Flat Tires and the Magic of an Open Heart by Diane Dunn

On a trip to South Africa with my husband Christer, I learned how trapped, frustrated and angry I feel when I close my heart; then, by being vulnerable, what liberation and happiness I feel when I allow my wounded heart to open.

It was January and I was really looking forward to sharing with Christer two of my favorite places when I lived in South Africa in the 90s: the beautiful, romantic Quiet Mountain Lodge and the Pilanesberg Game Reserve. However, the morning we set out for the game reserve, I received an upsetting email regarding our hotel in Peru.

Like most spouses, Christer has a special talent for touching my tender spots and when I asked him how to handle the situation, his response, "Just forget about it", felt harsh and dismissive. I pouted on the way to the park. Twenty minutes into our 90-minute drive, Christer hit a pothole, bending the tire rim on our rather small rental car. Things went downhill from there.

We travelled grimly, in silence, to the park. I looked forward to the mood lightening as we slowed down to look for animals, but we didn't slow down until we reached a shady picnic area for lunch. I bolted, relieved to be out of the sweltering heat and oppressive tension inside the car. Ignoring Christer, I mustered all my spiritual training to breathe, relax, release the heavy energy, enjoy my lunch and comfort myself. It took me by surprise when I saw Christer packing the food only minutes later. Worse, he was ready to leave not only the picnic area, but the park as well. A ninety-minute drive, bent rim, blazing sun, sixty dollars, the “highlight of our trip” and he wanted to leave! I was deeply disappointed.

Back on the main road home, the bent rim tire went flat. It was 100 degrees in the sun as we changed the tire. Fifteen minutes later in the middle of nowhere, Christer hit another pothole and the spare went flat. We had a cell phone to call the rental car company, but were on hold so long our phone ran out of minutes and disconnected. We waited in the blazing sun hoping the agent would call back with a solution.

A nice man named Marius stopped, offering to take the first tire to be repaired at a place he knew about 40 minutes away. An hour later the agent in Pretoria called saying he would send a new car but it would take two hours to reach us. He called John at Quiet Mountain to say we would be late for dinner.

As we waited I made a few feeble attempts to reach out to Christer. I could see he blamed himself for our frustrating predicament. Picture an unfriendly grizzly bear who growled no matter how warm and winningly you approached him. We were stuck with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait as the sun went down.

Darkness descended, Marius arrived and our Good Samaritan had the original tire back on the car in short order. Christer was his charming self with Marius which angered me even more. The new car finally arrived at 8pm but I didn't know the way back to Quiet Mountain so every decision to turn or not was sheer torture. Christer treated me as if I were his worst enemy.

We got home at 9:30pm both speaking only to John and not each other. To break the ice with Christer I joked, "Tomorrow we can talk about all the things we learned from this experience." Christer responded dryly, "I learned two things: 1. There are lovely people out there that help you. 2. You and I can't play on the same team." That was the final straw for me. The façade of pleasantry and understanding fell away. The anger and steely heart I'd been holding at bay since the morning came out with vengeance. I stormed out of the dining room and locked the bedroom door behind me.

I took a bath in the antique footed tub, lit a candle and played Roy Hargrove on my iPod. I tried to relax but didn't succeed very well. I knew my heart was closed but I couldn't get it to re-open. When I came out of the bath, Christer was "sleeping" on the far side of our king-size bed. With my heart locked in a prison of my own making, I couldn't bare the idea of reaching out to him and didn't think there was much chance that he would apologize to me. To risk vulnerability seemed suicidal.

Sometime in the early morning, I woke up with the odd idea that I could reach over and touch my husband's bare back, just laying there an arm's reach away. An inner dialogue began between my higher self and my wounded inner child. "Go ahead. Touch him." "No, I can't." "Yes, you can. Just reach out and touch him." "I can't." "Oh come on - if he pushes you away, you'll be no worse off than you are now."

Finally willing to risk being vulnerable, I reached out and tentatively touched his back. He moved a little closer. I also moved, my chest touching his back. We embraced that way for a few minutes. I could feel my heart opening. Remarkable. Soon he turned around, as if he knew it was safe again. "I'm sorry", he said in such a sweet genuine way. "Me too." We hugged and kissed. Hearts once more open and connected. All the heaviness of the day before resolved in a miraculous flash. Passing through hurt and vulnerability, we could once again return to love. That's the magic of an open heart.