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Suffering
Floating away in a cloud
Leaving space for the tulip to spread its petals
Dying already
The impending death overshadows the beauty
And the tulip never tastes sweet enough
I think he is sweet enough
And so I sit, and wait, and long for his entry
A raging wish to be devoured burns me up inside
He is in me already, but I want more
My eyes, hands, and tongue… My heart
Ache and break to touch him and it is never enough
Before I notice the tulip has died.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
CRANES
I wrote the following column—about why I love cranes—three days before a crane collapse in Manhattan. Because “why I love cranes” is such a random topic, and because I don’t believe in coincidences, the whole thing freaked me out a bit. Here I was, touting the beauty of a piece of machinery responsible for the death of several people in a nearby, beloved city. What was the meaning or message in this “coincidence,” I began to wonder. After several days of sitting with this question, this is what I’ve come up with: Things, people, and events can be beautiful and destructive at the same time. Indeed, there was some hint of this observation in my original column, though I didn’t quite get to a place of unity between beauty and destruction prior to hearing news of the NYC crane accident. Still, intimations of it were there.
This observation has been a liberating insight for me. I had recently been told (and this probably wasn’t the first time) that my problem in life is that “I’m never satisfied.” I was beating myself up about this, trying to will myself into satisfaction, even as Steve Earl’s and Mick Jagger’s lyrics were each, in turn, blaring from my car stereo (from songs titled I Ain’t Ever Satisfied and Satisfaction/I Can’t Get No, respectively). Then something clicked. Yes, this dynamic that lives within me may be somewhat destructive, but there is also something beautiful about it. My lack of satisfaction has led me to continue to strive, to not give up when it would have been the easy thing to do, to make some things better, and to make other things happen—period. With song lyrics supporting me, I began to embrace this fault, error, or pathology that lives deep within me and then to feel free, which is the one state I actually find better-than-satisfying.
The end of the life of any individual is tragic for those left behind. This is especially true when death comes, literally, by accident—unexpected and untimely. Death itself, though, is beautiful if we can truly embrace it, as are our “pathologies” when we can embrace and respect them for what they are. Below is the column I originally wrote—now dedicated to the many individuals who work in the construction industry.
Steel Lace
Steel lace. That’s the thought that came to mind on the day I first fell in love with cranes. They’re strange objects to fall in love with, especially for someone whose only connection with the construction industry is a brother who was an Iron Worker for a brief period of time. I find it difficult to know why I love them so much, and believe the pictures tell the story better than I can. I love the way they seem to bridge the sky with the earth; I love their confidence—standing tall and as if they own the space they inhabit; I love their strength, a delicate and careful strength that, interestingly enough, mimics the kind of men I have also found myself falling for!
There is something so alluring to me about the juxtaposition of opposites, particularly that which is vulnerable, delicate, or fragile, adjacent something strong. I came across a gorgeous rustic, large, sturdy, dark fruitwood coffee table in an antique store recently. Though most people would see this as a total anomaly in my living room, I haven’t stopped dreaming about how perfect it would look in front of my velvety-soft, pale-green, feminine-looking sofa. I believe this kind of tension, and its potential beauty, exists in all of us, not just in cranes and living rooms.
What determines whether the potential for beauty is realized is how we manage the seeming contrast. Most of us have known individuals who identify completely with their strength, or with a hard exterior, hiding or pushing away any vulnerability deep below the surface. And others who seem unable to step into their own strength or power, presenting themselves as less capable than they in fact are. Of course, we develop these strategies for good reason. We tend to overdevelop those parts of ourselves that seemingly allow us to get our needs met easily and/or seemingly allow us to keep hurt at bay. A certain beauty emerges, however, when we can acknowledge and accept all that we are—vulnerability, power, and everything in between. It’s the beauty of inner radiance that emanates outward. It’s the look of a delicate confidence, of strong vulnerability, of humble pride, and even proud humility. It’s the beauty I see reflected in the lace-like patterns of steel that are capable of lifting tons and of doing so with careful precision and a delicate respect for their power of destruction—a dynamic which also renders them humble. Back to the human world, it’s the beauty of working toward full self-acceptance.
And this brings me to the second reason I love cranes. I love how they represent a work-in-progress. Maybe it is too obvious to need stating: Cranes take their place on a job-site during the construction phase, as something is being built. Or dismantled, though I would say that destruction is also a part of con-struction. Sometimes we need to clear-out the old in order to make room for the new. In either case, cranes represent the meeting-ground of vision and realization, of ideas and materials. I love this meeting-ground much more than the finished project. I love the works-in-progress, and it is this function of steel lace that reflects what may be our primary task as human beings—that of creating ourselves through vision and enactment, through dreams and their realization, through the work of self-acceptance and the joining of strength and vulnerability. In doing so, we build something of lasting value.
The next time you see a crane you may wish to allow the image to linger and ask yourself where you feel strong and where you notice vulnerability. Ask how these two might work together. How strength and appropriate power are actually born from accepting one’s vulnerability. How vulnerability is more easily accepted when we can also step into our power, our creative talents, and our unique place in the universe. Ask which side within you needs increased acceptance. Ask how you envision yourself and your life if that acceptance were to be granted? What do you need to enact in order to build that acceptance? Then harness the powerful image of a crane to help you to get there.
This observation has been a liberating insight for me. I had recently been told (and this probably wasn’t the first time) that my problem in life is that “I’m never satisfied.” I was beating myself up about this, trying to will myself into satisfaction, even as Steve Earl’s and Mick Jagger’s lyrics were each, in turn, blaring from my car stereo (from songs titled I Ain’t Ever Satisfied and Satisfaction/I Can’t Get No, respectively). Then something clicked. Yes, this dynamic that lives within me may be somewhat destructive, but there is also something beautiful about it. My lack of satisfaction has led me to continue to strive, to not give up when it would have been the easy thing to do, to make some things better, and to make other things happen—period. With song lyrics supporting me, I began to embrace this fault, error, or pathology that lives deep within me and then to feel free, which is the one state I actually find better-than-satisfying.
The end of the life of any individual is tragic for those left behind. This is especially true when death comes, literally, by accident—unexpected and untimely. Death itself, though, is beautiful if we can truly embrace it, as are our “pathologies” when we can embrace and respect them for what they are. Below is the column I originally wrote—now dedicated to the many individuals who work in the construction industry.
Steel Lace
Steel lace. That’s the thought that came to mind on the day I first fell in love with cranes. They’re strange objects to fall in love with, especially for someone whose only connection with the construction industry is a brother who was an Iron Worker for a brief period of time. I find it difficult to know why I love them so much, and believe the pictures tell the story better than I can. I love the way they seem to bridge the sky with the earth; I love their confidence—standing tall and as if they own the space they inhabit; I love their strength, a delicate and careful strength that, interestingly enough, mimics the kind of men I have also found myself falling for!
There is something so alluring to me about the juxtaposition of opposites, particularly that which is vulnerable, delicate, or fragile, adjacent something strong. I came across a gorgeous rustic, large, sturdy, dark fruitwood coffee table in an antique store recently. Though most people would see this as a total anomaly in my living room, I haven’t stopped dreaming about how perfect it would look in front of my velvety-soft, pale-green, feminine-looking sofa. I believe this kind of tension, and its potential beauty, exists in all of us, not just in cranes and living rooms.
What determines whether the potential for beauty is realized is how we manage the seeming contrast. Most of us have known individuals who identify completely with their strength, or with a hard exterior, hiding or pushing away any vulnerability deep below the surface. And others who seem unable to step into their own strength or power, presenting themselves as less capable than they in fact are. Of course, we develop these strategies for good reason. We tend to overdevelop those parts of ourselves that seemingly allow us to get our needs met easily and/or seemingly allow us to keep hurt at bay. A certain beauty emerges, however, when we can acknowledge and accept all that we are—vulnerability, power, and everything in between. It’s the beauty of inner radiance that emanates outward. It’s the look of a delicate confidence, of strong vulnerability, of humble pride, and even proud humility. It’s the beauty I see reflected in the lace-like patterns of steel that are capable of lifting tons and of doing so with careful precision and a delicate respect for their power of destruction—a dynamic which also renders them humble. Back to the human world, it’s the beauty of working toward full self-acceptance.
