After two decades of codependent relationships she’s testing out a new approach with her new boyfriend, Carl.
We call it “letting Carl lead.” Instead of straining constantly to control the relationship — fretting, plotting and trying to sculpt it into what she wants it to be — she’s trying to relax, and breathe, and take her cues from him. If he texts her, fine. If he doesn’t, fine. That sort of thing.
It seems to be working. Thus far Carl has been adequately respectful, attentive and affectionate. And she feels less nervous and more cared for than she has in years.
But she has a question.
“You say I should listen to my feelings,” she says. “That they’re like radar, feeding me important information about what’s happening here and now.”
“That’s right,” I say.
“But sometimes feelings lie. Sometimes I get scared when Carl says or does something that reminds me of Bobby.” Bobby is her alcoholic ex-husband. “And I know I’m confusing the two but I’m still scared.”
“Transference,” I nod.
“Right, transference. Then other times I worry that something bad is happening, like Carl’s secretly judging at me, or is going to happen, like we’ll have a fight.”
“Projection,” I say.
“Yes. And then sometimes I get angry at one person, like my boss, and find myself taking it out on another, like my kids.”
“That’s called displacement.”
“Yes, I remember. But here’s my question. These feelings aren’t telling me the truth about what’s happening here and now. Carl isn’t Bobby, we’re not fighting, and I’m mad at my boss, not my kids. So how can I tell the difference between radar signals and the feelings that lie?”
Nobody’s asked that before.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s a really really good question.”
“Okay, let’s see. First, it helps to think of the misleading feelings not as lies, but as memories — leftover reactions to stuff in the past. Like PTSD flashbacks that get triggered when something here and now reminds you of that old something.”
“Like little nightmares,” she says.
“Exactly,” I say. “Because they feel absolutely real. You’re convinced Carl’s secretly judging you, for example.”
“I sure am.”
“So what you need to figure out is whether you’re being triggered.”
“How do I do that?”
“With three questions,” I say.
“The first question is What am I trying to control right now? Here you step back from your reaction to see if you’ve slipped into a old codependent pattern. And if the answer is painfully familiar — like “I’m trying to control how someone feels about me” or “I’m trying to avoid rejection or abuse” — that can signal that you’re caught in a nightmare. And then you take a breath and tell yourself Oh, there I go again.”
“Okay,” she says. “That’s good.”
“The second question is What’s the evidence? Here you step out of your subjectivity and look for what’s objectively true. What’s the hard evidence of how Carl feels about you? Has he actually said or done stuff controlling or judgmental or abusive? Is he acting like Bobby did, or are you just scared that he might?”
“He never does,” she says thoughtfully.
“Right. And the third question is What do you think? This one you ask someone else.”
“Anyone safe, whose judgment you trust. Someone who has an unbiased perspective, not contaminated by your personal history or associations or triggers. You may need to ask it several times of several different people.”
“How does that help?”
“It’s another way of gathering evidence, of discovering whether your feeling comes from radar or nightmare. Granted, nobody else is you, and in the end you have to reach your own conclusion. But other people’s feedback can help. For example, imagine Carl says or does something that reminds you of Bobby’s anger.”
“Now imagine you describe what he said or did to ten people, and ask What do you think? And all ten of them say things like ‘No, that doesn’t sound angry to me’ or ‘No, he just sounds stressed’ or ‘Were you still stressed from that fight you had with your boss?’ How do you think you’d react?”
“I think,” she smiles,” it might help me wake the hell up.”
One stormy night during supper there was a crash of thunder and the house was plunged into total blackness. When the lights came on a few seconds later, the children seemed frightened. I thought the best way to handle it was to make light of their fears. I nearly tossed off, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” but my husband Ted spoke first. He said, “Hey, that was pretty scary.” The children stared at him.
It sounded nice, his saying that. I caught his spirit. “It’s funny,” I said, “when a light is on in a room, everything feels so friendly and familiar. But take that same room with the same things inn it and put it in darkness and suddenly it becomes scary. I don’t know why. It just does.”
Six eyes looked up at me with such relief, such gratitude, that I was overwhelmed. I had made a very simple statement about a very ordinary event, and yet it seemed to mean so much to them. They began to talk, all at once, fighting each other for a turn.
