E-motion

It had snowed heavily all night and six year old Matt was excited. As he left for school he made us promise that we would take him tobogganing in the afternoon. We picked him up at 2pm and headed straight for the park.

His mother, Kathy, and I had met in the late 1970’s in Tokyo where we both taught English at a language school. After returning to the USA she had met and married Bill and settled with him in a suburb of Denver, Colorado. I was visiting the family for a couple of days. I hadn’t seen Kathy for some years and this was the first time I had met their only child, Matt.

“Hurry up Mom!” shouted Matt as we parked the car. Kathy got the bright red plastic sledge out of the trunk and handed it to him. He grabbed it and ran off to join some of his friends who were already racing down the slope, laughing and screaming with delight. Kathy and I watched the children from the top of the slope and chatted.

After about an hour Kathy looked at her watch. “Time to go home Matt!” she called. Matt looked up in dismay, “But I don’t want to go home yet.”
“I understand Matt,” Kathy responded, “I can see that you are having so much fun. You can slide down one more time but then we need to go home.”

Down he went, staying a little longer at the bottom this time before climbing back up to us. “OK, let’s go,” said Kathy.
“But I don’t want to go now,” objected Matt.
“I know Matt. But you see, John is here and Dad will be coming home from work soon and I need to go home and prepare dinner for us all,” reasoned Kathy.
“I don’t want to go!” shouted Matt.

I wondered how Kathy would handle the situation and how this clash of wills would play out.
“Well, Matt, if I was having fun and my Mom told me I had to stop and go home, I guess a part of me would be pretty upset too,” she said calmly, “So I understand how you are feeling. And we are going home.”
“I hate you!” exclaimed Matt.

I flinched. Had I ever said such a thing to my parents I would definitely have received a clip round the ear accompanied by an injunction such as, “Don’t you dare tell me you hate me!”

Kathy’s reaction was calm yet firm. “It’s OK that you hate me Matt. I know that a part of you is really mad with me right now. And we’re going home.”
We got into the car - Matt sulking in the back seat, Kathy remaining composed and unfazed. When we reached the house Matt ran off into his room and slammed the door. Kathy and I went into the kitchen and continued chatting as we peeled vegetables.

After about ten minutes, the kitchen door burst open and Matt came rushing in, ran up to Kathy and her gave a big hug. “I love you Mom!” he said.
“I love you too Matt,” replied Kathy.

I was so impressed. Kathy had managed both to accept Matt’s feelings and at the same time to set a clear boundary around his behaviour. Because she had honoured and validated those feelings Matt had not needed to suppress them. This allowed his anger to move through, and after a little while he found that he still loved his Mom. Furthermore, by saying, “a part of me would be pretty upset,” and, “a part of you is really mad,” she let Matt know that he was made up of different selves with different feelings. She did not lock him into a singularity. This made it OK for him to feel both love and hate.

I once heard someone say that emotion is energy in motion (e-motion). If as parents we judge certain emotions as wrong or bad, blocking their natural flow, we encourage our children to develop a kind of garbage dump of the psyche into which these unaccepted energies are thrown. Here they can surreptitiously stagnate and fester - the garbage dump becoming the breeding ground of the disowned selves.

Matt recently paid me a visit at my home in London. Now in his early 20’s he was backpacking around Europe on his own. Although still young, I found him to be a very self-aware and balanced person. I told him the story of what happened on that snowy day in Denver. He had no memory of it but smiled warmly and said, “Yeah, I guess I lucked out having such a great Mom.”

Esmeralda

The first time I saw him he was sitting on a small brown suitcase outside Cliff’s Variety store in the Castro area of San Francisco. He looked forlorn and anxious, glancing nervously at the faces of the passers-by from beneath a curly nylon wig. His ankle length dress was decorated with a cheap floral motif and buttoned up to his neck. Over this he wore a soiled, brown raincoat. Perched on his head was a small felt hat and on his feet a pair of old trainers. Leaning against the tin cup in front of him was a small sign, hand-written on a piece of torn cardboard: ‘Only need another $285.60 for my sex change.’

Over the next few weeks I saw him in several different locations, always dressed in the same clothes, a few coins in the cup and the amount on the sign unchanged. On each occasion, I felt mysteriously effected by the sight of this eccentric character, silently soliciting the help of strangers. I imagined that he had no friends and nowhere to stay and that the suitcase contained all his worldly possessions. He seemed like one of life’s victims, downtrodden and destitute. And yet he had a certain dignity about him. Although I had never met him before, I felt I knew him. How could this be?

It was some weeks since I had last seen him when I visited a friend of mine with whom I regularly traded Voice Dialogue sessions. It was my turn to be facilitated. I had been experiencing anxiety in my stomach and wanted to explore what the cause might be. I wasn’t aware of being worried about anything in particular and hoped the session might provide some insight and perhaps some relief from the symptoms.

After checking with my protecting self to make sure it was OK to look at this issue, my friend asked to speak to the part of me that was causing my stomach to churn. I moved my chair over to one side and felt my body tighten and tingle as if all my nerves were on edge. I crossed my legs and began tapping my foot on the ground. The aching in my stomach increased and I rocked backwards and forwards, my arms cradling my belly. I glanced nervously at my friend as if unsure or fearful of her reaction.

“Hello. Do you have a sense of your purpose in John’s life?” asked my friend.
“I worry,” came the reply.
“What do you worry about?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, no matter how big or small, whether past, present or future. I worry.”
“Are you worried now?”
“Of course! I’m worried about this session, and whether he turned the gas off before he came out and locked the door properly, and if he’ll get home safely, and whether there is enough food in the fridge for dinner tonight, and if his seminar participants like him or not, and what would happen if he got sick and couldn’t work, and what the neighbours would think if he let’s the hedge grow too big, and what would happen if he went to pay for something in a shop and there wasn’t enough money in his wallet, and…..”

As I continued talking and deepened the experience of being my Worrier, I was amazed to realise that I had begun to feel exactly like the guy sitting on his tiny suitcase begging for money! My self-image was of a lonely transvestite, marginalised and anxious, yet sure of who I was and of my right to be that way. I had the strongest sense that if I looked in a mirror right then, that is who I would see looking back at me. I would be wearing the same tired clothes and have the same expression on my face.

“Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you,” continued my friend, “Do you have a name?”
“It’s Esmeralda,” my Worrier replied. There was a sense of pride in her voice.
“That sounds like a pretty big job you have, Esmeralda. How much of John’s energy do you take up?”
“A lot. More than he knows.”
“And do you do this 24/7?”
“Yes. But they don’t like or appreciate me,” Esmeralda whispered.
“Really? Who are they?”
“Those big guys over there that run his life.” She pointed to the opposite side of the room. “You know, the one that likes to be in control all the time, the organised one, the planner and their cronies. They think they are so powerful and so perfect! They hate the way I worry about everything all the time. To them I am a nuisance and they look down on me as weak and effeminate. But let me tell you something, it only needs 1% of what I worry about to prove correct and all the worrying will have been worthwhile. I can’t tell you how many times I have saved their arses by pointing out something they have overlooked!”

“Does John appreciate the hard work you do?” enquired my friend.
“No. He’s so under the sway of that lot that he hardly notices me. So I give him a stomach ache to remind him I’m here.”
“What do you need from John?”
“I want him to notice me and to accept me for who I am instead of ignoring me. I have my pride and I have my dignity and I don’t like being treated like I am some kind of freak! If he listens to my concerns I can be of great help to him.”

My friend thanked Esmeralda and I moved my chair back to the centre and separated from her energy. I took some deep breaths. My stomach ache was gone.

I never saw the guy around town again. Maybe he moved on. Maybe he got enough money to have his sex change. Whatever happened to him, his image and energy resonated with me. Twenty years on, Esmeralda is alive and well. In fact, I can feel her in my stomach right now. She has a long list of worries, but most of all she’s worried about this blog and what you will think of it….

On Birth, Death and Vulnerability

I was raised in the Church of England. My father was the organist and choirmaster of our parish church and my mother was active in various church clubs. I went to Sunday School every week and from the age of seven was in the choir, which meant attending two services every Sunday and singing at weddings on Saturdays (I have seen more brides walk down the aisle than I care to remember!)

I was taught the story of Jesus and celebrated the two most important events in the Christian calendar - Christmas and Easter - every year till I was sixteen. That was when my parents allowed me to decide whether I wanted to stay in the church or not. I left and have not returned. However, many years later, becoming familiar with the theory and practice of Voice Dialogue has given me a new insight into the story that so informed my childhood years.

Jesus lived thirty-three years on this planet, but the occasions we celebrate most of all are his birth and his death. What is it that links these two momentous events?

He was born in a stable. There was no hospital with doctors and nurses in attendance; no clean bed with white sheets for his mother to lie in; no warm water or towels available to wash and dry him. His parents were not married; Joseph was not even the father; they were on the run and under threat of death from Herod’s soldiers; there was no comfort and no safety. It seems to me that symbolically this is as clear a description of being born vulnerable as one can get.

The story of Jesus’ birth reminds us that our birthright is vulnerability. Take a newborn baby and leave it alone and it will surely die. We are dependent on the adults around us to take care of us - much longer than for any other species. We need attention, approval and affection to survive and thrive. The theory of the Psychology of Selves tells us that our Primary selves develop to protect this core vulnerability. They have us behave in ways designed to get our survival needs met in our particular family, society and culture. As these protector selves develop, so our vulnerability often gets buried and forgotten.

At his death, was Jesus in the comfort of his own bed in his own home? Were his friends and family by his bedside? Was his doctor close by to relieve his pain? No. He was betrayed, stripped naked and had a crown of thorns pushed onto his head. He was paraded through jeering crowds, hauling a heavy cross on his back. He was nailed up for all to see, with the most vulnerable parts of his body totally exposed. It was a brutal and public death and again symbolically a painfully clear description of dying vulnerable.

The story of his death reminds us that our “deathright” is vulnerability. As we age and our bodies start to deteriorate our Primary protecting selves cannot handle situations as they once did - our energy and stamina decline, our memory begins to fail us, and our actions slow. This causes our vulnerability to resurface and be felt. We are the only animal on the planet that knows some day we must die. No matter what our belief system may be about death, we have no proof as to what happens to us once we depart. This not knowing can’t but prick our vulnerability.

