The Organiser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Amble

I tried to ignore it, but the pain in my ankle wouldn't go away. It had started as a twinge but then grew in strength until each step felt increasingly uncomfortable. I couldn't recall twisting or injuring it in any way and was at a loss to explain the cause. Mooching around the house I hardly noticed it, but as soon as I went out and walked any distance my ankle began to complain. I found myself limping slightly and tensing the muscles in my leg to compensate.

Eventually I went to see my doctor who diagnosed a pulled ligament and recommended resting my foot as much as possible. But how could I do that when I had to walk the dog twice a day? Peppar was just over a year old and full of energy. She would go crazy if she didn't get the chance to run, sniff and play with other dogs. My partner's work schedule meant that I was the one to take her out morning and afternoon for her daily exercise - a three-mile walk by the river.

I wondered if some manipulation might help and decided to make an appointment with a physiotherapist. Before seeing him, however, I scheduled a Voice Dialogue session with my friend Michael. I thought that we could do some body dialogue and talk to my ankle to see if it was trying to tell me something.

As is often the case, what happened was not what my Rational Mind had mapped out! As Michael began the facilitation, I became aware of a general tightness and tension in my body. We decided to talk to the part of me that was causing it. I moved my chair over and out came a part that called itself my Resistor.

Michael welcomed him and asked what purpose he served.
“I put a break on the selves that would otherwise run away with his life,” said the Resistor.
“What parts are they?” asked Michael.
“Those big powerful guys over there.” The Resistor nodded to the other side of the room. “His Controller, his Rational Mind, his Pleaser, his Organiser, and above all, his Pusher. They are all very headstrong. I have thick steel cables attached to them but it takes a huge amount of energy to rein them in and anchor them down.”
“What would happen if you weren't around to keep them in check like this?” enquired Michael.
“They would completely take him over and cause him all sorts of problems. In fact they would probably end up killing him!” replied the Resistor.

“How much of John's energy do you take up doing your job?” asked Michael.
“About 90%. They pull really hard, like kites in a strong wind. I have to be constantly vigilant to stop them from taking off and flying away with him. For example, his Pusher tries to infiltrate every aspect of John's life. He can’t even leave him in peace when walking the dog. He sets constraints - a certain distance has to be covered in a limited amount of time - so that the walk turns into a route march. He also gets John to use the walk to review his dreams from the night before as well as create a ‘to do list’ for the day ahead. Every minute has to be productive. He just doesn’t let up!”

“That's amazing. I'm just wondering whether you have anything to do with the pain in his ankle,” Michael enquired.
“Of course I do. It's a result of me digging my heels in and attempting to slow that Pusher down.”
“I see. So you’re trying to get him to walk more slowly?”
“Exactly. He has been striding out like a man possessed. He needs to get that Pusher off his back, relax and use the time to enjoy the river and its wildlife. He should just amble.”

Two days later with the words of my Resistor fresh in my mind I had my appointment with Euan the physiotherapist. He examined my ankle and confirmed that I had indeed pulled a ligament and now had some secondary problems as a result of walking awkwardly.

“But I have no idea how I could have done it,” I said.
“It could be a result of repetitive strain”, said Euan. “Have you done a lot of walking recently?”
“As a matter of fact I have, ever since we got our new dog,” I replied.
“Do you walk on a smooth or uneven surface?” he enquired.
“On the towpath, which is mostly uneven.”
“I see. Show me how you walk.”

I strode around the consulting room.
“How long do you walk the dog every day?”
“In total about ninety minutes, maybe more.”
“Well, I'd say that striding like that on an uneven surface is the cause of your problem.”
“So should I stop walking and rest my ankle?” I asked hesitantly.

His answer gave me goose bumps. “Not at all. You should keep on moving your foot or your ankle will seize up. But instead of striding out like that, just amble.”

Like all dogs, Peppar is a very sensitive being and picks up small changes in my energy. She is also very bright and a fast learner. I quickly taught her to sit, stay, come and drop. To my great frustration however, the one discipline she didn’t master was to walk to heal on the lead. No matter how many times I pulled her back and said “Peppar, heal!” she always tried to forge ahead.

