Perspective
Have you ever started talking and something comes out of your mouth without any premeditation? You’re left thinking, “Whoa. That was in there?”
That happened today.
In 2004 my late husband purchased his F-150. If you've read any of my writings I think there’s a one in five chance you’ve heard about this truck. Since Bob passed, it has been my faithful companion, seeing me through the fun times, the tough times and the mundane. Uncreatively, I call it “The F-150” as no name has ever come to mind that sounds befitting. The girls call our old Odyssey “Sa-van-ah” because it’s a mini-van. The F-150 has escaped such punny torture and I believe it is for that reason that it has been so kind to me.
It has also been a vehicle (sorry) for metaphors and tales that I weave into my work as a therapist.
When I work with people who experience trauma, as a clinician and trauma survivor, there’s a theme I notice early on. Many who have coped with the unthinkables go about their post-traumatic life with a sense of rigidity and ritual far beyond the average person. (Whatever “average” means anymore.) There’s a sense of control we feel when we can dictate how the universe plays out in our little corner of it. Deep down, however, our minds know this is a fallacy. We’ve already survived the catastrophic and know too well how quickly the floor can drop out.
Typically along a person’s timeline, they try on “perfect” for awhile and get out of sorts when things don’t go according to plan. When faced with the unexpected, we tend to react based on that trauma.
As I was meeting with someone today, I shared an experience I had regarding the F-150. Soon after Bob and I purchased the truck, some relatives came to visit from out of town. They asked if they could borrow our vehicle so they didn’t have to rent a car. Without hesitation, my late husband said sure and handed them the keys to the brand spankin’ new F-150. (Can you feel it coming?)
Bob's pride and joy, posing on the day we bought The F-150. Dublin, CA 2004
This was Bob’s baby. It's a 4-door lariat. Spray liner bed with canopy. Leather interior and heated seats (was a big deal back in the day). The poor boy from Idaho who had lived without electricity or running water for part of his life had earned himself a fun toy after years of honest hard work. For him to offer the keys over without any resistance was a testament to my late husband’s loving heart. What happened next was astonishing.
Sheepishly our relatives came over the next day and divulged that the F-150 was damaged. The running boards were significantly cracked due to a miscalculation in their attempt at parking. My initial blurted-out response was, “That’s ok. Don’t worry about it.” It came from a reactionary fear of conflict because it was my childhood experience when people got angry, other people got hurt.
My late husband, however, came from a different perspective. “That’s ok,” he told our relatives. “Don’t worry about it.” Mind you, Bob was 6’7” and a big guy. If he was angry, there would be hell to pay, and you’d better pray that your pockets were full to offer it up satisfactorily. But the next words out of his mouth were said with such charity and sincerity:
“Now we have a nice memory of your visit here.”
Not a drop of sarcasm was heard. All that was heard was genuine love and a charitableness of abundance.
I told my client to check out the F-150 as they went back to their car outside. “Look at the running boards,” I said. I’ve never had them replaced because not only does it remind me of that interaction, it humbles me and grounds me. Life is never going to be perfect and it shouldn’t be. If that accident didn’t happen, Bob would not have had that opportunity to connect and bond with our family member in such an abundant way. Love was bigger than anything in its way.
The material is immaterial. It’s the mortals that matter the most.
Cracked running board on the F-150. Enumclaw, WA 4.20.26