‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking almost 600 kms together with my wife Deborah.
 
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away.
 
I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love.
 
Here is lesson six. Please share it with others who might want to read it.
 
 
Walking is a form of therapy. There are few distractions as you trudge down the road for hours on end. As the scenery slowly passes by in front of you, your life passes by inside in much the same way.
 
One thing I began to notice was how much I talk to myself. It’s as if there’s a conversation going on inside between two quite separate people: ‘me’ (whoever that is!) and a Gollum-like character I never see. He seems to sit just outside my peripheral vision, rendering judgement and opinions on just about everything. And I defend.
 
One day after a sharp disagreement with my wife, the little guy had the volume turned right up.
 
‘Nasty Deborah,’ said Gollum, seemingly on my side for a change. ‘Nasty, nasty, nasty. She was so mean to you!’
 
‘Yes, she was,’ I silently replied. ‘Totally unreasonable. She made me so angry!’
 
‘You were right,’ he continued. ‘She deserved to cry.’
 
He got me. I suddenly felt a surge of remorse. What a jerk I’d been!
 
Gollum then cunningly changed tack.
 
            ‘You are the nasty one!’ he cried. ‘Nasty, nasty, nasty. You made her cry!’
           
‘I know, I know,‘ I said. ‘Shut up about it will you?’
 
‘You’re cruel,’ he went on. ‘She is your wife. How can you live with yourself?’      
           
And so on it went for kilometres!
 
Am I crazy or is this normal for at least some people some of the time? To try to make sense of it all I visited Steve, a psychologist I’ve known for many years.
 
First, he reassured me I’m not crazy. He then had me look at my past to understand why I behave the way I do.
 
After the death of my mother I was thrust into a role of responsibility at the age of fifteen. I had to be strong for Dad and my three younger brothers. If I fell apart I feared the family might too.
 
I did such a good job looking composed I can’t recall any adult ever asking how I was doing. That was hard. I wish someone had the insight to realise it was all a pretence.
 
I just got tougher, concluding if I’m not going to get cared for then no one will.
 
We had no outlet for our grief at home so there was a lot of conflict amongst the siblings and with Dad. I felt compelled to act as disciplinarian and peace maker.
 
The end of school was on the horizon and I desperately wanted out the day it was finished. I became an achiever, pushing aside my feelings and the desires of my heart, and trying to looking competent and in control. Weakness and failure repelled me. Gentleness was a luxury. When the pressure was on no one got a break, especially me.
 
This way of operating did not change much over the ensuing forty years. My harder edges got a bit rounder here and there but looking back at my life this way, I can see why I still react the way I do.
 
When my wife Deborah gets sick, for example, I have little empathy. Instead I feel like an adolescent, protesting, ‘Who is going to look after me?’
 
If she makes a trivial error, I criticise her because people shouldn’t make mistakes. If she wants to sleep in on the weekend and walk around all morning in her pyjamas, I get anxious because I think there is too much to do. Sometimes I even make up ‘rules’ I impose on her without consent; for example, if I get up early to exercise so should she.
 
After each outburst I feel remorse for being so hard. I don’t want to be this way but I do not feel I have much choice. I always end up in an endless loop arguing with Gollum!
 
The powerful insight from Steve was to give myself a break. While it’s useful to take responsibility for my behaviour, self-condemnation leads nowhere.
 
So I’ve started some experiments. Like hanging around with Deborah doing nothing. No achieving, no results, no agenda, no schedule. Just chilling. Giving her a hug and getting some in return. Picking a rose from the garden and putting it in a little vase on her bedside table. Laughing at my mistakes. Encouraging her to walk around in pyjamas on the weekend. Maybe even having a nap after lunch.
 
And just because I can do something, I might even say ‘no’ and trust it will take care of itself.
 
Gollum seems to be a bit quieter lately.
 
Have you ever realised just how superior you are to other people? I do, sometimes even with my wife. It’s not a recipe for a success in a relationship! Look out for lesson seven.
 
