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.”
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Monday, 5 March 2012
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.”
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.”
Monday, 9 January 2012
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….
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….
Saturday, 5 November 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, 22 September 2011
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!”
“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!”
Friday, 29 July 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, 1 May 2010
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!
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!
Friday, 15 January 2010
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.”
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.”
Monday, 2 November 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Toys R Us
I have no brothers or sisters and as a child spent a lot of time playing on my own. My first playmates were the soft toys given to me by my parents and relatives. Chief among these was my golden haired Teddy Bear, “Teddy”, who accompanied me everywhere. He was short and stout and had warm, brown eyes. His paws were made of soft felt and he wore a small woollen jacket that my mother had knitted specially. During the day he was often to be found clutched under my arm, and at night would have to be on the pillow beside me before I would go to sleep. He was my guardian and protector and I felt safe with him by my side.
Teddy’s companions were a mixed bunch - a small blue dog, a giraffe, a whiskered cat, a mouse, a grey elephant - to name but a few. One of my aunts was a skilled seamstress and had made several of them herself. They were stuffed with straw or old nylons cut into pieces to fill out their soft limbs and bodies. One in particular had a big impact on me. A caricature of otherness not to be found in a child’s play box today, it was a jet-black gollywog. “Golly” had a long body and gangly limbs. Sown onto his head were white saucer eyes with black beady irises and a pair of thick red lips. He was dressed in blue and white striped trousers and a red jacket with a large collar.
Golly was the antithesis of Teddy and from the day of his arrival the soft toys became split into two factions. Teddy led the good guys, while Golly headed up the bad. Teddy’s boys were clean, well-presented, smart and polite. Golly’s gang contained the louts, the rebels, the dishevelled and the rude. Teddy’s team were orderly and thoughtful, Golly’s crew rough and physical.
In my playtime, there was often an uneasy standoff between these two camps - a very real tension between them, which I tried to handle by keeping them as far apart as possible. Teddy’s squad would be lined up on one side of my bedroom in strict order with Golly’s mob lounging on the other. Teddy’s attitude was that he was always right and needed to be in charge at all times. His men were law-abiding citizens, on constant vigil against bad and unruly behaviour. As they saw it, their job was to police the ruffians and keep them in check. Golly and his guys chafed under this bit and would tease and taunt across the divide.
Inevitably, when the tension became too much, fighting would erupt and pitched battles would ensue. Toys would stomp on each other, be buried under missiles, be flung across the room or down the stairs. Limbs would be twisted and pulled, heads pounded, bodies pummelled. There would be surprise attacks and counter attacks, with the advantage going first one way then the other. I would become totally immersed in the drama, the epic struggle for good over bad!
Finally there would be a critical moment where, with dead toys from both sides lying strewn around, the outcome would rest on a dual between Teddy and Golly. The pattern was always the same: they would go at each other hammer and tongs with Golly almost overpowering Teddy. But then, just when he seemed on the verge of defeat, Teddy would muster all his strength and beat Golly into submission. Of course, Golly lived to fight another day and all the toys resurrected - ready to do battle the next time tensions reached breaking point.
In a PBS interview with Jeffrey Mishlove, Hal Stone states, “Our different selves are at war in us”. I believe the childhood dramas acted out through my toys were my way of objectifying this war of selves. Teddy and co held the values of my primary selves that were developing in response to the norms of my family and society. I was to be a good, respectful, clever, neat and orderly little boy. Golly and co represented the parts of me that had to be disowned as a consequence - and they weren’t about to be cast into the shadow without a fight!
Two things strike me right now as I write this. First is how easily I can reconnect and identify with the toys on both sides and their clash of wills. I have a visceral sense of being with them once more as I describe them doing battle. Second is the realisation that although Teddy had to win every time, secretly I wished that Golly could sometimes triumph! Now, as then, I feel a sadness that the “bad” guys had to lose and eventually be banished into the shadows.
You won’t be surprised to hear that the values of Teddy’s team dominated much of my life. They served me very well and allowed me to survive and be successful in the world. At the same time I feel keenly that I missed out on a lot of the juice of life as a result. In recent years as I have worked with the Voice Dialogue process I have been able to invite many of those banished selves back into my life - and they have brought me great gifts. With them by my side I am not so easily intimidated. I can stand my own ground. I don’t need to accept bullshit from others. I have the confidence to stand out, disagree, be different and have the courage of my convictions. I don’t have to please all the time and I worry less about what others think. I can be more easy-going and less uptight.
In my mind’s eye I now see myself scooping the toys of my childhood up into my arms and giving them a big hug. All my toys r me!
Teddy’s companions were a mixed bunch - a small blue dog, a giraffe, a whiskered cat, a mouse, a grey elephant - to name but a few. One of my aunts was a skilled seamstress and had made several of them herself. They were stuffed with straw or old nylons cut into pieces to fill out their soft limbs and bodies. One in particular had a big impact on me. A caricature of otherness not to be found in a child’s play box today, it was a jet-black gollywog. “Golly” had a long body and gangly limbs. Sown onto his head were white saucer eyes with black beady irises and a pair of thick red lips. He was dressed in blue and white striped trousers and a red jacket with a large collar.
Golly was the antithesis of Teddy and from the day of his arrival the soft toys became split into two factions. Teddy led the good guys, while Golly headed up the bad. Teddy’s boys were clean, well-presented, smart and polite. Golly’s gang contained the louts, the rebels, the dishevelled and the rude. Teddy’s team were orderly and thoughtful, Golly’s crew rough and physical.
In my playtime, there was often an uneasy standoff between these two camps - a very real tension between them, which I tried to handle by keeping them as far apart as possible. Teddy’s squad would be lined up on one side of my bedroom in strict order with Golly’s mob lounging on the other. Teddy’s attitude was that he was always right and needed to be in charge at all times. His men were law-abiding citizens, on constant vigil against bad and unruly behaviour. As they saw it, their job was to police the ruffians and keep them in check. Golly and his guys chafed under this bit and would tease and taunt across the divide.
Inevitably, when the tension became too much, fighting would erupt and pitched battles would ensue. Toys would stomp on each other, be buried under missiles, be flung across the room or down the stairs. Limbs would be twisted and pulled, heads pounded, bodies pummelled. There would be surprise attacks and counter attacks, with the advantage going first one way then the other. I would become totally immersed in the drama, the epic struggle for good over bad!
Finally there would be a critical moment where, with dead toys from both sides lying strewn around, the outcome would rest on a dual between Teddy and Golly. The pattern was always the same: they would go at each other hammer and tongs with Golly almost overpowering Teddy. But then, just when he seemed on the verge of defeat, Teddy would muster all his strength and beat Golly into submission. Of course, Golly lived to fight another day and all the toys resurrected - ready to do battle the next time tensions reached breaking point.
In a PBS interview with Jeffrey Mishlove, Hal Stone states, “Our different selves are at war in us”. I believe the childhood dramas acted out through my toys were my way of objectifying this war of selves. Teddy and co held the values of my primary selves that were developing in response to the norms of my family and society. I was to be a good, respectful, clever, neat and orderly little boy. Golly and co represented the parts of me that had to be disowned as a consequence - and they weren’t about to be cast into the shadow without a fight!