DAVID: Sometimes I think a robber is going to come and kidnap me.
ANDY: My rocking chair looks like a monster in the dark.
JILL: What scares me like anything is when the tree branches scrape against the window.
The words spilled out, each child saying aloud the fearful thoughts he had had when alone in his dark room. We both listened and nodded. They talked and talked. Finally, they were done.
In the silence that followed we all felt so loved and loving that I knew we must have touched the heart of a very powerful process. It was no small matter, this business of validating a child’s feelings. Did other people know about it?
I began to eavesdrop on conversations between parents and children. At the zoo I heard:
CHILD: (Crying.) My finger! My finger hurts!
FATHER: It couldn’t hurt. It’s only a little scratch.
At the supermarket I heard:
CHILD: I’m hot.
MOTHER: How can you feel hot? It’s cool in here.
In the toy store I heard:
CHILD: Mommy, look at this little duck. Isn’t he cute?
MOTHER: Oh, that’s for a little baby. You’re not interested in baby toys any more.
It was astonishing. These parents seemed unable to hear their children’s simplest emotions. Certainly they mean no harm by their responses. Yet in reality what they were telling their children, over and over, was:
She wipes her eyes and shrugs. “I’m all nervous and angry lately. I don’t know why.”
“Two, three days.”
“What happened three days ago?”
“Nothing.” She looks up. “Wait. My inlaws came to town.”
“Bingo,” someone says.
“Your alcoholic inlaws,” I say.
“Bingo bingo,” someone says. There are chuckles.
“What?” Nancy asks again.
“You’re a victim of gravity,” Liz smiles. “As in shit rolls downhill.“
“I don’t understand,” Nancy says.
“Old saying,” I say. “Shit rolls downhill. Boss yells at Dad, Dad yells at Mom, Mom yells at Sister, Sister yells at Brother, Brother kicks the dog.”
“Oh,” Nancy says.
“Nancy, how does your husband get along with his parents?” Liz asks.
“They make him crazy,” Nancy sniffles. “Nervous, frustrated, angry.”
“And how does he act with you?”
“Like I can’t do anything right,” she says glumly.
“And then how are you with the kids?”
“Controlling,” Nancy admits. “If they don’t do exactly what I say I just…lose it.”
She looks at me in surprise. “Shit does roll downhill.”
“Why does that happen?” someone asks me.
“There are several ways to explain it,” I say. “One is simple displacement. Shit rolls downhill because people take their anger out at the next person below them on the food chain.
“Another is boundary confusion. In alcoholic families the boundaries between members get impossibly blurred. We can’t tell where I end and you begin. Feelings leak from one person into another. Your bad day becomes my bad day. Your anger or anxiety become my problem.”
Nancy frowns. “So my husband catches his parents’ emotional problems, like the flu?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But there’s a third explanation. Being around his parents probably triggers old feelings in him, old pain and fear, helplessness and anger.”
“Like PTSD,” someone says.
“Yes,” Nancy says sadly. “I see that. He regresses.”
“So what should Nancy do?” someone asks.
I smile at Nancy. “She can start by apologizing to her kids.”
“Yes,” Nancy says.
“And tell them that she’s been in a bad mood lately, and it’s not their fault, and she’s working hard on getting out of it.”
“Then she should probably try to talk to her husband about how they can support each other for the next — Nancy, how long?”
“They’re staying a week.”
“The next week or so. For example, they could carve out debriefing time every night, and use it to vent to each other about whatever happens that bothers them.”
Nancy nods. “We can do that.”
“Finally, she can promise herself that for the next week she’ll lean on her support system to process whatever comes up for her. Bring it to group. Call you guys when she gets confused or angry or anxious.”
“Call me,” Liz says.
Nancy smiles. “I’m sorry about before.”
Liz shakes her head. “I went through this for years. Whenever his family visited my husband and I would fight like cats and dogs. Finally we got into therapy and learned to manage our temporary insanity — which is just what it felt like — without resorting to divorce or homicide.”
“And your inlaws still visit?”
