TheBanyanTree: (no subject)

[Pat M]

The Gift in Giving



Late summer of this year, I had a most unusual experience. I walk my dog
Rascal daily, almost always in winding trails in the woods, and usually go
with a friend. Rather than sit over a pot of tea, I use this time to
connect while getting some exercise and enjoying the outdoors. There’s
nothing more fulfilling than someone trusting me to share their feelings
with, and nothing better than knowing the person I am­­­ with can be told
anything – the good and bad in my life, the hurts and the joys – and that I
am accepted.

On this particular day, however, all of my walking buddies were either
occupied or out of town and so I set out on my own, driving towards one of
my favourite trails.  En route one passes a road blocked to vehicular
traffic that I seldom walk. In my estimation, a flat, straight road can’t
compare to the twists and turns, ups and downs of the narrow mossy trails I
prefer.

That day, for reasons unknown, I felt compelled to stop and walk what I
consider that rather boring route. Rascal is blind but one of the happiest
and most loving of creatures I have ever kn­­­own. He is content wherever
we walk, and so we set out, he prancing along and I deep in reflective
thought, enjoying the solitude and silence.

After some time I saw a single figure on a bicycle coming towards me and as
it neared I recognized Sandy (name changed), a woman I’d met at the local
dog park on a few occasions. We’d only ever spoken a few words to each
other, but she slowed and stopped.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” she said, but something alerted me her words were untrue. More
intuitive than most, I have an uncanny ability to sense others’ emotions.
As we engaged in some light chitchat, I knew, just knew, something was
amiss, and I felt compelled to address it.

 “Are you feeling sick? I can hear something in your voice.”

“Why are men such assholes?” she erupted, and then burst into loud
anguished sobs.

Immediately, I went to her and held her. After a while, she regained
control and began to tell me of her relationship and how much it was
hurting her.

“He doesn’t hit me but he torments me, continually. I need to get out.”

Her unhappiness poured out of her, words tumbling over each other until
they again dissolved into long heart-rending wails.

This time I asked if I could hug her (as I should have done initially).

“Please do,” she said and I wrapped my arms around her, comforting her as
best I could. When her sobs subsided, I told her my story.

I had been in her position.

“I told myself that once my daughter left home, I would leave, but when it
happened, I couldn’t go; I was afraid of my husband’s anger. It took me
another 2 or 3 years before I found the courage to do it,” I confided.

“I’m scared. I know how difficult he’s going to make it.”

“I was scared too, but I did it and so can you.” I paused, evaluating
whether to sugar-coat the truth or tell it like it is. I opted for the
bitter pill.

“It’s not going to be easy but you will get through it, and you’ll feel so
much better. I used to carry a terrible feeling in my stomach all the time;
I was constantly upset. It’s gone now. Life is short; there isn’t much time
(like me, she is retired)­­­­­­­­­­­­. If you want any happiness you’ve got
to do it.”

“Do you ever wish you’d done it sooner?” she asked.

“Yes, I do, but mostly I am just filled with gratitude that I was able to
do it at all. My life changed for the better. I’m happy now.”

Sandy dabbed her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose noisily.

“I wasn’t planning on walking this trail today. I believe we were meant to
meet,” I said with wonder.

“Neither was I,” she said. “I think you’re right.”

We stood in silence. Something had led both of us to discard our plans so
that we both traveled that road at the same time. How did she know she
could be her authentic self with me, and reveal her total and utter misery,
and that I would accept her? How did I know the right words to soothe her?

Her tense face relaxed for a moment.

“Thank you so much Pat,” she said. “I always knew you were a good person.”

“You can do it!”

Our meeting touched me deeply; I live for moments like that when I feel I
have made a positive difference in someone’s life.  For the rest of the
walk I marveled at our chance meeting.

A few days later, we ran into each other at the dog park. I arrived just as
she was getting in her car to leave. The usual group of dog owners and dogs
congregated nearby, and we had no privacy to speak. Our gaze met and held.

“I have to go,” she said apologetically.

“You can do it.” I whispered.

I didn’t see her after that, and summer gave way to fall. I didn’t know how
to contact her and couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing.

Nearly four months later, I stood at the till in Staples when out of the
corner of my eye I saw her make a beeline towards me – Sandy.

“I’ve been thinking of you and wanted to contact you but I didn’t know how
to. You saved my life that day you know,” she said.

She grabbed me and gave me a long, tight hug, seemingly oblivious to
everyone around us.

Still holding my shoulders, she backed up and stared into my eyes.

“I’m alive today because of you – seriously. Thank you! Thank you! Thank
you!”

I saw strength in her that hadn’t been there before.

“I’ve left him and I’ve started going to AA. I’m two months sober and I
have support now. It’s not easy but I’m doing it.”

“Good for you! I’m so happy to hear that! Thank you.”

“No, thank you!”  ­­

Addictions run rampant in my family and I shared that with her.

“So you understand then.”

“Yes, I do.”

 “Lots of good karma coming your way!”

 She smiled, patted my shoulder once more, and then left to do her
shopping.just as the clerk finished my transaction Sandy returned. She
hugged me and thanked me again.

“Lots of good karma coming your way,” she said.

There is no doubt that Sandy had desperately needed to hear my words that
day in the forest, and they had inspired her to take action. And I was
given a gift too, the privilege of helping another find her way through the
twists and turns, ups and downs of this winding road called life.