For me, Christmas and Easter are reminders that we are born and die vulnerable. It is an essential condition of being alive and human on this planet. Vulnerability that we are unaware of or that we do not feel safe sharing with others is at the root of most conflict, so how we handle our vulnerability throughout our lives is the real issue for us. Do we identify with our Primary protecting selves and disown, bury or try to forget our vulnerability? Or do we use it as a guide to becoming fuller, more conscious human beings?

Choosing Peppar

We were excited but also a little nervous as we boarded the suburban train. Having spent many months discussing the pros and cons of adopting a dog, my partner and I were finally on our way to look for a new addition to our family!

We were off to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home, a modern facility located behind a huge derelict power station on a triangle of land between two busy railway lines in South London. Every year, almost 12,000 lost, abandoned or abused animals pass through its doors and we were hopeful that one of them would be coming home with us that very day.

We approached the reception desk expecting to be welcomed as knights in shining armour riding to the rescue. Instead, we were presented with a long application form which, in addition to our names and address, required us to state our occupations, work hours, income, previous dog-owning experience and reasons for wanting to adopt. We even had to write a description of our house and our neighbourhood. Having filled out the form, and after a considerable wait, we were summoned for an interview where a rather stern lady checked our answers and asked us more questions. Finally, we had to give permission for one of their inspectors to visit us to make sure that our home was suitable.

The excitement that we had left home with that morning had almost completely disappeared and a part of me wanted to rebel against all this bureaucracy and red tape. It wanted to remonstrate, “Why are you making this so difficult? We are here to help you out. Do you want us to take an animal off your hands or not?!” I recognised this as the internalised voice of my father who had a healthy disrespect for any kind of officialdom.

At last we were allowed into the kennels, and almost instantaneously this voice subsided. The dogs were housed along corridors on three floors and as we walked past the individual enclosures they tugged at my heartstrings inducting my softer, more compassionate self. I was struck by the pure uncomplicated energy that they embodied. They were simply what they were at that moment - happy, curious, sad, shy, cautious, aggressive, hungry…...

I noticed my reactions - how I praised some as “intelligent”, “handsome”, or “confident”, whilst others I judged as being “stupid”, “ugly”, or “timid”. Sometimes my partner and I agreed and sometimes our instant appraisals differed. Of course the words that we used said much more about the qualities that our primary selves valued than they did about the dogs!

After looking at well over a hundred animals and meeting several of them one-on-one, we felt completely overwhelmed. Worse still, we couldn’t agree on what characteristics we were looking for. I was attracted to the larger, longhaired variety - especially the ones that seemed alert, intelligent and strong. My partner, on the other hand, was entranced by the smaller, shorthaired dogs with sweet temperaments. With so many conflicting voices in our heads we realised that we needed time to process our reactions, and decided to come back another day.

For a month, we held the tension of these opposing positions as consciously as we could while pondering our choices. Then, hoping that we would find a compromise, we went back. As before, I felt an energetic pull towards some dogs and my partner to others. As much as I wanted us to choose a dog there and then, I was aware of a voice in my head that was saying, “No. Not yet. You are not ready.” It felt as if we were being tested. Were we honestly acknowledging the different selves at play in our deliberations? Did we have the patience to sit with the process and sweat the choices? Once again we returned home empty handed and waited for something to stir in us that said, “OK, now you are ready.”

Our perseverance was rewarded. On our third visit to Battersea we felt drawn to one particular enclosure. From behind the bars a pair of big brown eyes stared up at us out of a jet black face. As we peered in, a bushy two-toned tail wagged its greeting as if to say, “There you are at last. It’s me you’re looking for!” We were taken aback. This wasn’t the type of dog either of us had expected. We hadn’t imagined that our new dog would be a Rottweiler/Collie cross! But it was too late. She had found us. And that same wise voice in my head said, “Yes, this is the one.”

We named her Peppar, and she has settled into our home so well that it’s difficult to imagine the time before she arrived. Her interesting genetic mix matches the wonderful pairs of opposites she embodies. She can be both bright and obtuse; eager to please and rebellious. At times she is unbearably sweet and affectionate and at others grumpy and independent. Asleep, she is the picture of relaxation, but when chasing cats or squirrels nothing will distract her razor-sharp focus. Mostly sociable and playful, she can also be fiercely territorial and stand her ground against other dogs.

I know that Peppar has come into my life as my teacher. I watch myself getting into the same positive and negative bonding patterns with her as I have with other pets - she is the child to my Controller, my Strict Father, my Indulgent Mother and my Proud Parent. At the same time, I can also see that all the many aspects that enliven her being are potentially available to me. I’ve started to practise just hanging out with her, following her lead and resonating whatever energy is running through her in the moment - much as I would when facilitating a client. This is sometimes easy for me - as when she is in a pleasing, playful or relaxed mood - and sometimes difficult - as when her more instinctual and fierce sides take over. In this way, unbeknownst to her, she is helping me to recognise, explore and embrace some of my more disowned selves.

Peppar knows exactly how to be a dog. But of course, she does not know that she knows. Much as I marvel at her ability to be totally immersed in the moment, more marvellous still is the potential I have as Homo Sapiens to self-reflect, to develop an Aware Ego process that can stand between opposing energies, and to be able to make more conscious choices.

So welcome Peppar and thanks for being my teacher! I’m so glad we chose you. Or did you choose us?

Sweet Temptation

‘The only thing I can’t resist is temptation,’ wrote Oscar Wilde. Standing in front of the display of cakes and pastries at Torelli’s - my local café - I am sorely tempted. There are butter croissants, pains aux chocolats, frangipanis, pains aux raisins, flapjacks, fairy cakes, jam doughnuts, apple and apricot Danishes, a carrot cake, and a soft cheesecake on a delicious biscuit base. Can I resist?

A voice inside me says, “Don’t succumb!”, but immediately another counters with, “Why not? Just one with your coffee. What difference will that make? Start your diet tomorrow. You didn’t eat any yesterday and you didn’t have a big lunch today. You deserve one!” As I stand in line waiting to be served, I am amazed at how imaginative and insistent this part of me is as it tries to persuade me. “Your coffee will taste better if you eat something sweet with it. Besides, you’ll be supporting your local café and helping to pay the salaries of the baristas who count on your custom. You wouldn’t want to let them down, would you? It will make them happy if you buy one.”

There is an air of desperation about this Sweet Tooth self - almost as if it is afraid of what will happen if I don’t indulge. I can feel the muscles in my stomach tense. Will I give in…..?

I grew up in a home where there was always a ready supply of homemade cakes and tarts. My mother loved to bake and no teatime was complete without something deliciously sweet on the table - a Victoria sponge cake, strawberry jam tarts, a coffee cake or a fruit cake. And then there were the desserts that rounded off the main meal of the day - rhubarb crumble with custard, lemon meringue pie, sherry trifle with cream, bread and butter pudding…. It was my mother’s way of expressing her love, and so long as she continued to provide I felt nurtured and safe. Whether through her influence or because of a genetic predisposition, Sweet Tooth has exerted a strong influence on my food choices throughout my life.

I have noticed that whenever my normal desire for cakes, pastries and biscuits increases it’s a sign that parts of me are feeling anxious or vulnerable. Rather than consciously dealing with whatever it is that’s causing these feelings to arise, Sweet Tooth has me head for the nearest patisserie or put a couple of extra boxes of chocolate biscuits in my basket at the supermarket. The sweetness acts as a palliative, a kind of self-nurturing that provides a measure of comfort and a temporary relief from my inner disquiet.

In the past few months, since my partner left for an eight-month stay in his home country of Thailand, my consumption has risen significantly. Of course, he and I are in regular communication via phone, email, Skype and text, but that does not satisfy my need for physical connection and intimacy. I miss him and in an effort to mask the feelings of loneliness and emptiness Sweet Tooth has made a daily ritual of the trip to Torelli’s and its ‘irresistible temptations’.

In the last week, however, something has changed. Results back from a regular medical check up found that my cholesterol levels are much too high. A consultation with my doctor and an in-depth discussion of my eating habits with a nutritionist pointed to an irrefutable conclusion: I have to give up cakes, pastries and biscuits. Family history makes it imperative - my mother died of a stroke and my father of a heart attack. It is obvious that my health and longevity depend on my ability to change my diet.

So now there is a new voice in my head, a voice I am calling my Aware Eater. He is there all the time, looking over my shoulder, advising me what to eat and what not. He takes his rules from the nutritionist: cut down on fats, especially saturated fatty acids; and as for hydrogenated fats and trans fatty acids, they are out completely! He has me read ingredient and nutrition labels on everything I buy and if I transgress, his friend, my Inner Critic, gives me an earful!

As I stand wavering in front of the display in Torelli’s it is his voice that is telling me not to succumb, tightening my stomach in resistance. “But if you don’t eat something,” says Sweet Tooth, “you’ll be overcome with longing for your partner.” “Eat the chocolate croissant and you’ll die young,” comes the repost from Aware Eater. I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. These selves are at war in me!

Realising that whichever decision I make I am going to upset one of them, I take a deep breath. Time to place my order. “Hi John,” says my favourite barista, Camillo, “Your usual large coffee and a pastry?” “Just the coffee today thanks,” I reply, “I found out that I have high cholesterol. I have to change my diet, so I’ve decided it is just one pastry a week from now on.”

As I sit and drink my coffee I congratulate myself on being able to stand between Sweet Tooth and Aware Eater and make a conscious choice. I realise that apart from giving me knowledge that may well prolong my life, the gift that high cholesterol offers me is an invitation to take more care of my feelings around my partner’s absence and nurture my younger selves in more healthy ways.

Is it my imagination or does this coffee taste more delicious that usual?

Bip

“I want a dog.”
“OK, then you should get a puppy.”
“No, I don’t want the hassle of training a puppy. I want an off-the-shelf, ready-to-go, adult dog. And one that has had a full medical at the rescue centre.”
“Hmm… Well, I still think that what you need in your life is a puppy.”