And this brings me to the second reason I love cranes. I love how they represent a work-in-progress. Maybe it is too obvious to need stating: Cranes take their place on a job-site during the construction phase, as something is being built. Or dismantled, though I would say that destruction is also a part of con-struction. Sometimes we need to clear-out the old in order to make room for the new. In either case, cranes represent the meeting-ground of vision and realization, of ideas and materials. I love this meeting-ground much more than the finished project. I love the works-in-progress, and it is this function of steel lace that reflects what may be our primary task as human beings—that of creating ourselves through vision and enactment, through dreams and their realization, through the work of self-acceptance and the joining of strength and vulnerability. In doing so, we build something of lasting value.
The next time you see a crane you may wish to allow the image to linger and ask yourself where you feel strong and where you notice vulnerability. Ask how these two might work together. How strength and appropriate power are actually born from accepting one’s vulnerability. How vulnerability is more easily accepted when we can also step into our power, our creative talents, and our unique place in the universe. Ask which side within you needs increased acceptance. Ask how you envision yourself and your life if that acceptance were to be granted? What do you need to enact in order to build that acceptance? Then harness the powerful image of a crane to help you to get there.
Midlife and the Emergence of Soul
The fields of Psychology and Spirituality often make a distinction between Ego and Soul. The Ego is the part of us that assumes various roles in life, or what we might consider to be our identities. When you identify yourself as artistic, achievement-oriented, laid-back, or hard-working… as the jokester, the caretaker, the leader, or the shy-one… or as any number of other roles you play, you are in the realm of ego. The ego develops over time; first within our family and peer relationships and later through our work relationships and adult friendships.
In some ways the ego is like the mask we wear out in the world, and everyone’s mask will be unique in some way, depending upon what has “worked” in our particular situation. The ego marks a way-of-being that has helped us to survive very difficult circumstances, gain approval from others, and/or identify a unique place for ourselves within our families, and then within our larger worlds. A little boy who is the youngest of four children notices that in order to get attention from his parents, it works best to be very funny. A young girl finds that she plays the role of peacemaker when her parents are fighting, and then they begin to calm down and she feels better. Another young girl suffers physical abuse when her father is tense or unhappy and so she learns to be as invisible as possible and to stay out of the way. These children then grow up to be the class-clown, peacemaker, and “good girl” respectively, and each may derive some fulfillment from these roles that they are now very good at (we tend to become expert at those things that work well for us). And because we become expert at these identities, and because they may help us to win approval from others, developing our egos may also help us to develop a sense of self-esteem, effectiveness in the world, and purpose; all of which will be more precarious for some than for others. For most of us, though, regardless of the exact nature of our developmental history, our egos have a way of keeping us moving along in the world. For the first half of our life, this is usually a pretty good thing.
Then, around mid-life, something happens. In one way or another, our egos start to break down. It no longer feels so satisfying to be the class-clown. Being the peacemaker begins to cause trouble because one’s own needs are always put on the back-burner. Being the good girl starts to feel boring, or enraging. For some, the break-down can happen as the result of a crisis—an illness, job loss, or relationship difficulty, for example. For others, a vague dis-ease marks their awareness, a sense that they just don’t feel happy or fulfilled. Still others may wake-up one morning feeling as though their life is just wrong. In these ways, a mid-life crisis begins; or, stated another way, the Soul emerges. I see the emergence of Soul and mid-life crisis as different sides of the same coin; and sometimes even the same side of the same coin. But why would the emergence of Soul be a crisis? It sounds like such a good thing...
I think we have to go back to the part about ego development to understand this well. We learn that in order to receive love or connection or approval, we must be this way ____ (fill in the blank for yourself). And so we develop, that way. But, “deep down” we are also so much more than this. And the needs and desires and talents and propensities that don’t fit with what becomes solidified as ego (and what we often call Shadow Material) get left out. Furthermore, because essential parts of who we are get left out, a tension develops—very slowly and over time. And at some point, usually when our internal sensor knows that we can handle it and around mid-life, the tension no longer holds. Our souls gets louder and our egos, less satisfying.
If you are awake and aware and a little lucky, your soul will whisper to you and you will listen. If you don’t listen it will grow louder, and louder still, until the tension is unbearable and something gives. The soul can speak in the form of a crisis, a feeling of discontent, or a compelling sense that a change is needed. At some point, though, it will speak, and the sooner and more carefully we can listen, the sooner we can begin to experience freedom. But it is hard to listen to Soul because it often asks us to give up our attachment to Ego—that mixture of identities and roles that has allowed us to survive and sometimes even thrive in the world. We come to love our ego, and the Soul asks for its death. This is why it is so challenging, and why many of us don’t listen to the whisper. Fortunately, the Soul is pretty relentless. The message of what needs to die in order that something more fulfilling can emerge will come to us again and again. And when we do listen, change and transformation and death and rebirth all become possible. But change is hard, and the emergence of Soul can mean changes to relationships, our life’s work, and even day-to-day activities. The friendships we have counted on for a long time may no longer serve us, marriages may break-up or require intensive re-formation, a career change may be in order. For these reasons, mid-life crises can be experiences that we go through alone—not necessarily without support, but alone in the sense of deciding for ourselves, and maybe for the first time, what we really love, who we really are, where our values and priorities lie, and how we wish to be connected with something larger than ourselves. Thus, the challenging path is not without its rewards. Relationships, our life’s work, and our day-to-day activities become more fulfilling and more real. The emergence of Soul, which requires the death of our attachment to Ego, results in an Authentic Life. And this is a reward worth dying for.
(P.S. Notice that it is the death of the attachment to the ego, and not necessarily the ego itself, that is required. Those roles and identities that helped us to thrive or survive and that we become so expert at don’t need to disappear. We just need to learn that it is not all of who we are--- in fact, it’s not even close to all of who we are.)
In some ways the ego is like the mask we wear out in the world, and everyone’s mask will be unique in some way, depending upon what has “worked” in our particular situation. The ego marks a way-of-being that has helped us to survive very difficult circumstances, gain approval from others, and/or identify a unique place for ourselves within our families, and then within our larger worlds. A little boy who is the youngest of four children notices that in order to get attention from his parents, it works best to be very funny. A young girl finds that she plays the role of peacemaker when her parents are fighting, and then they begin to calm down and she feels better. Another young girl suffers physical abuse when her father is tense or unhappy and so she learns to be as invisible as possible and to stay out of the way. These children then grow up to be the class-clown, peacemaker, and “good girl” respectively, and each may derive some fulfillment from these roles that they are now very good at (we tend to become expert at those things that work well for us). And because we become expert at these identities, and because they may help us to win approval from others, developing our egos may also help us to develop a sense of self-esteem, effectiveness in the world, and purpose; all of which will be more precarious for some than for others. For most of us, though, regardless of the exact nature of our developmental history, our egos have a way of keeping us moving along in the world. For the first half of our life, this is usually a pretty good thing.
Then, around mid-life, something happens. In one way or another, our egos start to break down. It no longer feels so satisfying to be the class-clown. Being the peacemaker begins to cause trouble because one’s own needs are always put on the back-burner. Being the good girl starts to feel boring, or enraging. For some, the break-down can happen as the result of a crisis—an illness, job loss, or relationship difficulty, for example. For others, a vague dis-ease marks their awareness, a sense that they just don’t feel happy or fulfilled. Still others may wake-up one morning feeling as though their life is just wrong. In these ways, a mid-life crisis begins; or, stated another way, the Soul emerges. I see the emergence of Soul and mid-life crisis as different sides of the same coin; and sometimes even the same side of the same coin. But why would the emergence of Soul be a crisis? It sounds like such a good thing...
I think we have to go back to the part about ego development to understand this well. We learn that in order to receive love or connection or approval, we must be this way ____ (fill in the blank for yourself). And so we develop, that way. But, “deep down” we are also so much more than this. And the needs and desires and talents and propensities that don’t fit with what becomes solidified as ego (and what we often call Shadow Material) get left out. Furthermore, because essential parts of who we are get left out, a tension develops—very slowly and over time. And at some point, usually when our internal sensor knows that we can handle it and around mid-life, the tension no longer holds. Our souls gets louder and our egos, less satisfying.
