Tag: friendship

Cycling

I cycled the Katy Trail – at least part of it – last weekend with a couple of my best friends from college.

It was an interesting trip, and, as usual for these types of unusual experiences, highly informative. I learned so much. About Missouri. About my friends. And mostly about myself.

Central Missouri, at least along the Missouri River, is a beautiful, largely friendly place. For most of the ride we had the river on one side and bluffs on the other. The river is huge, much beefier than anything I’m used to seeing, and the bluffs are either exposed and looming or covered in vegetation and towering. Trailside trees make canopies in spots, tunnels in others. And when the river is away from the trail, fields of corn and soybeans cover the floodplain. The folks in the towns along the trail are welcoming. Very open and very helpful (with the exception of one intimidating general-store owner). And they love their Cardinals if shirts and hats are an accurate indication of such sentiments. . . .

Our ride went from Boonville to St. Charles, about 155 miles, with another 20-ish in side trips to Jefferson City and Hermann, over 4 days. It is the longest ride by far either of my friends have made, and so it tested them. It was easier for one than the other.

My first friend has arthritis and is significantly overweight, though he has been losing weight for a few months, and he did prepare for the ride by going on regular weekend rides in Chicago. He also drew the short straw on the rented bikes, getting the oldest and biggest and heaviest bike among the three of us. He struggled physically, slowing as the day and days went along. His arthritis affected him as he stayed in the same position on the bike for hours, and he spent a lot of the first couple days deep in the pain cave. He never complained, but it seemed to me that he often wondered if he’d be able to finish the ride. On the third day his rear wheel went way out of true, so we passed the bike around – when he was on one of the other bikes, his ride felt a lot better, which lifted his mood, and the fourth day he got a new bike, which made a huge difference in how he felt. It was so gratifying to see him finish the ride and to see in him the pride that comes with completing something that is really hard to do.

My other friend had the opposite experience: he was the nervous one going into the ride, but when we got started he was nearly euphoric with how manageable he found it. He’s been training consistently for nearly a year now, and he dedicated a large part of his training in the weeks leading up to the ride to the bike. That preparation paid off big time. He could easily handle the pace and the distance, and the confidence that bloomed the first day just continued to grow over the rest of the trip. He was very pumped by the end, and so excited that he started talking about other trips we could do.

As for me, I enjoyed the ride, but for different reasons than I expected. I always like spending time with these friends, and being with them for 4 consecutive days was no strain at all. But where I thought the ride itself might be the background for more vivid interactions with my buddies it actually became the centerpiece of the time we spent together. We pedaled probably over 17 hours, and over that time I became first aware and then deeply appreciative of the act of cycling in a way I’ve never felt before. I realized that being outdoors, in nature, moving myself through space, gave me a deep and profound joy that was even more satisfying because it was also unexpected. That I got to share that joy with close friends added to the delight.

I wouldn’t hesitate to reprise the experience, preferably with company and even more preferably with the specific company I had on this ride, but my biggest learning was that I can enjoy such a trip even if I made it alone.  And I like knowing that.

Empathy

I’m pretty sure our current malaise is self-inflicted.

After all, we choose what we think and what we do, and we’re choosing to think bad things of other people and to do things to punish them for their transgressions. Or at least to stop them from doing whatever we’re sure they’re going to do to us.

We seem to have lost empathy for our fellow people.

Giving whoever we meet the benefit of the doubt.

Assuming other people are just doing their best every day, the same as we are.

Instead we choose to believe that other people want to harm us, take advantage of us to further their own ends, force us to do things we don’t want to do. We’ve vilified great swaths of professions – politicians, journalists, scientists, business people – under the assumption that their members have a common agenda that trumps their professionalism and the many years of training and experience.

The saying – its author is in dispute, or I’d attribute it here – that we don’t see things as they are, we them as we are, resonates strongly with me.

If I want to impose my view of the world on others, I am going to believe that others want to do the same to me. And if I’m not open to compromise, to experimenting to see what might be the most effective solution to the matter at hand – in other words, if I think I have the one true answer – then I’ll believe that anyone else who doesn’t already agree with me won’t be swayed by my words either.  And that they’re completely wrong.

We all know that relationships take work. You have to tend to them. Trust is the foundation of any healthy relationship, and open, honest and frequent communication is the vehicle to build trust. (Well, along with doing what you say you will, but that’s a topic for another day.) And as we know from our personal experience, communication isn’t just talking. It’s also listening. And it’s also thinking, evaluating what we’re hearing and being willing to modify our decisions if there are good reasons to do so. Because we hadn’t considered a different experience. Because we want others to be happy too. And even because we want to reduce tension in our environment.

Living in a community is a relationship. If we want to have a healthy relationship with the people in our community, we need to communicate with them. Talk, and listen, and think. I’m not suggesting that we abandon our principles or values, subordinate our experiences, or ignore our truths. Just that we try to understand what other people are saying. Listen. And think how we can merge our two truths into one we can both embrace instead of how we can never bridge the divide.

That’s the relationship work we need to do if we want to heal our communities. If we decide we don’t want to make the effort, then we’ll have more of the same acrimony we’ve got today.

And that doesn’t seem to be working for anyone.

Death, cont.

If Greg Russell wasn’t the happiest man on earth, he was in the top two.

He died last night.

The news devastated our neighborhood. We all appreciated Greg’s smiling face on his daily walks with his wife Anne. Greg adored Anne. It was evident whenever you saw them together. Anne teaches piano, and one or the other of our girls (and usually both) were part of her studio for 14 years. They spent time with her every week, and we all love her for her sweetness and joy. We can imagine her grief.

