Big words, small words...the most important words

I've said before, I love words. There's something wonderful, for me, about words that are different, delicate, unusual, not oft heard or spoken. It's like opening a hidden treasure, when I see a word that requires me to open the dictionary. Words can be like music, almost ephemeral, like they can float from your grasp if you don't catch them in time;  notes of a tune that disappear into the past before you've had a chance to really experience them. You know they are something that you want to pursue, to understand, to acquire or conquer, to know.

I love reading books in which words are used so carefully, creatively, poetically; where it is like I am floating on a wave of learning and gentle inspiration. Words that enter
my mind and my soul.  Words like insouciant, flipendulous, liminal, charientism...

Sometimes people who use big words, words that appear important, intelligent, out of the ordinary person's reach, words that can be intimidating or seductive, seem like people we should admire and respect. Sometimes when we hear a person use words that are unfamiliar, coated with the wealth of a secret knowledge that is held by those out of our league, we feel that this person deserves our admiration, our attention, our reverence to their opinion. But ultimately, words are just letters, lines on a page or spoken sounds in the air. And it's not the words that are important, it's what the person means to communicate which holds the most value.

I recently read the book, a first novel by the author Wendy Jones, "The Thoughts and Happenings of Wilfred Price, Purveyor of Superior Funerals". It is a story about a young man who learns that it's not big, or academic sounding words that are important, but the small words which are most often the most difficult, yet important, ones to say. After being seduced by the love and intrigue of unusual words, and the belief that how one speaks reflects the character and value of the person, Wilfred comes to realise something else:

     "Words went on forever. And it was strange how the most important moments in life required one to speak, to say what one felt. What I need, he thought, is another kind of dictionary, one that tells me what to say when I don't know what to say. Wilfred wondered what words such a dictionary would have. Phrases such as 'I'm sorry', 'forgive me', even that most difficult of phrases, 'I was wrong'... the words he really needed were the ones his heart spoke... Big words, clever words - were rather grand, too grand really, and unnecessary...It was sufficient, more than enough, to speak plainly, to say what was in his heart. And that wasn't about long words with lots of syllables. It was about simple words. And courage."

I'm often surprised by own sense of inadequacy when it comes to finding the right thing to say. Goodness me, I've been writing and speaking in some way for a living for most of my adult life! Moreover, I know what it is to suffer. I know what it is to feel like the whole world is silent, with no words to offer me. I know what it's like to desperately wish the person near me would just say some simple words, even the words 'I don't know what to say'. But I, too, am sometimes crippled with a lack of courage or clarity, and the moment so often passes when a few words would have meant so much. Sometimes a stranger, sometimes a friend, or family member. I am ashamed of myself in those times. And I vow to make it up to the world, my fellow human beings, in some way next time the opportunity presents itself.

But what propels me most these days, to not hold back, to find those simple words, is my mother. Mum has been living with ovarian cancer for nearly two years. Her body is at war with itself now more than ever before. She is changing before my very eyes. I have never more desperately hoped that I will see her age, to be an old woman. She turns 70 this year. I want to see her at 90. I want to be able to say all those simple words for many more years. I want to learn not to hold back. I want her to hear me say things, not just to know, intuitively, what I am thinking. I love you Mum. I admire you. I am in awe of you.

Simple words. Spoken out loud. More poetic, meaningful, and important, than any long and unusual words could ever be.

From: http://www.speareducation.com

Living with Wholeness

On the turn of this new year, I came across the quote "Tomorrow, is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one." It made be think about what a good year of life might be.

I recently listened to a radio interview with Hugh Mackay, a sociologist and author, talking about his new book "The Good Life". He writes about how to live a good life, in which he means living a life of wholeness, including the full range of human emotion not just happiness and fulfillment but "sadness, disappointment, frustration, and failure; all of those things which make us who we are." He argues that the current social pursuit of happiness is actually a dangerous idea, as "happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much." Indeed, in Buddhism, suffering is considered necessary for learning.

I didn't get much sleep last night, as we saw the new year in with friends and family. But I did manage to sleep past my usual waking time, which is early enough in the summer weather for a reasonably comfortable running experience. I looked out the window. The sun was already bright and shining. Not much shade lined the streets. Hmm... did I really need to go this morning? I didn't want to have to run with my dog Rosie. Going back to bed and pretending I could sleep some more seemed like a much more comfortable option. I did not fancy the suffering a run would create today. I would be hot, and after a late night with champagne, my body would probably ache.

