Karma and the Luv Bug

Ever been schooled by karma? Did you laugh when the lesson finally hit? Or were you bewildered and confused by the circumstances?

That day, for me, happened many years ago when I was a young man. I made a terribly poor decision: I chose not to write my name and real phone number on a piece of paper and leave it on the windshield of the car I had just backed into. Something deep inside me knew exactly what I should do. But there's always free will. As any spiritually mature person eventually learns, we are free to choose our actions, but never free to escape their consequences. So despite what my intuition was telling me, I ignored it and allowed universal law to become my teacher.

So what did I do — with the car I'd just banged into? I looked around, saw no one was watching, and I left. Now don't laugh or condemn. A whole lot of folks in the city I lived in might have done the same damn thing. My justification: no money, no desire to get shot. Fear and survival have their own logic.

But karma has a longer memory.

A few weeks later — maybe a month, though it felt sooner, honestly, like it was timed just right to make sure I fully understood — I got my lesson. A blessing in disguise. A real humdinger.

Middle of the night. Tires screeching. Someone turns the corner too fast and slams right into my little 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. My love bug. My beautiful little car carefully parked by the curb.

I threw on a robe, slid into my flip-flops, because I could hear the assailant trying to escape — barely steering his own busted car down the street, one wheel bent, the other straight. A hit and run. Not on my watch. By the time I got outside I was running down the street, hollering, hands flailing up at the night sky. Chasing a car. In flip-flops. In a robe. In the middle of the night. Like a fool.

Then I stopped. Epiphany.

I looked around. Thankfully — and I mean thankfully — no one was there to see it. I must have looked ridiculous, Car Wash-style, afro flapping wildly in the air. And I just started laughing and shaking my head at myself. At my foolishness. And also, honestly, in awe of the divine wisdom revealing itself right there on the sidewalk.

Karma was there to teach me. "You reap what you sow," as Jesus might have said, is a law none of us can escape. But we can elevate our behavior so we stop creating the kind of karma that comes back just to — let's be honest — kick you in the butt.

What few understand is this: the Universe acts like a giant mirror, reflecting our thoughts and actions right back at us. Delayed, but inevitable. The wisdom is simple. Be a kind, loving individual. You might as well — you can't leave the cycle of life and death on this planet until you do. How can you elevate in consciousness, to a Christ-like level, if you hurt or harm others? Or disregard the very planet you live on? It can't be done.

Where I grew up, toughness wasn't just admired. Sometimes it felt necessary. None of us liked walking around the big city with a bullseye on our backs. So we played the tough guy. Or the tough gal. We were taught to do it from an early age. My older brother and my father taught me. My culture and community did the rest. And we did things—some unknowingly, some we justified—believing karma would somehow skip over us. That we were the exception. Too smart. Too slick. Like the smooth criminal who's sure they'll never get caught.

But karma don't miss. It comes to correct. To instruct. To teach.

One of the greatest truths out there is this: no one is out to punish or torment us for our deeds, though at times it may feel that way on a planet with so much instability. Not every hardship is the result of our own karma. We live in a world shaped by nature, chance, and the choices of countless other people. Yet many of the lessons that most deeply transform us do arise from the consequences of our own actions. We'd rather blame someone else—or say, "the devil made me do it"—instead of accepting responsibility where it truly belongs. The greater truth is that we are, largely, co-creators of our own lives. That applies to individuals just as much as it does to nations. This is karma. Cause and effect.

But, and this matters, your learning doesn't have to come from direct pain. You can listen. You can hear the wisdom in the stories of others. That's what the stories, African fables, church lessons, poems, and songs in my community were meant to do. They carried the wisdom of generations before us, waiting for us to listen.

You could listen. Or not. In my community, the common saying was, "What goes around, comes around."

Or you can do like I did, many years ago, and be a knucklehead and step into the School of Hard Knocks. That's how it works. The consequences of karma are delayed, intentionally, by divine design — because if karma were instant, we'd all self-destruct in a day. I laughed when I realized that too, because I knew I'd come close to self-destruction more than a few times in my young life. But for the grace of God.

I grew up in L.A., where everyone is a player, a performer living in Tinseltown. A city of fine cars and bright lights. I knew the stakes, but my culture demanded a certain performance. The results could be harsh, and the consequences permanent. Being hard and tough was a means of survival—a mask that I wore. Effective. . . Maybe, under certain circumstances — being tough can mean standing up for yourself and others, with courage, with heart.

But in that moment, in the middle of the night, I was thinking about something else: the sheer silliness of my own behavior. What would I have done if I’d actually caught up to the getaway car? In flip-flops and a robe, huge afro flying in the night? Made a citizen’s arrest? The absurdity of it hit me all at once. I became the outsider watching myself. The observer.

I had made a mistake — perhaps a significant one — and the consequences nearly totaled my car. That was all the proof I needed. I went through a real shift in consciousness. Ever since that night, whenever I’m tempted to convince myself that “just this once” won’t matter, I remember a little Volkswagen Beetle, a robe, a pair of flip-flops, and the shortest foot chase of my life.

Some lessons arrive with thunder.

Mine arrived with a Luv Bug.

Continue the journey...
— uMdali Light 🌿