Fairy Pools
March 2015
One of the things I love most
about my husband, John, is just how darned capable he is. Give him a something
that is broken and he will efficiently identify the problem and fix it.
Sometimes it takes a few tries, but he keeps trying until the job is done.
I don't think I've ever seen him give up. Maybe that is why he is a mechanic -
because he was blessed with some natural aptitude for solving problems and
the patience to persevere.
John's capability halo hangs
over his physical abilities as well. He has an uncanny knack for always
knowing where his body is in space, and controlling every limb and muscle to
stay upright on any terrain. He makes the ball go directly into the corner
pocket, and lifts objects the size of small cars to retrieve lost
items. Years ago, I introduced him to mountain biking and he
was instantly faster, braver, and better able to make it up hills than
I. We both took the snow bunny course on his first (and my 25th)
attempt at skiing, and I watched from the lodge unsurprised as he finished
out the day skiing down a black diamond trail. When we bowl together we make
him use his less dominant left hand. Sometimes he still wins. I don't even
bother playing Ping-Pong with him anymore.
Perhaps the reason I am so in awe
of John's physical prowess is because I was born with all the loose
limbs and grace of a baby giraffe. As a child I fell a lot. As an adult I fall
with such regularity that my kids have taken to saying "she's down
again" and going along their merry way. I remember places I've
visited by recalling a place where I fell. I once fell in a parking lot in St.
Lucia. My husband quietly laughed it off while a French (French!) tourist
offered me a hand up. I've fallen in Times Square, the Public Garden
in Boston and on Pennsylvania Avenue. One Fourth of July, as I was telling
everyone to mind the slippery, wooden steps down to the dock, I fell and
required a lift by ambulance to the hospital. But most of the time I groan for
a minute, shrug off the embarrassment, get myself up, and limp on.
Just as John has developed a
natural confidence in his body to do what he tells it, I have learned
that my body is not to be trusted. I imagine a pair of tricky little
leprechauns lying in wait with their invisible rope pulled tight across
my path. And yet, no matter how much I prepare, I am still astonished
every time I plummet to the ground while the leprechauns laugh their evil
little laughs and slap their tiny green knees.
So when John and I started
off on the hike to see the famed Fairy Pools of Skye, in the highlands of
Scotland, as usual, John was a 12 feet ahead of me skipping over rocks and
skimming across rivers as if lifted by gossamer wings. Meanwhile, I
was focusing on every step to make sure I was not thrown by a pebble,
or felled by a divot. When we got to the first river crossing, John
navigated the stepping stones without hesitation, like they were just
another part of the path, as if the freezing cold water rushing several feet
below wasn't even there.
Even as I said, "I need
your help" I thought - why does he always make me ask for help? Wouldn't
it be nice to have one of those "gentlemanly" husbands who turns
around and offers his lady a hand? I wanted so badly NOT to ask, but I did as
the only thing worse than swallowing my pride would be hiking the rest of the
way in wet pants. He turned around, stepped solidly back across the
stones and held out his hand. "It's nothing" he said, "just a
few big steps". "Easy for you to say" I thought as I stood
safely on shore shifting from left foot to right envisioning slipping and
falling to my watery grave in the six inches of water that lie below.
Eventually I took a deep breath and leapt - one stone at a time. Much to
my astonishment I made it across. Then came river number two. It took me
considerable effort to work up the nerve to try again. But after John once
again helpfully reminded me it was "just a few big steps" and held
out his hand, I made it across unscathed.
We spent a lovely morning
exploring the Fairy Pools, so named because the water is the most amazing shade
of clear blue green that they look exactly like the place where
a fairy would bathe if a fairy were so inclined. The day was crisp, and the
pools were shimmering in the glory of the rare Scottish sun. We took our time
taking pictures of each pool, while I tried not to think of the fact that if I
ever wanted to see my children again, I would have to navigate those river
stones one more time.
Finally, as the morning wore on
people started showing up in droves and we decided it was time
to go. As we passed each new visitor, I assessed their physical
ability. Most were young, and lithe and had the looks of people who grew up on
the sides of mountains. Others were older than me, and some were even shorter than
me (tallness, as I had learned, being a significant advantage for jumping
across rivers).
When we came to the first river
crossing we stopped for a couple coming the other way. The man was in
the lead and the lady behind was obviously older and definitely shorter
than me. "How did she make it across the first river?" I
thought. Then, as if to mock me, her husband stopped, turned around and
offered her his hand. He helped her across each stone, unbidden, and didn't
once give her the advice that John had so generously offered to me. He only
helped her. Not saying a word. Once they were across we had a quick laugh
about how the river crossings were preventing many interested short people from
visiting the pools and then they were off.
To his credit John offered his
help the rest of the way without requiring me to ask for it. I made
it to the car after only missing one step going back up the hill. My
leprechauns had certainly taken the day off.
Later on, as we discussed the day over dinner,
I shared my frustration. "Why do you always make me ask for help?” I said.
"It seems as if you are always trying to prove how easy it is for you. You
have to remember it is not so easy for me".
"I was just trying to let
you know it isn't as hard as you think it is", he said. "Of course it
is", I said. "It is exactly as hard as I think it is." It
always is.
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