The Way of Honeybunnie

Last week, we got caught in Northern California’s 10th atmospheric river since January 1st. There have now been 12, I think, and this one was a doozy. We were attempting to scoot out of town for a 10-day trip through the Southland. The plan was to drive down Highway 101, dropping in on my college volleyball friends. They are spread out along the California coast; the Stanford volleyball diaspora covers Santa Barbara, Los Angeles and Orange County—so conveniently spaced for a car trip. Kind of like the California missions, except that the day’s donkey ride was replaced by the relative comfort of our Subaru.

I called it my Reconnection Tour, and it was a beautiful thing. We had adventures everywhere: hiking, whale watching, visiting museums, a volunteer shift at a friend’s food sort, a try at wheelchair basketball. At the Motion Picture Museum in LA, we had our very own Oscar moment. (Goofiest, best $15 ever!) But mostly, this was about time with women who have been friends for 40 years.

We set out mid-morning on a Friday. And got as far as Gilroy. Rain fell relentlessly. Streets were flooded. Roads were closed. Dry creek beds swelled to taupe-colored torrents. The freeway ahead was under water. Just over the hill in the town of Pajaro, a levee breached, killing two people and displacing hundreds. We were diverted off 101 at Pacheco Pass and joined a snarled mass of humanity trying to find its way forward, backward, sideways—anywhere away from the water that was drowning the town.

For hours, we sat in traffic that did not move. Or moved very little. It was hard to see, and there was no place to go. We’d try one road, then another, then another. Eventually, we gave up on the idea of bypassing the flood and continuing south. All we really wanted was to turn around and get home.

At one particularly trying juncture, we were trying to make a left from a small country road onto a larger, slightly

faster moving road. We had blown about 30 minutes going maybe a mile, and approached this left turn with relief. At least that traffic was moving. We could turn from snails into tortoises. It would be a bit of a challenge, making this left. The gaps weren’t large, and the oncoming drivers did not appear all that inclined to let people in. But with a little confidence---and care not to do anything foolhardy—I could make this turn. It was do-able.

Except it wasn’t do-able. Not for the driver in front of me, who lacked the confidence to insert himself into the flow. We waited, and waited, and waited some more. He’d release his brakes, move a few inches, and then, BAM! TOO SCARY! The brake lights blazed, over and over again. This went on for a very long time.

“Oh Honeybunnie,” I moaned. “You’re going to have to have a little courage about this.”

Cal laughed.

Honeybunnie is what I call other drivers who annoy me. Some time ago, I decided it was better than “A-hole.” I decided that motorists who cut me off, or fail to signal, or pass on the right, or won’t take turns, or creep along at 20 MPH in a 35 zone—those motorists are not out to get me. They aren’t even thinking about me. I don’t need to react to them. Should I get mad at someone for making me arrive at my destination—what---30 seconds later? Is this worth the upset? I am unlikely to rant now. I am more likely to say, in a long-suffering voice, Honeybunnie, what are you doing?

Somewhere along the way, Honeybunnie became my talisman for patience. For accepting things the way they are. For choosing bemusement over frustration; compassion over anger. For recognizing, in the middle of an epic traffic snarl when thousands of motorists were losing their collective minds, that I actually have it pretty good. I had a fun trip ahead, if we could only get there. I had a safe, warm, dry car. I was not in danger, assuming that I didn’t do anything stupid at the wheel. And this rain? I know it is causing human misery of all types. But like so many things in this world, the dark is laced with light. Life-giving water is falling from the sky on my poor parched state at astounding rates.

Honeybunnie is also a small, stuffed, teal green rabbit who sits on my bed. He’s about eight inches tall and he is very, very soft. I cuddle Honeybunnie frequently, and when I do, I think of Carson. Carson loved rabbits, and Honeybunnie was one of my nicknames for him. When he was about eight years old, he had a surgery that required physical inactivity for weeks afterward. To comfort and divert him, I got him a rabbit, which he named Raspberry. Raspberry had white fur and pink eyes, and he loved her fiercely.

Not long after Carson died, I developed a Christmas ritual to help make the holiday bearable. Each year, I hang Carson’s stocking along with the rest of them. With Carson’s spirit as my companion, I go shopping and we buy all the things he loved: sour candies, stuffed animals, energy drinks, llamas, cheese pizza, street art, rap music, guitars, waffles. I put these things (or representations of them) in his stocking. On Christmas morning, the family takes turns choosing things from the stocking, to keep for ourselves and remember him throughout the year. I still carry a little rubber eraser shaped like a llama around in my robe pocket, from several years ago. I finger it every morning.

This past December, on the day Carson and I went shopping for his stocking, I found the little stuffed rabbit in a gift store in Half Moon Bay. I bought it, named him Honeybunnie, and determined that I would snag him for myself Christmas morning. Which is exactly what I did.

I encounter Honeybunnies on the road of life every single day. Some are thoughtless. But almost none are intentionally mean or malicious. Every single one is an opportunity to choose: frustration or patience? Blame or understanding? Pettiness or grace?

I fail at this choice frequently. But when I do, Honeybunnie is there, ready with a soft, patient reminder: Honeybunnie, he says (because in that moment I am also a Honeybunnie). Do you have to look at it that way?

I do not. And I try to get it right the next time. For the little green rabbit that sits on my bed. For the bright, quicksilver spirit who streaked across my sky and left too soon.