It seems that my charmed life as a driver has come to an end.  In all the years I've had a license, I've never gotten a ticket, no matter what boneheaded, irresponsible, inexcusable things I do behind the wheel.  But last month I got a ticket for forgetting (um, for three months) to get the van registered and inspected; and the other night, in the dark and the rain, I got pulled over for crossing the white line repeatedly.

The officer wanted to know if I had been drinking, taking prescription drugs, or maybe I had lost my glasses?  None of the above.  It was just the end of a long day, in the middle of a long week, in the middle of a short life crammed overfull with too many things to think about, too many places to be, not enough brainpower or focus, peace or willpower to concentrate on them all.  I was picking up my daughter from a multimedia dance presentation about the brain; listening to Nina Totenberg getting more and more pettish; and feeling a little deranged after a day of nursing with only my morning coffee, fourteen hours ago, to hydrate me.  I was worrying, worrying, worrying about bills, school, sex, politics, nutrition, and housekeeping; wondering if I'd gone too far in something I was writing -- if I'd crossed the line.  Why was I listing to the right?  A better question was, why wasn't I home in bed?

I said to the officer, in what I hoped was a tone just pathetic enough to elicit sympathy but not helpless enough to appear dangerous, "I really don't know what to tell you!"  And this is the truth.  I drive like I live:  too big, too messy, taking too much room, getting too close to the line.  Since we moved up to the biggest van in the world, I have been terrified of crossing the yellow line (by a trick of perspective, from where I sit, I appear to be devouring the entire road); so obviously I've overcompensated by drifting too far to the right.  Bikers of southern New Hampshire, beware.

Since the evening I got stopped, I've been excruciatingly conscious of where I am on the road.  I check the side view mirrors obsessively, comparing how far one tire is from one line to how close the other tire is to the other line.  The problem with this method is that I'm not looking at the road ahead of me.  All I can see is the road I've left behind, and while I'm processing this information, I'm still hurtling ahead, driving faster than normal because I'm anxious and tense.

And now, maybe, you're expecting a tidy analogy about Holy Week:  how to balance sincere regret for our sins with a hopeful trust in God's mercy; how to prepare for the joys (and delicious food, and lacy hats and dresses) of Easter while still scouring our hearts in darkness and silence; how to traverse that midnight highway of Holy Saturday, believing that we are saved, we have been saved, and we will be saved, even as our Savior lies in the grave.  How to look ahead and behind at the same time:  how to keep that balance.

But I don't have the stomach for any tidy answers.  I stayed up so far past my bedtime last night, queasily sewing a three-sectioned matzoh cover for the seder, which we are hosting for the first time.  Do I embroider a small cross within the Star of David?  Is that achieving balance, or is that crossing the line?  And how should we conduct the ceremony?  Do we recreate the way I remember it from my childhood, or is it time to make our own traditions?  Which things are worth preserving, and which ones can be left behind?  How can I steer when I'm so busy checking the mirror?

And my husband's beard is going gray, and I have lost a tooth.  God only knows how long we will live, but we are starting to see changes which are irreversible -- little things, nothing which keeps us from forging on ahead, even starting over yet again with a new, sweet baby -- but things which all whisper the same thing:  some day there will be a nighttime with no guaranteed dawn.  We are on a course that, in the end, has no hope of correction.

Well, I'm glad I got pulled over the other night.  I don't want to hurt anybody.  I want to stay on the straight and narrow.  My husband says I will get used to my new perspective on how to drive the right way.  I won't always be tense and anxious as I check and measure and strive to steer properly -- it will seem normal soon enough, and I won't have to give it another thought.

But right now, it is dark, and I still have to drive.  Attende Domine, et miserere.  Keep me on the road.