Road to Ensenada
There used to be a recurring sketch on Saturday Night Live called Toonces the Driving Cat. But, of course, cats can’t drive cars (yet), so each sketch ended the same way: Toonces would swerve off the road and over an embankment.
I wake most days now feeling heavy, futile, and full of emotions I can’t quite unpack.
I feel like I’m in the car with Toonces.
This morning I found myself needing to listen to “The Road to Ensenada” by Lyle Lovett on repeat.
I suppose you could take the song literally—a narrator sharing part of a story, but focusing mostly on the leftover effects of the story itself. I’ve always felt like this song lives in a liminal space.
Fatigue. Refuge. Pain.
The song moves seamlessly between brokenness and hope. And like the narrator, I’m tired. I feel heavy. Broken.
But still, I move one step at a time.
I talk a lot in sessions about the reality of being wounded. It is natural for humans to guard our weaknesses. We do this all the time with our bodies—crossing our arms over our torso or lowering our chin to protect our necks.
But if we don’t allow existing wounds to go through the process of healing, they will inevitably reopen.
Sometimes healing doesn’t mean fixing everything. Sometimes it means finding somewhere safe enough to be wounded for a while.
“The Road to Ensenada” feels like one of those places.
A place where you can rest your tender wounds.
It is okay.