Holding the Stone

Don and I have been running partners for over a decade.  It's amazing how much you can share in ten years of long runs together. There's been a lot of time to talk during our time pounding the NYC pavement and chug, chug, chugging up hills.  The things we've shared in those talks have made us close friends.

     I met Don and his family at church. I've been on weekend retreats with his wife and children, I've been to their home for dinner. Since Don is also a Methodist pastor, when Mike and I finally decided to get married, my friend officiated our Wedding Cookout.
     After 20+ years of marriage, Don and his wife are getting divorced, and anyone who's been through a divorce knows that it's awful even under the "best" of circumstances.  The last time Don and I ran together, it was obvious that although he was the initiator and feels that ending their relationship is the right choice, he's devastated.  He misses his children, he misses his church community (he lost custody of us~), and he misses a name he made for himself, because his name is being muddied a bit.  There are hard feelings.  Blame has been placed squarely on the shoulders of the one who left.
     I've been an outside observer of their marriage for years.  And while I've offered my two cents at times, I've mostly tried to listen and offer support... and stay out of it.
     I was still just a confidante and running partner until I received an email from Don's wife about a week after our last run together.  She wanted to know if I could call her when I got a chance.
     My first thought was that something bad had happened to my friend.  He'd been so unhappy when I saw him.  Was he hurt?  And worse, had he hurt himself?  I immediately emailed her back with my phone number.
     The phone rang and there we were together, unsure of how to go about this.  Had we ever talked on the phone before?  I couldn't remember, but it was odd in that moment, under the circumstances. After a minute of niceties, she took a breath and I held mine.  I thought I was prepared for the worst.
     "Stories have come up that my husband was romantic with his running partner, and the only running partner I knew was you.  So, I'm sorry to ask you this... but were you and my husband ever romantically involved?"
     What?
     My face registered the shock but she couldn't see. I shook my head like I was dizzy from a solid blow to the head. Caught off-guard was an understatement. I told her, no, that her husband and I had never been anything more than friends, that our relationship had always been platonic. I sat on the other end of that line with my mouth agape as she continued on, justifying her call by saying "a number of women" had come forward. What that meant, I don't know. She said that she could have just asked Don but probably wouldn't have believed his answer if he'd denied it.  She had thought that if she asked me, she would be more certain.  She thanked me and, again, said that she was sorry to ask.
   
     If you're sorry to ask, you probably shouldn't.

     During our phone conversation, I had somehow managed to keep the focus off the personal affront and on the person in pain on the other end of the line.  But after I hung up, a righteous fire started in my belly.  How dare she?!  Who does she think I am?  How could she belittle our friendship?  Accuse me of an affair?
     When I told Mike about the phone call and the accusation, he shouted, "He married us!"  I nodded as my husband told me that if he were me, he would have told that woman that she had no right to call and that she needed help.  His indignation made me feel good and justified in my righteousness.
     It's been months since all this went down, and I'm still having trouble processing it. It still sits in my stomach like a stone... a stone I'd like to throw... hard.

     What I've come up with is this. There are two lessons that resonate... at least two that I can pinpoint.  I'm sure there will be more.

1. There are times when it's just not about us.  It's not personal.  People are in pain and they think, do, and say all kinds of crazy. Those dark times can swallow people whole and sometimes, like a drowning man, they pull others into the swells with them.  They're not trying to hurt others; they're trying to save themselves.
2. Righteousness is dangerous... and impossible to sustain.  As righteous as I have felt, and as angry as I've been, I have to remember that I've had my own dark times.  I've thought, done and said all kinds of crazy. Others offered me grace when I didn't necessarily deserve it, and were able to see past the injury I'd inflicted to my own personal pain.  It's valuable to remember that someone paid it forward for me now that it's my turn to do it for someone else.  

     I still see Don's wife at church.  We don't acknowledge each other - she may be embarrassed, angry or a host of other things, and I'm still unsure how to be more gracious than just being hands-off.  

     I'd really like to throw that stone.  I'd like to cock my arm back and send that baby flying.  I'd like to angrily hurl a rock high into the air.  I'm just not sure where I want it to land. Too much pain out there already.

     The longer I hold the stone, the cooler and smoother it feels between my fingers.  I rub it like a worry stone.  It will stay here, as a reminder.