My friend and I had this conversation a few times. If we were out together and saw a young dog pulling at its leash he would point to it, smile knowingly and intone: “A puppy.” Oscar knew me well and was very intuitive. But I was beginning to get annoyed by his insistence. I didn’t want a puppy and that was that!

I was living in Tucson, Arizona at the time. I lived alone, worked from home and had a lot of control over my schedule. My small rented house had a back yard and there was a communal area in front shared by the other single-storey, adobe houses. A fence surrounded the whole complex and many of the renters had pets. A medium sized, mature, well-behaved dog would provide me with some company and force me to take more exercise. There was a neighbourhood park just up the road and a dry riverbed nearby where I could walk a dog for miles. I decided to go to the rescue centre the next Monday.

Late Sunday evening there was a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbour. Cradled in her arms was what at first I took to be a fluffy black hat. “Hi. I have just come back from a camping trip in the White Mountains and look what I found there. This little critter was scavenging in a trash tip. He was such a mess I had to take pity on him. I couldn’t just leave him there, but with my crazy work schedule there’s no way I can take care of him. I know you have been thinking of getting a dog so I thought you might like to adopt him.”

She opened her arms and a pair of soft brown eyes peered at me with a mixture of interest and fear. The ears were bald from scratching and the coat was mangy. “The poor thing had a piece of wire tied around his tail when we found him. God only knows what cruelty he has suffered. I think his short life has been pretty tough.” After a pause, she offered him to me to hold, “How about it?”

A part of me - my stern Rational self - was horrified, telling me very clearly not to be swayed by her emotive words. But as I held the little guy and felt his thin, bony body, my heart melted. He seemed so vulnerable and alone in the world. “Give me time to think about it,” I replied.

Later that evening Oscar came by. “You see, I told you. It’s fate. Of course you have to adopt him!” And so it was that Bip came into my life. He cost me an arm and a leg in veterinary bills - de-worming, de-lousing, antibiotics, vaccinations. I had to toilet-train him and put up with chewed chair legs and other damage to household objects. No one knew for sure, but the best guess was that he was a Retriever-Newfoundlander mix. As the months passed he grew ever larger, his increasingly long black hair clinging to carpet and cushions whenever he moulted.

I had just come across Voice Dialogue and was slowly becoming aware of my inner cast of characters - the ones that ran my life and the ones that were more buried. I soon realised that Bip was my disowned Wild Child - high energy, confident, outgoing, inquisitive, risk taking. My primary selves - my Rational Mind, Pusher, Pleaser, Organiser and Planner - knew they had to take charge of him or he would run amok.

My mother once told me that soon after I was born, when it was clear she wouldn’t be able to have any more children, my father made the following pronouncement: “John is an only child and we are not going to spoil him.” I watched myself follow this injunction with Bip. I set strict limits around playtime. I would romp and tussled with him and play tug of war with an old slipper. But then with his excitement revving up, I would feel a powerful urge to disengage. “That’s enough for today,” my inner Strict Father would say and I would pull back my energy and focus instead on answering emails or quietly reading a book. My father had done the same to me when he had withdrawn to his office and busied himself with church matters. He had been the organist and choirmaster as well as treasurer on the parish council and his free time was rationed. Part of me empathised with Bip as he looked at me with those doleful eyes, willing me to carry on playing. But my Strict Father was resolute and would not be won over.

Control was a big issue between us - especially when Bip was selectively deaf to my commands. If he didn’t stay when he was told or come when I called him, I would feel a pang of anxiety, immediately followed by a smouldering anger. He would look at me for a second as if to say, “You’re kidding. No way!”, and then be off, leaving me barking helplessly, “Come here when I tell you to!!” When I finally got him back on the leash my Controlling Father would scold him for being so disobedient. Bip would act contrite for a while, head down and tail between his legs, but pretty soon his tail would be up, his eyes sparkling and he would be on the look out for the next adventure. Secretly my buried Rebel admired and adored him, willing him to cut loose whenever he got the chance.

When I gave him treats, groomed him or told him how handsome he was, I would feel my Nurturing Mother glow inwardly. But this would always be accompanied by twinges of guilt - I was after all breaking the golden rule and spoiling him. My self-esteem would be affected by people’s reactions to him. If someone ignored him I would feel upset - as if I had been personally shunned. On the other hand, when people petted and admired him for being such a handsome and clever dog, I would hear my Proud Parent say to himself “That’s my boy!”

Bip met the love of his life when he was two years old. Esperita was a giant Airedale whose owner, Michael, lived in a big house on the very edge of town in the Tucson Mountains. They bonded the first time they met and seemed destined for each other. Walking the two of them in the desert or in the town I felt an amazing sense of pride - as if my “son” had found the perfect “daughter-in-law”! I doted on her even as I remained stern with him. When I left the USA, Bip went to live with Michael and Esperita. Aged fourteen, he ended his long life in very different circumstances to the way he had started out, as that poor, abandoned mutt.

Bip was my teacher and Oscar’s intuition had been absolutely right - taking care of this little being was just what I had needed in order to learn more about my inner selves. Now, twenty years later, I have a weird feeling of déja vue. I have a house in London with a garden, a stable home life, and my schedule is my own. I am thinking about getting a dog. As before, my first thought is to adopt an adult rescue dog. Uncannily my partner’s response is: “What we need is a puppy!”

Who's Dressing You?

I have a cartoon in front of me. It shows a character in a dressing gown commenting as she looks through her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear to go to work that day. “Incredible new dress, but I can’t find any shoes to go with it…. Ah! Perfect shoes, but no matching skirt…. Hmm. Wonderful skirt, but no matching blouse….. Oh! Great blouse, but no matching slacks…. Fabulous jacket, but no matching skirt, slacks, dress, shoes, jewellery or belt…!”

In the final scene she is sitting on the bed phoning her boss: “The individual parts of me are all prepared to come to work Mr Jones, but as a group we won’t be able to make it.”

I had a similar crisis the other morning getting ready to teach a one-day workshop. At least two different parts were trying to dress me. It was a warm day and I knew the participants would be dressed casually - probably in shorts or jeans, t-shirts and trainers. The atmosphere would be relaxed and everyone would be expecting to have fun. Even so, my Conservative self thought I should wear a newly pressed pair of chinos, polished leather shoes and a smart shirt. As the trainer I should project an image of professionalism - otherwise my status would be undermined and I wouldn’t be taken seriously.

My Conservative self remembers with embarrassment an incident some years ago when I was teaching a one-week seminar in Japan. The participants were all senior managers and I wore a suit and tie every day. Halfway through the week I wanted to get some feedback from my Japanese colleague who had organised the programme. I waited until we were sitting naked in the communal hot bath. For Japanese this is a situation where the requisite Polite and Pleasing selves can be put to one side and one can be open and reveal one’s true feelings or “honne.”

“So, Iwasa-san, how do you think the seminar is going?” I asked. My own sense was that all was going well, so I was quite taken aback when he hesitated, drew breath and said, “Maybe there is a problem, Kento-san.” A problem? What could it be? My mind raced through various possibilities. Perhaps they didn’t like the content. Maybe my English was too difficult for them. Or had I inadvertently been culturally insensitive? “Please tell me Iwasa-san so that I can fix it,” I said.

“Well, Kento-san, it’s your shirts,” he replied. My Shirts?! I didn’t understand. I wore a clean, pressed shirt every day. They weren’t loud or over-styled. “Please explain,” I urged. “You wore a blue shirt on Monday and a red striped one Tuesday and a grey one today. They don’t understand why,” he answered. Now I was really puzzled. He continued, “As the “sensei”, or teacher, you have to be sincere, calm and consistent in order for them to trust you and receive your teaching. Wearing a different coloured shirt every day is not showing consistency and this is confusing to them.”

The lesson was learnt and ever since, my Conservative self has had a heightened sensitivity to my appearance and especially how my clothes might impact a group in a negative way. With this memory in mind the message was clear - I should play safe and not be controversial. I reached for my chinos. But even as I took them out of the cupboard another voice intervened.

It was my Exhibitionist self, a part of me that loves to be provocative. Allied with a Rebel self, he delights in shocking people and getting a reaction. One way to do that is to have me wear unusual or unconventional clothes. He once had me buy a T-shirt that said: “F_CK, all I want is U”! Of course, my Conservative self had had a panic attack and had made sure that this particular T-shirt languished in a bottom drawer, buried beneath “decent and respectable” clothing.

One look at the chinos and my Exhibitionist rebelled. No way did he want me to wear such “non-descript and boring” clothes! As I scanned my wardrobe his eyes settled on a blue T-shirt. Printed in big letters on the front were the words: “Just another sexy bald bloke.” That would do nicely. I put it on and then pulled on a pair of tight Levi’s. A brassy cowboy belt and an old pair of trainers and the outfit was complete. I looked in the mirror. He was satisfied.

It wasn’t more than a few seconds before the voice of my Conservative self sounded sharply in my head, “Are you seriously going to stand in front of a group of complete strangers wearing such inappropriate attire!?” And so the to and fro between these two selves began. I took the jeans and T-shirt off and replaced them with the chinos and shirt. I looked in the mirror. My Exhibitionist gave his frank opinion, “Dull, drab and dreary!!”

Phoning in like the cartoon character and cancelling the workshop was not an option. I needed to sit with these two opposing selves and find a solution. So I changed back into my pyjamas and went downstairs to eat breakfast. As I sat munching my toast I listened to their arguments. I knew that whatever I chose to wear, one of them would be upset…. Finally, as I sipped the last of my coffee I decided. I went upstairs made my selection, dressed myself and left for the workshop.

So who won? Which self turned up to teach my workshop - my Conservative or my Exhibitionist? With a nod to both I chose to wear the jeans with a conventional belt, the trainers, and a neutral coloured shirt. That way both selves could be present to inform my work. I could be professional and casual. Sitting over breakfast with my opposing selves enabled me to take charge of them rather than have either one take charge over me!

The ‘war of the wardrobe’ can offer wonderful insights both for facilitator and client in a Voice Dialogue session. On one occasion for example, a lady who for several sessions had worn unobtrusive pastel colours, arrived in a bright red dress. That day her Sexual Rebel spoke out. “Did you dress her this morning,” I asked. “You bet!” she said feistily, “It’s about time she listened to me!!” Or the tolerant, new-age mother who turned up one day in a dark top with a wide, pristine white collar. Her inner Puritan who railed against her easy going attitude to raising her children wanted his presence to be noted and his voice heard: “Spare the rod and spoil the child!” was his message.