Two things strike me right now as I write this. First is how easily I can reconnect and identify with the toys on both sides and their clash of wills. I have a visceral sense of being with them once more as I describe them doing battle. Second is the realisation that although Teddy had to win every time, secretly I wished that Golly could sometimes triumph! Now, as then, I feel a sadness that the “bad” guys had to lose and eventually be banished into the shadows.
You won’t be surprised to hear that the values of Teddy’s team dominated much of my life. They served me very well and allowed me to survive and be successful in the world. At the same time I feel keenly that I missed out on a lot of the juice of life as a result. In recent years as I have worked with the Voice Dialogue process I have been able to invite many of those banished selves back into my life - and they have brought me great gifts. With them by my side I am not so easily intimidated. I can stand my own ground. I don’t need to accept bullshit from others. I have the confidence to stand out, disagree, be different and have the courage of my convictions. I don’t have to please all the time and I worry less about what others think. I can be more easy-going and less uptight.
In my mind’s eye I now see myself scooping the toys of my childhood up into my arms and giving them a big hug. All my toys r me!
Friday, 17 July 2009
Sexy Beast
Don first emerged briefly and explosively in 1976 in Tokyo. My girlfriend and I were having an argument about a dirty spoon. “OK! OK!! Maybe it was my spoon, but you could have cleaned it for me! You are so selfish and so controlling. You never think of me. I always have to do everything for myself!” Jean shouted. Yet again I was under attack. I tried to stay cool and behave rationally, but her words had penetrated my defences. “For god’s sake calm down,” I parried, “It’s only a spoon. Why do you always need to get so emotional about every little thing!?”
We were both feeling vulnerable. Our relationship was cracking under the strain of having spent eight months together backpacking overland from Europe to Asia. We had hitchhiked from London to Istanbul and then taken local buses and trains across Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. Arriving in south East Asia we had visited Burma, Thailand, Malaysia and Hong Kong before reaching our final destination, Japan.
Amazing as it had been, the heat, the cheap hotels, lack of sleep, unusual food and bouts of sickness had all taken their toll. We were very different personalities. When we had first met these differences had seemed strangely attractive but by the time we had arrived in Japan we had by become polarised and argumentative. I was identified with control, order, rationality and respect, whereas Jean was a rebel - spontaneous, emotional and assertive. The spoon was merely a lightening rod for the clash of our primary selves.
As the argument geared up I felt backed into a corner. It seemed like I had nowhere to hide. My usually solid defences were incapable of protecting me against her tirade and I felt I was being overwhelmed by the tsunami of her negative energy.
Suddenly something snapped and before I knew what I was doing I grabbed a chair, raised it above my head and threw it at her. “You fucking bitch!!!” It missed and went crashing through a window. Jean screamed and fled into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I raced after her and, frustrated at not being able to get at her, I kicked at the frosted glass panel of the door until it shattered. It was as if I had been taken over by some terrifying spirit.
The sound of Jean’s sobs and a loud knocking on the front door brought me back to reality. Alarmed by the shouting and the sound of breaking glass, our downstairs neighbours wanted to know what on earth was happening.
I felt totally ashamed. The voice of my Inner Critic resounded in my head telling me what a terrible person I was. I felt guilty and contrite. Was that really me? I had never in my life behaved in such a violent way. How could I have done such a thing? It was unforgivable. I felt shell-shocked and exhausted.
I apologised profusely to the neighbours for the disturbance, to the landlord for the damage and of course to Jean for the disrespect. It was the beginning of the end of our relationship.
In 2000 the actor Ben Kingsley starred in a film called Sexy Beast. Kingsley had famously won the best actor Oscar in 1983 for his role as Mahatma Ghandi. In Sexy Beast he took on a very different part - a brutal underworld criminal, instinctual, confrontational, and not to be crossed. When I saw the film I was mesmerised by his character. I found him repulsive, but at the same time strangely attractive. His name was Don Logan.
Soon after seeing the film I did a Voice Dialogue session with an experienced facilitator. I spoke at length from a primary part of me that hated arguments. It would rather have me stay in bed all day with the covers pulled over my head than risk a confrontation. When I separated from this self and moved back to the central place of the Aware Ego I began to feel a very different energy stirring inside me.
The facilitator invited me to find a place in the room where this energy could best show itself. Without a moment’s hesitation I moved my chair to one side and sat bolt upright, legs open and feet planted firmly on the floor. A surge of energy coursed through me. Every muscle in my body felt primed for action. I was focussed and alert. I glared at the facilitator and snarled, “What the fuck do you want?!”
I had become Don Logan.
With deep respect and acceptance, the facilitator allowed this buried part of me to speak. Don was my very disowned killer energy. He hated weakness and was upset at what he considered to be the “soft, effeminate” parts of me that ran my life. They had no backbone and no courage. They were weak and let people walk all over me. If he was in charge there was no way he would ever allow me to be a victim. As he saw it, other people had too much power over me. They needed to be slapped around a bit, put in their place and told what to do! He was fearless and fearsome, intimidating and vicious, and would slaughter anyone who got in his way.
Suddenly I realised what had happened in Tokyo all those years before. It was Don who had come forward to shield me from Jean’s attack. I had been so physically and emotionally depleted that my primary selves had been unable to defend me. Don was my last line of defence and had leapt forward, taken me over and had me physically strike out against her. I now understood that in his way he was protecting my vulnerability.
Recently I heard an interview in which Ben Kingsley described how he had approached the role of Don Logan: “I recognised him and his violent plea to be loved, to be seen and to be embraced… to be let in.” For most of my life I had disowned Don and locked him away. It had taken extreme circumstances for him to break through.
As I have learned to accept and embraced him, his highly confrontational energy has lessened and I have discovered the great gifts that he brings me. With him by my side I am able to set clear boundaries. I can say “No” and people understand that I mean it. He enables me to project physical confidence and courage, and in dangerous situations I can bring forward his energy and no one messes with me.
Shortly after the Voice Dialogue session in which Don spoke, I decided to grow a goatee beard. At the next session a couple of weeks later the facilitator commented on my new appearance. “I see you are wearing Don’s beard now!” I was shocked. I had forgotten that Ben Kingsley had worn a goatee in the film. I realised that it was Don’s way of reminding me that he was around and was not about to be locked away again. As soon as I got home I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “You sexy beast!” I growled.
We were both feeling vulnerable. Our relationship was cracking under the strain of having spent eight months together backpacking overland from Europe to Asia. We had hitchhiked from London to Istanbul and then taken local buses and trains across Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. Arriving in south East Asia we had visited Burma, Thailand, Malaysia and Hong Kong before reaching our final destination, Japan.
Amazing as it had been, the heat, the cheap hotels, lack of sleep, unusual food and bouts of sickness had all taken their toll. We were very different personalities. When we had first met these differences had seemed strangely attractive but by the time we had arrived in Japan we had by become polarised and argumentative. I was identified with control, order, rationality and respect, whereas Jean was a rebel - spontaneous, emotional and assertive. The spoon was merely a lightening rod for the clash of our primary selves.
