There are roughly five million lessons I need to learn from him – how to lay down in the snow and watch the flakes blow, how to ask for help when I need it most, how to ski with my eyes closed. How to pay attention. When to pay attention. To whom to pay attention to.
Martin has gumption. He’s unafraid of anything, except when pretending there’s an avalanche, which makes me do a shake-dance back and forth until he laughs, breaking character, saying ‘I'm just kidding.'
I'm entering the phase of adulthood where I get it. I get that my actions affect others, that I'm responsible for my own happiness and that sometimes my happiness bumps into someone else’s and steals a bit of theirs. And when that happens, I know.
Our days are filled with apologies, from both of us.
I’m sorry, I was distracted. Tell me again.
I’m sorry I pulled your hair, when combing it.
I’m sorry I wasn’t listening.
I forgive you.
I forgive you, too.
I forgive you, too.
It’s a tricky balance – attempting relationships without attaching guilt. Shaming and controlling – no matter how unintentional – is easier. It’s the card that works (on the outside) – the one that will produce external results our immediate culture will appreciate. The one that makes people in the ski lift line smile at how well-behaved that little boy with the red helmet is, and oh goodness, look at how good he skis?
I don’t want it. I don’t want the approval or the compliance or the perfection.
I want to gift them with the understanding. The understanding that we’re imperfect creatures who make wrong decisions, often and always. That this is why we need something – someone – larger than us to fall into. That we forgive others because we’ve been forgiven. That we apologize – not to release guilt from our hearts but to welcome grace into it.
These seem like big concepts, more layered and nuanced than the guilt card. More delicate than negative consequences or quick threats or obedience claims. They take some explaining, some knees-down-eyes-locked-hands-in-mine kind of conversations. They take some burnt eggs, some “running late!” messages, some exhaustive reiterations. They take some modeling. More doing, less talking. More showing, less telling. Endless encouragement; unconditional acceptance.
And they take gumption, I think.
But one of us happens to have that in spades (Martin).
And another other one is taking notes (me).