If you are awake and aware and a little lucky, your soul will whisper to you and you will listen. If you don’t listen it will grow louder, and louder still, until the tension is unbearable and something gives. The soul can speak in the form of a crisis, a feeling of discontent, or a compelling sense that a change is needed. At some point, though, it will speak, and the sooner and more carefully we can listen, the sooner we can begin to experience freedom. But it is hard to listen to Soul because it often asks us to give up our attachment to Ego—that mixture of identities and roles that has allowed us to survive and sometimes even thrive in the world. We come to love our ego, and the Soul asks for its death. This is why it is so challenging, and why many of us don’t listen to the whisper. Fortunately, the Soul is pretty relentless. The message of what needs to die in order that something more fulfilling can emerge will come to us again and again. And when we do listen, change and transformation and death and rebirth all become possible. But change is hard, and the emergence of Soul can mean changes to relationships, our life’s work, and even day-to-day activities. The friendships we have counted on for a long time may no longer serve us, marriages may break-up or require intensive re-formation, a career change may be in order. For these reasons, mid-life crises can be experiences that we go through alone—not necessarily without support, but alone in the sense of deciding for ourselves, and maybe for the first time, what we really love, who we really are, where our values and priorities lie, and how we wish to be connected with something larger than ourselves. Thus, the challenging path is not without its rewards. Relationships, our life’s work, and our day-to-day activities become more fulfilling and more real. The emergence of Soul, which requires the death of our attachment to Ego, results in an Authentic Life. And this is a reward worth dying for.
(P.S. Notice that it is the death of the attachment to the ego, and not necessarily the ego itself, that is required. Those roles and identities that helped us to thrive or survive and that we become so expert at don’t need to disappear. We just need to learn that it is not all of who we are--- in fact, it’s not even close to all of who we are.)
LONGING FOR A LULLABY
“There’s a piece of Maria in every song that I sing.”
From Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby – The Counting Crows
There are many song lyrics that I count among my favorites. This is one of them. It’s lifted from a song about the ghosts that haunt us with our unanswered desires. For me, this song, and this line in particular, capture the experience of longing—a feeling with which most of us have some familiarity but few of us have the language to describe. Longing depicts a state of yearning, hunger, aching, or wanting. It describes where we find ourselves when a deep desire remains unfulfilled. We might long for another person, a particular experience, an imagined feeling, or the past; and the longing we feel is often as painful as it is passionate. It holds the hope of pleasure, even as its fulfillment remains at bay.
Just imagine how Adam Duritz (lead singer and songwriter for The Counting Crows) must have once (always) felt toward Maria such that she is now a part of every song he sings. Imagine how he must have felt himself transformed by her presence (real or imagined) that she now appears—in some way—in all that he manifests in the world. That’s a formidable woman, and an equally potent yearning!
There is something ironic about longing, though, and herein lies it pain. It’s the proverbial dangling carrot. It holds the promise of a compelling pleasure, which nevertheless remains out of reach. The song quoted above goes on to say that “the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.” To the extent that it remains unattainable, what we long for brings sorrow. This is true when we long to recreate the past—as memories tempt us to do, and it is true when we yearn for an imagined future. Living with longing requires that we experience our sorrow, that we let it run through us, clearing space for something new to emerge. Or, it morphs into an obsession to possess its object, inviting us to avoid the sorrow: Stay focused on the unattainable prize and the sorrow is kept at bay, even if tenuously. So how does one let go of what one aches for (if that is indeed the goal) when the promise of its attainment is there, in the longing itself? Alternatively, how does one live constructively with a heart and soul that ache, want, desire? Can the obsessive quality of longing be useful in some way? More simply put, what do we do with our unanswered longings?
I don’t have the answer, though I think it has something to do with singing for Maria. It’s as though the yearning itself, out of sheer necessity, creates something Other. Some of us can find a way to allow this creation to emerge, to use our longing to infuse our actual experiences with the passion and hunger we feel. Laurence Hillman, in his book, Planets in Play, suggests that wrestling with longing may be essential to the creative process and that this is the role of the Muse. She inspires, yet “requires that you never get to the part where you embrace.” A sorrowful state indeed: The embrace, never-to-be-had, etched into our memories forever. I don’t know if Maria is real or imagined. I don’t know if Adam ever embraced her—if what he longed for was an embrace never-had or an embrace remembered and never-to-be-had-again. Nor do I know if Maria is also Mrs. Potter, the title character of the song, to whom he pleadingly admits that he “burns for [her].” What I do know is that listening to the song helps my own sorrow run through me, even as it evokes a longing within to be Maria, or Mrs. Potter, or the longed for Muse of someone, somewhere.
From Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby – The Counting Crows
There are many song lyrics that I count among my favorites. This is one of them. It’s lifted from a song about the ghosts that haunt us with our unanswered desires. For me, this song, and this line in particular, capture the experience of longing—a feeling with which most of us have some familiarity but few of us have the language to describe. Longing depicts a state of yearning, hunger, aching, or wanting. It describes where we find ourselves when a deep desire remains unfulfilled. We might long for another person, a particular experience, an imagined feeling, or the past; and the longing we feel is often as painful as it is passionate. It holds the hope of pleasure, even as its fulfillment remains at bay.
Just imagine how Adam Duritz (lead singer and songwriter for The Counting Crows) must have once (always) felt toward Maria such that she is now a part of every song he sings. Imagine how he must have felt himself transformed by her presence (real or imagined) that she now appears—in some way—in all that he manifests in the world. That’s a formidable woman, and an equally potent yearning!
There is something ironic about longing, though, and herein lies it pain. It’s the proverbial dangling carrot. It holds the promise of a compelling pleasure, which nevertheless remains out of reach. The song quoted above goes on to say that “the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.” To the extent that it remains unattainable, what we long for brings sorrow. This is true when we long to recreate the past—as memories tempt us to do, and it is true when we yearn for an imagined future. Living with longing requires that we experience our sorrow, that we let it run through us, clearing space for something new to emerge. Or, it morphs into an obsession to possess its object, inviting us to avoid the sorrow: Stay focused on the unattainable prize and the sorrow is kept at bay, even if tenuously. So how does one let go of what one aches for (if that is indeed the goal) when the promise of its attainment is there, in the longing itself? Alternatively, how does one live constructively with a heart and soul that ache, want, desire? Can the obsessive quality of longing be useful in some way? More simply put, what do we do with our unanswered longings?
I don’t have the answer, though I think it has something to do with singing for Maria. It’s as though the yearning itself, out of sheer necessity, creates something Other. Some of us can find a way to allow this creation to emerge, to use our longing to infuse our actual experiences with the passion and hunger we feel. Laurence Hillman, in his book, Planets in Play, suggests that wrestling with longing may be essential to the creative process and that this is the role of the Muse. She inspires, yet “requires that you never get to the part where you embrace.” A sorrowful state indeed: The embrace, never-to-be-had, etched into our memories forever. I don’t know if Maria is real or imagined. I don’t know if Adam ever embraced her—if what he longed for was an embrace never-had or an embrace remembered and never-to-be-had-again. Nor do I know if Maria is also Mrs. Potter, the title character of the song, to whom he pleadingly admits that he “burns for [her].” What I do know is that listening to the song helps my own sorrow run through me, even as it evokes a longing within to be Maria, or Mrs. Potter, or the longed for Muse of someone, somewhere.
Music and the Moment
I’ve been working with this guy, Robert, who I’ll call a spiritual mentor. Through sharing his sharp insight, he helps me to be as honest with myself as possible and to cut through the illusions and delusions that my ego sets up, often in a distorted effort to protect me. With his help, I have learned a lot and have taken some sizeable risks, faced some fears, and made some difficult choices. I am growing. My guess, however, is that he’s a bit exasperated with me at the moment. At the very least, I’ve become a bit exasperated with myself. My resistance has gotten the best of me. It’s not only this spiritual mentor but also all of the books I’ve been reading about detaching from the objects of my desires, understanding that everything I’m searching for is already within me, emptying myself through meditation etc. etc. that has provoked an erection of my walls. “But I want my desires!” I cry. “And I don’t want to give up my striving for something better. Or, the fear that drives me to strive. This is how I’ve lived for thirty-plus years. I can’t settle now. Living in the present moment feels like settling. What if I settle into it and then a better opportunity passes me by? Or someone takes advantage of my vulnerability? I can’t let my guard down. And, by the way, if everything is already within me, why don’t I feel it?” The inner protest can go on ad infinitum. In other words, my walls are up, and they are strong and tall. At least they had been. Then I started listening to some good music.
