The Great Sael Adventure 1
You recently listened to a podcast on the importance of boundaries and communication in interpersonal relationships. You decide to put your emotional intelligence to use in this tough situation.
"I know this must be hard. I can tell you're in distress. It's important to me that we're able to talk about this so we can be on the same page and we don't come to resent one another. What ails you?" you say in a tone as soft as wispy clouds.
The Commodore looks back at you gratefully, glad you're entering into this conversation with an open heart and mind, and he nods at your expert active listening skills.
"I"m not going anywhere," you say (despite the fact that you could go nowhere if you wanted to because of the size of the ship). "I'm here to listen," you say in a voice smoother than Country Crock.
The Commodore sighs a wistful sigh, turns his head slightly skyward and seaward, then returns to make eye contact with you. He holds out both of his hands, palms up—an invitation to join together.
You grasp hold of both his hands firmly; they are sweaty and clammy and shaking with nervousness, and yet you cannot help but feel a warmth that spreads from him to you. "I can see that you're not ready. But just know that I'm always going to be here."
The Commodore squeezes your hand. Your compassion and steadfastness help him unlock his lips and open his heart to you. Because it was ok for him not to be ready, now he is. "I know I feel strongly for you. Though we have not shared much time together, it has all been so important to me, and the experience has been a powerful reminder of my own capacity to feel—something I thought I had lost long ago. You will forgive me if in this stretch of grief and trouble I have forgotten how to begin again."
"Aight," you say, with bated breath. Your heart beats in your throat. You anxiously ponder when The Commodore will love you as much as you love him. «Wait,» you think, «I love him?» You smile nervously, nod your head, and repeat yourself. "Aight." But it's not alright. You're scared. More scared than you've ever been in your life. But no other word could come out of your mouth. You squeeze The Commodore's hands and then let go.
"Aight," affirms The Commodore, a half smile tugging up the right side of his mouth.
You stand up together, not sure when you sat down. You blink fondly at The Commodore and walk away.
The following day, you and The Commodore are talking above deck on the catamaran when you spy a canoe in the distance. The Commodore asks, "Should we broach the distance?" You smell oranges and rum on his breath.
"I know this must be hard. I can tell you're in distress. It's important to me that we're able to talk about this so we can be on the same page and we don't come to resent one another. What ails you?" you say in a tone as soft as wispy clouds.
The Commodore looks back at you gratefully, glad you're entering into this conversation with an open heart and mind, and he nods at your expert active listening skills.
"I"m not going anywhere," you say (despite the fact that you could go nowhere if you wanted to because of the size of the ship). "I'm here to listen," you say in a voice smoother than Country Crock.
The Commodore sighs a wistful sigh, turns his head slightly skyward and seaward, then returns to make eye contact with you. He holds out both of his hands, palms up—an invitation to join together.
You grasp hold of both his hands firmly; they are sweaty and clammy and shaking with nervousness, and yet you cannot help but feel a warmth that spreads from him to you. "I can see that you're not ready. But just know that I'm always going to be here."
The Commodore squeezes your hand. Your compassion and steadfastness help him unlock his lips and open his heart to you. Because it was ok for him not to be ready, now he is. "I know I feel strongly for you. Though we have not shared much time together, it has all been so important to me, and the experience has been a powerful reminder of my own capacity to feel—something I thought I had lost long ago. You will forgive me if in this stretch of grief and trouble I have forgotten how to begin again."
"Aight," you say, with bated breath. Your heart beats in your throat. You anxiously ponder when The Commodore will love you as much as you love him. «Wait,» you think, «I love him?» You smile nervously, nod your head, and repeat yourself. "Aight." But it's not alright. You're scared. More scared than you've ever been in your life. But no other word could come out of your mouth. You squeeze The Commodore's hands and then let go.
"Aight," affirms The Commodore, a half smile tugging up the right side of his mouth.
You stand up together, not sure when you sat down. You blink fondly at The Commodore and walk away.
The following day, you and The Commodore are talking above deck on the catamaran when you spy a canoe in the distance. The Commodore asks, "Should we broach the distance?" You smell oranges and rum on his breath.