Blind Spot

I ease out of the driveway.  Even in the winter, it is important to look both ways multiple times.  Our country road is posted at 45, but we’re the only ones who drive that speed.  Likely, because we realize people live there and perhaps some caution, or at least consideration, could be exercised.

From spring to summer, the line of vision shortens or narrows.  Maybe both.  I push on the brakes.  I look left, around a sumac.  I feel confident the path is clear.  I look right, mostly right at, a sunflower, and have doubts about how much I can see and how it compares to how much I need to see.

Can this be considered a blind spot? 

“Check your blind spot,” instructs the driver’s ed manual. 

Every new driver is taught that there is a gap in the line of vision between the driver’s side and rearview mirrors.  As a result, we turn slowly and glance over our right shoulder before steering our vehicles in that direction.  Moreover, we are tested on this habit during the driver’s license exam.  Solutions are embedded in policies and systems to ensure we acknowledge and act regarding our shared blind spot.

“Accidents happen,” some still say. 

I successfully enter traffic and continue towards the gym. 

Every car has blind spots.  Newer cars utilize technology to increase the odds that people can manage their gaps.  Multiple stakeholders make changes to the system.  The work is one of constant improvements to increase the probability that ‘right’ choice is the ‘easy’ choice.

At the first stop sign, I again ease to a stop, pressing the brakes slowly.  I stare at the flashing red light newly attached to the stop sign.  Accidents increased at this corner despite the stop sign and general understanding that the road is marked at 55.

I glanced left and right, my sight reached easily onward in both directions.  Why the light?  The sign was clear, and somehow it had not sent a strong enough message to change drivers’ actions. 

Another question catches my consciousness as if moving out of the corner of my eye.  Insights. . . Reactions. . .

“Is it an accident if you choose not to look?”

I pause a moment longer.  A blind spot should be defined by lack of awareness.  A blind spot is defined because awareness of the blind spot exists.

How could I categorize my driveway?  My dad had planted the sunflower.  This meant that the lack of visibility, and thus awareness, was of our own making.  Each time we pulled to that edge, we were choosing not to see clearly.  Could I in fact claim a blind spot?  Or instead, should I assume responsibility for inaction?

Dots of rain begin to sprinkle on the windshield.  I flip on the wiper blades.  I stare through the streaks that remain.  Unwashed glass both inside and out illustrates a kind of disillusionment at being complicit.

For the moment, I have no choice but to continue forward.  When I return home both the sunflowers, sumacs and questions to ask will be waiting.

To be pruned, perhaps. . .

“Can you see?”

or

“Can you see what you’ve done?”

To be dismantled.