Last week at Seabold Hall on Bainbridge Island Harry and I taught a roomful of enthusiastic humans how to sail to New Zealand in five easy steps. It was a hoot and a holler and Harry’s off-the-cuff comedic chops brought the house down. He opened with “It’s wonderful to see so many people here for a Tupperware party.”
On our way to this presentation, in a series of unrelated events over the last few months, I’ve been working through a concept that has eluded me since I was 17 or maybe since I was born. It’s the idea that everybody is different, that people experience life and events differently than I do. I first heard this novel idea in high school as I was driving a foreign exchange student to our home. Her name was Slavitsa and she was from Slovenia. I was 17 or 18, so I knew everything. I’m driving Slavitsa through a busy area of town and a driver cuts me off. I’m stupidly incensed. I teach Slavitsa some English curse words. She’s quiet and shy and says in her soft, Eastern European accent, “Everybody is different.”
I sat with those words in silence. Her observation seemed so insightful, as if I’d never thought of this in my life. “Everybody is different” gave the terrible driver permission to do things his way, without condemning him. We were just different in our approach to driving. No judgment.
I’ve been reliving this crushingly complicated concept in multiple scenarios since our return from the ocean. Here’s one embarrassing example: At the pool during a Master’s workout the assignment is to swim our “best stroke”. Our coach, April, is a miracle and she asks us to label the four strokes (freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly) our “best stroke” our “second best” our “third best” and “fourth best” because she is a master of psychology.
Most people in the pool would say their best stroke is freestyle, also known as crawl stroke. I assume this is the case for everyone in my lane because it’s emphatically true for me. Freestyle is like walking. But Erin says she’ll swim butterfly. This is so far outside my personal realm of reality that I assume Erin has misunderstood the assignment. I instruct her “Your BEST stroke.” Erin says “Yeah. Butterfly.” I squint. “Butterfly is your BEST stroke?” Nothing is making sense. Butterfly is my fourth best. This must be true for other people because it’s so true for me. Erin is laughing at me. She insists butterfly is her best stroke and I’m left with no option but to believe her. I don’t understand it and I grasp at a thread of doubt. This can’t be true. Her reality can’t be so different from mine. But it is. I watch her butterfly with ease and power down the pool.
Here's a few more examples: A friend tells me how amazing a book is and when I read it I find it merely ok. Would not recommend. On a hike I’m struggling to climb the hill and my friend trots up like a mountain goat, waits for me at the crest. We’re not having the same experience. I watch a show that makes me feel calm and engaged but our daughter says the same show makes her anxious and emotional. How can this be?
It seems like this concept, that two people can have a different response to the same experience—and that’s ok—has significance much broader than these examples. It seems like this concept is the core of misunderstanding and division in our country. That’s too big for this post, but it doesn’t hurt to ponder.
While we were working on our presentation for the yacht club, Harry and I had a hiccup. I felt it was essential to include a section on the realities of cruising, which would cover some of the challenges, the tough and hard things, about the experience. So people learning how to sail to New Zealand in five easy steps would understand that “Get real”, recognizing that it would be hard, was one of those steps. I put together my talking points and asked Harry if he would contribute his thoughts on what was hard for him about our 2-year odyssey across the Pacific Ocean.
I waited for Harry’s input for several days. I assumed he was distilling all the hard into one or two concise points. Finally he tells me he doesn’t have anything to contribute to this part of our presentation. He can’t think of anything that was difficult about the experience. I’m puzzled. There were so many things I struggled with. A few days later I come at it from a different angle, but still he says he can’t think of anything to talk about in that section. I can’t stop thinking about this. I cannot accept it. It eats at me for days, this idea that the identical experience was challenging for me but not for him. I need him to admit some things were hard. I was there. I saw when he was struggling. It was real. Why can’t he say it?
Finally Harry tells me the hardest part of our journey for him was knowing that sometimes I was having a hard time. When he says this I feel all the angst leave my body. It just goes, like snow sliding off a metal roof. I didn’t realize I needed him to acknowledge my struggle. By denying that he’d struggled, I felt he was denying my experience too. Now he tells me he saw my struggle. He explains his experience this way: “You know how you love to swim in cold water, and it’s really hard, but you do it anyway, and you love it? That’s how it was for me on our adventure. Sure, it was hard but I loved it.”
I understand his feelings on this for the first time. We had different responses to the same experience. Everybody is different. My experience doesn’t make his less true, and his doesn’t make mine less true. They’re just different. Why is this so hard to recognize in ways big and small every day? I don’t know why I have to keep learning this. I hope this is easier for you than it is for me.
If you enjoyed this writing take a second to hit the heart or leave a comment. Thank you for helping me tell the algorithm I matter, honey-bunny.
You are gaining great wisdom, Grasshopper. Perhaps it is a sign of maturity , experience and reflection on the greater mysteries of Life. Your husband had been sailing for years and had a lot of experience, proficiency , knowledge and confidence in what he was doing. He was in his 'element', doing what he loved. You, on the other hand, had a certain anxiety and trepidation launching off your element of dry land into uncharted waters and on a scale that you had never encountered. Your feelings and concerns were certainly normal. What might seem hard to some, is completely a joy for someone with training, proficiency and confidence. Your father likes melting glass and manipulating grains of silicon like a master painter at his easel manipulates paint. To some it might seem hard, but to him, after years of practice and experimentation, it brings a lot of pleasure and satisfaction into his life because it is what he loves and he has the confidence, skill and knowledge at what he is doing. I admire people who have the focus, dedication and ambition to sit down and write a book. To me, this seems hard and would drive me 'bonkers'. Every life is unique and their approaches to its experiences filtered through that life. As they say, 'that's what makes a horse race'.
You sure do matter, hunny bunny! Smart writing, pleasure to read, and come away with an insight to ponder…