Real Simple

     The past week felt overwhelming.  Too many responsibilities, follow-ups, and deadlines.  I know you've been there, felt that, too.  Who hasn't?  It's not fun.
     Man, was I glad to come home from work to find this in my pile of mail:

     Real Simple Magazine.  I love simplicity.  I needed some simplicity.
     I scanned the cover.  "Holiday Entertaining Made Easy"?  We'll see about that.  Most of the time, I can't manage to find time to make dinner for myself here in quiet October, and when I do, I'm eating over the sink. You think I can do it for a bunch of people during the most hyped-up social season of the year?  Thanks for the faith in me, Real Simple.  I think you're Real Deluded, but maybe I'm missing something.  Maybe life is simpler than I thought.  That's news to me.
     I opened the magazine to a full-page, full-color advertisement.  I turned the page to another glossy ad, and another, and another, and another.  Apparently Real Simple is actually Real Interested In Selling Me Stuff.  I wouldn't have thought that rejuvenating skin care, hair products, and salad dressing would simplify my life; they sure weren't simplifying my magazine reading experience.
     I started to get annoyed. This wasn't helping my feelings of high anxiety at all.
Finally, I got a non-advertising reprieve: The Letter From The Editor page.  But wait...

     This is the photo of the editor of Real Simple.  

     Hmm.

     I don't know about you, but the only time I may have sat on stairs in a nice dress might have been in high school after being dumped by a boy at a formal dance.  I would not have been smiling.  I would have been slumped over, sprawled out and sobbing.  How is this photo realistic? Doesn't the editor of Real Simple magazine have a Simple Chair to sit in?  Maybe a divan or love seat?  She really has to resort to Simply Stairs?  And where is she?  Is she working from home?  Is she at someone else's home, doing an interview?  Please, God, if it's your house, get your guest off the stairs!  And who thought this was a photo that screams REAL SIMPLE?  There is nothing simple about this.  It is Real Silly.

     I stared at this photo and snorted.  Please.

    Of course I was not going to find simplicity in the pages of a magazine. The tougher truth, though, is that I am never going to find solutions in anything outside of myself. Being overwhelmed happens inside - it's all internal - and the only thing, the only person who can stop it, is me.

     Not easy, but simple.  Real simple.

Friendly Skies

     When the flight representative scanned my boarding pass, the machine printed out a receipt.
     "You're moved up to first class.  Enjoy your flight, and happy Friday," he said. Happy Friday is right! I thought.  I had no worries about overhead space and a free drink waiting for me to kick off my happy hour.  It's the little things in life that make me happy.
     I settled in and took out my book, and half-watched as everyone else lumbered onto the plane, jostling bags and ushering small children.
     A hulking man stopped in front of me and I smiled.  "You in here with me?" I asked.  His mouth tightened and bunched up and he nodded.  I stood up and he brushed past, dropping into the window seat.
 
     We were close to being fully boarded, and a gentleman from the back came forward with a bag. The flight attendant told him he could look for extra overhead space in first class and he began the hunt.
    My seat-mate pursed his lips and puffed out a "Pfft!"  He leaned into me, shaking his head.  "There's always one.  Come on, guy!  You know it's a regional plane.  Just check your bag as you board like everyone else instead of making us late."
     I nodded. "I hear you," I said.  "I don't travel with much, so I get annoyed when someone's giant wheelie cart takes up all the space and I can't fit my small bag anywhere."
    "Oh, you mean like this one?" He hitched his thumb forward to indicate the woman seated directly in front of me.  "Did you see that bag?  That's not a bag, that's a steamer trunk, and they let her on with it.  Unbelievable."
     "I hear you," I said again.  "You coming or going?"
     "Heading home... finally," he emphasized.
     "Traveling for work?"
     His mouth tightened again and his thick mustache looked like a dancing caterpillar.  He nodded. "Lotta work.  Doing more and making less.  Isn't that always the way."  He said it like a statement, as if, yes, it is always the way, no doubt about it.
     "Seems like it's been that way for most of the country lately," I offered. "Been a challenging time for many."
     "I guess. Some people just take advantage though."
     Maybe this wasn't a conversation I wanted to have, so I waited for the moment to pass.  The man turned to look out the window and I went back to concentrating on my book.
 