Music has always served the function of pulling me out of myself. I stop thinking about all that I wish were different in my life. Stop obsessing about where I want to go. Stop indulging in self-pity. And instead, just sit (or dance) with the present moment. What I have discovered is that for me, at this time, intellectualizing about following a spiritual path is not the way to go, especially because I am so afraid that this would mean losing my desire, passion, and intensity. Much to my surprise I have also discovered that I don’t need to intellectualize about spiritual teachings, nor do I need to understand or even agree with them. The thing is, I found the present moment (and, I think, some of what I’ve been searching for spiritually) when I was not looking or understanding or protesting. I found it while following my heart’s desire: While writing, listening to music, taking care of flowers, and talking with clients. Robert has been inviting me to appreciate and embrace what is right in front of and all around me. I’ve be screaming “No,” for all the reasons the Voice of Resistance articulated above. Yet, when I wasn’t looking I started appreciating. And it started with settling into my desire for good music.
Here is how it happened: Instead of the self-pity I’ve been know to indulge in, I sought what I needed and asked some friends and colleagues for music recommendations. I received a lot of good suggestions, and after a trip to the book store, arrived home with several new CDs. I listened to one very sexy R&B album for most of the night. “This should have come with one of those warning labels,” I mused. (I readily admit to not having the greatest sense of humor, but the fact that I was cracking jokes to myself, even bad ones, indicated a loosening up of the resistance.) The next morning I woke up and enjoyed a cup of tea as I got lost in the beauty of the bright sun, and still visible full moon, shiny over the Hartford skyline. I found myself looking forward to the day and to the opportunity to listen to other good music. I was also happily anticipating the several hours that day which I set aside for writing. I felt grateful for the beautiful space in which I work. I was appreciative of the spirit showing itself from within each person I saw in therapy that day. And on my way out to run an errand, some very friendly guy in the parking lot told me, in the most cheery and sincere way, to have a very great day. My coffee even seemed to taste better that day. “Maybe this is what Robert was talking about?” I wondered. Ironically enough, I couldn’t see it until I gave up trying. I didn’t find the secret of being-in-the-moment in a book. Nor did I find it in my own intellect. And it certainly wasn’t there in my striving or in the walls I erected. Instead, the secret was in the good music, and in everything else that followed from it.
Music has always served the function of pulling me out of myself. I stop thinking about all that I wish were different in my life. Stop obsessing about where I want to go. Stop indulging in self-pity. And instead, just sit (or dance) with the present moment. What I have discovered is that for me, at this time, intellectualizing about following a spiritual path is not the way to go, especially because I am so afraid that this would mean losing my desire, passion, and intensity. Much to my surprise I have also discovered that I don’t need to intellectualize about spiritual teachings, nor do I need to understand or even agree with them. The thing is, I found the present moment (and, I think, some of what I’ve been searching for spiritually) when I was not looking or understanding or protesting. I found it while following my heart’s desire: While writing, listening to music, taking care of flowers, and talking with clients. Robert has been inviting me to appreciate and embrace what is right in front of and all around me. I’ve be screaming “No,” for all the reasons the Voice of Resistance articulated above. Yet, when I wasn’t looking I started appreciating. And it started with settling into my desire for good music.
Here is how it happened: Instead of the self-pity I’ve been know to indulge in, I sought what I needed and asked some friends and colleagues for music recommendations. I received a lot of good suggestions, and after a trip to the book store, arrived home with several new CDs. I listened to one very sexy R&B album for most of the night. “This should have come with one of those warning labels,” I mused. (I readily admit to not having the greatest sense of humor, but the fact that I was cracking jokes to myself, even bad ones, indicated a loosening up of the resistance.) The next morning I woke up and enjoyed a cup of tea as I got lost in the beauty of the bright sun, and still visible full moon, shiny over the Hartford skyline. I found myself looking forward to the day and to the opportunity to listen to other good music. I was also happily anticipating the several hours that day which I set aside for writing. I felt grateful for the beautiful space in which I work. I was appreciative of the spirit showing itself from within each person I saw in therapy that day. And on my way out to run an errand, some very friendly guy in the parking lot told me, in the most cheery and sincere way, to have a very great day. My coffee even seemed to taste better that day. “Maybe this is what Robert was talking about?” I wondered. Ironically enough, I couldn’t see it until I gave up trying. I didn’t find the secret of being-in-the-moment in a book. Nor did I find it in my own intellect. And it certainly wasn’t there in my striving or in the walls I erected. Instead, the secret was in the good music, and in everything else that followed from it.
INTIMACY AND FREEDOM
“There's a need to be separate and a need to be oneAnd a struggle neither wins” From Sky Blue and Black – Jackson Browne
It seems as though the struggle to find balance between these two states is all around me these days. Intimacy—or the need to be one, on the one hand; and Freedom—or the need to be separate, on the other. I notice this theme in the books I’m reading, the songs I hear, conversations I have, and in my internal dialogue. Is it possible to be intimate with someone and maintain one’s freedom at the same time? Many people find themselves closer to one or the other of these poles, with an intense craving for closeness that can look like dependency, or with defenses that keep others out and supposedly protect freedom. Yet, most of us also want both. We want to be free enough to be ourselves, to be who-we-experience-ourselves-to-be without inhibition, without the need to wear a thick mask, without the worry of what others will think of us or whether we will threaten them with our independence. We also want to experience feeling close enough to someone that we then feel known and understood by them.
Despite the fact that so many experience this dilemma in one form or another, in truth, it is freedom that is the condition for real intimacy. And the reverse may prove to be true as well. What this means is that it is not only possible to have both, but that a person cannot truly have one without the other. I have to admit to falling on the side of freedom myself. I’m a total lover of freedom. My nephew just got his first tattoo—“Faith” printed on his forearm in huge black letters, in honor of my dad. I loved it as soon as I saw it because to me it was about freedom. The freedom to be who he is, which is in part a sensitive kid who feels a strong bond with his grandfather and who himself has a ton of faith, even if he hasn’t yet figured this out. The thing is, the freer he is to be himself (not an easy task when you’re 17), the more likely he is to experience true intimacy. And this is true for any of us. How can we expect to really feel close to another if what we are sharing with that other isn’t completely honest and free? Real intimacy requires really being seen, really being heard, really being known. When we short-change our sense of freedom, we short-change the potential for closeness with others as well.
Eric Francis, an astrologer and writer whose work I love, wisely observes that “honesty leads to intimacy” (see his work at: www.planetwaves.net). Being honest and experiencing intimacy go hand-in-hand, especially if we are talking about lived honesty—about integrity. In order to achieve true intimacy, we must first be honest with ourselves and be courageous enough to live that honesty in our day-to-day lives. This includes bringing this honesty into our relationships. Think of times when you have felt most free. When you have been able to reveal yourself in all that you are. It is likely that these times also mark experiences of true intimacy, with yourself and/or with others. It is one of the reasons that most therapies feel quite intimate at times—we find ourselves in a space of self-revealing freedom, allowing someone else to know “the real” us. This, quite simply, is one definition of intimacy, and it is predicated upon freedom.
Francis has been writing a lot about the concept of compersion lately, compersion being the opposite of jealousy. Compersion is about loving another in all that they desire and holding a space for them to explore this; i.e., allowing them to be free. Can we love and support a partner in his passion for watching and playing baseball, for example, or do we need him to be something different for us? Can we allow a romantic partner to write love poems, even if these are inspired by love-objects other than ourselves? This is a challenging task for many and quite different from how most people live-out relationships. We tend to want to mold people to fit our own needs and to create arrangements that minimize our own fears. When we do this, we diminish others, and diminish ourselves as well.
The other side of this coin of compersion is being a person who can ask for this space from others, and even demand it. And a person who can claim this space for themselves. It’s like saying “This is who I am and I want to be close to you from this honest place. I would like you to support this. I insist on being free.” Again, a challenging task, particularly if we are worried about being rejected because of our demands for freedom. We tend to imprison ourselves, preventing anything like freedom from emerging. Our fears keep us in that defensive posture—keeping others out, or they keep us hanging on to others for their permission to be free. I think it’s time that we grant this freedom to ourselves.
