The move to London in 2016 was a big one - get rid of lots of stuff, get rid of the car, minimize, embrace public transport.
Yes, please. But here’s the thing. At least for me. Minimal living always tends to creep back to more - more options to get around, more stuff, and a return to what once was, kind of. City living and public transport weren’t enough anymore. I wanted to get back behind the wheel.
But let’s start from the beginning. Like many Florida teens, driver’s permits were issued young. I took a theory test then started to get behind the wheel (accompanied) and learned to drive at 15. The location of choice - the two lane(ish) dirt roads outside of Meeker, Colorado, where my family often spent summers at our cabin near the White River. A little VW Rabbit was the vehicle of choice - stick shift, small, and not so precious really. I called it the “Stressmobile” as it often shook, the result of a fender bender it had experienced before my time and the unfortunate mix of diesel fuel in a small car. Nevertheless, off we went . My mom and I on my first lessons. When I approached my first stop sign, I kept going and blew right threw it. My mom braced herself and asked me why I didn’t stop. My reply, “Ooops! I thought you only had to stop if other people were there.” Ha ha. First lesson learned. As the summer went on, I learned to confidently drive the stick shift, maneuver on dusty roads, and to back up as little as possible.
My other driving lessons I don’t remember as well. But I do remember the day before I turned 16. December 29, 1983. I was due to take my practical driving test at 7 AM on my birthday, the next day. The one thing I hadn’t learned yet was parallel parking. So we did what any “use what you got” kind of family would do. My mom and grandad placed a mannequin and a bike as my guides, and I learned to parallel park. Hours later, and a front yard with some tire marks, I felt confident. The next morning, I got my driver’s license. I was free!
I took that license and used it like any teen would - trips to the mall, drives to see my grandparents, cross country with my mom, and a scary 360 degree spin on an icy bridge several years later. That’s another story, for another day. Mostly I parallel parked like a pro, thanks to a tiny car and city living for many years. Then it all stopped.
Fast forward to 2021, a few years into living in London. I decided to learn to drive on the other side of the road. Scary for me. As a teen, I wasn’t scared. As a middle aged mom, everything seemed different. So many things… the other side of the road, different road signs, roundabouts, and electric bikes that whizzed by before I even knew that they were there.
My first lesson was with John, a funny British guy who was proud of his pro football daughter and drove a cute little Fiat. My first lesson I was a bundle of nerves. He made me stop the car and talked me off of the ledge. Mostly he told me to relax, he encouraged me. I did a handful of lessons, but stopped when I realized I needed to take (and pass) my written theory exam first.
And then I paused again. Life got complicated and things felt harder. My daughter was struggling post COVID, I had learned a new skill (floristry) to supplement my art earnings and peri menopause was gripping me. I couldn’t do anymore. But then I could. So a couple of years later, in 2023, I took my written theory driving exam and passed it. I was ready to get behind the wheel again. I found out the unfortunate news that my instructor, John, had since died. Sigh. So I took a bit of time and found a new driving instructor to help me finally get my license. Number two guy lacked a sense of humor and wasn’t super thrilled when I scraped the left side hubcaps of his instructor car. I apologized, offered to pay, but still no smile. When he berated me on a second lesson for my lack of knowing how to pull into a parking space, I was done. So I stopped again. Then I was ready. 2024. Instructor Number three - found through a local mom’s Facebook group - Hugo. Winner winner, chicken dinner. He reminded me that even though I had driven for years, I had to check the boxes of the UK standards. Way more regimented than any driving lessons I had before, I was determined to finally get my license. I learned new sayings to help me along. Mirror mirror signal. Tires and Tarmac. Peep and Creep. I even counted out loud at the roundabout to make sure that I knew where to exit. These were all new things, new expressions that I learned to help me get my license. And for goodness sake, always, always stop at a Zebra Crossing when somebody is getting close to it or about to cross. More lessons learned.
But I think the most important lesson that I learned was how to begin again. The humility of knowing how to do something, but then having to relearn it in a slightly different way. Not a week or two or months later. Decades later. Humbling, I tell ya. Kind of like knowing how to speak English, but then having to understand what Shakespeare is saying in his plays. It was hard. But I had visions of summer road trips with my family, my dog with her head out the window, a trip to the grocery store that didn’t involve an oversized Ikea bag being dragged onto a city bus. I was determined. Hugo didn’t want me to fail my test. I had already had my share of failures… after receiving my first theory test permit, it had lapsed after a couple of years and expired before I was ready to take my practical test. So I had to take it again and failed it. Then finally a pass. Regular reminders that even though we have aced something in the past, it’s not an automatic yes when trying again.
I’ve encountered this feeling with so much lately, especially as I age. Things that were easy and successful for me now often feel uncomfortable, and I often don’t reach the same heights. Should I keep climbing the same mountain, or move to an easier one? Maybe a valley instead?
I’ve definitely seen this with my career. I had no problem getting a job teaching at a fashion school in LA in the mid 00’s. This past year I was denied by multiple art teaching training programs in the UK. They didn’t care about my resume, I simply didn’t have the educational experience of first hand teaching to qualify. Sigh. Art that sold easily in the past few years now feels hard to sell and my energy to keep pushing it has gone away.
I realize, though, that it’s sometimes a signal to begin something new. Instead of pushing at what has worked in the past, let it pause for a bit. Be a beginner. So that’s what I have done. I began experimenting with stitching onto my existing art. I became a florist a few years ago. And my art… well, my first try at stitched pieces on paper got rejected from a gallery I’ve been successful with in the past. The little girl in me cried. The big girl inside of me gave her a moment, then said to keep going. Only when you begin and start again can you stay fresh. So I’ll keep going. One drive, one stitch, one day at a time.
Thanks for reading.
You can find out more about me and check out (and purchase if you like) my art here. Better yet, if this post speaks to you, please share this with a friend and subscribe . That is if you’re into this rambling world of mine. Let’s see where things take us.
XO, M.E.
I loved this—especially the realization that starting again is a way of staying awake. Tender, funny, and genuinely brave. You rock bestie!
Also, I didn’t know you had a VW Rabbit in the 80s too. That made me smile. Cart