|
I woke up with too much energy that morning—the kind that a walk
with Jake the Wonder Dog would not clear. I needed to burn it out. So I
drove to the gym early to swim.
Just
before I stepped onto the pool deck, I remembered the master swimmers usually
filled the lanes at that hour. And in the next breath came a thought I hadn’t
had in years: I wonder if
he’ll be there.
He
was.
Chest-deep
in water stood the man who’d "driven" me out of my last job over ten years ago.
The boss I’d dreaded. Begged to be reassigned from. The presence that used to
tie my stomach in knots.
But
the part that surprised me?
I
felt… nothing.
Not
fear. Not anger. Not even the twinge of an old injury. Just neutrality. Two
aging humans in swimsuits, both trying to get through the morning.
I wasn’t going to write about it—figured it was a “me thing,” an
odd universal wink I didn’t need to share.
But
then two days passed.
I
was back in the gym parking lot when another old memory surfaced. A guy from a
spin class twenty years ago who used to taunt me endlessly for wearing my
Steelers hoodie. Every loss or win he had something to say. (For the record, yes, I’m
a Steelers fan—but really, I wore that hoodie because it hid my rear end. I’ve always been
self-conscious about it.)
After
a year of taking it with a smile, I snapped
back, singing the lyrics of a song playing in class—“Why you gotta be so rude?
Don’t you know I’m human too?”—right to him. It was petty, but satisfying at the time.
As
this memory replayed in my mind, I sat down at the weight machines… and in
walked that very same man. Only now, he moved slowly. He leaned on a cane. A
trainer helped him set up each machine.
And
again, the strangest, calmest feeling: neutrality.
No
sting. No heat. No internal monologue rehearsing never uttered comebacks. Just a quiet
wish that he be well. (And burning embarrassment at our last interaction.)
I’ve
been reading Welcome to
the Hyunam-Dong Bookshop, a recommendation from a friend in Centering Group (review below). The line she shared that hooked me was: “I’m rooting for your happiness.” So
gentle. Generous.
What struck me
about running into these two beings from my past wasn’t the coincidence. It was
the impermanence of the power I had given them.
Time had dissolved
it. Perspective had diluted it. I could see them lucidly now—just people. Not
villains. Not threats. Not triggers.
Just humans passing
through my morning.
And maybe that’s
the nagging gift the universe was offering:
If my mind could
release them, maybe one day soon it can release those impacting
me now.
Am I ready to root for their happiness?
Not quite yet.
But maybe,
just maybe, I’m less willing to hand them the keys to mine.
|