Another writer/ astrologer whose work I admire describes the changing landscape of relationships in the Age of Aquarius, stating that in this new century we are being asked to “enter into equal partnerships -- not from dependency, but out of interdependency. The image of Aquarian relationship is of two trees standing next to one another, their branches intertwined, even leaning against one another in places, but each has its own separate root system, its own internal supports. We're the pioneers for this new age” (Dana Gerhardt, personal communication, www.mooncircles.com). I love this image: Two tall, strong, rooted trees standing side-by-side and even leaning on one another in some places, without losing their rootedness. We are responsible for growing our own roots, for asserting our own freedom, for disclosing who we really are to the world. When we do this, we can find ourselves intertwined and side-by-side others (i.e., in intimacy) without danger of losing ourselves.
It seems as though the struggle to find balance between these two states is all around me these days. Intimacy—or the need to be one, on the one hand; and Freedom—or the need to be separate, on the other. I notice this theme in the books I’m reading, the songs I hear, conversations I have, and in my internal dialogue. Is it possible to be intimate with someone and maintain one’s freedom at the same time? Many people find themselves closer to one or the other of these poles, with an intense craving for closeness that can look like dependency, or with defenses that keep others out and supposedly protect freedom. Yet, most of us also want both. We want to be free enough to be ourselves, to be who-we-experience-ourselves-to-be without inhibition, without the need to wear a thick mask, without the worry of what others will think of us or whether we will threaten them with our independence. We also want to experience feeling close enough to someone that we then feel known and understood by them.
Despite the fact that so many experience this dilemma in one form or another, in truth, it is freedom that is the condition for real intimacy. And the reverse may prove to be true as well. What this means is that it is not only possible to have both, but that a person cannot truly have one without the other. I have to admit to falling on the side of freedom myself. I’m a total lover of freedom. My nephew just got his first tattoo—“Faith” printed on his forearm in huge black letters, in honor of my dad. I loved it as soon as I saw it because to me it was about freedom. The freedom to be who he is, which is in part a sensitive kid who feels a strong bond with his grandfather and who himself has a ton of faith, even if he hasn’t yet figured this out. The thing is, the freer he is to be himself (not an easy task when you’re 17), the more likely he is to experience true intimacy. And this is true for any of us. How can we expect to really feel close to another if what we are sharing with that other isn’t completely honest and free? Real intimacy requires really being seen, really being heard, really being known. When we short-change our sense of freedom, we short-change the potential for closeness with others as well.
Eric Francis, an astrologer and writer whose work I love, wisely observes that “honesty leads to intimacy” (see his work at: www.planetwaves.net). Being honest and experiencing intimacy go hand-in-hand, especially if we are talking about lived honesty—about integrity. In order to achieve true intimacy, we must first be honest with ourselves and be courageous enough to live that honesty in our day-to-day lives. This includes bringing this honesty into our relationships. Think of times when you have felt most free. When you have been able to reveal yourself in all that you are. It is likely that these times also mark experiences of true intimacy, with yourself and/or with others. It is one of the reasons that most therapies feel quite intimate at times—we find ourselves in a space of self-revealing freedom, allowing someone else to know “the real” us. This, quite simply, is one definition of intimacy, and it is predicated upon freedom.
Francis has been writing a lot about the concept of compersion lately, compersion being the opposite of jealousy. Compersion is about loving another in all that they desire and holding a space for them to explore this; i.e., allowing them to be free. Can we love and support a partner in his passion for watching and playing baseball, for example, or do we need him to be something different for us? Can we allow a romantic partner to write love poems, even if these are inspired by love-objects other than ourselves? This is a challenging task for many and quite different from how most people live-out relationships. We tend to want to mold people to fit our own needs and to create arrangements that minimize our own fears. When we do this, we diminish others, and diminish ourselves as well.
The other side of this coin of compersion is being a person who can ask for this space from others, and even demand it. And a person who can claim this space for themselves. It’s like saying “This is who I am and I want to be close to you from this honest place. I would like you to support this. I insist on being free.” Again, a challenging task, particularly if we are worried about being rejected because of our demands for freedom. We tend to imprison ourselves, preventing anything like freedom from emerging. Our fears keep us in that defensive posture—keeping others out, or they keep us hanging on to others for their permission to be free. I think it’s time that we grant this freedom to ourselves.
Another writer/ astrologer whose work I admire describes the changing landscape of relationships in the Age of Aquarius, stating that in this new century we are being asked to “enter into equal partnerships -- not from dependency, but out of interdependency. The image of Aquarian relationship is of two trees standing next to one another, their branches intertwined, even leaning against one another in places, but each has its own separate root system, its own internal supports. We're the pioneers for this new age” (Dana Gerhardt, personal communication, www.mooncircles.com). I love this image: Two tall, strong, rooted trees standing side-by-side and even leaning on one another in some places, without losing their rootedness. We are responsible for growing our own roots, for asserting our own freedom, for disclosing who we really are to the world. When we do this, we can find ourselves intertwined and side-by-side others (i.e., in intimacy) without danger of losing ourselves.
A Vision of Hope
Written, Christmas 07:
Sitting around the table on Christmas Day, just as everyone was finishing their dinner, my sister clinked her wine glass with a knife-- the way they do at weddings to get the bride and groom to kiss-- and made the announcement that, to her, Christmas signified hope. She then asked everyone who was present to say what they hoped for in the coming year. This small gesture brought laughter and tears to the dozen-plus people sitting around the table, who were taking in the hopeful message of Christmas. I decided to pass with a “no comment,” as others hoped for everything from their children’s happiness to a Patriots’ win later that week. Then, when everyone had announced their hopes, the following words shamelessly escaped from my mouth: “Hope is actually the cause of all suffering.” Not one of my finest Christmas moments, I readily admit. My youngest sister asked if I were the same person who had sent the Christmas card, inspired by Albert Einstein, encouraging my friends and family to see everything as though it were a miracle. She, as a Gemini, should appreciate that this was the cynical shadow of the idealistic part of myself that chose that card for the holidays.
I went on to explain that hope keeps people wanting what they don’t have instead of appreciating what they do. We hope that our parents will someday be the perfect persons we want them to be; or that we could live without the limitations that seem to restrict us; that we could have the energy, bodies, and health we did in our younger years; or attain that well-paid perfect job without the required work and discipline it takes to get there…. I was trying to prove a mostly cynical point that had way more to do with my own “stuckness” than with any wisdom that deserved to be shared. “I just hope for financial stability and if I get there, great, if not that’s okay too.” Okay, now my little sister was really putting me in my place. How can you argue with that sweet, innocent hope? I cannot. And she proved the more realistic and wise message related to hope: It is not hope that causes suffering, but our attachment to it. She has every right and every capacity to hope for financial stability. This, in and of itself, will not cause suffering. In fact, the hope or intention may be the force that brings this possibility into being for her. What could cause suffering is an attachment to attaining this—if my sister is only focused on this or attaches her happiness to it, then she will miss those experiences that are right in front of her and what they have to offer. Even financial struggles have something to teach us. Again, it’s not the hope, but the putting one’s life on hold until the hope materializes, that leads us into suffering. Spiritual healers all over the globe have said this much, and for many centuries. I have read this, and heard this, over and over again. Still, I almost spoiled a beautiful ritual begun by a sister who has often had very little hope because I chose to stay stuck in my own suffering rather let go of my attachment to certain outcomes.
So this column is my apology—to my sister who suggested the hope exercise and to everyone else at the table. My hope is twofold: One, that I can let go of the attachments to outcomes that are keeping me stuck; and two, that I will be a better friend, sister, aunt, daughter, and godmother in the year to come.
Sitting around the table on Christmas Day, just as everyone was finishing their dinner, my sister clinked her wine glass with a knife-- the way they do at weddings to get the bride and groom to kiss-- and made the announcement that, to her, Christmas signified hope. She then asked everyone who was present to say what they hoped for in the coming year. This small gesture brought laughter and tears to the dozen-plus people sitting around the table, who were taking in the hopeful message of Christmas. I decided to pass with a “no comment,” as others hoped for everything from their children’s happiness to a Patriots’ win later that week. Then, when everyone had announced their hopes, the following words shamelessly escaped from my mouth: “Hope is actually the cause of all suffering.” Not one of my finest Christmas moments, I readily admit. My youngest sister asked if I were the same person who had sent the Christmas card, inspired by Albert Einstein, encouraging my friends and family to see everything as though it were a miracle. She, as a Gemini, should appreciate that this was the cynical shadow of the idealistic part of myself that chose that card for the holidays.
