Best Of

The other day I went for my usual walk along the usual route; three miles out from my house, then back. Summer 2020 brought me to a neighborhood a short way away when I signed up for a virtual ‘Walk Across Tennessee’. This neighborhood sits between my house and a long bike trail that is useful for a long virtual walk. This route has become my habit now, and I continue to walk back and forth along the wide central thoroughfare of this patch of suburbia several times a week. As a result, I know all the folks over there, or at least the walkers. Some will ask me, “Where’ve you been?” when I walk a different route for a while. Others will call over, “You’re getting a late start today!” None of us know each other’s names, but they’re still my sidewalk buddies.

Most days when I walk over there, I will pass one lawn service after another. Even though these guys are always diligent at work, I wave hello and they wave back. The other day, instead of waving, I asked one lawn care fellow why he returned suddenly to a house he’d already finished working on. “You forget something?” I asked, trying to be friendly. He was a Spanish speaker, and in broken English told me he was picking up his co-worker. Then he told me as best he could that he sees me walking the hill when he works there. He made his hand sweep back and forth to mimic the way I repeatedly walk up and down the short hill in that neighborhood. ‘Yes, yes,” I told him, “I do walk up and down this hill.” We smiled at each other, and he said, “Then I see you next week!” We both started to laugh, and my heart shifted gears. I told him for sure I’d see him. “A new buddy,” I said to myself.

I thought I could hear the birds around us break into a happy chuckle. This was the passing of a small bit of joy between two strangers who do not speak each other’s language, and it made the world delighted and maybe a little relieved. When humans get along, things tend to work out better for everyone. I walked away with a zip in my step. What a fine day, I thought to myself.

That exchange got me to thinking about one of the best parts of meeting folks with whom I mostly communicate through facial and hand expressions. Often what happens is an exchange of the best of us. After the two of us have determined the other is safe (I come in peace), then we seem to go about giving of ourselves like it was a Best Of: our kindest demeanor, our most generous attention, our best appreciation, our distilled acceptance. When I walk away from these exchanges, I have an amplified faith in humanity. “This is what’s possible,” I think in the back of my mind. It’s more of a feeling than a thought, and it’s a hope and an optimism—but it gets snagged by the other side of the equation, which is the more sober aspect of our evolved species. But I know, at least on a local level, it’s hackable. And it starts with me, each day—and it’s not easy.

Then, as I walked down the hill it occurred to me that we all speak different languages. The word for cloud or frog or mother sounds different around the planet, but even when someone speaks the exact word you use for mother in the exact accent, their story for ‘mother’ is vastly different. The story is what matters.

When my family and I lived in Turkey for a year, our apartment got broken into in the middle of the night. It was terrifying. My husband was out of the country at the time. I woke to men standing next to me, with my toddlers sleeping in the next room. They left, thank the heavens, and only took our stuff, but afterwards I shook for a long time. I’ll never forget the property caretaker who lived in the unit next to ours. He didn’t speak a stitch of English, but he had young children, too, and his eyes showed me that he felt my fear and anger. I can still see his eyes. I know that he felt my story and he reached across our language barrier to tell me this with his face.

On the flip side of this, I struggle to hear the stories of some of the people who occupy the space of my life. You’d think it would be far easier when we speak the same language and share similar history, but it’s not. We have different stories, and I have struggled to listen and understand. I know there’s more at stake with the folks in my daily life versus the strangers I run into on the street, but the act of trying to locate common ground can be applied across the board, to anyone. I bet I can be the ‘best of’ at home like I have been many times abroad. Maybe one of the ways to adopt those eyes of my Turkish neighbor is to continue to share with anyone who will listen that I’m trying to do better. This puts the intention out there, and it might spur useful conversation, too, a swapping of ideas.

Another way might be simply to pause. The golden and precious pause. When coupled with a breath or a scan of something as simple as the breeze hitting my skin, the empathic region of my brain is activated and then a better version of me becomes possible. The hack is afoot.

Finally, it’s so important for me to remember that every person is journeying like me: sometimes like a boss, and sometimes not so much like a boss. I find during either of these times, outside support is greatly appreciated. When it’s encouraging or empathic, offered with a simple openness, it can be the difference between a make or break sometimes. I bet others appreciate this, too. I’m not saying this is always easy, but it’s my Best Of, and isn’t that what I want?

But how do I effectively support or encourage if I don’t speak the language or know the story? Maybe if I continue to look for signals in the story that alert me to the center of the person telling it. That center is much like my own and I’ll recognize it when I see it. It can be the starting point on the roadmap. It’s irrespective of language. It is a look in the eyes or a tone in the voice or a sigh. It can be a shift in posture or a momentary silence. That spot is the place I want to be with someone because it’s the place that matters most. Frankly, it’s the best of both of us.