On the
very same flight that I nearly missed but somehow caught, I sat next to a middle-aged man named Jim from Huntsville, AL.
I'm an introvert, and my usual airplane etiquette is to board the plane, sleep or read quietly, get off the plane when it lands. At all costs, avoid setting off a chatterbox seatmate. But for whatever reason (probably my profound relief at having caught the plane), I said 'hi' to Jim when I sat down next to him. Thus ensued an
extremely good conversation with a total stranger, which I'm a better person for having been a part of.
Jim grew up on a hundred acres in rural Ohio. His best early memory is laying on the grass next to a farm pond, his head resting on the side of his trusty dog like a pillow, one hand cradling a bucket of turtles he had caught, staring up at the clouds in the sky and realizing that life is pretty great.
He has hiked the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim three times. He has made a point of traveling before he's too old to really enjoy it. He remembers getting his first pair of glasses when he was in 2nd grade, and suddenly realizing the beauty of seeing blades of grass, veins within the leaves on trees, sunlight glinting off of a single strand of hair, flecks of color in another person's eyes; realizing the importance of not just looking at the world but really
seeing it. Realizing the importance of not just being alive, but really
living it.
But the best thing I brought away from the conversation with him was a story on perspective and maturity:
Jim lives in a neighborhood toward the north end of town. Every day, he'd approach an intersection from the southwest, reach the light, then turn right onto a winding street to reach his house. He'd never come at that light from the northeast end of the intersection.
One night, he reached the intersection, stopped at the red light, then proceeded to make a legal right turn on the red light. At the very same time, a car from the other direction cruised through the intersection making a left turn and nearly ran into him. Jim hit the brakes, let the left-turner go ahead of him, but then (with what he described as "the passive-aggressive quasi-road-rage of a self-righteous 30-year-old testosterone-fueled caveman") he pulled right behind the other car and flashed his headlights and flipped the guy his middle finger.
The other car pulled to the side of the road and waved Jim to pass. As Jim pulled past, he rolled down his window and chewed out the other driver for running a red light, making an illegal left turn, and nearly getting them both into an accident. The other driver just listened, politely apologized "You're right. I'm sorry. You go ahead." Jim drove on, feeling pretty dang good about his righteous indignation and traffic smarts.
A few weeks later, he had to run an errand on the outskirts of town. On the way back, he found himself coming up to that same intersection, this time from the northeast side of it. Just as he pulled up to the intersection, he saw that the oncoming traffic (the side he'd normally be coming from) was stopped for a red light. But
his light on this side was a green arrow to allow left turns.
Sometimes, we get so caught up in knowing we're right, we don't realize that someone else from another perspective might
also be right, or that we could be frankly wrong without realizing it.
Sometimes, even when we know we're correct, maturity means letting the battle go un-fought. Listening, staying polite, and letting the angry irrational person drive on by. Not every time, since certain things are absolutely worth standing up for, but sometimes.