But then I remembered how good it can feel, even after a tough run, knowing you had succeeded despite it seeming like a hurdle too big to overcome. And I thought of Rosie, how happy she would be, and how much she needed it. So up I got, pulled on my running shoes and off we went.

Rosie and I have been running most mornings now for nearly 3 years, apart from a few blocks of time when I have been sick and getting back into the routine has taken more than it should. Running has been a wonderful time for mindfulness, and I've done a lot of thinking, and a lot of learning as a result.

Today as I ran, I thought about the idea of living a life of "wholeness" as Hugh Mackay would suggest. My struggle to get going this morning, my initial desire to avoid the suffering I knew would ensue, became a metaphor for his theory. Yes, we do try to avoid the suffering that life sometimes brings us; sadness, anger, frustration, and anxiety are emotions that often fill us with fear and dread. They are far from pleasant, and if we listen to the world around us, we could easily assume they are not good for us at all. Happiness and feeling grateful for the good things in life are what we should be striving for...yes?

If I had avoided the suffering that I did inevitably experience this morning on my run, I would have possibly had a nice time lazing in bed, but would never have experienced the joy in turning that last corner knowing Rosie and I would be home soon, the pride in knowing I had achieved something I didn't want to do, the thrill of jumping into the water of the pool to cool down my hot body and soothe my aching muscles, and the feelings of love and connection between me and my beautiful dog. I reckon she knows that some mornings I find it really hard, so she gleefully tries to pull me up the first hill by grabbing the lead in her mouth and grinning at me to follow her. We don't need to experience suffering on our own.

Allowing others in to our suffering isn't always easy. For many, this just doesn't come naturally. And why should it, when we are constantly getting messages that imply we shouldn't feel bad; "Get over it", "let it go", "chin up" are common responses to another person's feelings of sadness, anger or worry. But if we are open to others, then someone who is not afraid of suffering isn't too far away. And if we are open to our own suffering then what we can experience through such discomfort is sometimes incredible. It is only through the experience of contrast that we can can truly know something. Consider the saying, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone", or "It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."  If you don't allow yourself to experience something, you don't get to learn how important it may be for you, even if that learning occurs through suffering.

If we allow ourselves to experience the negative things in life, to embrace them as part of our human existence, as a necessary part of living an enriched life, then we are living a life of wholeness. We are living as a whole being. And sometimes, just sometimes, through the suffering comes not just an experience of happiness or gratitude, but a richness of experience that we could not have imagined.

So, may we not be afraid of the unknown paths, including paths of suffering, and may 2014 bring wholeness to our lives.

from: http://wholeartiststudio.com/seeking-perfection-or-seeking-wholeness/

The Power and Healing of Empathy

It seems fitting that today, ANZAC Day in Australia (an annual memorial day to Australian soldiers who have fought and died), I have been thinking a lot about empathy.

Apparently I have always been a very empathic person, although I haven't always seen myself in this way, and certainly not necessarily as a positive attribute.

My mother tells me that back when I was in Grade 1 at school, my teacher told her I was a compassionate child. There was one boy in my class, a difficult student, likely with an intellectual impairment or developmental disorder, whom no one would play with or much tolerate. But as a six-year old child, I cared for him.

In my teenage and young adult years, I always described myself as 'over-sensitive', thinking that what I experienced was a problem, a handicap of some sort. I chose not to continue my original career path after my undergraduate degree and become a practicing psychologist, because after some work experience I thought I wouldn't be able to handle the suffering that I would witness in others. I wouldn't be able to distance myself from other people's pain. I became an academic instead.

For several years I avoided dealing with these experiences in my life, as much as I could. I deliberately constrained my contact with sadness or pain. I stopped watching the news. All doom and gloom. I chose not to see violent, scary or particularly sad movies. Though not always very successfully. I remember reading the book "The Bridges of Madison County" when I was about 24 years old. The sadness and longing of the characters stayed with me for weeks. I became a 'greenie', and an amateur vegetarian, not really because of ethics or philosophical viewpoints, but because when I ate meat I would physically feel the pain of the animals who have died, and when I saw a tree being felled, a deep sadness would weigh on my heart like as if I felt the grief of Mother Nature.

Then I suffered myself. I felt pain that was so intense I thought I would stop breathing. My baby daughter died. And then one year later, my baby son died too. On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I remember waking and feeling such sadness, such desperation that I didn't want to open my eyes. I wanted to stop. Everything. I was tired of living, each day with a stabbing pain that wouldn't go away. I imagined not being alive. And then in that moment I had the thought "This is what it is like, for all those people in the world, who think about death, who want to end their life". I felt a strange sense of oneness, of connection, understanding, and peace. I was feeling what they were feeling. A whole bunch of strangers, people I'd never met, but with whom I felt somehow linked. For some reason, this gave me a sense of relief. It helped a little.