As the argument geared up I felt backed into a corner. It seemed like I had nowhere to hide. My usually solid defences were incapable of protecting me against her tirade and I felt I was being overwhelmed by the tsunami of her negative energy.
Suddenly something snapped and before I knew what I was doing I grabbed a chair, raised it above my head and threw it at her. “You fucking bitch!!!” It missed and went crashing through a window. Jean screamed and fled into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I raced after her and, frustrated at not being able to get at her, I kicked at the frosted glass panel of the door until it shattered. It was as if I had been taken over by some terrifying spirit.
The sound of Jean’s sobs and a loud knocking on the front door brought me back to reality. Alarmed by the shouting and the sound of breaking glass, our downstairs neighbours wanted to know what on earth was happening.
I felt totally ashamed. The voice of my Inner Critic resounded in my head telling me what a terrible person I was. I felt guilty and contrite. Was that really me? I had never in my life behaved in such a violent way. How could I have done such a thing? It was unforgivable. I felt shell-shocked and exhausted.
I apologised profusely to the neighbours for the disturbance, to the landlord for the damage and of course to Jean for the disrespect. It was the beginning of the end of our relationship.
In 2000 the actor Ben Kingsley starred in a film called Sexy Beast. Kingsley had famously won the best actor Oscar in 1983 for his role as Mahatma Ghandi. In Sexy Beast he took on a very different part - a brutal underworld criminal, instinctual, confrontational, and not to be crossed. When I saw the film I was mesmerised by his character. I found him repulsive, but at the same time strangely attractive. His name was Don Logan.
Soon after seeing the film I did a Voice Dialogue session with an experienced facilitator. I spoke at length from a primary part of me that hated arguments. It would rather have me stay in bed all day with the covers pulled over my head than risk a confrontation. When I separated from this self and moved back to the central place of the Aware Ego I began to feel a very different energy stirring inside me.
The facilitator invited me to find a place in the room where this energy could best show itself. Without a moment’s hesitation I moved my chair to one side and sat bolt upright, legs open and feet planted firmly on the floor. A surge of energy coursed through me. Every muscle in my body felt primed for action. I was focussed and alert. I glared at the facilitator and snarled, “What the fuck do you want?!”
I had become Don Logan.
With deep respect and acceptance, the facilitator allowed this buried part of me to speak. Don was my very disowned killer energy. He hated weakness and was upset at what he considered to be the “soft, effeminate” parts of me that ran my life. They had no backbone and no courage. They were weak and let people walk all over me. If he was in charge there was no way he would ever allow me to be a victim. As he saw it, other people had too much power over me. They needed to be slapped around a bit, put in their place and told what to do! He was fearless and fearsome, intimidating and vicious, and would slaughter anyone who got in his way.
Suddenly I realised what had happened in Tokyo all those years before. It was Don who had come forward to shield me from Jean’s attack. I had been so physically and emotionally depleted that my primary selves had been unable to defend me. Don was my last line of defence and had leapt forward, taken me over and had me physically strike out against her. I now understood that in his way he was protecting my vulnerability.
Recently I heard an interview in which Ben Kingsley described how he had approached the role of Don Logan: “I recognised him and his violent plea to be loved, to be seen and to be embraced… to be let in.” For most of my life I had disowned Don and locked him away. It had taken extreme circumstances for him to break through.
As I have learned to accept and embraced him, his highly confrontational energy has lessened and I have discovered the great gifts that he brings me. With him by my side I am able to set clear boundaries. I can say “No” and people understand that I mean it. He enables me to project physical confidence and courage, and in dangerous situations I can bring forward his energy and no one messes with me.
Shortly after the Voice Dialogue session in which Don spoke, I decided to grow a goatee beard. At the next session a couple of weeks later the facilitator commented on my new appearance. “I see you are wearing Don’s beard now!” I was shocked. I had forgotten that Ben Kingsley had worn a goatee in the film. I realised that it was Don’s way of reminding me that he was around and was not about to be locked away again. As soon as I got home I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “You sexy beast!” I growled.
Friday, 8 May 2009
An encounter with Jean the Kerb Crawler - By Dermot Fitzpatrick
I had just left John’s house after a great Voice Dialogue session and was walking towards my car when I saw an elderly woman sitting on the kerb on the opposite side of the road. I was concerned as I thought she might have fallen over and hurt herself. Then I noticed that she was sitting upright on the kerb with her feet on the street as if she was waiting for someone.
Sneaking a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, I had the impression she might not have ‘the full set of cups in her cupboard.’ Not wanting to get into a dialogue with her, I continued walking towards my car. As I got in and looked in my rear view mirror I saw a woman stop and speak to her. I watched as this second woman crossed the road and came up to my car. I lowered the window.
“She wants to speak to you,” said the woman. I replied, “I’m sorry I don’t know her. What did she say?” “She asked me to tell the man in the car she wanted to speak to him.” I hesitated. What was this all about? Was this one of those ‘Oracle’ moments you read about? Was she the one? Did she have a life-changing message for me?
I got out of my car, went back, and asked her what she wanted. She said, “Can you take me in your car to the Spar supermarket?” I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “What?” She repeated that she wanted me to take her to the Spar supermarket. “How far is it?” I asked. “It’s only five minutes up the road,” she answered.
A part of me - perhaps my Carer/Pleaser - prompted me (against my better judgement) to do it. I helped her up, walked with her to my car and off we went to find the supermarket. She started telling me her life story at high speed. She asked me where I lived and how long it would take me to drive there. When I told her it would take about an hour she said, “I suppose you will be getting yourself a sandwich and a drink.” Anticipating I might be buying that order for the two of us, I told her I intended to wait until I got home. It crossed my mind at that point that I might have made a big mistake in offering to help her.
With her giving me directions we eventually found the supermarket. I stopped the car on the opposite side of the road, got out and went around and opened the passenger door to help her out. She said, “I’m not getting out till you give me £20.” I said, “You must be joking.” She said, “No, give me £20 otherwise I won’t get out of your car.” I laughed and said, “Look, I don’t have £20 to give you, now get out of the car.”
We looked at each other for a few minutes and I said again, “I don’t have £20 now get out of the car.” With that she got out and, without as much as a thank you, she waddled across the road to the supermarket. I got back in my car and burst out laughing. It was so funny and so surreal - one of those moments when you have to ask yourself, “Did that really happen?”
Later that day, I wrote what had happened in an e-mail to John. He said that he knew her, that her name was Jean and that she lived in a house on his street. It appears that she does have difficulties in the ‘upstairs department’ and has a reputation for sitting on the kerb waiting to scrounge off unsuspecting passers by. I had been her chosen mark that morning.
I asked John what he thought of it all and he said it was likely that my Carer/Pleaser had responded to what it thought was a woman in need and that Jean might represent my disowned Entitled self that can just ask for/demand what he wants.
Reflecting on it since, I have renamed that primary self my Good Samaritan - the one that likes to help people in need. A tourist looking for directions is a magnet for my Good Samaritan, as is a neighbour locked out of his/her house, a child looking lost in a department store or a woman sitting on the kerb on the side of the road. This is the part of me that helps me to feel good by doing good deeds and gets me the external recognition I need by being seen as someone who ‘does good’.