So, take a moment to observe what you are wearing right now and ask yourself “who dressed me today?” Maybe this will clue you in to a particular self that is trying to get your attention and appreciation.

The Young Cyclist

The young cyclist sped round the corner on the pavement (sidewalk) and nearly hit me. I was startled and then angry and after I had collected myself called after him that he was crazy! I watched indignantly as he carried on without so much as a glance back in my direction. My reactive voices started up as I walked on towards the town centre: “So irresponsible, inconsiderate and rude! He could have at least apologised. Typical of young people these days!”

By the time I had walked to the next major intersection I had calmed down a bit and started to focus on my to-buy list. I waited for the little green man to indicate that I could cross the road safely. I was thinking about which order I should visit the various shops when who should pull up beside me but the same cyclist. He was listening to his i-pod and seemed oblivious to me. I was incensed!

My reactive voices started up again and before I knew what was happening I stepped towards him and tapped him authoritatively on the shoulder. He looked surprised and wary. I launched in. What did he think he was doing riding so dangerously? He had nearly hit me just now. Cyclists should ride their bikes on the road or on cycle paths, not on the pavement which was intended for pedestrians like me.

He reluctantly took an earphone from one ear. “What’s your problem?” he scowled. I repeated that he had ridden his bike dangerously and had nearly hit me. “No, I saw you and avoided you. Anyway, I can ride wherever I want.” “Have you ever read the Highway Code?” I spluttered. “You can’t do just as you please. The rules apply to bicycles just as much as to anyone else.”

It was water off a duck’s back. He gave me a look of studied indifference. The green man showed and he raced off, this time looking over his shoulder to utter, “Piss off!” I was left feeling outraged and impotent.

I was unable to let go of my judgements about the young cyclist. I felt destabilised and in no mood to do my shopping now. I needed to sit down and get a handle on my reactive voices, so I headed for a favourite coffee shop.

Sitting down with a comforting cup of cappuccino I started to reflect on what had happened and my reactions. What did my visceral judgements tell me about my Primary Selves? Startled and shocked by nearly being knocked over, I could now see that several selves had jumped into offensive mode to protect my vulnerability: my Responsible Self, my Rule Follower, and my Considerate Self. I developed them all in my youth under the influence of my parents who were kind, responsible, law abiding citizens. They were the selves that were judging this young guy so harshly. Additionally, there was the self that has developed since I turned 50 which judges “young people these days!”

I smiled as I contemplated the latter and how I had hated it when my father used to say the same about people of my generation. I realised that my father was alive and well and living inside me! But also alive in me were the energies represented by the young cyclist. As I separated from my Primary Selves I could feel their discomfort as I started to look at the Disowned Selves the cyclist represented: Rebel, Rule Breaker, and my Carefree and Confident Selves.

I suddenly remembered my father saying to me in his later, more mellow years that he was worried that I hadn’t been rebellious enough as a teenager. In retrospect, he thought it was not healthy to be such a good boy all the time. Well, of course, I had secretly rebelled and broken the rules. I had ridden my bike all over London in dangerous, heavy traffic when my mother’s rule was that I was supposed to stay only in the safe streets close to my suburban home. I had also ridden on the pavement and in my fantasies I had bad mouthed anyone who got in my way or criticised my behaviour!

As I acknowledged this, I felt my judgements about the cyclist ebb away to be replaced by a smile of recognition. To complete the process I decided to reframe my judgements and ask what gifts a small dose of the cyclist’s energies could bring me this afternoon. Hmm…. let me see…. yes, greater self-assurance, the confidence to break the rules sometimes, and a sense of fun.

I finished my cappuccino and left the café to get on with my shopping. As I went from shop to shop I realised that I felt calmer and more expanded. I had a spring in my step that wasn’t there before. And I noticed the young sales assistants seemed to respond to me with a smile, a lightness, and (was it my imagination?) a wink of recognition!

Belly Art

In the late 1970’s I spent three years living in Tokyo. During the day I earned a living travelling around the city teaching English to company employees and in the evenings I studied a martial art called Shintaido (“New Body Way”).

One day, as the doors of my commuter train opened at Ryōgoku station, the impressive figure of a sumo wrestler stepped into the carriage. His wooden “geta” (traditional Japanese shoes) clunked noisily on the floor as he occupied a seat - or rather seats! – opposite me. His hair was tied up in a “chonmage” (topknot) and he wore a blue patterned “yukata” (summer kimono) tied with an embroidered “obi” (cotton belt) around his huge midriff.

I felt intimidated by the enormity of his presence and glanced across at him nervously. He was taller than I had imagined a sumo wrestler to be. His broad feet hung over the sides of his shoes and above his thick ankles were a pair of tree-trunk legs. Atop these rested the incredible bulk of his belly and over that his massive chest and shoulders. His round face with its small mouth seemed strangely baby-like. It was difficult to gage his age.

I could see how, when squatting down to face his opponent in a tournament, his enormous stomach would give him great stability - like a triangle resting firmly on its base. I couldn’t help comparing this to archetypal Western images of the ideal masculine physique - Superman, Mr Incredible or American football players. With their exaggerated shoulders and slim waists these popular heroes appeared more like inverted triangles balancing somewhat precariously on one point!

It was not just the sheer physical mass of his body that so impressed me. There was also something about his energy that I found fascinating. He appeared not just very grounded but also centred and he had an ineffable inner calm. Even though his eyes were half-closed and he seemed to be paying me no attention at all, I felt that there was some kind of invisible communication taking place between us. It was as if I was being scanned by an energy radiating from his belly and that he was using this to take the measure of me. After a few stops he stood up impassively and exited the train, leaving an indelible mark in my mind.

Sometime later I was invited by my Shintaido teacher to accompany him to a sumo tournament. As we watched the bouts he explained the various moves each wrestler was using to try and force his adversary to touch the ground, or step outside the “dohyō” (small circular wrestling ring).

He pointed out that there were various slapping, holding, pulling and pushing techniques, but that fundamental to them all was the ability to maintain a strong and low centre of gravity, making it very difficult to be destabilised and thrown off balance. I knew from my Shintaido training that the place in the belly where this centre is located was called the “hara”, which is three finger widths below and two finger widths behind the navel.

He explained that in Japan, a master of such disciplines as calligraphy, swordsmanship, tea ceremony or the fighting arts like sumo is said to be "acting from the hara". Teachers of these arts often instruct their students to centre their mind in their hara in order to anchor themselves. In addition to breathing techniques and physical exercises, developing the hara also involves emotional and spiritual practice. As a consequence, the student becomes more aware of and sensitive to both internal and external energies. Consciously communicating with someone from one’s hara is called “haragei” - literally “belly art”.

I listened attentively, realising that his words were not so much a description of what was going on at the tournament but more an instruction to me as I continued with my study of the martial arts.

Over the years I have applied the practical experience and understanding of hara I gained in Japan to different areas of my life - including to my work as a Voice Dialogue facilitator.

Like the sumo wrestler, when I facilitate clients I have to be both centred and grounded. Focusing down into my hara helps me to “scan” my clients and be sensitive to the different selves that show up during sessions. Identifying and resonating the energy of these selves from my hara helps clients deepen their experience of a particular self. The greater my capacity to consciously hold as many selves as possible “in my belly”, the better able I will be to facilitate the wonderful variety of selves my clients present.

My goal as a facilitator is, however, very different from that of the sumo wrestler. When working with clients my job is to help them become aware of, stand between and embrace as many of their selves as they can. The natural consequence of this for the client is a feeling of being more expanded, centred and grounded. Far from trying to destabilise and throw my clients off balance, my task is to help them do the opposite - to become more stable and more in balance.

I have always found the Japanese depiction of Hotei (the so-called Laughing or Fat Buddha) attractive. I love the rotund figures with their big bellies and broadly smiling faces. When I look at them I am reminded of my first encounter with that sumo wrestler on the train at Ryōgoku and of the words of my teacher: “It is in the hara that the soul of a man resides.”

The Seminar Leader

As a Voice Dialogue teacher and facilitator, it is humbling to realise how hard it can be to separate from a powerful primary self and how vigilant we must be least we go unconscious and are taken over by its energy. I once heard Hal Stone describe such a self as being like a huge planet - before we know it, we have been drawn into its orbit and captured by its high gravitational pull. I was reminded of this recently while teaching a management seminar in Modena, Italy.

Over the past few years, the poor economic climate has meant that many companies have cut their training budgets. As a result I have been asked to lead seminars alone. Although this has meant working harder, it has made a part of me very happy, as I have not had to take into account the opinions, concerns and needs of a co-trainer. I have been able to do it my way, i.e. the way my Seminar Leader self likes to do it.

In Modena, however, my Italian client had sufficient funds for two trainers, and once again I was asked to work with a colleague - someone whose style and approach was very different from my own.

I began training when I was just 17 years old. The wife of my English teacher at high school was the local representative of the European Student Travel Organisation (ESTO). Her job was to find host families and English teachers for groups of French teenagers coming to London on two-week study programmes. One of her teachers had fallen ill and her husband had suggested me as a last minute substitute!

“But I have never stood in front of a class and taught anybody anything,” I protested. “I know you have it in you,” replied Eric, “It will be a good experience for you - and you will earn a little holiday money too! It will really help Penny out if you can take it on.” My Pleaser could not refuse him and with great trepidation I acquiesced.

I can still remember the butterflies in my stomach, my sweaty palms and my pounding heart as I was introduced to the mixed sex class of 25 rowdy youths: “This is Mr Kent, your English teacher,” announced Penny. Some were younger than me, but most were my age or older. How was I going to control them, let alone teach them anything? What authority could I possibly have? I felt shy and vulnerable and wished I had never agreed to do this.

There was a moment of silence as they stared at me - a mixture of wariness and expectation on their faces, checking me out to see if I was worthy of their respect. I knew I had to be proactive. I had to seize the initiative.