It was only when I followed Euan’s advice to walk more slowly rather than stride out that I understood why. My verbal command to “heal” contradicted the non-verbal energy of my Pusher, which for her was actually signaling, “Go, go, go!” As I have practiced separating from my Pusher during our walks and consciously accessed my calmer, more relaxed selves, Peppar has started to walk to heal - and my ankle has healed.

The learning for me as I grow older is that I have to get into a different relationship with my Pusher or the impact of his energy on my body will cause me ever more problems. As I reflect on this, I am reminded of the advice my grandfather gave about how to get things done without “overdoing it” and becoming stressed out. “Make haste slowly!” he would say with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Or in the words of my Resister and of Euan, “Just amble.”

Nothing At All

My first job after leaving university had been in Jyväskylä a small town in the centre of Finland. I had arrived in the middle of September to find Autumn well underway in this land of forests and lakes. I had grown up in the urban sprawl of London and the spectacular displays of red, yellow and orange leaves had dazzled and amazed me.

Now after an absence of twelve years I was back visiting friends. There was so much to tell them - my travels around the world, the different jobs I had done, relationships begun and ended. My Finnish friends were particularly interested to hear about the three years I had spent living and working in Japan - a strange and exotic country to them. While there I had begun studying a martial art which had its roots in esoteric Buddhism and it was something I still practiced. To my friends my life seemed as rich and varied as the colours of Autumn.

Coming down to breakfast one morning I found a letter waiting for me. It had been posted to my London address from Massachusetts and had then been forwarded on to friends in Helsinki who had redirected it to me here in Jyväskylä. It had been on quite a journey! I could feel something solid inside the thick brown manilla envelope. What could it be and who had sent it?

To my astonishment, when I opened it I found a sheet of paper carefully folded around a red maple leaf and a piece of birch bark. On the paper was written a simple message: ‘So impressed by Fall in New England. Ito’. Ito-sensei was one of my Japanese martial arts teachers with whom I had a close connection. I looked carefully at the bark and realised that written in red ink in one corner were some Japanese characters (kanji). I had never learnt to read Japanese and was mystified. What did they mean and what was Ito-sensei trying to tell me? How on earth was I going to get it translated here in the middle of Finland? I guessed I would have to wait till I got back to London where I could ask a Japanese friend to decipher it for me.

Later that same day as I strolled down Jyväskylä’s main shopping street I was amazed to see an Asian face walking straight towards me. As we got closer I realised that the young man was Japanese! I approached him eagerly. “Excuse me. Do you speak English? Are you Japanese?” He looked startled. He must have thought that I was a street salesman or a religious evangelist. “Yes, I am Japanese and I speak a little English,” he replied. I explained that I had just received a short note - just six kanji - from a Japanese friend and wondered if he would mind translating it for me. Once he understood that that was all I wanted he visibly relaxed and graciously agreed to meet later that afternoon in a local café.

Over a coffee and Finnish pastry I found out that he was an exchange student staying with a local family and had been in Finland for just a week. He was interested to hear that I had lived in Japan. The necessary pleasantries completed, I felt the moment was right to show him the script. I carefully took the bark out of the envelope and pointed to the kanji nestled in the corner.

As he read them, first a frown and then a smile passed over his face. “This is a Buddhist saying,” he said. “Mu ichi butsu. Mu zin zou.” I waited for the translation. “It means: ‘Nothing at all. Limitless potential, or everything beyond measure’. I think the man who wrote this must be your sensei, your teacher.” I explained who Ito-sensei was. “He must like you to send you this small gift with such a big meaning,” he replied.

That was 25 years ago. I have carefully kept the leaf and the bark and they now hang in a frame on a wall of my home in London. From time to time something will happen that reminds me of Ito-sensei’s gift and I am drawn to meditate on the message he sent me. So it was just the other day when I was listening to one of Hal and Sidra’s CD’s. The interviewer was wondering whether it was ever possible to find out precisely who we are and whether there is an ‘ultimate self’. This is what Sidra replied:

‘It’s not always a question of who you are, but it’s who you are not that we seem to work with… a constant refining of what we aren’t. The beautiful thing about all this is that we are none of these selves… but we are all of them… This gives us a richness and a breadth that is extraordinarily exciting.’

