A few years ago, Jesse and I had a “loud discussion” on a camping trip on a remote island off the coast of Door County in northern Wisconsin. It was night and we sat on a bench overlooking a quiet bay. We thought we were alone. We were a good half-mile away from our campsite — actually all campsites — so we spoke in regular speaking voices.
It wasn’t long before our “discussion” turned into a nasty shouting match.
As we fought, we saw a dark figure rise up from the rocky shore. Was it a monster?
That would have been less embarrassing. As our eyes adjusted to the form, we realized it was one of our camping neighbors, a 20-something dude-bro who slept in a hammock, not a tent.
We watched him brush himself off with quick, exaggerated movements. When he was done with his absurd pantomime, he — very loudly — cleared his throat and walked away. We watched him disappear into the trail.
“Fucking hell,” I said. “What is he doing down here?”
“Stargazing?”
“Do you think he heard us?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.” I scanned our surroundings with frantic paranoia. “Do you think anyone else is here?”
“No.”
We resumed fighting. Within seconds, another figure rose up from the shore. This time it was dude-bro’s girlfriend. She cleared her throat and walked away, presumably to her hammock.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper-shouted. “What were they doing down here?”
“Doin’ it.”
“Oh…right.”
“Hard to do it in a hammock.”
“Hammocks are stupid.”
***
Even though we agreed that hammocks are stupid and two people cleared their throats — the universal sign for “yo pipe down we can hear you” — we continued arguing for several more minutes. But eventually, we made up, went back to our campsite and fell asleep in our tent like normal people.*
***
I’ve always gotten the sense that the whole park heard us fighting, not just dude-bro and dude-bro’s girlfriend. For years, I worried that the park rangers made a note about us so that if we ever returned, the camp hosts would know to look out for “the loud shouting couple with marriage problems.” I’m telling you I was ashamed.
Jesse? Not so much. When I asked him if he ever felt sheepish about fighting on the island, he said no.
“Who cares?” he said. “People fight.”
***
So we would return. We would camp. Jesse would instantly relax. I was always glad to be there but I could never fully let go of my shame.
***
Last summer, as I was watching the sun set from the same bench where Jesse and I argued, it occurred to me that I could ask the island to forgive me.
“Island?” I said. “I am so sorry for what I did. I am so sorry for shouting, for being so loud. Please forgive me, Island, I love you.”
I instantly felt completely forgiven. I mean: I felt completely forgiven. That was the first time I experienced actual “tears of relief.” I think about this awesome moment nearly every day.
***
We camped there twice this summer and I loved it more than ever. I noticed that the second I set foot on the island, I was “on the island.” Fully present and totally relaxed. Both trips, I marveled at how forgiving the island must be, not just of me, but of …everyone and everything.
***
When I think about how many people have forgiven me over the years, I can’t help but smile. I used to be embarrassed by this but I’ve forgiven scores of people myself. When I think about how many people I have forgiven, I feel peace. It’s the best. There are still a couple out there I haven’t quite forgiven, but after writing this blog post, I am reminded that it’s the best thing to do. So if you’ll excuse me, I have some forgiving to do…and receive.
Thank you for reading and for forgiving! -Constance
*People who sleep in hammocks deserve forgiveness, too.
