Remember, a relaxed driver is a safe driver. And the best way to relax is to take a deep breath and close your eyes. Put on some New Age music if you have any, preferably Ravi Shankar on the sitar or George Winston if that’s more your bag, something you can easily drift off to.
In order to fill your lungs to their maximum capacity, push your abdomen out as far as you can while inhaling slowly and deeply through your nose. Make sure to undo your seat belt so your diaphragm muscle can descend and your chest cavity takes in as much air is it can hold.
Your feet are crying out to be liberated. Can you hear them? That’s good. That means you’re attuned to the music of the spheres. Now your toes can finally feel the gas and brake pedals underfoot.
It’s time to stretch your arms and legs as far as they can go. Feel the blood tingling all the way up and down the length of your body?
Let go of everything that’s been burdening you for the past few days, weeks–even your whole life. Let go of your fears about the future and the steering wheel.
Try not to get attached to the squeal of tires against the pavement or the screech of other drivers’ worn-out brake pads. Don’t feel you have to judge other motorists swearing their heads off at you. Let them work out their own unresolved issues themselves.
Soon you will feel oneness with them.
Just live for the moment, knowing it can’t last long.
Who knows? You may never get another chance to be present again.
The phone call’s for me? Hmm, that’s funny. Thanks, Horatio.
Hello? May I ask who’s calling? Dad, is that you? Your voice sounds strange. Aren’t you dead? What’s up with the phone call? I thought you people were supposed to rest in peace. . . Of course the funeral was sad. Why wouldn’t it be? . . . Yeah, I know she got married only a month after you died, but who could resist a guy like Claudius? Mr. Super-Stud. . . . Dad, there’s no need to become apoplectic. Just chill. . . You’re going to have to slow down. I can’t follow your train of thought–you’re spluttering too much. . . Take a deep breath. . . What? He poured poison in your ear? What for? . . . I know, I know–stupid question. So why are you telling me this? . . . You want me to get revenge? . . . But how can I be sure it’s really you? Can’t you show yourself? . . . That’s not how ghosts operate these days. Figures. . . So I have to go on a phone call. . . You always told me never to trust someone who tries to sell you something over the phone. . . Hey! There’s no need to shout. Keep your jaw attached to your skull, Jacob Marley. . . I guess that reference is a little too advanced for you. . . I know it’s irksome that she married your brother. . . yes, yes–and your murderer–I was just getting to that. . . how is it incest? He’s not her brother. . . That’s right–I forgot. We live in the Elizabethan world. . . Okay, so what’s the best way to kill him? . . . Any way that works. . . But just not while he’s praying. Thanks; I’ll make a note of that. . . Put on a play that recreates your death? Dad, don’t you think you’re being morbid? . . . Of course I want some evidence that he really did it. . . What do you have against Ophelia? She’s perfect for me. . . She’s daddy’s girl, eh? At least she’s not a windbag. . . All right, Dad. I’ll do what I can. But between you and me, I have a hunch this isn’t going to end well. . . Yes, I look forward to seeing you soon, too. I love you, Dad. Tell God I said hi. . . He changed his name to Satan? Well, you’ve got to admit it’s a more marketable alternative. . . Don’t go changing. . . Father, compose yourself! . . . Okay, sorry–bad joke. Keep in touch.
Here’s your phone, Horatio. No, no. It was a wrong number.
Thanks to Bob Newhart for the idea. His autobiography, I Shouldn’t Even Be Doing This!, is worth reading. I’ll share a couple of anecdotes from it in another post.