The Seminar Leader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you tell me how you feel about Patricia as a trainer?” asked Rick.

“There are only three trainers in the world that I respect and she’s not one of them!” pronounced my Seminar Leader in no uncertain terms.

“What exactly upsets you about Patricia’s style?” enquired Rick.

“She is too laid back, too wishy-washy, lacks pace and momentum, doesn’t work according to the agreed plan, deviates and digresses, seems intimidated by the participants, lacks confidence and, as a result, loses her authority and control over the group. Why John agreed to work with her I’ll never know. She’s useless!”

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

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

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

“Why are you scared of Patricia?” asked Rick.

“Because that Seminar Leader guy has upset her and I’m afraid she is hurt and angry and won’t like me any more,” came the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Graceful Ageing

Seeing me standing on the crowded tube train, a young woman stood up and offered me her seat. I felt shocked and a little upset. It seemed like only yesterday that I would have done the same for a senior citizen. Did I really look so old? A voice in my head said that I was quite capable of standing the next ten stops to my destination and that I should refuse. If I had allowed it to speak there would definitely have been an edge of indignation to it. I hesitated. Actually, my legs were aching a little and I was feeling tired. I smiled at the young woman and, with some relief, sheepishly accepted her kind offer and sat down.

I was twenty-five for many years. Then when I turned fifty I decided to act my age and became thirty-five. Now as my sixtieth year passes I fear my grip on thirty-five is weakening! Several things have recently conspired to undermine the confidence I have had in my mental and physical capabilities…..

“I didn’t know you smoked!” I said as Karin sat down to eat her lunch, placing an unlit cigarette in readiness on the table beside her plate. Karin is the young Columbian waitress at my local café. “Yes, you knew,” she replied with a warm smile, “You said exactly the same thing a couple of weeks ago when we sat at this very table!” Was I losing my mind? I had always had an impeccable memory. I was mortified.

My friend had parked her car in my street to save money. As a resident I have parking permits for visitors for just £1 per day. But when I placed the permit on her dashboard I forgot to scratch off the box showing the applicable time of day. The result was a £30 fine! I berated myself for being so stupid? Me, the Careful Planner! Mr Organised!! I never used to make silly mistakes like that.

As a dynamic seminar leader I used to pride myself on my stamina. I would push myself and the participants hard during the intensive 16 hour days, often being the last to leave the hotel bar at night. I worked longer and harder than any other trainer and despised those who weren’t able to keep up with me. These days, if I am to function well the next day, I have to pace myself and make sure I get to bed early. Part of me feels deeply embarrassed by this. It feels that I should be able to work just as hard as before.

The words of T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock come to my mind: ‘I grow old… I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.’ They remind me of my grandfather who, when on holiday by the seaside, would stroll barefoot along the shoreline with my grandmother. When I look in the mirror these days I see more and more of him in my face and my physique. “And what’s wrong with that?” you may ask. Well, it depends through whose eyes I see myself.

If I look at my current mental and physical capacities through the eyes of the primary selves that ran my life in my 20’s and 30’s they will find much to judge. My Mind will have anxiety attacks when I misremember or forget information. My Perfectionist will cringe when I make mistakes. My Organiser and Planner will go ballistic when I can’t find something, screw up a schedule or double book an appointment. My Pusher will despair when I tire more easily and don’t have the energy to finish a task quickly enough. If I remain identified with these selves as I grow older, my Inner Critic will have plenty of rods with which to beat me! Growing old will be a painful and dispiriting experience.

To avoid this requires that I unhook from the primary selves that have run so much of my adult life and take a little of the medicine of their opposites. I have to allow myself to accept offers of help from others, not remember everything perfectly, not know it all, make mistakes, be more spontaneous and flexible, and take breaks and naps. The reality is that my neurons are not firing as they once did and my body doesn’t have the strength and endurance it had when I was younger. To try and pretend otherwise - to still identify with the rules of my primary selves - will only result in increasing frustration and hardship.