I've learned a lot in these past 8 years. I've learned to be comfortable with death, with sadness, with pain and suffering. I realised that I didn't have to avoid sadness and tragedy anymore. That in fact being over-sensitive or over-empathic was an important part of me, and that it could actually be a strength. I remember the moment that I finally decided to go back and finish what I'd started nearly 20 years ago, to work in counselling others. A student of mine contacted me for an extension on an assignment. Her grandmother had died. She told me how she had been there in the hospital on her own when her grandmother drew her final breath, and how terrible this was for her. When I read her message, I imagined what it would be like. To be lying there beside my grandmother, witnessing her life and death. I thought of how painful that would be, but also how amazingly beautiful and precious it would be to share this moment with someone that I loved. I shared this reflection with my student. She was very grateful, as it helped her see the experience in a different way; not so traumatic, something that she would treasure rather than a memory to be avoided. I don't really remember anything else about that semester of teaching. This moment between me and my student was the most important. So I resigned.

My over-sensitivity was in fact a strength. A strength that had always been with me, but something that my daughter and son helped me to experience differently, something to be thankful for rather than wishing it wasn't a part of who I was, as I had done in the past.

This week I gave a guest lecture in an educational psychology course at a local university. I talked about motivation, and how in teaching it is important to have an understanding of the broader factors that impact on students' motivation in the classroom. I don't know why I decided to do this, but I planned to do some role-plays. The idea came to mind in thinking about how to provide the students with an opportunity to really 'get' what it's like for some children who they will find in their future classrooms. Children who are experiencing the pain of a separating family, or who hunger not only for food but for love and a sense of safety, and for whom concentrating on maths or reading is so far from their immediate needs.

So I borrowed some school uniforms from my step-children, and wrote a couple of character dialogues, a 9 year old boy and a 17 year old girl, drawn from the life histories of several past clients. The boy's older brother had died and he was struggling to deal with his emotions at school; anger and fear. The girl had been kicked out of home by her mother and was missing her family very much. I chose some melancholy music to help set the scene, and off I went. At the chosen moment in the lecture, I donned the first school uniform, took my place in the front of the lecture theatre, and began to recite the boy's inner dialogue. I had barely begun before I could feel myself choking up. I was relieved to have my back to the students so they couldn't see I was upset. "What on earth are you doing!" I said to myself. "Get a hold of yourself". It didn't work. I also fought back the tears and battled the lump in my throat as I went through the girl's character half an hour later. Perhaps my sobs appeared part of my acting of the characters, perhaps the students knew I really was sobbing. It didn't matter. My over-sensitivity helped to produce what I really wanted. Empathy. For those few minutes in the lecture, the students were able to connect with the characters, and imagine what it might be like for that boy and girl.

The power of empathy is hard to quantify. But I reckon the world would be a much better place if we could somehow infect people with it. Connection with others is theorised to be a basic human need (such as in Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs). Connection occurs when we feel some kind of understanding or oneness with another being. If only we understood each other better there would be less violence, hatred, and fear in the world. Not only between countries, but between individuals, neighbours, work colleagues, strangers in passing.

The power of connection is expressed well by Rachel Reiland in her book "Get me out of Here: My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder".

"For all these years, you’ve lived under the illusion that, somehow, you made it because you were tough enough to overpower the abuse, the hatred, the hard knocks of life. But really you made it because love is so powerful that tiny little doses of it are enough to overcome the pain of the worst things life can dish out. Toughness was a faulty coping mechanism you devised to get by. But, in reality, it has been your ability to never give up, to keep seeking love, and your resourcefulness to make that love last long enough to sustain you. That’s what has gotten you by".

Now back to the beginning. ANZAC Day today. As I think about my 21 year-old step son joining the army next year, I hope that through whatever difficult experiences he may endure, he is able not just to be tough but to be connected with others, feeling empathy for his fellow human beings; and that these are the things that not only keep him going, but are what he strives for in his service.

http://cultureofempathy.com/

http://cultureofempathy.com/ 

My soul sense

People are always coming in to and going out of our lives. From the moment we are born, our paths cross with others. It is difficult to imagine just how many people we have met in our lifetime, how many people for whom we have a memory. It is likely an undefinable number and probably a very surprising one if we ever attempted to calculate it (just start by multiplying the average school class, twenty-five, by twelve!).

