"Yeah, I don't know... I try not to think about it."
I'm standing across from a friend I don't get to see that often. We're next to my truck in the driveway, getting ready to say goodbye. He lives on the other side of the country now, but is back visiting family for the week. They happen to have a place in the same town as Isobel's dad, so while we were visiting him over the weekend, I popped over there to squeeze in a quick visit at their place on the lake. It's this tall, but narrow, two-story cabin built into the wooded hillside. It's simple, but it's been in their family for generations at this point. The back lawn gradually spills into the lake and there's a dock to jump off. There's even a big maple tree to lay under.
We just got back from kayaking.
It's sunny and in the high 70s, maybe low 80s, without much humidity. The same breeze that added some chop to the waves is rustling the leaves. There's people everywhere. They have family in from all over—it's basically a reunion, and it's not the first time I've crashed one of them. This friend and I met on the first day of college and we hit it off instantly. Which is how we ended up going on each of our first backcountry ski trip together, earning our avalanche certifications in the process. Since then, we've been roommates more than once, in multiple states, and worked together in different capacities at a few of the same companies. He was a ski instructor in Jackson, too, and while I was mostly working with adults by that point, he was, and still is, arguably the best kids instructor I know.
He has such a gift.
It's like he knows which parts to explain in order to keep their attention, which to ignore completely because they won't care, and how to make the whole thing feel like he's not explaining anything at all. They love him for it, and it's a hell of a thing to witness.
So, standing there in the driveway with the family reunion still buzzing down on the lawn, I see a blurry five-year-old come zooming over and attach himself to my friend's leg. Without flinching, my friend scoops up his little cousin in one motion and casually tells him that he's chatting with me but will be ready to swim in a minute. Maybe it's because he talks to kids like they're real people instead of infantilizing them...?
I smirk and shake my head. He looks at me confused, so I tell him I've always been impressed with how good he is with kids.
A question pops into my head and, without thinking, I ask him, "Do you think you're good with kids because of all the work you've done ski instructing and backcountry trip leading, or do you think you wound up doing those things because you're so good with kids?"
"Yeah... I mean, I don't know... I try not to think about it."
He says it matter-of-factly, with full acceptance of his not knowing being a final answer.
Damn.
I'm looking at him, and it seems like he's already forgot about it.
Not knowing would drive me nuts.
In fact, it has been ever since.
Does not knowing drive you nuts? Or can you let it go?
onward.
For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.