I’d love to hear your story and maybe even publish it in an article! Write something, paste it into the Comment box on the Contact page and send it along.
 
 

‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking almost 600 kms together with my wife Deborah.
 
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away.
 
I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love.
 
Here is lesson five.
 
Two Hearts Are Better Than One
 
“… Once I spent my time playing tough guy scenes
But I was living in a world of childish dreams
Someday these childish dreams must end
To become a man and grow up to dream again
I believe in the end,
 
Two hearts are better than one
Two hearts, girl, get the job done
Two hearts are better than one…”  Bruce Springsteen
 
I’ve lived most of my life believing a man must be self-sufficient and all-knowing, or at least pretend he is. I got it from my father who modelled it to the extreme.
 
Sometimes it did not go so well for him. Once he took the family out into the open Atlantic in a rented sailboat with no idea how to sail it. He hadn’t asked because he thought he should know. Soon, however, the breeze picked up and the boat started heeling over. Dad hauled in the sail hard, thinking it would get us back on an even keel. But anybody with just one sailing lesson knows hauling in does the opposite, catching even more wind.
 
We kept heeling over and started shipping in water. Poor Mum was on the downward side, desperately trying to stop falling backwards into the ocean. ‘Pull the sail in!’ she screamed. Of course it made matters even worse.
 
Fortunately for all we were soon grounded on a sandbank and walked to shore safely.
 
Every other time, however, Dad somehow seemed to get away with it. On moving to Canada he set up a business building bridges, roads and later multi-storey buildings. He learned as he went along, all without formal training. A number of his projects were recognised as firsts in North America in terms of energy efficiency and creative construction methods. And none of them fell down! I was so proud of his ability to learn and turn it into something real.
 
But I also know he was often under great stress, which he always dealt with on his own. He would withdraw completely through these periods. It was hard to watch.
 
I carried similar behaviour into adulthood. I need to have all the answers and don’t naturally seek the input of others. It has frustrated my wife to no end.
 
Some of my best life decisions I resisted fiercely at the beginning, such as leaving a high flying investment banking job I hated (but could not admit it), or moving the family to Australia. It took Deborah months of negotiating, discussion and argument to drag me into heaven!
 
Another time, years ago, I’d started my own consultancy and was confident of instant success. Deborah did not share my optimism. She advocated we use my redundancy money to pay down some of the mortgage and reduce our monthly payments.
 
I disagreed. I had a graduate degree in Economics and fifteen-years’ experience in investment banking, so you’d think I knew what I was talking about.
 
But my perspective was based on a spreadsheet, whereas Deborah was looking from our values. She waged a long, hard campaign to get me onside. It turned out to be a great decision. I was grateful not to have the pressure of a mortgage.
 
It was not until years later when we were on the road in Italy, walking every day together, did I accept how hard I’ve made it for her to contribute to me.
 
And vice versa. I’ve also missed many opportunities to contribute to Deborah. I didn’t think she needed it. Right from the start of our relationship, for me she’s always been independent, strong and competent. Everyone loves her.
 
But as I’m discovering, ‘two hearts, girl, get the job done’.
 
The marriage vows I took almost twenty-six years ago declared we had become ‘one flesh’. To someone with no religious background at the time it seemed just a quaint expression read from a service book by a dear old gentleman in a funny robe. Now I know he was pointing to something eternal and wise.
 
We need to get behind each other and intertwine, Deborah’s strengths bolstering me and mine hers. She wants my encouragement to face the world every day, no matter how strong and competent I think she is. I’m going to have to develop new habits and skills to do this well.
 
And I need her to help me, starting with little things like packing a suitcase and organising travel. Then there’s the big things I can’t do by myself, like feeling I’m a whole, complete man. I need her respect, desire and admiration.
 
The ‘old me’ does not want to depend on her generosity, but I need to surrender.
 
‘To become a man and grow up to dream again
I believe in the end…
Two hearts are better than one.’
 
 
 
Have you ever found some people intolerably judgmental? Me too. I couldn’t stand them. Then I realised how judgmental I am! Look out for lesson six.