I went on to explain that hope keeps people wanting what they don’t have instead of appreciating what they do. We hope that our parents will someday be the perfect persons we want them to be; or that we could live without the limitations that seem to restrict us; that we could have the energy, bodies, and health we did in our younger years; or attain that well-paid perfect job without the required work and discipline it takes to get there…. I was trying to prove a mostly cynical point that had way more to do with my own “stuckness” than with any wisdom that deserved to be shared. “I just hope for financial stability and if I get there, great, if not that’s okay too.” Okay, now my little sister was really putting me in my place. How can you argue with that sweet, innocent hope? I cannot. And she proved the more realistic and wise message related to hope: It is not hope that causes suffering, but our attachment to it. She has every right and every capacity to hope for financial stability. This, in and of itself, will not cause suffering. In fact, the hope or intention may be the force that brings this possibility into being for her. What could cause suffering is an attachment to attaining this—if my sister is only focused on this or attaches her happiness to it, then she will miss those experiences that are right in front of her and what they have to offer. Even financial struggles have something to teach us. Again, it’s not the hope, but the putting one’s life on hold until the hope materializes, that leads us into suffering. Spiritual healers all over the globe have said this much, and for many centuries. I have read this, and heard this, over and over again. Still, I almost spoiled a beautiful ritual begun by a sister who has often had very little hope because I chose to stay stuck in my own suffering rather let go of my attachment to certain outcomes.
So this column is my apology—to my sister who suggested the hope exercise and to everyone else at the table. My hope is twofold: One, that I can let go of the attachments to outcomes that are keeping me stuck; and two, that I will be a better friend, sister, aunt, daughter, and godmother in the year to come.
The Holidays
Originally written in January 08:
I had the strange experience of watching the much anticipated Patriots-Giants football game in mixed company. That is, both Pats and Giants fans were present. All were drinking, and all had money on the game. Christmas with my family of origin would not be Christmas without football, and everything that goes along with it. This is one of the rituals that has marked my family life from as early as I can remember. I was probably about six when I first picked a number out of a hat and learned that if the combined score at the end of the next quarter ended in my number, I would miraculously win money. My sisters would have been even younger when they started this “ritual.”
Fast forward about thirty years and here we all were again. There were Pats’ fans who bet on the Pats and rooted for the Pats. Giants’ fans who bet on the Giants and rooted for the same. Giants’ fans who bet on the Pats, and who—I can only imagine—felt very torn up inside. And then a lone Giants’ fan who bet on the Giants yet was still rooting for them to lose. With over three minutes left in the game and the Giants (down three points) driving the ball, now in Pats’ territory and securing a first down, my brother was yelling at Eli to “take a knee” and then cracking-up at himself after he said it, as were many others in the room. You have to know a little bit about football to realize he didn’t trust his quarterback enough to hold onto the ball, and enough about betting to know that my brother was worried that Eli and the Giants might lose the bet for him if they allowed the Pats to score another 12 points (not an unreasonable fear with this team) and cover the spread. My point, though, is that the ritual of football-at-Christmas-with-my-family brought back some very familiar feelings as well as fond memories.
As I watched the joy on my brother’s face I realized that there is something about rituals within families that act as a sort of container. Because rituals are marked by a set of prescribed actions, behaviors, and attitudes, they seem to allow us or even call to us to slip back into those default roles that we first took on back in childhood. We don’t have to think about what to do, we just do it, as if in a trance-like state going through the motions the way we always have. The ritual/container functions to keep out the rest of the world & all we have learned about ourselves and our families as we grew up, and to keep in everything we’ve learned from our families way back when. If your experience with your family of origin had positive and negative aspects, as the majority of folks do, then both those positive and negative aspects are likely to resurface when with family, most especially in the midst of family rituals. For my brother, with the various aspects of the football ritual in place, he was free to move into default mode, in this case slipping into the persona of fun-loving brother winning a bet that his wife would have never allowed him to make outside of this ritual!
I think this is one of the reasons that the holidays can be so bittersweet for people.
This year, I heard it from friends, co-workers, co-workers of friends, neighbors, you name it. “I’ll be glad when the holidays are over” was the repeated phrase. Yet the phrase didn’t indicate anything terrible; in fact, often it was preceded by “this or that was great, but…”, or “I’m enjoying the holidays but….” In other words, the holidays were bittersweet. Relationships with family can be quite stressful, and sometimes even bitter. We anticipate being called back into that role that we may be on the brink of breaking out of, and the anticipation causes a certain level of suffering. Or we find that we do take on that role, and then we suffer because that role is no longer good for us. But holidays for some are also sweet. And it’s that sweetness that keeps us coming back for more, despite the stressors.
I had the strange experience of watching the much anticipated Patriots-Giants football game in mixed company. That is, both Pats and Giants fans were present. All were drinking, and all had money on the game. Christmas with my family of origin would not be Christmas without football, and everything that goes along with it. This is one of the rituals that has marked my family life from as early as I can remember. I was probably about six when I first picked a number out of a hat and learned that if the combined score at the end of the next quarter ended in my number, I would miraculously win money. My sisters would have been even younger when they started this “ritual.”
Fast forward about thirty years and here we all were again. There were Pats’ fans who bet on the Pats and rooted for the Pats. Giants’ fans who bet on the Giants and rooted for the same. Giants’ fans who bet on the Pats, and who—I can only imagine—felt very torn up inside. And then a lone Giants’ fan who bet on the Giants yet was still rooting for them to lose. With over three minutes left in the game and the Giants (down three points) driving the ball, now in Pats’ territory and securing a first down, my brother was yelling at Eli to “take a knee” and then cracking-up at himself after he said it, as were many others in the room. You have to know a little bit about football to realize he didn’t trust his quarterback enough to hold onto the ball, and enough about betting to know that my brother was worried that Eli and the Giants might lose the bet for him if they allowed the Pats to score another 12 points (not an unreasonable fear with this team) and cover the spread. My point, though, is that the ritual of football-at-Christmas-with-my-family brought back some very familiar feelings as well as fond memories.
As I watched the joy on my brother’s face I realized that there is something about rituals within families that act as a sort of container. Because rituals are marked by a set of prescribed actions, behaviors, and attitudes, they seem to allow us or even call to us to slip back into those default roles that we first took on back in childhood. We don’t have to think about what to do, we just do it, as if in a trance-like state going through the motions the way we always have. The ritual/container functions to keep out the rest of the world & all we have learned about ourselves and our families as we grew up, and to keep in everything we’ve learned from our families way back when. If your experience with your family of origin had positive and negative aspects, as the majority of folks do, then both those positive and negative aspects are likely to resurface when with family, most especially in the midst of family rituals. For my brother, with the various aspects of the football ritual in place, he was free to move into default mode, in this case slipping into the persona of fun-loving brother winning a bet that his wife would have never allowed him to make outside of this ritual!
I think this is one of the reasons that the holidays can be so bittersweet for people.
This year, I heard it from friends, co-workers, co-workers of friends, neighbors, you name it. “I’ll be glad when the holidays are over” was the repeated phrase. Yet the phrase didn’t indicate anything terrible; in fact, often it was preceded by “this or that was great, but…”, or “I’m enjoying the holidays but….” In other words, the holidays were bittersweet. Relationships with family can be quite stressful, and sometimes even bitter. We anticipate being called back into that role that we may be on the brink of breaking out of, and the anticipation causes a certain level of suffering. Or we find that we do take on that role, and then we suffer because that role is no longer good for us. But holidays for some are also sweet. And it’s that sweetness that keeps us coming back for more, despite the stressors.
A Magical World
I had the good fortune of being out with my sister and her two daughters the other night. I was wearing a necklace of ceramic beads that dangle off a chain. The beads are painted in muted colors from within the bead, which has the effect of the beads looking iridescent and quite eye-catching. Those with young children will know where I am going with this… My six month-old niece, Nora, loved them! I have seen the look of determination on the faces of Olympic athletes that didn’t match her own. For an uninterrupted thirty minutes, she reached and grabbed and laughed when she reached her goal and grunted when she didn’t. It took all my strength to fend her off, trying desperately to keep these small beads from entering her mouth, which was the other remarkable aspect of this whole situation: All she wanted to do was eat them. And there was a part of me that wanted to let her! She was trying so hard and I could see—within her fiercely willful eyes—how delicious the beads looked to her. Better than the peaches that she loves so much and certainly better than the peas, which were now just left to grow stale on the table as Nora tackled more juicy delicacies. Her will, strength, and determination were indeed a sight to behold. At one point, she nearly leaped off her uncle’s lap and ran over to mine!