“Yes,” Liz sighs. “But one thing that helps is a little ritual we created. The day before we see them I tell my husband, ‘I apologize in advance for the next five days,’ or however long Mom and Dad are in town. And he says the same thing to me. And we hug. And the hug is like a promise that we’ll stay connected, no matter how much shit rolls downhill.”
Why are Americans so hungry for the approval of others?
The adjusted American lacks self-approval; that is to say, he has not developed a self-image that he can believe is both accurate and acceptable. To do so he would require successful techniques for creating an adequate and acceptable self-image through honest introspection, candid association, and meaningful activity.
The patterns to which he has adjusted do not include such techniques. Instead, the culture abounds with misdirections, which the adjusted American acquires. There are the patterns of alienation and projection discussed above, through which he seeks to deny unpalatable aspects of himself. But perhaps above all he learns to seek self-acceptance indirectly, by seeking to substitute the good opinion of others for self-approval. It is thus that he becomes “other-directed.”
Half certain of his own inadequacy, he attempts to present himself to others in an appealing way. When (or if) he has won their approval he hopes that they will be able to convince him that he is a better man than he thinks he is.
But this quest for indirect self-acceptance is fundamentally misdirected…. The opinion of others can contribute to self-acceptance only when the individual believes that others see him as he really is. Otherwise he cannot give credence to the image he sees reflected in their eyes.
But the person who is caught up in the quest for indirect self-acceptance is more concerned with making a favorable impression on others than with seeing an honest reflection of himself. He attempts to manipulate the way he appears to others. Consequently he cannot credit any favorable image they may reflect….
By the time a youth has been transformed into an adult his thirst for approval seems insatiable. But to borrow a phrase from Hoffer, he can never have enough of that which he really does not need. He needs self-acceptance, and however much of his talent, energy, and possession are committed to the struggle to win approval from others, self-acceptance cannot be achieved thereby. There is a fundamental defect in the method.
“I am,” he says. “I woke up early and couldn’t go back.”
“Something bothering you?”
He nods. “My son.”
“How is he?
“Still in the hospital, but getting out tomorrow.”
“You’re worried about him?”
“No,” he says. “I’m angry at him.”
”He’s in pain, and a shitty mood – which is understandable – and he takes it out on me.”
“And it hurts your feelings.”
“But he’s sick, so you hold back, and then you wake up thinking about it.”
”Right,” he says glumly. “And I know what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“I’m being a big baby.”
“Actually that’s what you think,” I say. “I’m thinking this must be hard for you.”
“Why? He’s the one in the hospital bed.”
“And you’re the one getting triggered.”
“Triggered,” he repeats.
“Sure. Isn’t this how you felt as a kid? When your parents hurt your feelings and you couldn’t say anything?”
He exhales. “Yes.”
“You’re forgetting something I know you know,” I say. “Something we’ve talked about. That there’s no really such thing as a…”
“…grown-up human being,” he finishes.
“Right. It’s the Kid inside you that’s getting triggered. The one who came out of childhood convinced that your parents’ unhappiness and anger meant there was something wrong with him.”
“Huh,” he says. “So I’m confusing my son with my parents?”
“Your Kid is, yes.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yes and no,” I say. “Sure, it feels upside down. But it’s not uncommon. Parents with unfinished business with their parents often transfer that stuff to their kids. If you were scared of your parents’ anger you’ll feel scared when your kids get mad at you. If you felt unloved by your parents you’ll worry that your kids will stop loving you.”
“But I know my son loves me,” he frowns.
“Sure, your Adult self knows that,” I say. “Your Kid still worries that he’s defective and unloveable.”
“Yeah,” he sighs.
He looks relieved.
“Does this shit ever entirely go away?” he asks.
“Not entirely,” I say. “We carry a Kid inside until we die. But we can learn how to listen and understand and take better care of him. And when we do that he doesn’t get triggered nearly as often. And eventually he settles down and lives in a quieter place.”
Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence. ~ Erich Fromm
After a year of dating they’re still not on the same page.
Shelly wants a commitment. Stan’s circling the field.
Both have histories. Shelly was married to a narcissist who abused her and their kids and who has fought paying child support even since the divorce. Stan was engaged for six years to a woman who bossed and belittled and ultimately cheated on him.
Both had emotionally unavailable parents.