As I stared back at them, something shifted inside me and to my surprise I suddenly felt suffused with a calm, quiet energy. My mind cleared and in a cool, confident voice I heard myself say, “Good morning everyone. Let’s begin the first lesson.” My Seminar Leader was born.

Eric had been right, I did have it in me! I continued to work with ESTO during my university vacations and when I graduated I followed a career as a trainer. Over the years, my Seminar Leader grew from strength to strength, learning from each new opportunity and assignment. By the time I was in my late 30’s it had become a powerful force in my professional life. Just how dominant - and domineering - it was only became clear to me in the late 1980’s when I was teaching cross-cultural communication seminars in the USA.

I met Patricia while studying Voice Dialogue in Tucson, Arizona. She was also a trainer, with some expertise in international business relations. We got along OK and decided that it would be fun to run a workshop together. The marketing, planning and preparation went well, but when it came to delivering the training I found myself becoming highly judgemental of her style.

Sensing that all was not well, and also feeling some negative judgements towards my way of working, Patricia suggested that we do a joint Voice Dialogue session with another facilitator, Rick, to explore what was going on. After explaining the situation to him, we all agreed that I would be facilitated first while Patricia observed.

When Rick asked to speak to the part of me that had something to say about Patricia’s way of training, my Seminar Leader immediately made his presence felt and I moved my chair over to where he wanted to sit.

“Could you tell me how you feel about Patricia as a trainer?” asked Rick.
“There are only three trainers in the world that I respect and she’s not one of them!” pronounced my Seminar Leader in no uncertain terms.
“What exactly upsets you about Patricia’s style?” enquired Rick.
“She is too laid back, too wishy-washy, lacks pace and momentum, doesn’t work according to the agreed plan, deviates and digresses, seems intimidated by the participants, lacks confidence and, as a result, loses her authority and control over the group. Why John agreed to work with her I’ll never know. She’s useless!”

Speaking as this self I felt very powerful and self-righteous in my condemnation of Patricia. Quite simply, she should never be allowed to stand up in front of a group again! More judgements followed, delivered with a vehemence that clearly shocked and upset Patricia who was trying her best not to react to my highly opinionated self.

After a while, Rick invited me to separate from my Seminar Leader and I moved my chair back to centre. Immediately I felt a much younger energy tugging at me and Rick invited this energy to speak. I went over to the opposite side of the room and curled up on the floor with eyes tightly closed.

It was my Shy Child - the same part of me that had been so nervous and anxious all those years before as I faced my first class of French students. This part of me did not like my Seminar Leader or the way he behaved when he took me over. “I hate standing up in front of people. Why does John do that kind of work? I don’t want to be the centre of attention with everyone looking at me. I’m scared of them. And now I’m scared of Patricia,” whispered my Shy Child.

“Why are you scared of Patricia?” asked Rick.
“Because that Seminar Leader guy has upset her and I’m afraid she is hurt and angry and won’t like me any more,” came the answer.

Rick spent some time with my Shy Child and then asked me to move back to the centre. I took a moment to experience myself sitting between these two very different energies before finishing my session. It was now my turn to observe as Rick facilitated Patricia.

The first part of her to speak was a very indignant, Judgemental Mother that couldn’t stand my “overbearing and condescending” Seminar Leader. She hated the way men treated women as being less important and less able, and railed against the patriarchal attitudes that “pervaded and perverted” society. As she spoke, I felt my Shy Child cringe at her words. It felt like she was going to annihilate me.

However, when she moved over to the opposite side, a very young Fearful Child spoke. This self was cowed by the judgements of my Seminar Leader and felt bruised and humiliated. It turned out that Patricia’s father had been a very powerful and domineering man who had always told her that she was no good at anything and would never amount to much. His advice was that she should find a man, settle down and live her life as a loyal housewife and mother. The dismissive tone of my Seminar Leader reminded her of him.

Listening to the opinions, fears and concerns of our different selves shone a spotlight on the underlying tensions that existed between us. We were able to understand how on a deep level our defensive primary selves were interacting in a negative way as they endeavoured to protect our younger, more vulnerable selves. It was clear to me just how identified I had become with my Seminar Leader and how his judgements of Patricia reflected my own disowned material. My Seminar Leader was actually terrified that I would lose control and not be able to handle the class. His powerful presence ensured my safety, but had inevitably caused problems in my working relationships with other trainers, especially when they were more easygoing in their approach.

These memories came back to me as I observed my colleague in front of the class in Modena. I heard the voice of my Seminar Leader formulating a very negative appraisal of her. After ruling the roost for the past few years, having to work with a co-trainer again reminded me just how powerful a presence this primary self can be in my work life. It also gave me the chance to reconnect to my Shy Child who, 40 years on, still does not want me to be doing this kind of work!

I reflected how the dance of our selves in relationships of all types - with colleagues and co-workers, as well as with significant others - can act as guide to what we need to acknowledge and embrace in ourselves. As I detached myself from the gravitational pull of my very talented Seminar Leader and listened once more to the fears of my Shy Child, I felt the judgements about my colleague fade and found them replaced by feelings of tolerance, empathy and appreciation.

Miss Combes

Organising seminars and conferences is no big deal for me. I have a bunch of very competent Primary Selves who are totally up to the task. They know well how to plan, organise, and structure. They make sure that no detail is left to chance and that everything is under my control. So when I assumed responsibility for hosting an international gathering of therapists, these powerful selves immediately swung into action. They helped me assemble a local team of volunteers, find an appropriate venue, set up banking and payment systems, and create a newsletter that kept everyone up to date on developments.

As the event drew nearer, my focus turned to the programme. I felt a strong desire to fix the content as precisely as possible, and so with my highly competent team of selves behind me, I took the initiative and started to line up a series of presentations, workshops and other activities. I wanted everyone to get the most out of their four days together.

Plans were going well and I was feeling totally on top of things - until I received an email from a previous organiser of these events. She was very upset. She made clear her feelings about the programme I was putting in place in no uncertain terms. She wrote that she had a ‘huge charge’ around what I was doing. She pointed out that the intention of such gatherings was that participants co-create the programme day by day, allowing for spontaneity and the free flow of both personal and group energy. She insisted that it should be a collaborative activity and not something predetermined by me. She informed me that she had already written to members of last year’s organising committee about this. Together they would decide how best to deal with me.

It was as if I had been punched in the stomach. I crumpled inside. I felt like a little kid who had upset his teacher and been scolded for bad behaviour. Moreover, she had shared my misdeed with others who would now be collectively passing judgement on me. I felt guilty, exposed and vulnerable. I wanted to flee, to hide…

These were very uncomfortable feelings, and it was not long before a protective voice kicked in to rescue me. “How dare she!!” it screamed in my head. “After all the hard work I’ve done, this is the thanks I get! I’m the one organising this event, not her. How can an event like this have no structure? Spontaneity will just lead to chaos. I can’t just leave things to chance like that. I’m not going to be intimidated by her. I’ll bloody well do what I want!”

With this defensive energy coursing through my body I felt powerful and ready to stand my ground and fight. However, as soon as this belligerent voice subsided, the guilty feelings re-surfaced, accompanied by sweaty palms and a churning stomach.

Over the next couple of days I flip-flopped between anxiety and anger. It felt like I was on a ship in a storm, being thrown first one way then the other. I was out of balance and needed to stabilise.

I took a deep breath. What was going on here? Clearly my Organiser, Planner, Pusher and High Structure selves had been in charge of preparing the event. Unconsciously communicating from these selves, I risked being perceived as a Controlling Parent. This polarised people - either they acquiesced like obedient children or they went the other way and resisted. In this case, they had provoked a Disapproving and Judgemental Mother who had shown me up in front of the previous committee and had let me know exactly where I had erred. Her slap had stopped me in my tracks and woken me up to the fact that I was very identified with this particular set of primary selves.

With this awareness came the opportunity to notice the parts of me that I was disowning - my Spontaneous, Go-With-The-Flow, Trustful and Collaborative selves. Of course, these were the very selves that many in this particular community of practitioners held as primary! If I could embrace these selves as I continued to create this event I would have more balance, understanding and integrity in my interactions with everyone. The storm passed and I felt my ship steady, rocking gently and confidently in calmer waters.

But there was more for me to learn from this incident. It was not enough for me just to use the reaction of this person as feedback about my primary and disowned selves. To complete the lesson I also needed to feel into, acknowledge and take care of my underlying vulnerability. Why had I felt so devastated by the criticism? What had triggered my belligerent voice and caused it to step in and defend me so vehemently? What was it trying to protect?

As I sat with these questions a memory came to me from my childhood. I was a five year old in my first year at elementary school and we were learning “proper writing” - how to form each letter of the alphabet correctly. The class teacher was Miss Coombes - a rather austere, matriarchal figure. We had a special book in which we practiced writing the individual letters again and again as perfectly as possible. This was easy for me. I had already done it at home with my mother. So I took the initiative and started to join all the letters up just as I had seen my parents do when they wrote whole words.

When she saw what I was doing Miss Coombes flew into a rage. How dare I flout her instructions and start to join the letters up without permission! She grabbed my book, held it up for the whole class to see and publicly shamed me. “Look what this stupid, disobedient boy has done!” she exclaimed. The pain of that moment has never left me.

When I received the email ostracising me for taking the initiative in organising the details of the programme it tapped right into this old wound. To be seen to have screwed up in the eyes of all the participants was excruciating.

There is an expression “The wound you cannot feel you cannot heal.” Having reconnected with this old vulnerability my task was to approach the management of the event more consciously. I still relied on the wonderful skills of my primary selves to create a safe environment for everyone. At the same time I needed to make use of the collaborative and spontaneous energies of my disowned selves to allow for the free flow of thoughts, feelings and ideas between participants. And all the while I put one arm around the shy and fearful part of me, taking good care of him and listening to his needs.

So, finally I was thankful for the email. What I first perceived as an attack had turned into an unexpected learning and a wonderful gift!

The Organiser

My partner left last week for an eight-month stay in Thailand. After 6 years in the UK, he wants to reconnect with his culture, visit his family and study Thai massage. The trip has been planned for at least a year, so I have had plenty of time to get used to the idea that we will be apart for this extended period. However, as the reality of being home alone sets in, I’m feeling vulnerable. I have Peppar my dog to keep me company, but she doesn’t quite compensate for his absence.