I can see how Jean represents my disowned Entitled self - the part of me that feels able to ask for what it wants but who does not often get a look in. It or perhaps yet another part tends to get agitated when it sees other people, like Jean, asking for and getting what they want - especially when they get it from my Good Samaritan.
This encounter with Jean has brought to my awareness that I have a disowned Entitled self that longs to ask for what it needs and to be heard and validated - especially by me. And yet even as I write this another voice is saying, “What’s the point of asking, you’ll only be disappointed. People are far too busy looking to have their own needs met to want to take care of yours.”
Is this another piece of work I see before me?
Sneaking a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, I had the impression she might not have ‘the full set of cups in her cupboard.’ Not wanting to get into a dialogue with her, I continued walking towards my car. As I got in and looked in my rear view mirror I saw a woman stop and speak to her. I watched as this second woman crossed the road and came up to my car. I lowered the window.
“She wants to speak to you,” said the woman. I replied, “I’m sorry I don’t know her. What did she say?” “She asked me to tell the man in the car she wanted to speak to him.” I hesitated. What was this all about? Was this one of those ‘Oracle’ moments you read about? Was she the one? Did she have a life-changing message for me?
I got out of my car, went back, and asked her what she wanted. She said, “Can you take me in your car to the Spar supermarket?” I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “What?” She repeated that she wanted me to take her to the Spar supermarket. “How far is it?” I asked. “It’s only five minutes up the road,” she answered.
A part of me - perhaps my Carer/Pleaser - prompted me (against my better judgement) to do it. I helped her up, walked with her to my car and off we went to find the supermarket. She started telling me her life story at high speed. She asked me where I lived and how long it would take me to drive there. When I told her it would take about an hour she said, “I suppose you will be getting yourself a sandwich and a drink.” Anticipating I might be buying that order for the two of us, I told her I intended to wait until I got home. It crossed my mind at that point that I might have made a big mistake in offering to help her.
With her giving me directions we eventually found the supermarket. I stopped the car on the opposite side of the road, got out and went around and opened the passenger door to help her out. She said, “I’m not getting out till you give me £20.” I said, “You must be joking.” She said, “No, give me £20 otherwise I won’t get out of your car.” I laughed and said, “Look, I don’t have £20 to give you, now get out of the car.”
We looked at each other for a few minutes and I said again, “I don’t have £20 now get out of the car.” With that she got out and, without as much as a thank you, she waddled across the road to the supermarket. I got back in my car and burst out laughing. It was so funny and so surreal - one of those moments when you have to ask yourself, “Did that really happen?”
Later that day, I wrote what had happened in an e-mail to John. He said that he knew her, that her name was Jean and that she lived in a house on his street. It appears that she does have difficulties in the ‘upstairs department’ and has a reputation for sitting on the kerb waiting to scrounge off unsuspecting passers by. I had been her chosen mark that morning.
I asked John what he thought of it all and he said it was likely that my Carer/Pleaser had responded to what it thought was a woman in need and that Jean might represent my disowned Entitled self that can just ask for/demand what he wants.
Reflecting on it since, I have renamed that primary self my Good Samaritan - the one that likes to help people in need. A tourist looking for directions is a magnet for my Good Samaritan, as is a neighbour locked out of his/her house, a child looking lost in a department store or a woman sitting on the kerb on the side of the road. This is the part of me that helps me to feel good by doing good deeds and gets me the external recognition I need by being seen as someone who ‘does good’.
I can see how Jean represents my disowned Entitled self - the part of me that feels able to ask for what it wants but who does not often get a look in. It or perhaps yet another part tends to get agitated when it sees other people, like Jean, asking for and getting what they want - especially when they get it from my Good Samaritan.
This encounter with Jean has brought to my awareness that I have a disowned Entitled self that longs to ask for what it needs and to be heard and validated - especially by me. And yet even as I write this another voice is saying, “What’s the point of asking, you’ll only be disappointed. People are far too busy looking to have their own needs met to want to take care of yours.”
Is this another piece of work I see before me?
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Montezuma's Revenge
My parents met when they were still at school and became teenage sweethearts. At my mother’s insistence, they married when my father was called up to join the army in 1940. After a brief two-day honeymoon at my uncle’s house in suburban London, my father sailed off to fight in North Africa. Narrowly missing capture by Rommel’s troops, he was posted to India where he spent the rest of the war on internal duty. My mother endured the blitz and worked first as the manageress of a laundry and then as a supervisor in a factory that made guns. My parents didn’t see each other for five years.
After being demobbed my father went back to his old job in the office of a builder's merchant. They bought a small home and my mother stopped work to become a housewife and later a mother. Life settled into a comforting routine. It was a typical relationship of that generation. My father was the bread winner. He handled the money and gave his wife her “house keeping” every month. He dealt with the bills, the bank, the house, the car and generally fronted the external world. She handled the baby, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning and the organisation of the home.
I never saw them have an argument. Their motto seemed to be “don’t rock the boat.” In Voice Dialogue terms they stayed in a positive bonding pattern. Dad was the Generous, Providing Father to my mum’s Grateful Daughter, whilst mum was the Caring, Nurturing Mother to dad’s Adoring Son. In this way they both took care of each other’s Inner Kids. Life was predictable and secure and they avoided any upsets that might threaten the relationship. But there was a price to pay.
As a child dad would tell me bedtime stories of his adventures and experiences during the war. They were vivid and exciting and I loved them. Mum would tell me of what had happened during the blitz and how a bomb had landed near her house and how everyone had pulled together and helped each other out. I noticed how they seemed to come alive when speaking of that time of their lives. Where had that aliveness gone 20 years on?
Part of my teenage rebellion was against what I felt to be the airless, stifling atmosphere of home. I wanted to breath and expand and break out of their now routine, two dimensional world. When I was sixteen dad said something very interesting that gave me a glimpse of what he had sacrificed to maintain their relationship: “Travel while you are young son. You will have so many responsibilities when you grow up - a job, a wife and children. See the world while you can.” I sensed a sadness in his voice, as if a part of him had been cut off and buried. I felt that he empathised with my feelings of wanting to escape the confines of their neat terraced house.
And so I travelled. As a student I hitch-hiked around Europe, and later I did the “hippie trail” overland from Istanbul to India and down into S.E. Asia. I lived and worked in foreign countries far away from home. Dad was always excited and interested to hear about my experiences. Mum worried about me. She did not like travel. I came to understand that in order to maintain the positive bonding pattern and keep their relationship on an “even keel,” my dad had to hold back his Adventurer self - the part that had been so primary during his army days. It was just too threatening to mum.
For many years I blamed her for holding him back and saw her as responsible for locking him into a relationship that was nice and safe and secure but with little spark or vibrancy. But of course it always takes two to tango and it was not until they were in their 70’s that I saw the other side of the story.
After many attempts and much cajoling, dad and I finally persuaded mum to take a trip to visit me in Tucson, Arizona where I was living and working. She had been worried about the flight, whether she would like the food in the USA, whether she would be able to find a toilet when she needed it, what she would find to talk about with people, and a hundred and one other things. But finally she had relented.
