Default Settings
The lights never stop blinking. As I open my car door, I am met with the familiar and inviting — yet arguably concerning — red and yellow icons appearing on my dashboard. Some flashing in warning and others glaring unmovingly, the dash lights of my Chevrolet Tahoe are the same colors as my two least favorite traffic signals, thus bearing unfavorable connotations. After almost two complication-free years, the symbols feel as redundant and meaningless as my mother’s hopeless remarks on my less-than-perfect posture. Of my parents, my father and I are far more alike; we both appreciate stand-up comedy and strong coffee. However, in terms of automobiles, he nitpicks what I opt to brush under the protective floor mats. And he really cannot stand my blinking, glowing, multi-color dashboard. Attempting to fix it, he reached into an obscured compartment and retrieved a dust-veiled control panel, alleging that our solution was located on the world’s smallest circuit board.
Indeed, there was an issue with the circuit board, but I glazed right over it. As humans, we possess a default circuit board, a control panel of robotic emotion and pre-programmed reaction. So often, I challenge the default instincts of my wires and switches. Such instincts push me to trudge through my days on autopilot, trapped in a self-centered haze. Such instincts, I relentlessly combat. That is, I have begun the process of rewiring; on the road of life, I choose not to ride shotgun.
Occasionally, I still end up in the passenger seat. My mother always navigates the twists and switchbacks of the mountain roads leading to Camp Mont Shenandoah, an oasis where I’ve unlocked the value of mental presence. One summer, two weeks into my fourth year, I recall sitting in my Wellness class, reclining in my tie-dye Crazy Creek chair. My counselor, Anna, encouraged us to lie back on the dew-sprinkled grass and allow our eyes to close, the inside of our eyelids still glowing from the gentle sun. Once we were settled, sprawled about the green among the dandelions, Anna spoke. Her voice was soothing and constant. She said, “every day, we have a choice. We can live on autopilot, or take control of our lives and decisions.” Her words have come back to me intermittently since then, each time a blinking reminder that irritation and anger and exasperation are optional. Anna’s prose was a tool, keeping me upright as I teetered on the precipice of default emotion.
I’ve continued to add to my toolbox. I write poems. I walk miles on end. I meditate on the free trial of my Calm app and I blog (unbeknownst to my friends). At camp, guided by Anna’s advice, I stopped waiting robotically for the battery-powered clock to indicate dinner-time. Instead, I soaked in every second of everything. Standing in line for fried chicken, my head steeped in dehydration and contentment, I realized six weeks was a time far too ephemeral to count down.
So, I stopped counting. Thanks to my toolbox, the switches I’d never thought to flip and wires I’d never thought to tug have shifted my default setting further and further from autopilot. It's odd to be back in control, yet easier to suppress my automatic reaction to slouch upon my mother’s comments on my posture. But, here I am: back in the driver’s seat, with countless six-week sets reflected in my rearview mirror. Some of which I hardly recall; I was speeding by too quickly.
Abiding by the flickering red and yellow lights of my dashboard, colors I no longer despise, I have promised myself to stop and slow down; if not, I risk racing past, blinded by the default settings of my circuit board. I am not the only one on the road. I am in stand-still, bumper-to-bumper traffic with every other person in this life, and relying on autopilot is nothing short of fatal.