As the days unfold, I can feel the presence of my Primary selves as they circle around me to protect the Little Boy in me who is missing him. Their job is to keep me from feeling sad and upset and they are an awesome bunch. There’s my Rational Mind, my Pusher, my Pleaser and my Perfectionist, but chief amongst them is my Organiser who came into existence very early in my life.

My mother was an extremely neat and tidy person and one of her major rules was that all my toys had to be put back in their boxes after I had finished playing with them. I might have rebelled against this, but instead chose the path of least resistance and followed her injunction. As a result, I developed my own top-notch Organiser who took his place in the pantheon of my Primary selves.

In addition to having me follow the household rules, my Organiser became a useful ally in protecting me against the overly protective, possessive and needy feelings that came at me from my mother. I could rely on him to create structures that would defend me against her. Each night for example I can recall lining all my soft toys up in exactly the same order along the wall by my bed. They formed a symbolic shield and with them in place I could safely fall asleep.

Later, my Organiser used my electric train set to fashion similar boundaries. On sheets of chipboard that stretched in a large L-shape along two walls of my bedroom I created a detailed landscape of undulating hills and valleys with miniature trees, a river, fences and fields with sheep and cows. Cornflakes packets became high-rise apartments and my matchbox cars travelled along black painted roads. Through this highly organised terrain the railway track weaved its way in a large and irregular loop, passing through tunnels and over bridges.

I would spend hours arranging and modifying this landscape, lost in my self-constructed world. No one was allowed to re-organise, alter or even touch it. This applied to friends and family alike - but especially to my mother who was forbidden to dust it! Organising objects around me like this became a way for me to create a boundary within which I felt secure when events, situations or people triggered my vulnerability. I felt I was in control and therefore safe.

By the time I was a teenager my Organiser had infiltrated every aspect of my life influencing how I arranged my books on the shelves, my clothes and all the objects in my cupboards. I loved the preparation for a cycling holiday or camping trip as much as the event itself. My Organiser had me write detailed lists of what to take, check and recheck everything was in order and pack my bags with great care and attention. As a consequence I became an expert at planning and time management. I even fantasised that some day I would be a great logistics officer in the army or an operations manager in an international company.

Being so identified with my Organiser has been a wonderful asset to me in my work, but inevitably it has meant that I have attracted into my life people who are less-organisationally skilled and who don’t value order so highly! Friends who come to stay in my neat and tidy home invariably have the uncanny knack of creating instant “mess” with bags, clothes and belongings strewn all over. Many of my lovers have had as one of their Primary selves a spontaneous or more laissez faire self. At the outset this has seemed a rather cute and endearing characteristic. But as soon as stress-levels have risen and we have gotten into arguments, my Organiser has rounded on them, judging them as “untidy”, “shambolic” and “out of control”.

Which brings me to my current partner who of course feels no need to wash and dry the dishes immediately after eating, or put them away in the appropriate cupboard. Nor does he mind leaving shoes, bags, coats, letters, socks, towels, newspapers, hats, gloves, bottles, jars, tubs and tubes lying wherever they happen to land! In contrast to me, he feels comfortable and secure when his environment is haphazard and chaotic. Too much organisation can make him feel constrained and boxed in. It reminds him of his Aunt’s house where he was raised after his parents died. She was a meticulous person and was always criticising him for being messy and muddled-headed. No matter how hard he tried it was never good enough so he finally gave up trying.

We realised early in our relationship that we could learn a lot from each other - him how to be more organised and me how to let go and be more impulsive. We knew that if we didn’t do this, we would end up just gritting our teeth and bearing each other’ behaviour or endlessly judging our opposing selves. Either way the relationship would be in jeopardy. For my part, I have practiced separating from my Organiser and choosing occasionally to leave the bed unmade, the cushions on the sofa unplumped, the washing up in the bowl overnight or the garden path unswept. I have also embraced the part of me that is comfortable acting without a plan, and found a joy and excitement in this.

But now, with my partner gone and my Little Boy feeling abandoned, I sense my Organiser trying to muscle in to protect me as he always has. He has already hijacked the pad by my bed that I use to note down dreams. It has now become a list of things I have to do the next day - things like sorting kitchen cupboards, rearranging bookshelves, cleaning out the shed, tidying up the garden and clearing away my partner’s perfumes and toiletries in the bathroom. None of these things are bad, but if I do them unconsciously and allow my Organiser to take over and drive me relentlessly until they are all done, I will not be able to stay in touch with my Little Boy. Instead, he will get buried beneath a flurry of activity.

My task now is to keep my wonderful Organiser in check and take some time and space to just be with the Little Boy inside me. Sitting quietly with him and feeling his vulnerability, sadness and upset at the separation, I hope that I will be able to consciously take care of him and his needs. Doing this will allow me to maintain an authentic connection with my partner when we communicate by phone or via the internet. And it will also pave the way for a sweet reunion later in the year!

Guilt and Shame

My first impression of the Japanese was that they were a very clean and tidy people. When I arrived in Tokyo in the mid-70’s I was amazed to find that there were three rubbish collections a week - two for burnable garbage and one for non-burnable items. Even more amazing was the very neat way households packaged their rubbish. Bags and boxes were tied securely with string and stacked carefully by the roadside the night before collection day. I discovered that people placed great value on the correct appearance of their trash lest they be regarded as messy and disorderly by their neighbours.

My friend and I were in Japan to study a martial art. We didn’t have much money and so would go out in the small hours on non-burnable collection days and scavenge for anything we might be able to make use of. It was incredible what we would haul back to our small apartment: a complete dinner set with just one cracked plate, boxed and totally clean; unsoiled pillows and cushions; cups, mugs, bowls, pots and pans; a working kotatsu; a functioning TV and small electric cooker; pictures, chairs, a desk and bookshelves. Over the course of a couple of months we managed to find most of the basics - plus a few luxuries! We felt a bit guilty about “stealing” people’s rubbish, but nobody saw us.

The importance Japanese put on orderliness, cleanliness and social responsibility could be seen everywhere around Tokyo. Public places were patrolled by uniformed workers each with a long-handled pan and brush ready to scoop up any offending litter that might have been inadvertently dropped. Train platforms were kept so immaculately polished that I felt uncomfortable walking on them with my dirty shoes. In department stores an employee held a cloth against the moving black handrail of the escalator ensuring it stayed spotless and shiny. Taxi drivers, station guards, lift ladies all wore clean white gloves; and if anyone had a cough or cold they covered their mouth with a surgical mask.

My first trip outside Tokyo was to the Izu peninsular, a couple of hours south of the capital by train. I had been hired to teach a couple of residential workshops. The company retreat centre was located half way up the slopes of an extinct volcano outside a picturesque village. It was summer and the weather was warm and sunny. Since I had a free day between workshops I thought it would be nice to explore the area. From a map I could see that there was a footpath that followed the coast for some miles to the next village and I decided to hike it. I set off early with my “bento” (a lunch box containing rice, fish and pickled vegetables) and some bottled water, and made my way down to the coast.

The scenery was spectacular. The path wove its way high along rugged cliffs of volcanic rock against which the Pacific Ocean pounded relentlessly. I climbed up across exposed outcrops and down through wooded inlets. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. However, as I got further away from habitation I noticed something that surprised me. The path was strewn with litter! There were old bento boxes and chopsticks, discarded cans and bottles, paper napkins and plastic bags. This ran contrary to my previous experience of the Japanese as being fastidiously neat and tidy. I might have expected this in the UK, but not here in Japan.

When I got back to the centre I told my Japanese colleague what I had seen and asked him if he could explain this contradictory behaviour. His answer (with allowances for the passage of time) intrigued me enough to have stayed with me for nearly 35 years.

“Well, Kento-san, from my point of view there are two types of culture in the world. Cultures that use guilt as a way to get people to follow society’s rules and behave ‘correctly’ and cultures that use shame.

“I think you Westerners like to use guilt. You are taught that there is a God who watches you all the time and knows what you are doing. Even when you are alone He can see you. Even when you think bad thoughts He can hear them. Knowing this, you feel guilty anytime you disobey the rules. It is as if He is in your head all the time. Maybe you call this the voice of your ‘conscience’.

“We Japanese, along with many S.E. Asian nations, don’t believe in a single God like that who can make us conform through guilt. Instead, we do it with shame. For us it is the shame of other members of society seeing us doing wrong, being bad or making mistakes. Being seen and judged by others causes us to lose face and feel ashamed. This shame extends to our family who will by association also feel shame because of our behaviour. This is a very powerful way of controlling a society, influencing behaviour and keeping people in line. For example, rather than saying to her child, ‘Don’t do that! It’s wrong,’ like a Western mother would, a Japanese mother might say, ‘Don’t do that! People are watching you.’

“In a big city like Tokyo there are so many people that you will be seen by others all the time. If you drop litter or make a mess then you will be noticed and you will feel ashamed. However, along that remote path by the coast maybe no one can see you. In that situation shame does not operate and since there is no omnipotent God watching you, why not throw the rubbish onto the ground? In time the rain will wash it away and nature will take care of it.”

I was reminded of his words recently when walking my dog, Peppar, early one morning. My respectable, law-abiding primary self knows the rule against dogs fouling the pavement. In fact, this part of me gets very indignant and judgemental of other dog owners when I see dog faeces on the street - especially if I have inadvertently trodden in some! On this particular day I was stressed, in a hurry and it was raining heavily. Of course, Peppar decided she needed to do her business right in the middle of the path, instead of by a tree or in the gutter. I had an umbrella in one hand and the dog lead in the other and a voice in my head said, “Just leave it. You always pick up after her. Just this once won’t hurt. The rain will wash it away.” It didn’t take much persuasion. “Just this once,” I agreed, and I allowed Peppar to pull me forward away from her steaming deposit.