For the first few days, I drove them around sightseeing. Dad sat in the front of the car with the maps and guidebooks, mum sat in the back quietly gazing out of the widow. Being so near Mexico dad said he would like to do a day trip to the border town of Nogales and experience something different. His Adventurer was definitely in charge now and mum seemed unable to hold him back. She anxiously acquiesced. We drove down, spent the morning looking around the many souvenir shops and then had lunch in a local restaurant. We all ate the same thing - chicken enchiladas with rice and refried beans.
Later that evening dad started to have stomach pains. They got progressively worse and he ended up spending a good portion of the night on the toilet. In the morning he looked pale and drawn. I contacted a friend who was a doctor and he wrote out a prescription and advised plenty of liquids and to stay in bed. Mum and I were both fine. What to do about our plans for the next few days? I expected her to go into a state of high anxiety and insist on staying with dad and taking care of him. How wrong I was! To my amazement she said, “Your dad is such a grouch when he is ill. It is best just to leave him on his own. Let’s go out as we planned.”
My friend Carlos came by and picked us up and as we left dad moaned, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” in a “poor me” kind of way. Off we went, me in the front and mum in the back with Bill - a tall, elegant black friend of Carlos from New York. I could hardly believe my ears as mum confidently engaged in conversation with him. He was very charming, and I swear it felt like she was flirting with him! We visited some local beauty spots and were introduced to more of Carlos’ friends along the way. Each time mum was outgoing and engaging. Over a long lunch she started telling jokes and got the giggles. I was gob-smacked!
We came back to the apartment that evening to find dad still in bed and watching TV. “How was your day?” he groaned. “Oh, it was wonderful. I had a marvellous time. Bill is so handsome and has such beautiful hands,” answered mum enthusiastically, “We met lots of people and it was so much fun!” She looked at least ten years younger and was grinning from ear to ear.
And so it went on for a few more days - dad languishing in the apartment while mum and I went out and about having fun. For the first time I could see what parts she had buried in order to make the marriage work. Thanks to Montezuma’s revenge her sensuous, confident and fun-loving self had the chance to emerge. Just as dad’s Adventurer was threatening to her, so this juicy, out-going Aphrodite was too scary for him. It would upset the applecart.
Over the next week I saw the status quo slowly return. As dad grew stronger he regained his authority and control. And as this happened I saw mum shrink back into her dependent role, once more sitting quietly in the back seat and worrying. I felt sad for them both. I could see the price they both paid for restricting the number of selves that showed up in their relationship. I wondered how richer their lives might have been if the Adventurer and Aphrodite had been allowed out.
My parents were married for 52 years and in their terms they had a happy life together. A few months after mum died I asked dad if he would like to do some travelling with me. He jumped at the idea. After a couple of short haul excursions to Europe, we planned a round-the-world trip and he spent his 80th birthday in Hawaii. His adventurer was happy. The promise of his army days had been fulfilled.
After being demobbed my father went back to his old job in the office of a builder's merchant. They bought a small home and my mother stopped work to become a housewife and later a mother. Life settled into a comforting routine. It was a typical relationship of that generation. My father was the bread winner. He handled the money and gave his wife her “house keeping” every month. He dealt with the bills, the bank, the house, the car and generally fronted the external world. She handled the baby, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning and the organisation of the home.
I never saw them have an argument. Their motto seemed to be “don’t rock the boat.” In Voice Dialogue terms they stayed in a positive bonding pattern. Dad was the Generous, Providing Father to my mum’s Grateful Daughter, whilst mum was the Caring, Nurturing Mother to dad’s Adoring Son. In this way they both took care of each other’s Inner Kids. Life was predictable and secure and they avoided any upsets that might threaten the relationship. But there was a price to pay.
As a child dad would tell me bedtime stories of his adventures and experiences during the war. They were vivid and exciting and I loved them. Mum would tell me of what had happened during the blitz and how a bomb had landed near her house and how everyone had pulled together and helped each other out. I noticed how they seemed to come alive when speaking of that time of their lives. Where had that aliveness gone 20 years on?
Part of my teenage rebellion was against what I felt to be the airless, stifling atmosphere of home. I wanted to breath and expand and break out of their now routine, two dimensional world. When I was sixteen dad said something very interesting that gave me a glimpse of what he had sacrificed to maintain their relationship: “Travel while you are young son. You will have so many responsibilities when you grow up - a job, a wife and children. See the world while you can.” I sensed a sadness in his voice, as if a part of him had been cut off and buried. I felt that he empathised with my feelings of wanting to escape the confines of their neat terraced house.
And so I travelled. As a student I hitch-hiked around Europe, and later I did the “hippie trail” overland from Istanbul to India and down into S.E. Asia. I lived and worked in foreign countries far away from home. Dad was always excited and interested to hear about my experiences. Mum worried about me. She did not like travel. I came to understand that in order to maintain the positive bonding pattern and keep their relationship on an “even keel,” my dad had to hold back his Adventurer self - the part that had been so primary during his army days. It was just too threatening to mum.
For many years I blamed her for holding him back and saw her as responsible for locking him into a relationship that was nice and safe and secure but with little spark or vibrancy. But of course it always takes two to tango and it was not until they were in their 70’s that I saw the other side of the story.
After many attempts and much cajoling, dad and I finally persuaded mum to take a trip to visit me in Tucson, Arizona where I was living and working. She had been worried about the flight, whether she would like the food in the USA, whether she would be able to find a toilet when she needed it, what she would find to talk about with people, and a hundred and one other things. But finally she had relented.
For the first few days, I drove them around sightseeing. Dad sat in the front of the car with the maps and guidebooks, mum sat in the back quietly gazing out of the widow. Being so near Mexico dad said he would like to do a day trip to the border town of Nogales and experience something different. His Adventurer was definitely in charge now and mum seemed unable to hold him back. She anxiously acquiesced. We drove down, spent the morning looking around the many souvenir shops and then had lunch in a local restaurant. We all ate the same thing - chicken enchiladas with rice and refried beans.
Later that evening dad started to have stomach pains. They got progressively worse and he ended up spending a good portion of the night on the toilet. In the morning he looked pale and drawn. I contacted a friend who was a doctor and he wrote out a prescription and advised plenty of liquids and to stay in bed. Mum and I were both fine. What to do about our plans for the next few days? I expected her to go into a state of high anxiety and insist on staying with dad and taking care of him. How wrong I was! To my amazement she said, “Your dad is such a grouch when he is ill. It is best just to leave him on his own. Let’s go out as we planned.”
My friend Carlos came by and picked us up and as we left dad moaned, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” in a “poor me” kind of way. Off we went, me in the front and mum in the back with Bill - a tall, elegant black friend of Carlos from New York. I could hardly believe my ears as mum confidently engaged in conversation with him. He was very charming, and I swear it felt like she was flirting with him! We visited some local beauty spots and were introduced to more of Carlos’ friends along the way. Each time mum was outgoing and engaging. Over a long lunch she started telling jokes and got the giggles. I was gob-smacked!
We came back to the apartment that evening to find dad still in bed and watching TV. “How was your day?” he groaned. “Oh, it was wonderful. I had a marvellous time. Bill is so handsome and has such beautiful hands,” answered mum enthusiastically, “We met lots of people and it was so much fun!” She looked at least ten years younger and was grinning from ear to ear.
