I sure wish I could say that a lifetime of self work has freed me from judgements and prejudices. But, sadly, I’m not that evolved; like everyone, I’ve got a whole lot of work to do. As it turns out, I still need a sharp slap now and then to right-size my own preciousness and hold that of others with a little more compassion.
I’m talking here about the middle-aged American couple I’ve mostly tried to avoid in these last few days of our West Highlands walk. I know that Mary too has found them to be a bit odd, and yet she does not let that deter her civility or interest. She’s been gracious, friendly and engaging every time we see them.
Not so me.
I’ve found this couple annoying, “kinda creepy,” overly chatty and, as I mentioned in an earlier post, seriously long on pregnant pauses while making uncomfortably intense eye contact. The latter is unbearably uncomfortable for me. Long conversation pauses make my brain itch and my body antsy. Add in overt eye gaze and I want to run screaming from the room. I have to imagine that if there’d been an autism spectrum when I was a child, I would have been on it. I am pretty confident that I am the tree my son (diagnosed with Aspergers) didn’t fall far from.
Instead of owning my own ticks and discomforts, I’ve made them this couple’s fault. They have become The Weird American Couple.
“Don’t turn around,” I whisper frantically to Mary at breakfast. “It’s them.”
Then, as they catch my eye, stand up and head in our direction to say hello:
“Oh shit, here they come.” My finger waving above the eject button on my seat.
As Jack and Jane (let’s protect the innocent with aliases) stood over our breakfast table offering pleasantries and Mary offered hers, I sat tight-lipped and aloof.
Here, then, came the slap. Jane casually mentioned why she and Jack are walking — and have been walking long distance routes like this since 2017. That’s the year a tumor was found in Jane’s brain and she underwent a difficult surgery to remove it. After her treatment she had to learn to eat and walk again. She had to relearn how to talk.
“You may have noticed,” she looked me in the eye – and in that gaze I knew she knew what I’d been thinking.
“It takes me a while to get things out. You were probably thinking ‘They’re crazy!’”
Ouch. OUCH!
Jack (whom I had pegged as “strangely controlling” at one point in the story I was making up about him and “probably an abuser” at another) nurtured and encouraged Jane through her recovery. When Jane said she wanted to walk the 500 mile Camino de Santiago to help improve her gait, he jumped in and stayed by her side every step of the way no matter how slow the going. From there they just kept walking.
Jack and Jane end every day smiling, I’ve noticed, even after a day of rough terrain. In fact, they are always smiling. As if they understand that all of this, every meal, every move, every step is, indeed, precious. The way people who have almost lost something huge, but have it handed back to them, understand the preciousness of it all.
Listening to their story I was not only humbled, I was deeply ashamed. I stared at that shame for some time today knowing I had to own it; knowing the importance of being shown an uncomfortable truth about myself — that is, my tendency to reframe my discomforts and lack of ease as faults in others.
A bit after Jack and Jane headed out, I stepped onto the path. In front of us lay the Devil’s Tower, a long steep climb that most walkers start to dread as soon as they read about it in a guidebook. It lives up to its name. The path was long, steep, and painful on my knees. The overcast day added an air of evil to the climb.
I caught up with Jack and Jane about half way up the Tower. While they were still smiling, cordial even, I could tell they were no longer willing to waste their energy on me. I understood. I had earned this rebuff. They deserved better than the now awe-inspired gaze I offered them. They never asked to be my lesson.
I walked the rest of the way to Kinlochleven in silence.
Mary and I had reservations at the Lochleven Seafood Cafe, which I knew would be the best meal of these weeks of travel. I’d been there before. We weren’t disappointed. I had never had mussels before, believing for many years that I had a shellfish allergy (long story). All I can say is if you’ve never had mussels, Lochleven Seafood Cafe is a fantastic place to start.
Yet, even at this marvelous table laughing and chatting with my dear friend, I carried a lingering disappointment in myself. For failing to be the person I purport to be: kind, open, accepting, non-judgmental.
I am not sure if there was a happy accident today. I’m not sure I felt any ease in being shown myself and seeing in that reflection not quite the person I wish to be.
But there was kindness today. It came in the knowledge that change is possible. It came in the hope that I can make amends by welcoming, rather than rejecting, the next Jack and Jane who cross my path. It came as I washed my face tonight and, looking in the mirror, asked myself for forgiveness.
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