     The plane door was closed, but we weren't moving.  I glanced over and the big man with the mustache and tight mouth had closed his eyes.
     Twenty minutes passed.
     "What did they say?" he asked me.
     "They haven't said anything," I replied.
     "LaGuardia sucks. I hate flying through here."
     "I think Newark and JFK have two runways and LGA has one, so everything gets clogged up pretty fast," I offered.
     "Just get me out of this town," he grunted.
     "Aw," I grinned. "New York has some sweet spots."
     "New York City is a sh*thole," he retorted. "I saw everything there was to see in my 20s."
     It was my turn to purse my lips. I tried again. "I think that NYC amplifies everything.  A good day here feels like a great day, because you don't expect it.  And not for nothing, the city is always changing.  There are some really beautiful places if you know where to find them."
     "I don't want to find 'em.  New York City's not for me."
     "I'll take it off your hands," I half-smiled.
   
     He was wearing a royal blue polo shirt, but he was a giant black hole of negativity.  I was starting to really look forward to my free gin and tonic and shutting him out.  It's tough to fight the pull of that vortex, of someone else's muck.  I was already tired.
     We finally got in the air and holy mother of God, I was handed a drink that I gripped with both hands.  I took a first sip, laughed, and said to the flight attendant, "You pour like you're pouring for family!"
     The flight attendant winked and said, "I pour like I'm pouring for myself."  
     "They can't control how much alcohol's in there - they just have those little bottles," Mr. Black Hole chimed in.
     "All I know is that he must have used two or three of those in this.  I know a strong drink."  I held my glass out to him.  "Cheers," I said. "Happy Friday."  He looked at me strangely (I'm used to this), and then softened.  I actually saw him smile.
     "Happy Friday."
   
     Our conversation started and stopped like a teenager learning to drive a stick-shift.  He made statements.  I asked questions and tried to offer up something easy and positive.  He wanted none of it, but he somehow still wanted to talk.  My mind was melting a little from the gin and the altitude, and I was grateful.  I had decided to write this blog post, a scathing story about the *sshole next to me on the plane, so I started to jot notes in my notebook, recording it all.
     I asked him if he enjoyed wine from his home in the Finger Lakes region, and he scoffed that he'd drink it if nothing else was available.  He said that winemakers were getting fancy with "hi-breds" and that he didn't care for "hi-breds."  His only question to me was what I was doing in the Finger Lakes, and I replied that I sometimes came up to work with friends who were winemakers.  I admit, I felt a little smug saying it. We talked a bit about tequila, which led us to Sammy Hagar (Cabo Wabo), and we shared a laugh that we'd both seen Hagar's "I Can't Drive 55" tour.  I told him that my husband Mike and I had sampled a bit of tequila in the Yucatan.
     And maybe it was the mind-melt that makes it hard for me to remember exactly, but I said something about Mike... something that implied a happiness, and the man shook his head.
     "Must be nice."
     I lit up inside.  "It is.  It really is."
     "I've been getting divorced for 10 years now."  He had been looking down, but then turned to face me.  It was the first time I really saw his blue eyes.  Man, they were so bright blue, and yet, so sad.
     "That's tough," I said. "Ten years?"  He nodded slowly.  It was as if all of him was starting to release, to let go. Everything was spilling out.
     "Kids won't talk to me. Mother's turned them against me.  I try to reach out, I try.  They're teenagers, though.  They don't want to hear. And the woman I'm seeing now?  The one I told you I'm going to do the Bourbon Trail with?  She's not the one. I figured that out but I don't know what to do."
Suddenly this hulking man seemed small.  All the bluster had left him and he was just another broken, lonely kid.
     The announcement came over the loudspeaker that we were preparing for landing.
     "At least you've figured it out now, that she's not the one.  Better to know now, right?"  We were quiet. "I'm sorry," I finally said.  More quiet.  "Listen, I don't know you.  I don't even know your name."
     "It's Glen."
     "Hey Glen, I'm Stephanie."  I tried to put the words together. "Sometimes we tell things to people on a plane that we'd never tell to someone who knows us.  Take it for what it is, but all I can say is keep trying with your kids.  They're in pain, just like you.  Your wife is in pain, just like you.  And if you don't want more pain, end a relationship that you know isn't right.  You're not needing more pain, and neither is your girlfriend. I'm sorry.  I'm sorry it's painful."
     And I was.

     And I'm sitting here this morning, thinking about how many people are in so much pain that they're angry all the time.  And I'm thinking about how exhausting it is to encounter them and to try and rise above.  But more, I'm thinking about how quickly things can shift with the right space and time and a willingness to be affected.

     How fragile we are.