And so it went on for a few more days - dad languishing in the apartment while mum and I went out and about having fun. For the first time I could see what parts she had buried in order to make the marriage work. Thanks to Montezuma’s revenge her sensuous, confident and fun-loving self had the chance to emerge. Just as dad’s Adventurer was threatening to her, so this juicy, out-going Aphrodite was too scary for him. It would upset the applecart.
Over the next week I saw the status quo slowly return. As dad grew stronger he regained his authority and control. And as this happened I saw mum shrink back into her dependent role, once more sitting quietly in the back seat and worrying. I felt sad for them both. I could see the price they both paid for restricting the number of selves that showed up in their relationship. I wondered how richer their lives might have been if the Adventurer and Aphrodite had been allowed out.
My parents were married for 52 years and in their terms they had a happy life together. A few months after mum died I asked dad if he would like to do some travelling with me. He jumped at the idea. After a couple of short haul excursions to Europe, we planned a round-the-world trip and he spent his 80th birthday in Hawaii. His adventurer was happy. The promise of his army days had been fulfilled.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Camera Shy
My Inner Critic was slow to respond but when it did, its attack was devastating: “What a stupid thing to have done! Everyone will see how bad you are. You weren’t focussed, you hadn’t prepared, you asked leading questions, you were too prescriptive… And anyway, who do you think you are? There are much better and much more experienced people than you. What do you think they will say when they see your lousy performance?!”
That morning six of us had gathered at a studio in central London to make a couple of short videos for YouTube. I would be facilitating two Voice Dialogue sessions that would then be posted on our website and available for all to see on the worldwide web. With the cameras rolling and a small audience to play to, my Presenter - the extrovert part of me that usually takes centre stage when I teach seminars - had taken charge. He had strutted his stuff, delighted to be in the limelight.
But clearly, my Inner Critic hadn’t been impressed. Later that evening, when I was home alone with time to reflect, he made his views felt. On a private “MeTube” video in my head, he projected every aspect of the demonstrations in minute detail. He zoomed-in, paused, magnified and replayed each perceived mistake as I squirmed with embarrassment. “You were hijacked by that Presenter. You were not giving a seminar. It was an altogether more dangerous situation. What were you doing exposing yourself to the judgements of others who might disapprove, ridicule and reject you?! You stuck your head in the air asking the whole world to shoot at you! The only way to stay safe is to keep your head down!”
As I listened to this onslaught I began to recognise the rules of my primary protecting selves: don’t show off, stay in control, think things through, and be well prepared. I realised that my Inner Critic was simply trying to enforce these rules in order to protect the vulnerable parts of my personality - my young Shy and Sensitive selves - and to make sure that I would never expose them in such a way again.
Suddenly I remembered another situation involving a camera. It was 20 years ago when I was studying Voice Dialogue with my teacher Gail Steuart. I had done a lot of sessions with her and discovered many of my selves. I was aware that when speaking as my different selves my body language and facial expression changed. I wanted to see just how different I looked, so I bought a video camera and, with Gail’s permission, arranged to film a session.
We set the camera up behind Gail in the doorway of her consulting room so that it would capture me whether I moved my chair to the left or the right. After a final check to make sure everything was in focus, I switched the camera to record and we began the session.
First she talked at some length to a couple of my very competent primary selves - my Pleaser and my Rational Mind. They felt very comfortable and didn’t seem at all worried by the presence of the camera pointing at them over Gail’s right shoulder. Then a young and tender energy emerged that was very shy. It sat tightly curled on the floor, did not look at Gail and whispered only a few words in answer to her questions. It was very sensitive, anxious about the feelings and opinions of others and afraid of being judged or rejected.
When the session ended we were both excited to see the video. I had clearly gone through some physical changes and was eager to watch my selves in action. While Gail made us some coffee, I rewound the film and switched on the wide screen TV. We took our seats for the show and I pressed “play” on the remote.
I was intrigued to see how as my Pleaser I moved my chair closer to Gail and leant towards her when speaking. My body language was open and my face warm and friendly. I maintained good eye contact and it even seemed like I was playing a little to the camera! As my Rational Mind I sat further back and was sterner in appearance. My face was tighter and my body language more guarded, arms and legs crossed. Again, I was able to look directly at Gail as well as at the camera.
I could not wait to see how I came across as my younger Shy self. I watched as I sat on the floor but was then astonished to see myself move back until I disappeared completely from the screen! Gail and I looked at each other in amazement. I had moved to the corner of the room and curled up out of range of the camera. This was a part of me that really did not want to be seen. Neither Gail nor I had been conscious of this at the time.
To be on camera, or even worse on a video accessible to thousands if not millions of viewers, is terrifying to my Shy self. On reflection I understood that my Inner Critic’s harsh words were actually an attempt at damage control. To be self-critical is less painful than being criticised by others. It is a form of defence, a kind of pre-emptive strike. If I can say, “I know I wasn’t good - I wasn’t focussed, I hadn’t prepared enough, I asked leading questions, and I was too prescriptive,” it helps to shield me from the external barbs of those who might judge me.
The YouTube videos have been edited and are now available for all to see. Just search YouTube for “Voice Dialogue UK” and you will find them divided into 5 short sections. Alternatively you can view each one separately at: http://vimeo.com/4102934 and http://vimeo.com/4226016. Whenever I sit down to watch them, I invite all my selves to gather around. I put one arm around my Inner Critic, the other around my Presenter and place my Shy self safely on my lap. I invite you to watch the videos and to notice which of your selves are sitting with you. What do they have to say? How would they have behaved in front of the camera? Would they even have allowed you to do such a thing? I’d love to hear their comments. You can post them on this site by clicking the blue “comments” button below. Thanks.
That morning six of us had gathered at a studio in central London to make a couple of short videos for YouTube. I would be facilitating two Voice Dialogue sessions that would then be posted on our website and available for all to see on the worldwide web. With the cameras rolling and a small audience to play to, my Presenter - the extrovert part of me that usually takes centre stage when I teach seminars - had taken charge. He had strutted his stuff, delighted to be in the limelight.
But clearly, my Inner Critic hadn’t been impressed. Later that evening, when I was home alone with time to reflect, he made his views felt. On a private “MeTube” video in my head, he projected every aspect of the demonstrations in minute detail. He zoomed-in, paused, magnified and replayed each perceived mistake as I squirmed with embarrassment. “You were hijacked by that Presenter. You were not giving a seminar. It was an altogether more dangerous situation. What were you doing exposing yourself to the judgements of others who might disapprove, ridicule and reject you?! You stuck your head in the air asking the whole world to shoot at you! The only way to stay safe is to keep your head down!”
As I listened to this onslaught I began to recognise the rules of my primary protecting selves: don’t show off, stay in control, think things through, and be well prepared. I realised that my Inner Critic was simply trying to enforce these rules in order to protect the vulnerable parts of my personality - my young Shy and Sensitive selves - and to make sure that I would never expose them in such a way again.
