly, very slowly across the sidewalk towards the curb.

I wanted to help it, but I didn't know how. Picking it up didn't seem right, lest I injured it. Plus, it was not clear where, even, it should be carried. Would it be safer in the patch of dirt that was only six inches from the street, or was it safer in the middle of the sidewalk, exposed to pedestrians like myself? I touched its shell; it was soft. I chose not to pick it up. And because it was getting on 2 in the morning, I figured that I was one of the few pedestrians who would come across its path. So I left it unmoved.

But that decision seemed imperfect. The snail did not seem safe. I couldn't help it, as much as I wanted to. After all, how does one assist something whose natural environment had already been destroyed? A snail on the sidewalk is potentially, ultimately, hopelessly doomed.

And I didn't like that.

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Sunday night, while driving up 16th Street, I was rear-ended (again). I decided at the last minute not to run a red light, but the car behind me was expecting me to run it, and the driver apparently intended to run it even worse. When I stopped short, he rammed into me.

At first, he didn't even stop. I had to follow him, beeping madly, until he pulled over. My car was making a terrible noise. The other driver eventually got out of his car, and cursed at me relentlessly. Once his girlfriend calmed him down, I forced him to pull my fender away from the rear driver side tire, which had been the cause of the scraping sound.

When I finally got to my intended destination, I told my dinner companions of my unfortunate accident.

"What do you think that means to your life, symbolically?" asked one of the other dinner guests.

I stared at him and said, "I don't believe in those kinds of signs."

After all, what could it possibly mean? I was rear-ended for not running a red light; punished for slowing down. Perhaps if any meaning can be culled, it is that slowing down is good, as long as not done too quickly.

Or else, perhaps, it meant that I am safest when moving fast. Moving fast sometimes does reduce risk ... as the snail, perhaps, could attest.

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Regardless, I am slowing down anyway; heading off first to attend the old-fashioned Southern wedding of my dear law school friend Marie-Louise, then to spend a few days with my sister and old friends.

The direction - - and the speed - - seem to feel right, for now.

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thanks, Top25.org

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thanks, COMOFLOW

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