Immediately I felt the censure of my Inner Critic. “You’ve broken the law, you’re two-faced, irresponsible, a bad citizen.” I felt the weighty burden of guilt descend on me. I hesitated. Whether or not it was the voice of God, this critical inner voice had certainly grabbed my attention. As I stood there contemplating my crime I heard a single word, heavily laced with sarcasm, shouted from somewhere nearby: “Lovely!!” To my horror there was a workman sitting in the cab of his lorry just across the street. He had obviously seen my misdemeanour. Now in addition to guilt I felt the shame of having been seen committing the offence. In an attempt to escape from both the situation and my feelings, I walked quickly on, instinctively hiding my face beneath my umbrella.

When I got home I reflected on what had happened. Painful as my Inner Critic attack was, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as being judged from the outside. The workman’s simple jibe had penetrated deeply and struck a very sensitive, core part of me with laser-like accuracy. I could use my Rational Mind to make excuses and argue myself out of feeling guilty - “I don’t break the rules all the time.” “This was a one off, special situation.” “I was stressed and in a hurry.” “Other people allow their dogs to foul the footpath.” But the feeling of shame was overwhelming and much harder to mollify.

The late Helen B. Lewis, professor emeritus of psychology at Yale University, made an interesting distinction: ‘The experience of shame is directly about the self, which is the focus of evaluation. In guilt, the self is not the central object of negative evaluation, but rather the thing done is the focus.’ This would account for shame being a stronger spur towards “right” action and “correct” behaviour as it touches intimately on our feelings of who we are rather than on what we have done.

The “excreta incident” as I like to call it initiated some interesting insights. I already knew about the role of the Inner Critic in my life and its way of enforcing “appropriate” behaviour by making me feel guilty. What I had not fully appreciated was the power that shame has in motivating me to stay on the “straight and narrow”. Touching in to the very sensitive part of me that fears the judgements of others, I could see just how strong a force it has been in shaping my actions and reactions throughout my life.

Looking at my dog lying asleep on the rug I can’t help thinking how lucky she is. She will never feel the burden of a guilty conscience or experience the shame of having been seen leaving her poo in a public place!

A Fraud and a Fake

Whilst revelations about Tiger Woods’ extra-marital affairs came as something of a shock, the disparity between the image of him as the professional, clean living, sporting hero and the sordid reality was not altogether a surprise. After all, he follows in a long line of upstanding “role models” who have fallen from grace. What was more surprising to me was the degree of righteous indignation that I felt. “His public humiliation serves him right for pretending to be something that he was not,” I heard myself say.

I had felt the same on hearing that some of our “honourable” Members of Parliament had abused the public purse with their inflated expense claims, and again when our supposedly fiscally prudent bankers were shown to be reckless and greedy. In each case, there was the sense that these people were frauds and had acted in a duplicitous, devious and unethical way. They had failed to live up to their own professed standards of behaviour.

I was not alone in my condemnation of Tiger Woods, but I knew from the strength of my personal judgements that there must be some buried material that my primary selves did not want me to acknowledge. I sensed that it must have something to do with presenting a professional image that was in some way deceptive. So I decided to do a bit of self-scrutiny.

I had been a management trainer for many years and had made a career out of being “the expert”, the one who “knows”, who can “explain”, who has “the answers”. To do this I had developed and honed an amazing Seminar Leader self who commanded respect and earned me a good living. He exuded honesty and integrity. For support he drew on the resources of a wonderful set of primary selves - my Organiser, my Planner, my Rational Mind, my Perfectionist, my Performer and my Nice Guy. With them helping to run the show I felt competent, in charge and in control. Any vulnerability I had was safely hidden from view.

However, beneath my professional persona lurked a gnawing anxiety. A voice in my head whispered, “You’re a fraud and a fake, and some day you’ll be found out.” I had recurring dreams in which I arrived late for a workshop or was standing in front of a group teaching a subject about which I knew nothing or for which I had done no preparation. Sometimes I found myself giving a presentation to an audience totally naked, or having sex in font of everyone and feeling ashamed and embarrassed. In other dreams, the workshop participants were rowdy and would not respect me or even pay me any attention. Often the class contained manipulative and menacing characters I feared were going to attack me. The atmosphere was always chaotic and I felt anxious, alone and very vulnerable.

As I reflected on these dreams I could see that the threatening characters represented aspects of my personality - the unruly parts of me that were lax and ignorant, could dissemble, didn’t care about integrity and didn’t give a damn what others thought - that I had had to disown in order to identify with my competent and capable Seminar Leader. My primary selves’ worst fear was that these opposite energies would take me over and that my carefully constructed professional world would then fall apart. They fretted that, just as in the dream, I would be publicly exposed and vulnerable.

But was there any basis for this in reality? As I searched my mind for an answer I could feel the resistance of my primary selves. There was something in my past that mirrored Tiger Woods situation that they clearly didn’t want me to look at. Every time I felt I was getting close to what it might be, the judgements about Tiger Woods welled up, blocking out the memory. It was easier to point the finger at someone else than to shine the spotlight within. Nevertheless I persevered and suddenly I got it! I knew what the buried material was.

Being a slow reader, books were never a particular passion of mine. The thicker they were and the smaller the print, the less likely I was to plough my way through them. You may therefore be surprised to learn that I left university with a degree in English literature. My best marks were for essays on tomes I had barely scanned. My trick was to read synopses, short critiques and reviews of the set books, canvas the thoughts and opinions of fellow students, and out of this construct my own “original” analysis. I felt a bit of a fraud, but I got my degree!

After university I decided I wanted to get out of the UK and travel. I applied to the British Council and, on the basis of my degree, was hired to work as an English teacher for a kind of anglophile club in Finland. It was run rather haphazardly by local volunteers and I immediately saw an opportunity to restructure the club’s activities, improve revenues and increase my income. My Organiser and Planner selves created a graded programme of classes, a comprehensive weekly schedule and a local advertising campaign. People flocked to enrol.

The only problem was that I really didn’t know anything about teaching English. Grammar was a mystery to me and I had no idea how to use the phonetic alphabet and teach pronunciation. Someone had recommended a course book, so before each lesson I would frantically read through the teacher’s manual then stand in front of the class and wing it. Once again I felt like a fraud, but no one noticed and my salary doubled!

I became a big fish in a small pond and this gave me a certain self-assurance and bravado. From behind my image as the respectable, fresh-faced Englishman - the professional teacher whose integrity, character and knowledge could be trusted and relied upon - an altogether wilder side kicked in. I initiated an affair with a married woman who was a member of the committee who employed me. Had people known, I would have lost my job and quite likely been assailed by an enraged and jealous husband. But there was more. At the same time, I was having another secret liaison with an English teacher working in a nearby town.

As with Tiger Woods, there was an enormous disparity between the appearance and the reality. The only difference between him and me was that I got away with it. I was not found out!

As I acknowledged my own duplicitous, devious and unethical behaviour as a young man, my judgements about Tiger Woods waned. Looking honestly at my own buried selves gave me an appreciation of what he had had to disown in order to present himself as a squeaky clean, super sportsman. How would I have felt if people had realised what I was up to and accused me of being “arrogant”, a “fraud” and a “fake”? Although it would have been extremely painful for me, it would not have been an international news story. The lurid details of Tiger Woods’ liaisons made media headlines around the world. I empathised with how vulnerable he must be feeling.

Often professionals such as sportsmen, teachers, politicians, bankers, priests, doctors, lawyers and therapists have to hide their vulnerability and bury “unacceptable” parts of their personality in order to maintain their image and status. This earns them kudos and/or cash and keeps them secure. However, sometimes the hold of the primary selves slips and the disowned material breaks through in highly charged and negative ways.

The theory of the Psychology of Selves tells us that if we identify with certain selves and allow them to unconsciously run our lives, of necessity we will disown their opposites. And there is a price to pay. The longer and more deeply we bury them, the more likely they will cause us grief when they show up in our lives. This is especially so with our instinctual energies. Our task is to understand and honour every aspect of what makes us human and to find a conscious balance between all the many competing parts of our psyche.

The Ancient Greeks understood this very well and described it in their mythology. They knew that an offering had to be placed at the altar of every god and goddess. You could have your favourites - for example Apollo, the god of the mind. But if you left the opposite god out - in this case Dionysius, the god of wine and revelry - it was he that attacked you. It is the disowned energy that kills us - as Tiger Woods has discovered to his cost.

Whilst I don’t condone Tiger Woods’ behaviour, I am grateful to him. Exploring my initial judgements has allowed me to uncover and integrate some of my own shadow material. As I do this I no longer feel the need to condemn him in such a visceral, holier-than-thou way. As the saying has it, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

The X Factor

“Do you want me to change channels?” asked my partner as I sat down on the sofa. The X Factor is not my preferred choice of evening viewing, and he knows that. But I know that he loves this kind of programme. “No, it’s OK, I don’t mind watching it if you want to,” I replied.

Behind my apparent graciousness, however, lay a long-buried, secret desire. My slightly condescending expression masked the fact that there is a part of me that loves watching amateur performers and finding out which of them has the talent to become a star. It’s the same part that can imagine being up there on the stage in front of the judges, backed by vocalists, dancers and a fantastic light show and impressing the audience with a stunning performance. It’s the part of me that knows that I have the X factor.

My Performer first appeared when I was a young boy. After Christmas lunch I would take it upon myself to entertain the family with a puppet show. My father constructed a small booth with a stage for which my mother made some curtains with a drawstring. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins gathered round and when everyone was seated and conversation had died down the curtains parted and the entertainment began. I wrote the story, manipulated the puppets and did the voices. I revelled in the attention - and of course the applause when I came forward to take a bow! My extended family was supportive and enthusiastic and my Performer could show off without fear of being rejected.

The world outside my home was a far more dangerous place, where people were not always as attentive or approving. After a few hard knocks I quickly realised that my Performer could get me into trouble, exposing my more vulnerable side by laying me open to criticism and even to ridicule. The shame and embarrassment was too much to bear and so he was shut away.

Growing up in London in the 1960’s, teenage boys were divided into two camps: those who were fans of the Beatles and those who revered the Rolling Stones. Either you worshipped at the altar of the Fab Four, bought the jacket and got the haircut, or you paid homage at the shrine of the instinctual and irreverent Stones.