Suddenly I remembered another situation involving a camera. It was 20 years ago when I was studying Voice Dialogue with my teacher Gail Steuart. I had done a lot of sessions with her and discovered many of my selves. I was aware that when speaking as my different selves my body language and facial expression changed. I wanted to see just how different I looked, so I bought a video camera and, with Gail’s permission, arranged to film a session.
We set the camera up behind Gail in the doorway of her consulting room so that it would capture me whether I moved my chair to the left or the right. After a final check to make sure everything was in focus, I switched the camera to record and we began the session.
First she talked at some length to a couple of my very competent primary selves - my Pleaser and my Rational Mind. They felt very comfortable and didn’t seem at all worried by the presence of the camera pointing at them over Gail’s right shoulder. Then a young and tender energy emerged that was very shy. It sat tightly curled on the floor, did not look at Gail and whispered only a few words in answer to her questions. It was very sensitive, anxious about the feelings and opinions of others and afraid of being judged or rejected.
When the session ended we were both excited to see the video. I had clearly gone through some physical changes and was eager to watch my selves in action. While Gail made us some coffee, I rewound the film and switched on the wide screen TV. We took our seats for the show and I pressed “play” on the remote.
I was intrigued to see how as my Pleaser I moved my chair closer to Gail and leant towards her when speaking. My body language was open and my face warm and friendly. I maintained good eye contact and it even seemed like I was playing a little to the camera! As my Rational Mind I sat further back and was sterner in appearance. My face was tighter and my body language more guarded, arms and legs crossed. Again, I was able to look directly at Gail as well as at the camera.
I could not wait to see how I came across as my younger Shy self. I watched as I sat on the floor but was then astonished to see myself move back until I disappeared completely from the screen! Gail and I looked at each other in amazement. I had moved to the corner of the room and curled up out of range of the camera. This was a part of me that really did not want to be seen. Neither Gail nor I had been conscious of this at the time.
To be on camera, or even worse on a video accessible to thousands if not millions of viewers, is terrifying to my Shy self. On reflection I understood that my Inner Critic’s harsh words were actually an attempt at damage control. To be self-critical is less painful than being criticised by others. It is a form of defence, a kind of pre-emptive strike. If I can say, “I know I wasn’t good - I wasn’t focussed, I hadn’t prepared enough, I asked leading questions, and I was too prescriptive,” it helps to shield me from the external barbs of those who might judge me.
The YouTube videos have been edited and are now available for all to see. Just search YouTube for “Voice Dialogue UK” and you will find them divided into 5 short sections. Alternatively you can view each one separately at: http://vimeo.com/4102934 and http://vimeo.com/4226016. Whenever I sit down to watch them, I invite all my selves to gather around. I put one arm around my Inner Critic, the other around my Presenter and place my Shy self safely on my lap. I invite you to watch the videos and to notice which of your selves are sitting with you. What do they have to say? How would they have behaved in front of the camera? Would they even have allowed you to do such a thing? I’d love to hear their comments. You can post them on this site by clicking the blue “comments” button below. Thanks.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
The Crucible
In the mid 80’s I was introduced to an Englishman who had a management training business based in Munich. Paul ran programmes for German business people aimed at improving their cross-cultural communication skills. We hit it off immediately and soon began developing and running intensive workshops together.
The German business milieu values order, detail and discipline and I felt very much at home. I was good at organising and planning, and loved the process of creating new programmes. We worked and reworked the structure, content, timing and delivery of each workshop until they were perfect. We impressed clients with our logical explanations, clear paradigms and comprehensive models. No request was too much for us and we drove ourselves relentlessly. A typical seminar day began at 8am and did not end until the last participant left the hotel bar, often after midnight. Our German participants thought we were “wunderbar!”
In the third year of our cooperation Paul and I trained 180 days in 50 locations. This did not include the days spent in development, preparation and travel. Professionally and financially I had become very successful, but I was beginning to feel a growing emptiness inside. I had no time for a social life or to develop intimate relationships. Something told me I should take a break or I might I burn out.
I negotiated a three-month sabbatical with Paul, devised a detailed itinerary, bought a round-the-world air ticket and headed off - first stop S.E. Asia. I had lived and worked in that region before and there were lots of people and places I wanted to see again. I also had a list of destinations I had not previously visited that I wanted to explore. After a hectic six weeks of sightseeing in Singapore, Thailand, Hong Kong and Japan, I flew to Hawaii to meet up with some old friends, and then on to San Francisco. It was there that my carefully planned schedule got derailed.
At a party, I was introduced to Arturo, a Mexican from out of town. He was studying in Tucson, Arizona and I was intrigued by his warm, easy-going energy and engaging personality. We chatted about all manner of things and at the end of the evening he invited me to take a trip to Tucson to visit him. I thanked him for his kind offer, but told him that a trip to the South West USA was not on my itinerary. “I think that surely you are not a slave to your own schedule,” he replied, “In life we should be flexible and accept what life brings, no? Who knows what fate God has decided for us? Here’s my number, if you decide to come give me a call. Mi casa es su casa!”
And so it was that ten days later I took an unplanned detour.
Tucson is surrounded by mountains - as if sitting in the hollow of a huge crucible. Native Americans consider it a sacred site where the energies of Mother Earth are strong. It is supposed to be a good place to experience personal transformation. People entering the crucible are of two kinds: those who find it hard to settle down and cannot stay; and those who are drawn in and cannot leave.
Arturo was a great host and introduced me to lots of his Mexican and Hispanic friends. I loved their attitude to life and was fascinated by their values and beliefs. Their emphasis was very much on relationships. “A man may work hard and become a millionaire, but if he has no friends he is poor,” said Arturo. The days unfolded in a leisurely way and I never knew ahead of time what we would do, who we would meet or where we would end up. Time slowed and I began to relax and unwind a little. The hot desert environment with its weird and wonderfully shaped cactae was a world away from my life in Germany. My sabbatical was drawing to a close but I knew that it would not be long before I returned to this magical place.
Within six months I had given up my work in Germany, and was living in an old adobe house on the edge of Tucson. A friend of Arturo employed me part time in his small consultancy business and I became acclimatised to a very different pace of life. I hiked in the mountains, explored the canyons and learnt how to respect the desert flora and fauna. Everything was going well with my new life until I started to get more deeply involved with Mexican culture.
The Mexican border was only an hour away and I became romantically involved with a series of Mexican nationals. To my dismay, each relationship followed the same pattern. At first I would be entranced by their laidback approach to life and in awe of their ability to go with the flow. But sooner or later their behaviour would begin to drive me crazy and my judgements would start: “You are never on time.” “You are so disorganised.” “You keep changing plans.” “You waste a lot of time talking instead of getting the job done.” “You are over-emotional and totally irrational.”
I struggled to understand what kept going wrong. Why was I both attracted to and judgemental of all the people I met? Was there something wrong with me? What could I do to change these painful patterns? In my search for answers to these questions I tried many different modalities and techniques - Psychodrama, Rebirthing, Holotropic Breathwork, the Hoffman Quadrinity Process, the Sedona Release Technique…. I read all the latest self-help books and visited counsellors and shamans, tarot readers and astrologers. The heat was on and the crucible would not let me escape. I was by turns grilled, boiled, fried, baked and roasted!
