Failing Forward; Places I should have known better

Have you looked back at a time in your life when your world went topsy turvey and thought “I should have seen that coming” I am not asking this in the voice of some know-it-all, no. Rather it’s the kinda ‘scratch your head in confusion’ voice, a kinder tone that is replaying bits of history in my mind. It’s the quiet voice you hear within your thoughts where you say “Huh. How did I not see that red flag that moment?”

Yes. I’ve been there. Skipped right over those moments.

While I can hope to never do this again in the future, I am brutally aware that we all need guardrails as we walk through life and that sometimes our guardrails fail us, or we simply just ignore them.

Every once in a blue moon, seemingly out of nowhere, a loose strand of a thought dangles in my mind, just begging me to pull on it. The dangling thought within memories surface when we are able to face them. As with a loose thread on a sweater we are wearing, the urge to tug on that thread should come with a warning label: “Pay attention! you are risking the loss of a sweater that up until now has shielded you from the harsh weather of life. (the truth).” Yet there are no such warnings. Do I lean towards pulling the thread anyway? Most often, yes, because that’s what courage with self-examination does.

I pause and absently fiddle with the loose thread. Should I cut it, or get out a darning needle and try weaving it in or knotting it off? If I pull on it without gentleness, I risk opening a bigger hole, needlessly ruining the entire sweater. If I ignore it, most likely, it will snag on something and unravel in an unsightly way. Maybe it’s time to take off the sweater and look closely at what is falling apart.

I do not share my examination of this memory thread lightly. Not at all. I share my memory along with the awareness that time, reflection, and allowing all the emotion of every thread has woven a compassionate gift within me, one that was only earned by living and surviving it.

My examination of this significant memory thread started as I wrote these words today for a 100-word prompt “Elegance”. (Thank you to Miguel for offering daily prompts on your stack Microdosing). This memory might one day evolve into a chapter of a fictionalized memoir, but for now, it is as it is.

She walked the aisle. Louis Armstrong expressed her heart’s hope. 
She was the epitome of elegance in motion.  She imagined her love, watching her come towards him, feeling the song as if he penned those words.
“The very thought of you makes my heart sing
“Like an April breeze on the wings of spring
“And you appear in all your splendor
“My one and only love”
She glided along, pausing now and again to look at people’s kind faces as they witnessed her joy.
She could never have imagined that her man would shatter her world with his violence.

I had known him for almost nine years through my daughter, her friends, and friends of mine as well. We didn’t see each other with any regular frequency. It was when we both arrived at the same place and time that the buzz of energy surged once again. Like a neon sign out front of an old restaurant, it buzzed and crackled its power. Had I already gained the wisdom I have now, I might have noticed it was like a rattler hissing its warning before striking a deadly blow, instead of what I imagined was the embers of a fire popping into life to warm my heart. I felt the energy, the glow, the hypnotic draw, and my heart followed.

I imagined and trusted he was a safe bet, urged forward by mutual friends who had known him for 35 or more years. They encouraged me just go for it. I suspect they said the same to him.

I pulled gently on the thread of a memory, at first blind to what it was. As I pulled, I knew. It was the first “tell” that emerged. We were dining outside at a Greek restaurant on Broadway, he knew the owner from his early martial arts training days. By now, his skill had progressed beyond training to that of a grand master. His students called him Sifu, a most respectful name signifying “master or teacher” in the martial arts hierarchy. The restaurant owner was out of town, but his son served us some of the most delicious Greek food I had ever tasted. At one point during our meal, the son came by to check on us, and he asked if he could show the young man a move he had practiced with the boy’s dad. Barely waiting for an assent, he rapidly took hold of the young man’s hand and turned it suddenly. The son was on his knees, doubled over in pain under the continued silent pressure of his hold.

He laughed and let the young man go. The son backed off slowly and said a soft “wow” under his breath as he retreated from our table. He responded with a casual “yeah, your Dad and I traded holds like that when we sparred. It was fun.” The son quickly left our table, and I sat, silent, stunned. I wasn’t laughing.

He then said in a flat tone to no one in particular, “sometimes it’s difficult to let them loose in that moment when it would be so easy just to shatter their hand…” and then he laughed quietly and continued eating his dinner.

Had I heard him correctly? I was certain I had not. This was a man whose students honored him, his friends told me was great, and whom I imagined I knew. This thread became hidden beneath the surface of what we were building, and as happens with many abuse victims, my mind hid it even from me.

I should have taken note that evening. Yet, there are times while dating when the delusions of grandeur and neon lights can swamp us, making us blind to the warning signs of the rattle at the end of the snake. Would I make the same choices now that I did almost 12 years ago? Probably not. I now gently tug at that loose thread of a memory, I pull it until I expose the damaged hole in the sweater that had shielded me. I realize now that I have some forgiving to do, of myself, of him, and of others. Only then, can I begin reweaving that thread into the real sweater I now live in, the true history of how I have come to be me.