We saw Greg a few times each year, reliably at the December and June recitals, and then occasionally as his walks with Anne around the neighborhood intersected with our lives. But you only needed to meet him once to know him. His face was open, a smile ever present, and his whole being exuded welcome. He was curious, and he had many interests, but his primary interest was whoever he was speaking with.

I will miss him, probably more than I realize. People like Greg are rare. They may not be recognized for great accomplishment, but they are the people who do the precious weaving of outwardly-focused busy people living in separate houses into a community of neighbors. Our neighborhood needs a new weaver.  I hope there is someone to step into that role.

I want to be more like Greg. I am happy (generally). But I am not welcoming (generally). I spend so much time between my own ears that I often ignore others. Not out of spite or boredom but out of obliviousness. So that dye is cast – I am what I am, and what I am is not what Greg was.

At times like this I wonder about my legacy.

When the life of a man I both liked and admired is over and I reflect on his impact, I suppose it’s natural to wonder how I compare. I suspect the famous quote about legacy – that no one remembers what you said or what you did, but they do remember how you made them feel – doesn’t work to my advantage. I am a man of the mind not of the heart (generally) so I’m afraid that I don’t touch people in the same way Greg Russell did.

Then again not many do. I can make peace with that.

As long as I have enough time.

Kindness

The world is a stressful place these days.

Both our agreements and our disagreements feel heightened, packed with more emotion. It doesn’t seem to me that we differentiate or prioritize our feelings now. We expect – or at least demand – complete fealty to all of our values or we sever ties, usually with some choice words to hasten the split. We even approach discussions on significant issues expecting confrontations, so it’s no small wonder that they turn belligerent and end unsatisfyingly. You’re either with me or against me, and not just on one or two important issues but on everything that matters to me. And if you’re against me, then pound sand, because I’m not just the aggrieved party, I’m completely right. Which means not only are you wrong, you’re an a-hole for not recognizing it.

But we’re not happy about it either. Confrontations fester in our minds, we plot to be better prepared the next time the topic comes up, we scheme to create another “discussion” so we can use our newly-minted insights and comebacks. Our minds are being consumed with conflict. And it’s wearing me out.

There is a remedy though. And it’s simple. Though, admittedly, not easy.

Kindness.

Just like your parents taught you once upon a time. Kindness begins with offering others – especially those who don’t see things the same way we do – the benefit of the doubt. We seem to be rather short on doubt any more, but work with me.

I believe two things about people: 1) they are consumed with their own lives and thoughts and feelings – just as I am self-absorbed, no one else is really thinking about me much at all; and 2) they don’t want to hurt me any more than I want to hurt them (which is not at all). As I consider other people and their actions, it would be best if I didn’t judge them at all. That’s unlikely at best though, so remembering these 2 things help me find kindness. (When I remember, that is.)

The ones who vex me are consumed with their own lives, and their experiences and knowledge and assumptions have led them to believe what I find anathematic. I should reach out to understand that perspective. And they didn’t choose their stand to oppose me. They weren’t thinking about me at all, so our disagreements aren’t personal rejections. Emotions don’t need to be part of the discussion if we’re aiming for understanding rather than consensus.

I don’t know if we can disentangle ourselves enough to make these interactions less stressful. But I think we’d all feel better if we did. And so I must try.

Death, cont.

I lost my second friend from college freshman year last weekend.

Joe slipped on ice outside his home in Minnesota and cracked his head a couple months ago. He lingered, but succumbed on Sunday. He was 57.

Deaths bring remembrance. Reflection. Regret. That’s the order I felt them anyway, and it’s the wrong order.

Regret. I hadn’t spoken with Joe since we buried Tim seven years ago after a heart attack killed him while he sat in front of his computer at home. We were making plans to return to our college reunion in June. Instead we’ll be reuniting in Joe’s hometown to bury him. Why didn’t we see each other in the interim? We were close friends during a formative time in our lives, and that bond was strong and eternal, but the usual excuses apply: getting together wasn’t convenient, it was too expensive in time and money, and we had other priorities. And, I suppose, we thought we’d have plenty of time at future reunions. I regret those decisions now.

Reflection. If Joe – and Tim before him – can die suddenly, then I can too. Have I done everything I want? Heavens, no. Do the people I care about know how I feel? I hope so. Am I ready to meet my maker? Do my wife and daughters know what my wishes are? Do they know what to do in my permanent absence? Hell, no. I’m not ready in the least. And neither were Tim and Joe.

Remembrance. This is Joe’s time. I think we all want to be remembered. Joe never married, never had children. What is his legacy?

Joe might very well be the most loyal man this world has ever seen. And he cared about those people who were otherwise overlooked. He lived every minute of 57 years acutely aware of the people who didn’t speak up in class, who sat on the sidelines, who felt left out of central activities. Perhaps because he felt like one of them. He wasn’t handsome or smooth, funny or brilliant. He was, I suppose, an average Joe in things that mattered in youth, which largely involves attracting attention to oneself. No, the size and intensity of his heart made him singular: he cared – deeply – about people, especially the overlooked and underappreciated. Without regard to history, lineage, means, looks. He accepted everyone. Even those who did something cruel (but he let them know how he felt about their cruelty). It was no surprise that he ended up working with convicts. Who in our society is written off more?

I trusted Joe as much as I’ve trusted anyone. When I attempted suicide my sophomore year, it was in front of Joe. He was with me in my despair. He just knew when people were hurting, and he was always there. And I miss that. Knowing that Joe was in the world felt reassuring; he has been someone I could count on since we met as freshmen, no matter how much time elapsed between visits or e-mails or Facebook posts.

My day-to-day life will seem no different with Joe gone, but I’ll know he’s not there. I just hope he left enough kindness and love to help this world he’s left behind.

Joe McCoy