Being irritated could become a full time job, if I let it.
Shiny objects of objection abound. A bureaucratic morass at work. That entitled driver who blithely cuts across several lanes of traffic without signaling. Our Homeowners Association deeply embroiled in partisan politics while avoiding real issues (sound familiar?).
But then I wake up next to my family: my wife of nearly 22 years and our seven-year-old doggie daughter. And those vexing situations fizzle into the background where they belong.
How did I get here?
There was a time in my life when I was convinced I could never live with anyone. Sharing close quarters would expose my peccadilloes, my weak flank, my low-threshold of tolerance. For years, I held prospective mates at bay with vague promises and sketchy plans. But at a cost. Being ever-guarded was tiring. Only when I was thoroughly exhausted did I understand; the person I couldn’t live with was myself.
Then, I met other beings who were willing to live with me. And, oh my God! They were different from me! Really different. One was of the opposite sex. The others walked on four legs and spoke not a word of English.
In the early years of my marriage, I learned how much communication extended beyond “Honey, what do you want for dinner?” and that compatibility had little to do with whether or not we both liked periwinkle blue. For me, the real test of an enduring bond was tangled in the weeds of conflict and disappointment. I zeroed in on my assumptions and expectations and shot them down with the zeal of an RAF pilot zapping a Luftwaffe squadron. I learned how to love and be loved because my wife was different from me.
The lessons compounded when our dogs Louie — and later Lilly — came home with us. And with them, a whole new (and largely nonverbal) language to learn. Why did his ears pull back when strangers suddenly appeared? What did that cock of her head mean? Why was it wrong to look them square in the eye when we first met? Most important, how were we going to make them feel like they’d come home forever?
As my wife and I learned with each other, so we learned with our dogs. We trod the sloping lawns of uncertainty and braved the fires of reactivity with both Louie and Lilly. More often than not, we broke through. They were loved for who they were, not what they had to be.Their gratitude was “voiced” in the way they curled up next to us or brushed their heads against our calves. When it became clear that our physical environment and inexperience were not the best match for Louie’s needs, I had to learn the art of letting go so he could find his true forever home. On the other hand, our home was perfect for Lilly. Thanks to desensitization training, her whirling dervish dance upon first seeing other dog has simmered to a mild tremble, sometimes a curious sniff — and maybe even a kiss.
Bringing different beings together does not guarantee that everyone lives happily ever after. But it can mean that we all emerge better than when we were alone. When I walk out the door each morning, I have a choice to view interactions with different beings as an irritation or a chance to learn about an unfamiliar world.
For the myriad of ways in which I’ve been made better by the others who are different from me, I gladly accept gratitude as my full-time job. The pay is handsome and the benefits endless.