The woman walking toward me was tall.

Taller than most.

I realized later that my assesment of her was instanteous, taking in her long cream-coloured raincoat, her jeans, her beige ankle boots and how her gray hair cast her firmly in the middle of the aging demographic of the Sunshine Coast.

She was striding out of the Sechelt library, books in hand.  In that snap assesment of the woman coming toward me, I noticed that her right foot swung out and then pointed in, a curving backward C shape that looked like the pointed end of her beige boot would kick her left ankle…perhaps compensation for a slight stroke?

Which is exactly when I realized that the woman was me.

The library’s glass doors, the cloud-softened sun, the angle of the walkway, all had conspired to make the double-doors into perfect mirrors.

I was watching myself come toward me.

I’d had those boots resoled last fall. The right foot was especially worn, the heel scraped down on the outside corner…but I had never determined what I was doing to cause it.

I am a walker. Often, especially when I’m home in Vancouver and walking my busy False Creek route, I get behind lots of other walkers and runners. I see some with toes pointed out, others toes pointed in, some bowlegged, some knock-kneed. I see others riding bikes, labouring hard because they’ve set their seats too low, or unbalanced with seats too high.

I’ve often wanted to stop some truly struggling people to say, hey, did you know that if you did this or that, you’d feel better and move through life more efficiently?

Thankfully, my older self tells me to shut up and mind my own business. Work on your own shit I tell myself over and over and over and over. Especially whenever I once again think I know how everyone else should do things.

Clearly we are not just talking about worn-out shoes.

Years ago, probably over ten years ago, I met with the acting-editor of Shared Vision magazine. First, I bombarded him with ideas for articles and then hassled him until he agreed to meet for a quick coffee. When I returned home, I immediately followed up with an email listing my article ideas, including my plans to write about my upcoming ten-day meditation retreat.

He rejected all of my ideas except the silent retreat, writing in his email that he’d love to read how a Type-A person like myself would manage to sit down and shut up for that long. It was not said in a mean way at all. He wrote as if he and I were sharing an in-joke about the kind of person I so obviously was.

I had met with him for no more than 15-minutes. I was stunned by this.

I searched for definitions of Type-A. I’d heard about it, but didn’t know exactly what it meant. I told Kevin what he’d said. He laughed. The kind of laugh that said, wow, that guy nailed it.

I have had these moments, where people, usually new people in my life, toss off comments about who or what I am, as if I would, of course, know and share these opinons because they’re so damned obvious; as obvious as a worn-down shoe and a funny gait. As obvious as a meeting with an overly-assertive, in-your-face woman with a perpetual stiff neck might demonstrate…

Mostly, upon reflection, I discover what they mean. But each time this happens I am struck again by my lack of self-awareness on whatever is being pointed out. Because, after I think about it, most of the time the feedback is true (and since that decade old off-hand Type A comment, I have worked hard (oh dear) and, I think, I hope, I have succeeded in learning how to be a lot more chill about most things than I could ten years ago. If nothing else, I can absolutely attest that I’m much too tired to ever again be that ambitious).

Still, who we are and how we think we are presenting ourselves is not necessarily how we are perceived by others. It takes courage to look beneath the surface of our lives. To be curious. To listen to feedback without defending our behaviour. To communicate honestly to others. But, most especially, to be honest with ourselves. It is all about paying attention. About stepping back, as I was reminded by the Swami when I stayed at that Indian ashram.

Too, that long-ago meditation course pushed me into a pretty consistent meditation practise which has been very instrumental in helping me gain a little distance and, dare I say, a less impatient view of life.

Meanwhile, I have been trying to catch my walking reflection more often.  But now that I know what I’m looking for, that swinging foot seems to have settled down. Watching for these things often presents its own cure, proving the adage that awareness really is the first step…

So, with that in mind, I am once again learning to walk.

One step at a time.