It’s Just a Thought

Picture a man driving through his neighborhood on a perfectly ordinary afternoon. He sees somebody he knows, lifts a hand from the steering wheel, and gives a friendly wave. The other fellow keeps going.

By the next stop sign, that little moment has become a whole story.

Maybe he’s mad about something. Maybe somebody has been talking. Maybe that is just the kind of person he is. There wasn’t much traffic on the road, but there is plenty of it now inside the car.

All that from a wave somebody may never have seen.

It is a small example, but a familiar one. A short reply, a message left unanswered, a look across the room—we can build a surprisingly sturdy argument on very little lumber. The event lasts a second. The story we tell ourselves about it can occupy the rest of the afternoon.

And once we settle into that story, we begin gathering evidence. We remember another time the person seemed distant. We decide what we will say when we see them again. Before long, we are defending ourselves in a conversation that has not happened.

There is another possibility at that stop sign. The man can notice the story forming and leave a little room around it. He waved. The other fellow did not wave back. That much he knows. The rest is still an open question.

Perhaps the driver was watching the road. Perhaps he was preoccupied. Perhaps there really is something to talk about. A calmer moment leaves room to find out.

That little pause does not ask us to stop thinking. It gives thinking a useful job: look at what happened, separate it from what we have assumed, and decide whether anything needs doing. Sometimes the next step is a straightforward question. Sometimes it is an apology. Sometimes it is simply driving home and letting the afternoon continue.

There is something generous about leaving another person a little room to be misunderstood. We have all been distracted. We have all answered badly when we were tired. We have all hoped somebody would know there was more to us than one awkward moment.

The same generosity can turn inward. A worried thought can arrive without becoming a verdict about who we are. A sharp reaction can be noticed before it becomes a sharp word. There is still time to choose what happens next.

Back in that little neighborhood scene, the road has not changed. The stop sign is still there. Supper still needs cooking. Somewhere, a dog is ready for his walk.

An entire argument can end before it ever leaves the car. And an ordinary afternoon can be ordinary again.