For the past few years I have walked once or twice a week. It felt like the limit of my ability, even though my walking partner assured me that doubling it more would make it easier. How could that be? It left me breathless and sweaty, so how would doing more render me less so?
For the fourteen days in Europe we walked. Between the Airbnb and the bus stop, from the lake to a restaurant, our feet plodded like a heartbeat. On occasion we headed down the wrong road, although the view was usually worth the detour, and simply course corrected. The girls offered me a bench when one appeared, and held my hand on uneven stones to give me balance, but they never actually carried me. It turns
out that gelato and exploring Italian chapels are ample motivation.
The day after we got home it was time for my weekly walk. The one that pushes me.
I kept up just fine. The fifteenth day brought a momentum I did not expect.
I suppose that many aspects of life follow such a trajectory. There was a discussion on social media about parenting. The father strives for balance in his roles to both protect and nurture his kids. But children's needs morph, and what worked last year may be stale tomorrow. A string of wise reflections followed, which seemed to echo the footfalls on cobblestone streets in Milan.
Keep going. Apologize willingly. Maybe in fifteen years those relationships will enjoy a momentum that carries both of you.