Both find it hard to trust anyone.
“Jesus,” I say. “How the hell have you stayed together this long?”
“Together?” Shelly says. “I’m not sure we are.” She looks at Stan. “Are we?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “We hang out. We have sex. We play with the kids. We have fun. Sometimes I think we love each other. But there’s this feeling hanging over us, this…”
“Tension?” I say.
“Yes. This tension that never goes away.”
Shelly nods agreement.
“Any idea what it’s about?”
Stan shrugs. “It’s how I always feel in relationships.”
“I know where my tension comes from,” Shelly says. “Feeling alone. Like Stan’s not all there.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in a lake, and he’s standing on the dock watching, trying to decide whether to jump in and save me.” She looks at Stan. “It’s like he’s…doing the math.”
“I do my best,” he says. “I care about Shelly. I want to be there for her. But her life is so complicated. She’s got this sociopathic ex, and these two kids who I love but who can be demanding, and this difficult mother, and this annoying sister, and all the time she worries about money…”
“And you’re scared that if you jump into all that you’ll drown too.”
He nods sadly.
“You’d take the risk if you loved me,” Shelly says angrily.
Stan opens his mouth.
“Wait,” I interrupt. “You could both use some help with empathy. Shelly, be fair. It’s really not his lake.”
She sighs and nods.
“And Stan, ever felt like you were drowning? Remember how scary that was?”
“Okay,” I say. “Beyond that, here’s what I think:
“I think you guys are missing something important.
“It’s something I suspect neither of you has ever experienced before with anyone.
“You may never have even seen it in action.
“It’s a kind of special sauce for relationships, and it makes everything easier.
“I call it mutuality.
“Mutuality is the feeling that what’s good for you is good for me, and vice versa.
“More than a feeling, actually. A kind of deep belief, a faith. Something you just know.
“It’s what allows partners to move beyond their personal feelings and points of view and make room for each other in their lives.
“Without it you’re each stuck in your limited perspective, and the relationship feels tight and constricting. It doesn’t feel like a partnership or a collaboration, but like a competition — like only one of you can get your way. And like you have to play defense, analyze, calculate, do the math, or you risk losing something or getting taken advantage of.”
“That’s just how it feels,” Stan says.
“Mutuality changes all that. It’s a kind of emotional lubricant that removes the tension, reduces conflict and lets you feel safe. You can relax and feel like you’re in this together.
“I want to feel that way,” Stan says. He turns to Shelly. “I would love to feel that way.”
She reaches for his hand.
“Can we learn it?” Shelly asks me.
“You can,” I say. “The easiest way is to see it in action. But even if your parents didn’t model it and you never experienced it in prior relationships you can still work at creating it yourself.”
“There are three steps.
“Step One is deciding if you want it. I mean really want it, enough to suffer some discomfort — risk new behaviors, for example.”
“Step Two is committing to each other to make it a priority.”
“And Step Three is practice.”
“What kind of practice?” asks Shelly.
“You act as if. You start behaving if you already believe that what’s good for your partner will be good for you. You stop defending your own preferences and extend yourself for each other. And you see how that feels.
“Isn’t that codependency?” Shelly asks.
“No,” I say. “Codependency comes from fear. Codependents compulsively please or appease others because they’re scared of what will happen if they don’t — they won’t be loved, they’ll be rejected, whatever. But acting as if is neither compulsive or manipulative; it’s conscious and it’s choiceful. A kind of gift. And it comes from love, not anxiety.
“Not just love for your partner, either. You do this for yourself — because you want to learn a new way of being with someone else. Because you want to grow in your ability to give, to love, and to trust.”
“Trust is hard for both of us,” Stan says, and Shelly nods.
“I know,” I say. “But do you know where the phrase act as if comes from?”
“Me either,” I say. “But I like to think it comes from the saying, Act as if you have faith, and faith will be given to you.”
Whether we are hooked on food, alcohol, drugs, sex, money, work, or fame, the impulse to lose ourselves in these things can be seen as a spiritual impulse.
By spiritual impulse I mean a desire to experience a lightness of being, and transcendence that does not take us away from our everyday experience but exists within it.
