My trainers, decent and generous sorts, showed considerable patience and diligence in performing their task, which couldn’t have been easy, because I was hopelessly ignorant and needed a great deal of assistance and instruction. It wasn’t until much later, after hearing horror stories from others in similar circumstances to my own, that I realized how lucky I was to have to have been assigned to them. My stay with them was lengthy, and I could write volumes about my experiences during that period, but since its purpose was to prepare me for what came next, I won’t linger over it. As my skills improved and I gained confidence, I grew restless, and the atmosphere of the place which had been a refuge, began to weigh on me and feel oppressive. I was ready to move on, and sensed that my trainers were ready for me to do so. Despite our mutual fondness, we had outgrown each other.

In saying goodbye to my safe haven, I wasn’t entering completely unknown territory. I’d been on numerous excursions with my trainers and had an idea of what to expect, although, of course, it’s a different matter to navigate on your own what you had previously been guided through. During my apprenticeship, I had also come into contact with strangers—that is, people other than my trainers—and became aware that their ways were not exactly like ours. Among those I encountered were newcomers like myself, whose training was starkly different from my own. Even though my trainers were responsible for facilitating my assimilation into the wider society, I came to understand that they themselves were neither thoroughly assimilated nor completely accepted. I gleaned as much from remarks strangers made about my trainers, which they weren’t meant to hear, and movements of the eyes they didn’t notice, but I did. The realization that my orientation had been flawed left me wondering which aspects of my training were valid and which were spurious, what part of the guidance I’d received to retain and what to abandon. Such was my precarious situation as I went out into the world.

A multitude of paths lay open before me, and based on my natural predilections and assessment of my situation, the one I chose was rather modest and unremarkable. Other routes promised scenic vistas, excitement, adventure and opportunities for acclaim, but they were, accordingly, more popular and congested. The noise, jostling, and swagger associated with those paths put me off, and if the one I chose was less glamorous, it was better suited to my needs and temperament. I didn’t realize at the time that paths intersected in unexpected ways, and there would be junctures at which more decisions had to be made.

Though less crowded, my path was not untraveled, and I regularly met others along the way. Parties traveling in the opposite direction would stop to chat upon meeting and exchange news and advice about the road ahead. I found such encounters rewarding, but realized the information acquired wasn’t always reliable. Sometimes I was given a bum steer, and it was hard to tell if it was intentional or a result of misunderstanding on my part or the other person. There seemed to be little correspondence between a traveler’s appearance and the veracity of what he said. I was astonished by how often those who seemed friendly and level-headed led me astray, while those I deemed unreliable or featherbrained provided sound suggestions. There was no way of knowing what could be trusted, and I ended up neglecting good advice as often as I heeded bad advice, because that’s just how things were.

When I gave information to others, I tried to be accurate, but sometimes I realized, when it was too late to do anything about it, that I got things wrong. After making those kinds of mistakes, I usually felt terrible, but once in a while, if someone rubbed me the wrong way or I was out of sorts, I intentionally gave misleading information. In time I would regret my pettiness and vow to myself to be better in the future. I often had the urge to improve myself. Because I instinctively liked some of the people I met, and disliked others, I tried to be more like the former and less like the latter, but it was a hit-or-miss proposition because the behaviors I appropriated or avoided, like styles of walking or talking, were often only incidental to their character. My attempts to modify my persona, whether aimed at my character or appearance, succeeded in making me something of a stranger to myself, hardly able to predict or understand my own behavior.

Occasionally, I fell in with people headed in my direction, or they fell in with me. If our personalities clicked or our needs complemented each other, we traveled together for a while. When I met up with someone whose company I especially enjoyed, we might stay together for an extended period, absentmindedly going in circles or veering off the path. Engrossed in one another, we sometimes forgot all about the path and why we were on it and where we were going. These relationships, regardless of their duration, always had a profound impact on me and remained embedded in my being, as part of me. They gave me great joy, but also unendurable sorrow when they ended, as they inevitably did, even if we’d joined together as one and expected to be together forever.

I met many different kinds of people along the way, some friendly, some rude; some in a hurry, some inclined to linger; some rowdy, some contemplative; some energetic, some weary. I categorized people according to what they were like when I happened to encounter them—the angry guy, the funny guy, and so on. Eventually, however, I recognized that I, myself, exhibited all those qualities at different times, and wondered if those I met just happened to be under the sway of a particular mood at that moment. Maybe the person I thought of as kind was sometimes nasty, the greedy person, generous. It was a radical idea, but maybe the fellow I thought of as an old man hadn’t always been old, and the young girl wouldn’t always remain young. Of course, I understood that in a general way, but when it came to specifics, it was hard for me to accept that Old Man Jenks was ever anything but Old Man Jenks, and that little Lena would ever grow out of her childhood. It is so obvious I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t realize it earlier. When it hit me, it was an epiphany, and revealed a serious flaw in how I’d been viewing the world.