During the summer before my junior
year of college, another teacher gave me the same advice. I was spending a week with my friend Erik at
his family’s lake house in Ontario. My
girlfriend of three years had just broken up with me, and this caught me by
surprise and left me devastated. I asked
for an explanation several times, but she provided no specific reasons. This was my first lesson about the
impermanence of love, and this vacation in Canada was just what I needed to get
rid of the blues and start anew. When I
told Erik’s mother about my recent breakup, she said, “Take baby steps and get
back out there.”
I needed to break out of my shell
again, so I started trying things I’d never done before and ended up hurting
myself several times. When I stepped
into a canoe with Erik, I lost my balance and fell overboard and cut my hand
against sharp rocks. When the bleeding
stopped, I wrapped my hands with bandages to cover the large gashes. I decided to go fishing with one hand, and I
caught a small perch that flopped on the dock and hooked me in the leg. I went jet-skiing on the St. Lawrence River
and ended up in the river after the SeaDoo nearly capsized.
After all those mishaps, there was
still one task I was determined to complete, unscathed, by the end of the
week. There is an island in the middle
of the lake nearly a mile offshore. I
wanted to swim there and back, but I was afraid of open water. I hate the thought of slimy, scaly,
monstrous-looking creatures brushing against my skin that disappear before I can
identify my foe. In the water, I am a
vulnerable visitor. I am out of my
natural element. But I needed to lean
into that fear and discomfort so that I could learn to accept their inevitable
presence in my life.
On the last day of the vacation, I
jumped off the dock and swam beside Erik, who was paddling in a kayak beside me
to prevent outcomes such as drowning or getting run over by a speedboat. I was going to wear goggles, but at the last
minute I decided I did not want to see the fish lurking beneath the
surface. A few times I thought I felt
something bump against my leg, but I chose not to dwell on the
possibilities. I just kept
swimming. I changed strokes to avoid
exhausting one set of muscles and relied on my legs to propel me through the
water. When I reached the island, I
picked up a rock on the shore as a souvenir.
Erik stowed the rock in his kayak,
and I swam beside him as we headed toward the dock near his family’s lake house. I climbed up the ladder, and the water from
my shorts splashed onto the wood. Erik
handed me the rock and then tied up the kayak.
I walked inside the lake house to dry off and change clothes. I put the rock in my bag so that I wouldn’t
forget it.
Now the rock sits in my bedroom,
and every time I look at it I remember what it feels like to make progress and
become unstuck from the past. I needed
to embrace the unfamiliar and the unnatural qualities of this new chapter. Swimming across the lake was a step I wanted
to take to overcome this pain so that I could reemerge a stronger man.
That was five years ago and those
wounds have healed. Now I am taking baby
steps on a new journey, but this time I cannot see the destination and I will
not be carrying any rocks for they are extra weight. I need my lessons to be instilled into me
until they become habits until they blossom into a lifestyle. I am out here to collect qualities to bring
home with me. I am learning to live
slowly and to wait patiently for the things I want. I always remain optimistic about whatever
lies ahead, but then I met a man who tells me the future is not worth rushing
to get to.
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