In the meantime, in between rounds of this wrestling match taking place across the table, my sister was telling me a story about Molly, Nora’s four-year old sister. Molly had recently found an old toy that played tapes of different instruments performing classical music. When the Harp played Molly broke into a very specific dance that my sister had not seen before. “Where do you learn that dance, Molly?” she asked. “The music told me what to do,” replied her daughter very matter-of-factly.
I began to wonder, when does it happen that we lose the perception of the world as magic? When do we cease to believe that ceramic beads are delicious and that music talks to us? Does it happen at five, when we’re sent off to school? Seven? Sixteen? Thirty? These were such melancholy questions for me to ponder as they triggered a longing for life to be as simply, and matter-of-factly, magical as it is for Molly and Nora. Likewise, it was sad to consider that life won’t always be this way for them. Assuming I hang on to my beads a while longer, there may be a time when Nora no longer notices them. Or a time when Molly feels as though she has to dance like all of her peers, if she allows herself to dance at all, rather than as the music tells her to.
Is it possible to recapture the magic of life that exists for those who are under the age of five? I like to believe there is. Perhaps, if we slow down enough and shut-off our overly-critical, overly-analytical thoughts for just some moments, then the magic of the world that is already out there will have the opportunity to reveal itself to us. Upon hearing the newest music from Eddie Vedder (a voice that to me is one of the most beautiful sounds in this world), my body responded. I felt a bit like I had imagined Molly did listening to the harp play from her old toy: Lost in the melody, the verse, the longing I so identify with within his voice. It spoke to me. I look forward to lingering here a while longer, lost in the beautiful sound of one of my favorite artists. I’m grateful to Molly and Nora for reminding me to be with this magic. And who knows? May be later I’ll even taste a bead….
In the meantime, in between rounds of this wrestling match taking place across the table, my sister was telling me a story about Molly, Nora’s four-year old sister. Molly had recently found an old toy that played tapes of different instruments performing classical music. When the Harp played Molly broke into a very specific dance that my sister had not seen before. “Where do you learn that dance, Molly?” she asked. “The music told me what to do,” replied her daughter very matter-of-factly.
I began to wonder, when does it happen that we lose the perception of the world as magic? When do we cease to believe that ceramic beads are delicious and that music talks to us? Does it happen at five, when we’re sent off to school? Seven? Sixteen? Thirty? These were such melancholy questions for me to ponder as they triggered a longing for life to be as simply, and matter-of-factly, magical as it is for Molly and Nora. Likewise, it was sad to consider that life won’t always be this way for them. Assuming I hang on to my beads a while longer, there may be a time when Nora no longer notices them. Or a time when Molly feels as though she has to dance like all of her peers, if she allows herself to dance at all, rather than as the music tells her to.
Is it possible to recapture the magic of life that exists for those who are under the age of five? I like to believe there is. Perhaps, if we slow down enough and shut-off our overly-critical, overly-analytical thoughts for just some moments, then the magic of the world that is already out there will have the opportunity to reveal itself to us. Upon hearing the newest music from Eddie Vedder (a voice that to me is one of the most beautiful sounds in this world), my body responded. I felt a bit like I had imagined Molly did listening to the harp play from her old toy: Lost in the melody, the verse, the longing I so identify with within his voice. It spoke to me. I look forward to lingering here a while longer, lost in the beautiful sound of one of my favorite artists. I’m grateful to Molly and Nora for reminding me to be with this magic. And who knows? May be later I’ll even taste a bead….
The Backlash of Growth
After practicing psychotherapy for a number of years, I have become increasingly aware of a phenomenon I refer to as “The Backlash of Growth.” Unfortunately, this phenomenon exists for many individuals who are on a path of growth and development, whether they are in therapy or not. In this column I want to focus on why this backlash might happen and the relevance of this for people who are growing psychologically. The backlash boils down to this: As Person A grows psychologically, discovers what makes them happy, goes after this, experiences an increased sense of confidence and esteem, trusts the world, gives up needless worry, believes that everyone deserves to live the lives that make sense for them, etc., etc., then Person B—who is not doing this—may feel threatened. And Person B may respond by “projecting” negative feelings or judgments onto Person A.
How can we understand this? What happens, potentially, is that after seeing Person A, Person B is—on some level—faced with her own regrets, limits, perceived shortcomings, and the juicy life that she is not leading. These are difficult thoughts/feelings to tolerate and can cause a sense of internal turmoil. For some individuals faced with this situation, putting down Person A is a lot easier than owning up to the thoughts and feelings that are evoked by observing his growth and happiness. If Person A is disdained in some way, then he is no longer a threat and Person B can continue to live life as she was, without needing to acknowledge a desire for change.
Most human beings find comfort in how things already are. Change is difficult. Growth is difficult. Evolution is about moving through tension and coming out on the other side. It requires boldness, risk, living outside the box, and possibly going against the grain, which means that it often requires questioning the status quo. People who need the comfort of the status quo don’t usually like this. It is a threat to their way of being because it calls their way of living into question. If we all keep doing things the same way, then there is no need to question anything. If someone suddenly does things a bit differently, then there is room for questions, and questions can be threatening. It is important to acknowledge that I am not referring to people who consciously chose the status quo. Rather, I’m referring to those who take their place there out of habit and fear. And it is understandable that so many of us would. Again, going against the grain entails a lot of risk.
If you are someone who is experiencing growth in some way, someone who is daring to live the life you really want to, someone who has boldly embraced life, then know that others may project negative feelings and judgments on to you that have nothing to do with you. You are just the target, which is admittedly a difficult and uncomfortable thing to be. Still, it is essential that you know that this is not about you, especially if the changes you are experiencing in your own life are new. Any period of personal change and growth will be marked by vulnerability. We need to try out our changes within the world and see how it responds, notice how we feel, observe how the changes are working. During this period negative judgments can hit us harder than they would otherwise, and so remembering that this is just the “backlash,” that it has nothing to do with you, and that it may be a testament to your boldness (the greater the boldness, the greater the backlash) will help you to move through the vulnerability with some added protection. If this describes you, surround yourself with others who have taken their own courageous steps and keeping moving the beat of your own drum.
How can we understand this? What happens, potentially, is that after seeing Person A, Person B is—on some level—faced with her own regrets, limits, perceived shortcomings, and the juicy life that she is not leading. These are difficult thoughts/feelings to tolerate and can cause a sense of internal turmoil. For some individuals faced with this situation, putting down Person A is a lot easier than owning up to the thoughts and feelings that are evoked by observing his growth and happiness. If Person A is disdained in some way, then he is no longer a threat and Person B can continue to live life as she was, without needing to acknowledge a desire for change.
Most human beings find comfort in how things already are. Change is difficult. Growth is difficult. Evolution is about moving through tension and coming out on the other side. It requires boldness, risk, living outside the box, and possibly going against the grain, which means that it often requires questioning the status quo. People who need the comfort of the status quo don’t usually like this. It is a threat to their way of being because it calls their way of living into question. If we all keep doing things the same way, then there is no need to question anything. If someone suddenly does things a bit differently, then there is room for questions, and questions can be threatening. It is important to acknowledge that I am not referring to people who consciously chose the status quo. Rather, I’m referring to those who take their place there out of habit and fear. And it is understandable that so many of us would. Again, going against the grain entails a lot of risk.
If you are someone who is experiencing growth in some way, someone who is daring to live the life you really want to, someone who has boldly embraced life, then know that others may project negative feelings and judgments on to you that have nothing to do with you. You are just the target, which is admittedly a difficult and uncomfortable thing to be. Still, it is essential that you know that this is not about you, especially if the changes you are experiencing in your own life are new. Any period of personal change and growth will be marked by vulnerability. We need to try out our changes within the world and see how it responds, notice how we feel, observe how the changes are working. During this period negative judgments can hit us harder than they would otherwise, and so remembering that this is just the “backlash,” that it has nothing to do with you, and that it may be a testament to your boldness (the greater the boldness, the greater the backlash) will help you to move through the vulnerability with some added protection. If this describes you, surround yourself with others who have taken their own courageous steps and keeping moving the beat of your own drum.
