For instance, on the second walk in two below-freezing days, I encountered, again, the laugh of a pileated woodpecker and saw his red crest and sharp beak.
I have also, in the span of a week, encountered two former students while out on the town. One, a bartender, served me a shot and a free beer (a completely surreal, and I'm sure inappropriate experience). The other, a server, bought me an appetizer. I had the crab wontons at P.F. Chang.
It's funny how these chance encounters from my past make me reflect on my life. Both students were in the group of students I taught in my first year of teaching--a year of anxiety and uncertainty for me. Each day made me nervous, but now, looking back, the experience takes on a rosy glow. One student, the bartender, was a student I wrote many detentions for and who I am pretty sure I called home about at least once every few weeks. He could not have been more delighted to see me. He didn't remember I single lesson I taught in my classroom, but he remembered that I cared about what I was doing. I remembered him as a lovable character--he didn't like to necessarily follow rules, but other than that, he was a gem.
Nostalgia makes everything look better.
Another chance encounter left me feeling nostalgic and, unfortunately, full of guilt. While sitting at the patio at P.F. Chang, an indoor patio in a large suburban mall, a friend of my ex-husband's walked by me.
"Ryan!" I couldn't stop myself.
I gave him a hug. We chatted. I asked about his son. We talked about Christmas. And then, I couldn't help it...
"So I guess you see Shawn a lot, huh?" Of course he did. He was one of Shawn's best friends. It was terrible. I felt immediately apologetic--like I owed Ryan an explanation for why I left, like I needed to justify my decision to him, make up for the fact that I ruined his friend's life. I felt ashamed and guilty. So I said, and I believe I said it with genuine compassion, "I hope he's doing well."
"Yeah." Ryan shrugged and thought about it. "He's doing ok."
I still feel like a bad person. In the process of leaving I struggled so much with the idea that I was breaking all the rules. That I was not being loyal. That I was a bad person. That I had no right to leave just because things were difficult. I was a bad wife. A bad girl. Unlovable. An embarrassment.
Of course, this is not true. My brain knows it. My brain knows that I did everything that I could and that my husband, an addict, was choosing not to work on his issues. His addiction made him unhealthy and it was starting to pull me down too. My body knew I had to leave. It showed me by giving me stress-related ailments: shingles, migraines, mysterious rashes on my ring finger. To go on would be to forego my life, in a sense. To forego my health, my independence, my dreams.
My body and brain understand the truth, but as usual, my heart isn't quite on board.
My heart still reels at this chance encounter. It still burns from the guilt. No part of me, even my heart, wants back in the relationship, but I still feel the sting of regret, of shame, of sorrow.
What should I do with this chance encounter? How do I process it?
Maybe I do what I did with the pileated woodpecker. Stand for a moment on the sidewalk and watch it with quiet reflection. Absorb the experience fully for all that it is and examine it from ever angle.
And then, after a few moments of observation, simply do the only thing that makes sense.
Walk on.
No comments:
Post a Comment