For some people, our paths cross only fleetingly; we may never know their name, or hear their voice, only experiencing a transient moment in time when we are briefly aware of their existence on this earth.

For others, from the very the moment we meet, we are impacted; our paths don't just cross, our souls collide. We feel at once "in simpatico"; we understand each other, our hearts and minds speaking the same language. It is as if we were once branches on the same tree; a tree that gave us a way of being, of seeing, of sensing the world.

It is these people, no matter how long they physically remain in our lives, who leave a lasting trace that interweaves itself throughout our personal history, gently sailing alongside us, carried by the winds of coincidence and circumstance. We are transformed in some way through meeting such people; we are no longer what we were, but somehow we are extended beyond ourselves. Extended from who we were into the person we have the potential to be.

When we meet such people, we often experience a sense of 'coincidence', and we are tempted to dismiss what we experience as merely happenstance, having little or no significance or meaning. I was once given an alternative interpretation; that we 'wish certain people into our lives'. I like this alternative. It means that there is a part of me that knows just what I need, and seeks this out. My sixth sense. My soul sense. And it's my soul that carries these special memories of paths crossed in my life.

*Dedicated to a particularly memorable soul*

A bit of mothering...

Rosie, our one year old border collie, is now fully grown and no longer has her cute rounded puppy nose, her delicate soft fluffy ears, and she does not fit nicely into my lap. She is still beautiful, but has the features of an adult dog.

But while she may look like an adult, she is far from behaving like one! Rosie still has the needs of a puppy, particularly to be 'mothered'. Everyday, she will find a moment to tell me that she needs a cuddle, to be nurtured, cared for, mothered. She does this very directly with a little whining "woof", or by climbing into my lap, albeit very awkwardly, and typically ending up spilling out over the side and onto the floor or couch, depending on where I am sitting. Sometimes, she also has a look of sadness that is conveyed by her entire body that communicates to me "I am feeling emotional, and I need to be comforted." She then proceeds to nuzzle into me, wrap her front legs around my neck, and if I'm lucky, ever so delicately kiss my nose.

I don't know why Rosie's behaviour surprises me, but it's something to do with the fact that she isn't a little pupply anymore. Perhaps an assumption is made that she doesn't need the doting mothering of a little puppy; an assumption made from expectations borne of living in a society where growing up often means not needing such direct nurturing, affection and displays of emotion. But she reminds me every day, that we do, no matter what our age.

My son also knows when he needs to be 'mothered', and isn't afraid of asking for a cuddle, kiss, or some comforting. He is also able to express his emotions, and knows just how he feels about something. He is currently struggling to say goodbye each morning as I take him to school. He cries, and clings to me for one last cuddle. In our efforts to work through this difficult time, we have encouraged him to cry if he feels like it, and told him how proud we are of him that he is able to express his sadness; that in fact, he is brave, because not everyone is able to do this.

At times, however, it feels like we are fighting a battle with the rest of the world, who don't want little boys to cry. Crying, it seems, is something to be avoided, something that causes the individual and others around them pain or discomfort. "We" seem to be in a hurry for our children to grow up and be emotionally independent, to not have emotional needs, to not be sad. When my son first started going to school, he was encouraged by his teachers not to cry with the promise of a special treat; a reward for not expressing what he was feeling. Instead of being comfortable with another person's sadness, we hurry to cheer them up, instead of allowing them to feel sad and being willing to feel it too.

Running with the dog who waits..

Rosie, our almost 1 year old border collie,  and I run the same route through our neighbourhood every morning. Today we left a little later, and so there were many more cars backing out of driveways and driving down the streets. Today I learnt the lesson of patience and giving.

When Rosie sees or hears a car she immediately drops to the ground. Unfortunately she hasn't learned to discern where she drops, and so I sometimes have to drag her to the curb! However, she drops and waits, either for the car to pass, or to obviously be going in the other direction. Rosie only has two modes of running, stop and go, nothing in between, so today she did a lot of stopping and waiting, and giving of her time. But she did this with a look of pure delight. Unlike most of us, she enjoys waiting for others.

The looks she gets in return range from bemusement (usually from strangers, not living in the area) to laughter. But most often those in cars smile at her, and those who have got to know her give her a wave. A smile and a wave is like gold to Rosie, and she turns and looks at me with such excitement and pride.

When do we ever wait so patiently for others, and take such pleasure and pride in this action? And, do we show our appreciation to those who do? Maybe today I will :)