Slowing Down To Touch
Those individuals who know me well also know that I have a lot of trouble with my fingers, especially in the non-summer months. I experience Raynauds phenomenon, a condition in which the blood vessels constrict in such a way that the flow of oxygen to the extremities (in my case, finger tips) is compromised. The tissue then breaks down resulting in discomfort and pain in that area. My recent bout of discomfort has got me thinking about our sense of touch.
Touch is one of the ways in which the world reveals itself to us and we come to know it. The softness of a baby’s skin, the crackling leaves under foot in the Northeast this time of year, and the cold, smooth sensation of a window pane on a winter morning all reveal different elements, and even meanings, of the very sensual world in which we live. In the busyness that marks our lives, many of us have forgotten the world’s sensuality—experienced through touch as well as our other senses. Noticing tastes, sounds, smells, colors, forms, and textures all require presence and reflection, which further require time. As we rush from A to B, we can overlook the changing color of the trees. When we eat in front of the television set, we might miss the textures of our food. And as we hurry to dress each morning, we can inadvertently ignore how comforting, or not, the fabrics feel against our skin.
I think my point here is that sensuality is not an experience reserved for fantastical sexual encounters. It is available to us all the time. It is a way of relating to the things around us that requires slowing down enough so that the world can reveal itself in its fullness. It is also, I believe, a way of honoring our bodies. As someone who has a compromised sense of touch much of the time, I encourage others not to take this potentially wonderful sense for granted. Take the time to feel your way through the world, quite literally. As you touch it (and see, taste, smell, and hear it), the world will reveal a sense of wonder and delight and joy— leaving you feeling connected in body and soul.
Touch is one of the ways in which the world reveals itself to us and we come to know it. The softness of a baby’s skin, the crackling leaves under foot in the Northeast this time of year, and the cold, smooth sensation of a window pane on a winter morning all reveal different elements, and even meanings, of the very sensual world in which we live. In the busyness that marks our lives, many of us have forgotten the world’s sensuality—experienced through touch as well as our other senses. Noticing tastes, sounds, smells, colors, forms, and textures all require presence and reflection, which further require time. As we rush from A to B, we can overlook the changing color of the trees. When we eat in front of the television set, we might miss the textures of our food. And as we hurry to dress each morning, we can inadvertently ignore how comforting, or not, the fabrics feel against our skin.
I think my point here is that sensuality is not an experience reserved for fantastical sexual encounters. It is available to us all the time. It is a way of relating to the things around us that requires slowing down enough so that the world can reveal itself in its fullness. It is also, I believe, a way of honoring our bodies. As someone who has a compromised sense of touch much of the time, I encourage others not to take this potentially wonderful sense for granted. Take the time to feel your way through the world, quite literally. As you touch it (and see, taste, smell, and hear it), the world will reveal a sense of wonder and delight and joy— leaving you feeling connected in body and soul.
Learning About Oneself Through Others
In the world of therapy there is a concept known as Transference which can be a helpful way of understanding what goes on in some relationships. In therapeutic circles, it most often refers to a process by which the client relates to the therapist as though the therapist were someone from the client’s past (usually a parent). The client “projects” assumptions onto the therapist that may have nothing to do with who the therapist is, and rather have everything to do with the client’s past. This is one interpretation of the concept anyway, and probably a more extreme version. In real life, we may relate to others as though they were someone from our past because there are ways in which they are, in fact, like those others.
In any event, we do tend to relate based on past experience. We bring to the world what we already know. If early on you learned that people who are close to you will take advantage of your vulnerability, then you will expect that same treatment in future relationships until you learn otherwise. In theory, when you meet someone and get close to them and they do not take advantage of you, your assumption that “those who are close to me take advantage of me,” will be subject to some editing and will shift to something like “Not all people who are close to me will take advantage of my vulnerability.” The problem is this: Sometimes our assumptions and beliefs become self-fulfilling prophesies. If you expect close others to hurt you, then you might protect yourself from ever getting too close and thereby rob yourself of the opportunities to learn something different, i.e., to challenge your current beliefs. Or, you allow yourself to get close but act as though the person will eventually hurt you. That person then responds by feeling hurt and in order to protect himself from this hurt, he lashes out at you, proving you right.
There is a lot of talk these days about “The Secret” or the law of attraction, which touts that our thoughts create reality. If we think about wellness, then we will feel and be well. With regard to the concept of transference, what thinking positively can help with is shifting expectations that are rooted in past experience. Instead of expecting to be hurt, we can expect to be treated well. And when we do this, we increase the opportunities that exist for this to happen instead of contributing to a negative self-fulfilling prophecy cycle. My more complete set of thoughts about the law of attraction will have to be left for another column... For now, the point I wish to convey is that we may not even know that we have expectations that lead to suffering, which makes it difficult to then change them. Therapy can help by increasing our awareness of these patterns. So, too, can expecting outcomes that you deem positive.
As an exercise, you can pay attention to your expectations within a specific relationship. Pick any relationship at all and ask yourself, what do I expect to happen within this relationship? What do I think I know for sure? Then, ask yourself if this expectation or belief feels familiar to you. And if the expectation is undesired, play with expecting something different, something more desirable. The idea here is to play and explore in an effort to increase awareness. It is important to keep in mind that we are all human, and feeling hurt, misunderstood, angry, etc. are normal aspects of relationships. So, when you do feel hurt by a significant other, rather than saying “See, my expectation of being hurt was right” ask yourself if there is anything different in this relationship. For example, is it possible to talk about the hurt and work things through now, when that might not have been possible in your childhood? In other words, stretch yourself to notice all of the expectations you are bringing to the table and stay open to all of the possible ways in which a present relationship could be different. Again, using therapy as a way of exploring such dynamics is helpful for many individuals. Good luck!
In any event, we do tend to relate based on past experience. We bring to the world what we already know. If early on you learned that people who are close to you will take advantage of your vulnerability, then you will expect that same treatment in future relationships until you learn otherwise. In theory, when you meet someone and get close to them and they do not take advantage of you, your assumption that “those who are close to me take advantage of me,” will be subject to some editing and will shift to something like “Not all people who are close to me will take advantage of my vulnerability.” The problem is this: Sometimes our assumptions and beliefs become self-fulfilling prophesies. If you expect close others to hurt you, then you might protect yourself from ever getting too close and thereby rob yourself of the opportunities to learn something different, i.e., to challenge your current beliefs. Or, you allow yourself to get close but act as though the person will eventually hurt you. That person then responds by feeling hurt and in order to protect himself from this hurt, he lashes out at you, proving you right.
There is a lot of talk these days about “The Secret” or the law of attraction, which touts that our thoughts create reality. If we think about wellness, then we will feel and be well. With regard to the concept of transference, what thinking positively can help with is shifting expectations that are rooted in past experience. Instead of expecting to be hurt, we can expect to be treated well. And when we do this, we increase the opportunities that exist for this to happen instead of contributing to a negative self-fulfilling prophecy cycle. My more complete set of thoughts about the law of attraction will have to be left for another column... For now, the point I wish to convey is that we may not even know that we have expectations that lead to suffering, which makes it difficult to then change them. Therapy can help by increasing our awareness of these patterns. So, too, can expecting outcomes that you deem positive.
As an exercise, you can pay attention to your expectations within a specific relationship. Pick any relationship at all and ask yourself, what do I expect to happen within this relationship? What do I think I know for sure? Then, ask yourself if this expectation or belief feels familiar to you. And if the expectation is undesired, play with expecting something different, something more desirable. The idea here is to play and explore in an effort to increase awareness. It is important to keep in mind that we are all human, and feeling hurt, misunderstood, angry, etc. are normal aspects of relationships. So, when you do feel hurt by a significant other, rather than saying “See, my expectation of being hurt was right” ask yourself if there is anything different in this relationship. For example, is it possible to talk about the hurt and work things through now, when that might not have been possible in your childhood? In other words, stretch yourself to notice all of the expectations you are bringing to the table and stay open to all of the possible ways in which a present relationship could be different. Again, using therapy as a way of exploring such dynamics is helpful for many individuals. Good luck!
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