For surely, what we long for is not a world beyond this one (which for most of us would mean death), but to find some happiness within the perplexing conundrum of our everyday lives. We have only to read the works of people recovering from addictions to see that behind the trappings of disease lies a mystical yearning that is as authentic and urgent as that of any pilgrim.
Somewhere underneath bingeing, starving, exercising, drinking, hallucinating, climaxing, and purchasing, we are desperately seeking a way home to our self. The longer we have been in exile from this true self, the more desperate the yearning and, often, the more desperate the means of attaining pleasure.
For many the motivation to begin, sustain, or deepen a spiritual practice comes in the mindset of grappling with an inner ordering process. As we sift through our life experience we may notice that we consistently allow the urgent to override the important. We may realize that we have a deeply ingrained habit of giving the most time, energy, and commitment to things that ultimately are not very important and that leave us at the end of the day with little enduring satisfaction. We may feel as if we are working for a demanding unknown boss and that we have yet to receive a real paycheck….
When we realize that the entity that we call our “self” is the clearinghouse for everything that will happen to us, we may wake up to the realization that attending to the inner hygiene of this self is the most important thing we could possibly do in this lifetime.
Now we are ready to settle in for the long haul.
We’ve decided we are ready to grow up, and we have reached the sobering realization that it is our life and that there is only one person who can do the work.
“So the relationship’s been going really really well,” she tells me. “He’s attentive and sweet, and we like the same food and music, and he accepts my feelings and even tries to share his own.”
“Okay,” I say.
“And then he had to go out of town on business for a week, and even that feels pretty okay at first. He stays in touch — texts me, sends me pictures of where he is and what he’s doing, tells me he misses me, that sort of thing. Like I said, sweet.”
“Okay,” I say again. Waiting for the other shoe.
“Then two nights ago he goes to a party with his coworkers and meets the daughter of a state senator. And he sends me a picture someone took of them laughing together, and she’s blonde and beautiful, and then he texts me about how interesting and funny she is, and I freak.”
“You know how. All my insecurities rise up and strangle me. I start thinking things like I can’t compete with that and Why would he bother with me if he can hang out with a state senator’s daughter and look at that hair.That kind of crap.”
“And you’ve been doing this to yourself since then.”
“Yes,”she says bleakly. “Make it stop.”
“Well, I can’t make it stop, but maybe you can.”
I think for a minute.
“Ever go on a road trip?” I ask. “A long one?”
“Good. Imagine you’re on a 100-mile road trip, heading north in winter. And along the way there are patches of ice, so every few miles the car skids sideways and you get nervous. You’re able to drive through each skid and get back on dry pavement, but it keeps happening.”
“So what you have to decide is if the trip is worth the skids. Whether you want to get where you’re headed enough to tolerate some skidding — some losses of control — and whether you can do it without panicking or blaming yourself or worrying that there’s something wrong with the car. There’s nothing wrong. There’s just ice on the road.”
“The road is the relationship,” she says.
“And I have to accept not feeling in total control of it.”
“And not turn into a big baby each time the car skids.”
“Yes. And that includes not blaming or insulting yourself. You’re not a baby. It’s okay to feel unsure. But you get through it by remembering that all roads get icy, all drivers skid, and no road trip goes as planned.”
She sighs. “And that all that is okay.”
“It’s the cost of ever going anywhere in the first place.”
She’s a teacher who gets up at four each morning for the two-hour commute to the school where she’s been a Special Ed teacher at for thirteen years. She is good at what she does, and basks in the appreciation she receives from parents and coworkers.
I’ve also never seen her not looking tired.
She is chronically sleep-deprived and battles an endless series of colds, infections, backaches and muscle strains, panic attacks and depressions.
“I hate how I feel, believe me,” she says. “But I’m ten years from retirement.”
“If you live that long.”
She nods grimly. “I know. But I see no way out of it. It’s my one shot at financial security.”
“Uh huh,” I say. “Thought experiment. You’ve just won the lottery. You have all the money you’ll ever need. What do you do now?”
“What do I do?” she repeats.
“Yes. Quit your job?”
“Uh, no. I’d probably stay on for, oh, another year.”
She looks at me. “I don’t know.”
“So it’s not about financial security, because I just solved that problem for you.”