When my friend who left her car in my street came to collect it I told her about my mistake with the parking permit. Rather than be upset, she empathised with me and then told me what had happened to her that very morning. She had stayed at her brother’s house overnight and had put the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea. Smelling burning plastic she rushed back into the kitchen only to find that she had put the electric kettle onto the gas hob to heat!! We both burst into laughter and suddenly everything lightened up. We agreed that incidents like this would only get more frequent as we grew older and that to chastise ourselves served no purpose. Then suddenly we had a great idea: why not set up a contingency fund to cover the cost of parking fines, new electric kettles and the like?!

Being able to separate from our primary selves and embrace their opposites makes us more compassionate - both to ourselves and to others. This is one of the great gifts inherent in growing old and the secret of graceful ageing.

Birth, Death and Vulnerability

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The X Factor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael's Eyes

‘My great religion is a belief in the blood, the flesh, as being wiser than the intellect. We can go wrong in our minds. But what our blood feels and believes and says, is always true.’

- D. H. Lawrence

My friend Michael was hurting. We were having a drink in a bar downtown. “I am sick and tired of this!” he grumbled, “I don’t understand why it won’t clear up. Why can’t I find a cure?” For some months he had had an irritation in both eyes. Every time I saw him he complained about it - how debilitating it was and how annoyed he was that he couldn’t fix it.

Michael was a medical doctor and a psychiatrist and had his own private practice. He was very skilled at helping clients with their physical and emotional problems. People would even come to him from out of state to seek his advice. But nothing he did could make his own eye infection go away and he was feeling deeply frustrated and angry with himself.

“I’m at my wits ends,” he moaned, “I just can’t figure out what’s wrong. I have tried all sorts of medications, but nothing will shift it. I’m a doctor for god’s sake. I should be able to heal myself!”

Although I empathised with him, I had grown tired of his whining. I decided to be proactive. “How about talking to your eyes?” I suggested. Michael had studied Voice Dialogue with me and was familiar with the Psychology of Selves. “I guess we could schedule a session sometime,” he replied warily. I knew that ‘sometime’ meant ‘never’ and resolved to grab the bull by the horns. “I mean right now,” I insisted. “What, here in this bar!?” “Yes.”

There was hubbub all around us - the clinking of glasses, music playing, people laughing and chatting. I knew that this wasn’t the most appropriate location but intuitively I felt that now was the moment to act.

“Move over a little and let me speak to your eyes,” I said firmly.

A little taken by surprise, Michael slid his chair to his left.

“Hello, am I speaking to Michael’s eyes?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that you haven’t been very well recently and that Michael hasn’t been able to do anything to heal you.”

“That’s right.”

“Can you explain what this infection is about and what Michael can do to help you?”

“That’s easy. He needs to cry.”

“Really? He doesn’t cry?”

“No.”

“Is there something that he needs to cry about?”

“Of course! He didn’t cry when his father died. His mother died two years ago and he didn’t cry. His partner died last year and he didn’t cry. He needs to cry!”

“I see. And if he cries then the infection will go away?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else Michael needs to do?”

“No. He just needs to allow tears to flow through me. Then I will be OK.”

“Thank you for talking to me.”

Michael moved his chair back and sat opposite me with a stunned look on his face. This short, to the point interaction had taken both of us by surprise. “It’s true,” said Michael thoughtfully, “I have never really grieved their deaths and I have certainly never cried for them. I’ve always been too busy taking care of other people and their needs and never allowed myself the luxury of letting my own feelings out.”

Some weeks later Michael called me to say that he had been taking some time out from his busy doctor’s schedule to sit quietly and feel the sadness of his bereavements. As he had done so, the tears had flowed and sure enough his eye infection had slowly cleared.

At the end of that year we met for dinner. I was leaving town and moving to another city and Michael had invited me for a farewell meal in a local restaurant. He seemed more relaxed and less driven than previously. He told me that he now saw the eye irritation not as a curse but as a gift. Realising what lay behind the infection had led him to re-evaluate his life. He had cut down on his workload and was now spending much more time at home cooking, gardening, walking his dog and simply being with his feelings.

At the end of the evening we embraced and said our goodbyes. And as we hugged I saw that Michael had tears in his eyes.

Guilt and Shame

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belly Art

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E-motion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Esmeralda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choosing Peppar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Temptation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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