Guardrails

Making the case for limitations.

The most beautiful. Most terrifying. Most incredible road I’ve ever traveled. It winds its way around and through a place that calls me back again. And again. And yet again. The Amalfi Coast. The Strada Statale 163 Amalfitana traces the cliffs along Italy’s Sorrentine Peninsula, overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

A narrow two-lane road narrowed all the more by cars parked along the side. Such park-wherever nonchalance frequently rendering the SS163 a one-lane road. Sharp twists and turns create many blind spots along the way.

Try winding your way along this road climbing upward. Joyfully remarking on the spectacular scenery? Hardly! For what is breathtaking? The way massive tour buses barrel down the cliffs, careening around corners, bearing down on you, seemingly no brakes applied. 

Add to this hundred of scooters weaving in and out of traffic. Ciao! Traffic laws don’t seem to apply to scooters. Or to Italians generally, I’d say. 

Then factor in pedestrians. Mostly tourists. Walking along SS163. Chatting. Taking pictures. Generally oblivious. With friends, I’ve often hiked down from Ravello into Amalfi, which ends with a walk along the SS163. Chatting. Taking pictures. Generally oblivious. I’m guilty, as charged

Photo by Cynthia on a hike down from Ravello to Amalfi one sunny afternoon. Thank you Leslie for first leading me down this path, for pointing the way. With Love.

John Steinbeck described it best in an article he wrote for Harper’s Bazaar in 1953. An apt description that remains true today, Mr. Steinbeck wisely hired a driver for this adventure. His driver advertised as: “Signor Bassani Bassano, Experienced Guide – all Italy – and Throt Europe.” According to Mr. Steinbeck, “It was the ‘Throt Europe’ that won me.”

To an American, Italian traffic is at first just down-right nonsense. It seems hysterical, it follows no rule. You cannot figure what the driver ahead or behind or beside you is going to do next and he usually does it. But there are other hazards besides the driving technique. There are the motor scooters, thousands of them, which buzz at you like mosquitoes. There is a tiny little automobile called ‘topolino’ or ‘mouse’ which hides in front of larger cars; there are gigantic trucks and tanks in which most of Italy’s goods are moved; and finally there are assorted livestock, hay wagons, bicycles, lone horses and mules out for a stroll, and to top it all there are the pedestrians who walk blissfully on the highways never looking about. To give this madness more color, everyone blows the horn all the time. This deafening, screaming, milling, tire-screeching mess is ordinary Italian highway traffic.

We squirmed and twisted through Naples, past Pompeii, whirled and flashed into the mountains behind Sorrento. We hummed ‘Come back to Sorrento’ dismally. We did not believe we could get back to Sorrento. Flaming like a meteor we hit the coast, a road, high, high above the blue sea, that hooked and corkscrewed on the edge of nothing … And on this road, the buses, the trucks, the motor scooters and the assorted livestock. We didn’t see much of the road. In the back seat my wife and I lay clutched in each other’s arms, weeping hysterically, while in the front seat Signor Bassano gestured with both hands and happily instructed us: “Ina da terd sieglo da Hamperor Hamgousternos coming tru wit Leeegeceons.” (Our car hit and killed a chicken.) “Izz molto lot old heestory here. I know. I tall.” Thus he whirled us “Throt Italy.” And below us, and it seemed sometimes under us, a thousand feet below lay the blue Tyrrhenian licking its lips for us.

An excerpt from Mr. Steinbeck’s famed essay. Delightful, yes?¹

So, you ask. Are there guardrails along the way? Yes. How effective they’d be against a tour bus, I dare not say. But they’re there. An ever-present reminder that you’re on a sliver of a road carved into cliffs, tracing the Romans’ original path.

This week, I’ve been thinking about guardrails. And the presence or lack thereof. How we need guardrails in Life.

I found myself. Quite unexpectedly. Without guardrails. 

Guardrails. Those protective barriers in place designed to keep one from falling over the ledge. From plummeting. Downward. 

Guardrails aren’t a guarantee. But they are a deterrent. An aid. Also, a reminder. Careful there.

In the not too distant past, all guardrails vanished. I didn’t remove them. At least, I don’t think I did. No, it was as if they evaporated leaving no trace.

All structure that had once kept me on track. That structure was gone. Some of that structure. Much of that structure. Indeed, most of that structure. Was itself unsafe. Or unhealthy. Or unwise. 

The existing structures, the only ones I’d ever known. Well, truly, they needed to be dismantled and rebuilt. With intention. With the aid of a team of engineers. 

Dismantled. To pull apart. To break into pieces. This suggests that the structure can be rebuilt. But when the guardrails vanish. When nothing is left. Well, then. With what does one rebuild? 

It’s an interesting thing, this. For a Type-A to be, ever so suddenly, without structure. Freedom? Yes. Perhaps. It felt like that. At first. Like flying. Until one realizes that she’s flying off the side of a cliff. Airborne. Momentarily.

Inevitably, there was a crash. Blessedly, with the help of those Beloved. Earth angels and Heavenly ones. And with my own sheer determination. I scrambled back up the mountain. 

On the path again? Yes, I think so. Or at least, nearly. This time with guardrails of my own creation. 

For at some point—if they are to be effective, if they are to bear weight, if they are to offer support—guardrails must align with our own lived experience. Moments. Lessons. Pieced together to form some structure. A safeguard, perhaps. But more effectively, a reminder

I found Jesus at a gas station along SS163. Prayers for protection, welcomed.

This exploration of memory. Of guardrails. Those on the twisting curves of an Italian strada. And the turns along Life’s path. What prompted this?

Before sunrise one morning, I lit a candle. Said a prayer. Selected a quiet playlist on Spotify. Stood at the edge of my yoga mat. And began the practice.  

In the Shala, there is only the sound of Communion. Breathing. Briefly spoken instructions. Effort. Struggle. Presence. No music. But when I practice at home, music is my company. Alas, the music can be a distraction. And this particular morning, it was indeed. A distraction. For a song caught my attention. If you could call it a song at all. More, a mantra. A chant. A lesson taught by a mystic. A hunter-gatherer’s code.

Always see the dangers first.
Always protect your feet. 
Always be ready for cold.
Always be ready for heat.
Always know where good water or source is.
Always master the skills necessary. 
Always get the job done.
Always know your place.
Always disallow for foolishness.
Always rest whenever you can.

Ten fingers, ten laws that I live by. 
Ten fingers, ten laws that I live by, 
Like all signs they keep me on track.

- 10 Laws, East Forest

After my practice, I grabbed a notebook and my favorite Paper Mate Flair 0.7 mm pen, walking to the beach for sunrise. What would be my ten-finger ten-laws to keep me on track? What are my own guardrails?

As the sun launched the morning, I made a quick list. Blessedly, I have ten fingers and ten toes. For brevity is not my gift. Of course, editing is essential. And surely, time will stroke its own edits. But on this first attempt with the first light, these are my essentials.

Only Love Today.
Eat real food.
Rest is a weapon.
Plan ahead.
Embrace the unplanned.
Reset in Nature.
Listen first.
Stay curious.
Protect your Peace.
Adventures await.
Keep moving.
Be still.
Be kind.
Be thankful.
Be Ashley.
Pray for Guidance.
Learn the lesson.
Find strength in flexibility.
Laughter is a balm, apply frequently.
Wholehearted is a risk worth taking.

Photo walking along SS163. Real life unfolds along the way. Notice the guardrail just below the trees? Next trip, I’ll catch a better image, for my focus will have changed.

Dear Reader, what are your Ten Laws? What keeps you on track? What, Beloved, are your guardrails? XO, Ash

1. Positano by John Steinbeck