“I guess not.”
“Okay. Another question. Has it ever occurred to you that created this imbalance in your life on purpose? That you’ve chosen this way of living for some unconscious reason?”
She looks confused. “No.”
I know Millie’s history. I know her mom is an anxious divorcee who pushed Millie to enter teaching so she wouldn’t have to depend on a man. I know her mom’s mom was an Irish immigrant who raised four kids alone and insisted her daughter enter teaching for the very same reason.
So I tell her the roasting pan story.
A family gathers for Thanksgiving and everybody’s there, all the generations. And Daughter’s in the kitchen helping Mom prepare the turkey. And she notices that mom hacks off the front end the turkey with a carving knife. “Mom, you’ve always done that to our turkey. Why?” “I don’t really know,” Mom replies. “It’s how my mom always did it.” “Let’s ask her,” says Daughter. So they go to Grandma. “Grandma, why did you always cut off the front end of a turkey?” “I don’t know,” says Grandma, “but it’s how my mother always did it.” So they go to Great Grandma. “Nana,” shouts Daughter, “why did you always cut the front end off the turkey?” “Because,” Nana shouts back, “my roasting pan was too damned small.”
Millie laughs. Then stops and looks startled.
“I think that’s why you live as you do. I think your current life reflects lessons you inherited from your mom and your grandma and internalized without realizing it. The world’s dangerous. Never depend on a man. Seek financial security above all. Work till you drop. Ignore feelings and other messages from your body. I think those were probably appropriate lessons for grandma to learn. I’m less sure about Mom. I suspect she absorbed them unconsciously and then passed them down to you.
“But I do know you’re not Grandma, and you’re not your mother.
“And I know the right life for each of us grows out of our lessons, our experiences and feelings. Nobody else’s.
“And I think the main reason you’re here with me now is because you’ve been trying to live a life that was cooked up in somebody else’s kitchen.”
I ask Rachel how she made out with her new nurse practitioner.
“I fired her,” she grunts.
“She was a Plan A person.”
We’ve developed a verbal shorthand over the years, so I know what she means.
“You could tell?” I ask.
She sighs. “From the moment we met. She kept me waiting twenty-five minutes, and when I finally got in I was frustrated. She saw it and her back went up. That was strike one.”
“Then I asked if she’d gotten the note you faxed over about my diagnosis and treatment. ‘Yes, I think I saw something like that,’ she said, ‘but I tossed it.’ “
“Yeah. Strike two. Then about thirty minutes into the meeting I was asking why she was recommending one med over another, and she was evasive — you know, handling me like a patient. So I questioned her harder. Guess what she said?”
“She said, ‘Are you getting short with me, Rachel?'”
“What did you say?”
“I stood up and said, ‘I’m sorry, but you won’t do,’ and I left.”
I laugh. “Rachel, I think I love you.”
Bernie Siegel writes,
The thing you see in survivors is that they express feelings. I won’t say some of the things they tell their doctors, when doctors tell them they’re going to die in six months. Boy, do they let the doctor know how they feel about that statement.
Siegel is a surgeon who noticed a correlation between cancer and codependency — burying feelings, people-pleasing, avoiding conflict, deferring to authority. He also noticed that the patients most likely to survive cancer were those who learned to replace their codependent coping with honesty, assertiveness and authentic expression. He created support groups designed to teach them these life-saving skills, and called the people who attended them “exceptional patients.”
I call them Plan B people.
Plan B people are those who outgrow the Plan A we all learn as children. Plan A is control addiction, a fear of rejection that leads t0 self-doubt, emotional constipation, image management, and compulsive attempts to get other people to react to us in the way we want.
It’s Plan A that lies behind our tendency to take others’ feelings personally, wall off instead of opening up, and defend instead of communicating — the things Rachel noticed in the nurse practitioner.
She spotted it because she’d done it herself for years.
And she fired the nurse because she’d learned, through her own struggles with anxiety and depression, that Plan A is bad news.
That addiction to control can’t coexist with emotional or physical health.
That it’s not just ineffective, it makes you sick.
And that it’s the opposite of loving and taking care of yourself.
Or as Bernie Siegel puts it,
One’s attitude towards oneself is the single most important factor in healing and staying well.