After two intensive years of introspection I was starting to feel burnt out. How could this be? Wasn’t this the same feeling I had had in Germany? I had left the intensive seminar circuit behind and yet here I was feeling stressed again! I was on the point of despair when someone recommended a new therapeutic process called Voice Dialogue. Would this be any different to all the others? I was very sceptical but decided to give it a try.
The facilitator was called Gail and in my first session she spoke to two parts of me - my Pusher and my Organiser. To my amazement I discovered that not only had they been running my life in Germany, but that they had continued to run it in Tucson as well! It was they who got me involved in so many different therapies, trying this one and that one, and never letting me rest. Along with my Perfectionist and Rational Mind, they formed a formidable team whose job was to have me be the best at whatever I did – whether it be management training or personal development.
As I did more sessions and discovered more of my selves it slowly dawned on me that the qualities I was both attracted to and then judged in my Mexican friends and lovers were those of my disowned Carefree, Easy Going, Spontaneous, Emotional and Intuitive selves. Gail explained that it was actually my Pusher et al who were doing the judging. With this new perspective, I could see that my Mexican friends were in fact my teachers, helping me to become aware of my disowned selves. I realised that if I was to break the cycle of burn-out and disillusionment I needed to consciously embrace all my many selves - the more relationship oriented Mexican ones as well as the more task oriented Germanic ones.
How perfect that Arturo had invited me to Tucson. The crucible had worked its alchemy and could now release me. I left the dry desert of Arizona and moved to the moist coast of California. I had found a new path and taken my first steps on the journey of selves discovery - one that continues to this day.
The German business milieu values order, detail and discipline and I felt very much at home. I was good at organising and planning, and loved the process of creating new programmes. We worked and reworked the structure, content, timing and delivery of each workshop until they were perfect. We impressed clients with our logical explanations, clear paradigms and comprehensive models. No request was too much for us and we drove ourselves relentlessly. A typical seminar day began at 8am and did not end until the last participant left the hotel bar, often after midnight. Our German participants thought we were “wunderbar!”
In the third year of our cooperation Paul and I trained 180 days in 50 locations. This did not include the days spent in development, preparation and travel. Professionally and financially I had become very successful, but I was beginning to feel a growing emptiness inside. I had no time for a social life or to develop intimate relationships. Something told me I should take a break or I might I burn out.
I negotiated a three-month sabbatical with Paul, devised a detailed itinerary, bought a round-the-world air ticket and headed off - first stop S.E. Asia. I had lived and worked in that region before and there were lots of people and places I wanted to see again. I also had a list of destinations I had not previously visited that I wanted to explore. After a hectic six weeks of sightseeing in Singapore, Thailand, Hong Kong and Japan, I flew to Hawaii to meet up with some old friends, and then on to San Francisco. It was there that my carefully planned schedule got derailed.
At a party, I was introduced to Arturo, a Mexican from out of town. He was studying in Tucson, Arizona and I was intrigued by his warm, easy-going energy and engaging personality. We chatted about all manner of things and at the end of the evening he invited me to take a trip to Tucson to visit him. I thanked him for his kind offer, but told him that a trip to the South West USA was not on my itinerary. “I think that surely you are not a slave to your own schedule,” he replied, “In life we should be flexible and accept what life brings, no? Who knows what fate God has decided for us? Here’s my number, if you decide to come give me a call. Mi casa es su casa!”
And so it was that ten days later I took an unplanned detour.
Tucson is surrounded by mountains - as if sitting in the hollow of a huge crucible. Native Americans consider it a sacred site where the energies of Mother Earth are strong. It is supposed to be a good place to experience personal transformation. People entering the crucible are of two kinds: those who find it hard to settle down and cannot stay; and those who are drawn in and cannot leave.
Arturo was a great host and introduced me to lots of his Mexican and Hispanic friends. I loved their attitude to life and was fascinated by their values and beliefs. Their emphasis was very much on relationships. “A man may work hard and become a millionaire, but if he has no friends he is poor,” said Arturo. The days unfolded in a leisurely way and I never knew ahead of time what we would do, who we would meet or where we would end up. Time slowed and I began to relax and unwind a little. The hot desert environment with its weird and wonderfully shaped cactae was a world away from my life in Germany. My sabbatical was drawing to a close but I knew that it would not be long before I returned to this magical place.
Within six months I had given up my work in Germany, and was living in an old adobe house on the edge of Tucson. A friend of Arturo employed me part time in his small consultancy business and I became acclimatised to a very different pace of life. I hiked in the mountains, explored the canyons and learnt how to respect the desert flora and fauna. Everything was going well with my new life until I started to get more deeply involved with Mexican culture.
The Mexican border was only an hour away and I became romantically involved with a series of Mexican nationals. To my dismay, each relationship followed the same pattern. At first I would be entranced by their laidback approach to life and in awe of their ability to go with the flow. But sooner or later their behaviour would begin to drive me crazy and my judgements would start: “You are never on time.” “You are so disorganised.” “You keep changing plans.” “You waste a lot of time talking instead of getting the job done.” “You are over-emotional and totally irrational.”
I struggled to understand what kept going wrong. Why was I both attracted to and judgemental of all the people I met? Was there something wrong with me? What could I do to change these painful patterns? In my search for answers to these questions I tried many different modalities and techniques - Psychodrama, Rebirthing, Holotropic Breathwork, the Hoffman Quadrinity Process, the Sedona Release Technique…. I read all the latest self-help books and visited counsellors and shamans, tarot readers and astrologers. The heat was on and the crucible would not let me escape. I was by turns grilled, boiled, fried, baked and roasted!
After two intensive years of introspection I was starting to feel burnt out. How could this be? Wasn’t this the same feeling I had had in Germany? I had left the intensive seminar circuit behind and yet here I was feeling stressed again! I was on the point of despair when someone recommended a new therapeutic process called Voice Dialogue. Would this be any different to all the others? I was very sceptical but decided to give it a try.
The facilitator was called Gail and in my first session she spoke to two parts of me - my Pusher and my Organiser. To my amazement I discovered that not only had they been running my life in Germany, but that they had continued to run it in Tucson as well! It was they who got me involved in so many different therapies, trying this one and that one, and never letting me rest. Along with my Perfectionist and Rational Mind, they formed a formidable team whose job was to have me be the best at whatever I did – whether it be management training or personal development.
As I did more sessions and discovered more of my selves it slowly dawned on me that the qualities I was both attracted to and then judged in my Mexican friends and lovers were those of my disowned Carefree, Easy Going, Spontaneous, Emotional and Intuitive selves. Gail explained that it was actually my Pusher et al who were doing the judging. With this new perspective, I could see that my Mexican friends were in fact my teachers, helping me to become aware of my disowned selves. I realised that if I was to break the cycle of burn-out and disillusionment I needed to consciously embrace all my many selves - the more relationship oriented Mexican ones as well as the more task oriented Germanic ones.
How perfect that Arturo had invited me to Tucson. The crucible had worked its alchemy and could now release me. I left the dry desert of Arizona and moved to the moist coast of California. I had found a new path and taken my first steps on the journey of selves discovery - one that continues to this day.
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