I did neither. Instead I distanced myself from these vulgar rivalries by immersing myself in modern classical music. While my friends were grooving to the melodies of A Hard Day’s Night or rocking to the rhythms of Aftermath, I spent long hours listening to the ballet music of Stravinsky or the piano concertos of Bartok. Alone with my parents’ sound system I grappled with the atonality of Schoenberg and the clashing harmonies of Webern. This kind of music was a mystery to all but a few of my contemporaries and I gained a reputation for being “highbrow” or “intellectual.” I wrapped myself in a protective cocoon of “serious” music and as a result I was ignored by both camps. The sensitive child inside felt safe.

Of course there was a price to pay for protecting my vulnerability in this way. I had to further disown my confident, exhibitionist self - my Performer. As I retreated into the obscure world of modern classical music, he was relegated to the realm of my imagination. In my fantasies he would adopt the persona of any one of a number of famous singers. In my mind’s eye I strutted the stage with the same sexual bravado as Mick Jagger, wowed the audience with the same charisma as John Lennon, and drummed out rhythms with the same dynamism as Keith Richards or Ringo Star - the very people that my “High Brow” self shunned!

My dreams also proved fertile ground. In one I was Mick Jagger. I came out onto the stage in front of a huge audience. The arena was vast and the atmosphere electric. But when I opened my mouth to sing no sound came. I realised that I had a severe throat infection and that I could not perform. I felt impotent and immensely frustrated. I was angry at the infection but there was nothing I could do.

These rock star fantasies have remained with me since adolescence. They get stirred up watching programmes like the X Factor. My Performer knows he is as awesome as Freddie Mercury, as colourful as Elton John and as outrageous as Ozzy Osbourne. He watches with admiration as Tina Turner or Madonna fill a huge stadium with their energy and enthral thousands with the power of their performance. He wants to be allowed to do the same!

Actually, my Performer does have a role in my life. As a seminar leader and trainer I often find myself standing up in front of groups. I even call my way of working with people “entertraining”. But when he was recently encouraged to speak in a Voice Dialogue session he said he was unhappy that I was “piddling around” with such small groups. From his point of view I should be up on the big stage commanding much larger audiences. He would really like me to be a mega-star and rock the world!

Sitting on the sofa deep in reflection I watched the X Factor contestants trying their best to impress the judges. Then came a commercial break. The first advert was for some new Xbox software. It showed people singing, playing guitar and drumming to famous rock songs in their home in front of a large Xbox screen. My ears pricked up at the catch phrase: “UNLEASH YOUR INNER ROCKSTAR!!” Was the universe trying to tell me something?

The letter X can signify many things. It can mean secret or hidden - as in the “X files”. It can mean strong or forbidden - as in “X rated”. But it can also represent a magic ingredient or talent - as in the “X factor”. And at the end of a letter it denotes a hug. Perhaps it’s time for me to embrace my Performer more consciously and, after long years in the shadows, allow his energy to be more present in my life.

Iago and The Postmaster’s Wife

“You’ll never guess what that woman did!” exclaimed Karen as she made my coffee. “She told George that she had seen me stroking your dog and that it was unhygienic and shouldn’t be allowed. Why couldn’t she talk to me directly instead of going behind my back like that? She’s a real witch!”

Karen is my favourite barista at my local café. George is her manager. The woman in question is the wife of the postmaster who runs the small sub-post office next door to the café. She sells the newspapers, stationery and sweets. He deals with the letters, parcels and all the official post office business. They are both immigrants from South Asia.

I was upset at the devious way that this “nosey neighbour” had got Karen into trouble with her boss. Also a part of me felt hurt that anyone would object to someone petting my dog. Karen adored Peppar and it gave me great pleasure to see the way they interacted. Karen would pull Peppar’s cheeks playfully and Peppar would mouth and lick her in response.

“I always wash my hands afterwards,” continued Karen, “Why does she need to poke her nose into other people’s business? What’s her problem?”

I have never much liked the postmaster’s wife. She always looks bored and unhappy and seems to regard customers as something of a nuisance. Much of her time is spent peering out onto the street to see what people are up to or chatting to friends on the phone. When customers do approach the counter she doesn’t even bother to put the phone down or stop talking while serving them!

I would never dream of behaving like that at work. As a seminar leader I am always caring, concerned and attentive to the needs of my students. I want them to think well of me and I make a point of being both approachable and personable. In one of my workshops on service mindedness I stress the importance of putting the customer first - something at which Karen excels. To my mind this woman’s couldn’t-care-less attitude was an example of everything that is wrong with the service sector in the UK. How dare she point the finger at Karen’s behaviour when her own is so appalling!

These judgements sounded loud and clear inside my head in defence not only of my friend, but also of the part of me whose feelings had been hurt by this woman - my young, sensitive self. They damned her as “cold-hearted”, “meddlesome”, “inconsiderate”, “unprofessional” and “devious.”

I felt so deliciously self-righteous and powerful in my condemnation that it took some days for these judgments to abate, but when they did and I was able to reflect, it was obvious to me that I was projecting some of my disowned selves onto her - the ones my primary selves didn’t want around. I knew that if I stepped back from the situation I could begin to embrace these selves, find out about them, and move my Aware Ego Process forward. But to stop there would be to cleverly avoid addressing something else that had been triggered by this incident. At a much deeper level I sensed another darker, forbidden energy had begun to stir……

“I am not what I am” - Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello (Act 1, scene 1)

As a child I was raised to be well behaved and considerate of others. I doffed my cap respectfully when greeting women and politely enquired about their health. I ran errands for neighbours and offered to carry their shopping. At church on a Sunday I looked like a perfect angel dressed in my white choirboy’s surplice and pleated ruff. Everyone regarded me as “such a good little boy”.

My exemplary behaviour earned me lots of approval and affection from the adults around me. This felt very comforting to my more vulnerable and sensitive selves. But there was a down side. It made me a potential target for bullies at school who would taunt me, calling me a “goody-goody” or even an “arse-licker”. To deflect their negative attention, I developed a clandestine self that protected me and kept me safe - an inner Iago.

This part of me learnt how to surreptitiously draw attention to faults and weaknesses in other boys. It would work behind the scenes to shift the focus of attention away from me and onto them. Because I was the instigator and not the perpetrator I was never found out. The bullies got into trouble with the teachers, not me. I stayed out of harms way and my image as a good boy remained intact.

My Iago also came into play in relationship to the adults around me. My primary selves wouldn’t allow me to rebel or express negative feelings towards them even though their behaviour often upset me. I particularly disliked the emotionally invasive and intrusive energy that came my way from some family members. Instead of confronting them openly, Iago created imaginary scenarios of torment and torture in which I would punish them by inflicting mental or physical pain. In this he was amazingly creative, but his machinations never saw the light of day. They existed only in the shadowland of my fantasies.

It was this buried Iago self that was triggered by the actions of the postmaster’s wife. It invented a fantasy of her as a dark skinned witch, an intrusive busybody, jealous of the beautiful young Karen and out to get her - just like an evil character in a fairy tale. It figured that she probably hated dogs, was unhappy in her marriage, and was sexually frustrated! Having created a picture of her as something strange and monstrous, the stage was set for her vilification.

The post office is closed on Sundays, so when Karen took her cigarette break and joined Peppar and I at a table outside the café, she thought it would be safe to play with Peppar without fearing that the “witch” would see her. She gave Peppar a big hug and was rewarded with a big wet lick on her face.

As I glanced over her shoulder at the post office I saw a face peeking out from the darkened interior. Iago seized the moment. “Karen, she’s watching us,” I whispered, pointing towards the post office. “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Karen. “Why can’t she leave you alone?” I hissed, stoking the fire of Karen’s resentment. “It’s really intolerable that she spies on you like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got a camera out and started to take photos as evidence to show George!”

It felt like some Machiavellian energy had possessed me. As we spoke I kept nodding and pointing in the direction of the post office, making it very clear that we had seen her and were talking about her. My primary Nice Guys had been sidelined and Iago had taken over - coming perilously close to the surface but cleverly using Karen as a shield. After all, it was Karen who had the real issue with the postmaster’s wife, not me.

Suddenly the door of the post office flew open and out stormed the postmaster’s wife. Without looking at us, she strode into the café and began to harangue George about Karen’s behaviour with Peppar. He looked taken aback and was obviously trying to placate her. A moment later she came back out and to our surprise walked straight up to our table.

“I saw you!!” she screamed at me, “You were talking about me. I saw you pointing your finger. I’ll call the police. I’ll tell my husband. You are harassing me!” She turned towards the shop and shouted one more time for the whole neighbourhood to hear, “You are harassing me!!” Karen and I looked at each other in amazement, smiling nervously like two naughty kids who had been found out.

A few minutes later the postmaster appeared with a face like thunder. Into the café he strode and gave poor George another earful. On his way out he paused, looked me in the eye and said angrily, “You’d better watch it mate or I’ll get you!” and disappeared into the shop, bolting the door behind him.

Silence. Karen raised her eyebrows in exasperation and, after a thoughtful pause, dismissed their behaviour as “really crazy” and went back into the café to pacify George. I wasn’t able to take it so lightly. My primary selves squirmed. I felt deeply embarrassed and a little nauseous. I tried to put on a brave face and laugh it off but Iago had been publicly exposed, accused and condemned. My Inner Critic was going to have a field day.

In his book “Avalanche: Heretical reflections on the Dark and the Light” Dr Brugh Joy uses the phrase “non ego-enhancing material” to describe buried selves like my Iago. An ego that is identified with being kind, considerate and non-aggressive does not want to acknowledge that an Iago-like self is lurking in the depths. It is very painful when such material shows up - and particularly when it happens in such a public way.

Even now I find myself obsessively turning the Sunday afternoon confrontation over and over in an attempt to shift the blame away from me and onto the postmaster and his wife. My Rational Mind and Psychological Knower are telling me, “They clearly overreacted - maybe because as immigrants they feel vulnerable in this middle-class community. Maybe they have experienced racism, prejudice or abuse before and are hypersensitive to any sign of it. Or maybe they are just very unhappy people with lots of personal problems.”

But such speculation is to miss the point. Having written this piece, I realize that in fact I must thank the postmaster’s wife for being so sensitive to the vindictive energy that Iago was sending her way. By dramatically and emphatically calling me on it, she has enabled me to begin the difficult task of acknowledging and embracing this long-disowned aspect of my psyche.