Bedevilled by Empathy
Once, when the sun was shining and I had an hour to kill, I was sitting on a bench, soaking up the perfection of the day, with my feet thrust out in front of me, high on a cliff overlooking a Cornish beach. I felt a conscious joy with the world and all humanity. Children running around on the sand, charming in their exuberance, were far enough away for their shrill screechings to not get on my nerves.It was one of those cotton wool, fluffy cloud days. I'd got a stick of pepperoni in one pocket and a bag of jelly babies in the other. All was well with the world. Somebody was flying a pink and yellow kite and as it soared, my spirits soared with it, landing on a golden cloud of goodness. And I forgave everyone in my life, one by one. I forgave my friends, my sisters, my aunts and uncles, my teachers, even my parents. Yes, and I did it requiring no thanks because they had no idea what a wonderful thing I had done for them. I forgave them all. It was free, done from the heart. In that lovely moment I enveloped everyone in my golden glow of love, and graciously let go of every simmering resentment and feeling of injustice, and I loved them. I even loved the people who walked past my bench, because they gave me enough distance not to have to draw my feet in. It was a triumph of joy, there on the cliff above the beach.
The spanner in the ointment came in the form of an elderly gentleman with a walking stick. I became aware of his energetic gait, the sharp, irritating tap of his stick on tarmac,forlornly hoping that he would keep going. No, though. It was not to be. He sat down heavily making the timbers of the bench shudder. It was an outrage to be endured in frosty silence.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" he remarked cheerily. Unwillingly, I mumbled my concurrence, because I'd been so enjoying the day, loving all humanity, etc. and thinking beautiful thoughts. He was spoiling it all.
"My wife and I used to come here together," he went on, clearly warming to my encouragement.
Sensing a sob story coupled with nostalgia I toyed with the idea of pretending I had Tourettes and embarrassing him into going away, but he outmanoeuvred me through being slightly deaf. Why it should be I don't know, but I am a magnet for people who are more into talking than listening. I guess I just radiate empathy
The spanner in the ointment came in the form of an elderly gentleman with a walking stick. I became aware of his energetic gait, the sharp, irritating tap of his stick on tarmac,forlornly hoping that he would keep going. No, though. It was not to be. He sat down heavily making the timbers of the bench shudder. It was an outrage to be endured in frosty silence.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" he remarked cheerily. Unwillingly, I mumbled my concurrence, because I'd been so enjoying the day, loving all humanity, etc. and thinking beautiful thoughts. He was spoiling it all.
"My wife and I used to come here together," he went on, clearly warming to my encouragement.
Sensing a sob story coupled with nostalgia I toyed with the idea of pretending I had Tourettes and embarrassing him into going away, but he outmanoeuvred me through being slightly deaf. Why it should be I don't know, but I am a magnet for people who are more into talking than listening. I guess I just radiate empathy