I came to know that blocks are the price of avoiding surrender, and that surrender is not defeat but rather the key to opening out into a world of delight and nonstop creation.
One of the great traps at times of blockage is that we may accuse ourselves of a deficit of concentration and focus, a deficit of discipline. We then take a paternal or militaristic attitude toward ourselves. We will force ourselves to work, we will go on a schedule, we will take vows. The most dangerous trap is to get into a contest of strength between “will power” and “won’t power.” Discipline is crucial, but we do not attain it by stiffening up. We attain it by sitting still and penetrating the emptiness within, making of that emptiness a friend rather than an adversary or bogeyman.
When you are stuck, meditate, free associate, do automatic writing, talk to yourself and answer yourself. Play with the blocks. Stay in the temenos of the workplace. Relax, surrender to the bafflement; don’t leave the temenos, and the solution will come. Persevere gently….
Like the rules of the universe, the whole matter of personal creativity is baffling and paradoxical. To try to control yourself, to try to create, to try to break free of the knots you yourself have tied is to set yourself up at a distance from that which you already are. It is like looking around this way and that for your own head.
We have the strange idea, unsupported by any evidence, that we are loved and admired only for our superb strength, our far-reaching powers, and our all-knowing competency. Yet in the real world, no matter how many relationships may have been initiated by strength and power, no marriage or friendship has ever been deepened by these qualities. After a short, erotic honeymoon, power and omnipotence expose their shadow underbellies and threaten real intimacy, which is based on mutual vulnerability. After the bows have been made to the brass god of power, we find in the privacy of relationship that same god suddenly immobile and inimicable to conversation. As brass gods ourselves, we wonder why we are no longer loved in the same way we were at our first appearance. Our partners have begun to find our infallibility boring and, after long months or years, to find us false, frightening, and imprisoning….
We have an even stranger idea: that we will finally fall in love with ourselves only when we have become the totally efficient organized organism we have always wanted to be and left all of our bumbling ineptness behind. Yet in exactly the way we come to find love and intimacy with others through vulnerability, we come to those same qualities in ourselves through living out the awkwardness of not knowing, of not being in charge.
~ From Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity
Bert and I do a lot of reading, and we often come across ideas or writing too good not to share. So we’ve decided to do that, in a series called Noted With Pleasure.
Here’s the first entry, from a novel my wife is reading. A mom and daughter are talking about marriage.
“I don’t think I’ll find anyone better than Mark. If I’m going to get married, I guess he’s the one. But all of a sudden, it feels so…I don’t know. Arbitrary. Dangerous. I don’t see how anyone can ever feel completely convinced that marrying someone is the right thing to do, I don’t see how anyone can not be consumed by doubt. Did you feel absolutely sure about marrying Pops?”
Dorothy has felt absolutely sure about being pregnant, that’s what she had felt. But Hilly doesn’t know that. So she says, “Course I wasn’t sure. I was full of doubt, too. I think almost everyone is. You have to be. Who can possibly subscribe to the notion that there’s only one person in the world for you? No. But you find someone you care for, that you think you might be able to build a life with, and then you just go for it.”
“And then you get divorced,” Hilly says bitterly.
Dorothy speaks more carefully now. “No, now, Hilly, you know that’s not true. Some people have very happy marriages. I think the biggest problem is people’s expectations are so high. And so wrong. People think marriage is going to be so romantic and fulfilling. They think the other person is going to complete them. But that’s not what happens. In a good marriage you complete yourself while sharing a bathroom. You go through life with company, rather than alone, and humans seem to need company. And… You remember in Carousel, when the doctor tells the high school graduating class not to worry about others liking them, that they should just try to like others?”
“I love Carousel,” Hilly says, sighing. “I still love it. Everybody makes fun of me, but I still love it. We used to watch it and eat caramel corn and dill pickles.”
“I know,” Dorothy says. “But do you remember that part?”
“Well, that’s it. That’s what you need to do in your marriage. You need to give what you want. And don’t expect so much. That only sets you up for disappointment. If you expect anything, expect that marriage will be hard, that it will be work. And expect that the pleasures will be erratic and often small, but they’ll turn out to mean more than you know.”