Transported

You might think I am a little crazy right now. It’s sunny, seventy degrees outside, and I am in my driveway, sitting in my car writing. It’s not comfortable or spacious, but it feels like home. I know the soft feel of the dark seats, how they stick in the summer and are cool in the winter. I know where my cup fits and my purse sits, and I trust this cocoon of a space. We have travelled thousands of miles together. 

I’m sitting here before the new owner gets the keys and drives off tomorrow. I am letting go and giving my experience the honor it deserves. I never would’ve imagined how significant this car would be when we bought it. It has given me a sacred space, a place where I learned to trust myself.

I went through an internal battle when we bought her 10 years ago. I had never cared about the make or model of the cars I drove, but this time there was one car I loved. It feels scary to even say it for fear of your judgment, but it was “luxurious.” Since I had parents who grew up in the Depression and struggled financially, I knew that “I should be grateful for whatever I had because others might not have” and “I should not dream of better.” It was innate to think myself underserving of having anything extravagant or unnecessary since many in the world lacked. 

As I grew into adulthood, I grabbed a spiritual notion that having things for others and the benefit of “the Kingdom of God” was okay, but not if it was just for me. I held judgment toward others who lived with more space or comfort than they “needed,” even if they could afford it. Living minimally showed superior righteousness. It wasn’t just a lifestyle choice. 

I processed the purchase of the car with my therapist, who challenged my utilitarian and scarcity mindset. I began to see that I had shame around blessing myself with grand gifts, whether it be rest, care, or physical things. We wondered together whether I could accept an extravagant gift and fight the feelings of unworthiness I felt. 

In the end, purchasing the car was an act of resistance to shame that was bound in my body. In some strange way, buying and possessing this car helped awaken my ability to receive.  

I also enjoyed and appreciated driving it, even as it aged. This car held so much. It was often filled with teen chatter in the first years, and then there were the transition years of quiet in the empty nest. It hauled things to the dump and Goodwill; transported treasures to the new house ten miles up the road; and carried bikes, Costco hauls, and geraniums during planting season.  

One dear friend sat in the front seat as we drove to the hospital during various stages of her fight with cancer. Another friend who sat there lost her memory.  

It held my secrets, despair, and moments of rage. 

It heard podcasts, sermons, painful conversations, and Hamilton singalongs.  

I found my voice and my heart as I drove this car.

In recent months, we decided it was time for a replacement car. In the past, my husband would be the one to lead the charge. But this time, I had confidence to trust myself. My process was far from perfect. I started with research and handled all the transactions and communication with several dealerships. I ordered one type of car, changed my mind, and managed to back out and renegotiate the car I really wanted. I also sold my old car before the new one arrived. Not ideal.

But all in all, I am proud of myself. I am highly satisfied with the package, price, and color that I negotiated. I am getting what I want and need to transport me into the next decade, and there has been little shame. I’m treasuring the last moments sitting in the unique gift of my car. 

The purchasing process, refuge of the secure space, and letting go of this vehicle has been an unexpected part of my transformative journey. Still, there is tension knowing many don’t own a car or ever dream of it as a possibility. I sit with this, unaware of how my next car will change me. But I am grateful. Something as ordinary as a car can provide an opportunity for growth and a unique space to honor who I am becoming; a woman who is trusting herself.

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Maryhelen Martens has been gathering and connecting with others since she was a young girl growing up in rural Wisconsin. She is a lover of whimsy and play, beauty and depth, all of which she experiences in her relationships. While her emotions and voice were shut down for decades, she is finding them again and using them in healing groups, story coaching, and writing. She’s always been drawn to water and sunsets and more recently to the desert and sunrises. She’s curious about that. Mother to three authentic adults, Maryhelen lives with her steadfast husband Keith on the shore of Lake Michigan.