Habits can be so entrenched that they stand in for beliefs. When we look at them square on, though, we may be able to see the difference.
If you have developed a pattern of behavior or of thought in response to an event or situation, it may be that it is your behavior or thinking that causes the response. Responses to events can not only change how we perceive the event but what we believe about the event. If you believe, for instance, that illness is stressful, then it will be. Think of it this way: you may have a lifelong habit of reacting to illness in a certain way, and it may be that reaction which is causing the stress. If you can change your reaction, maybe from an "oh, no, ohmygod, I'm getting sick, not again!" to "well, time for some rest and vitamin C, guess that's just what happens sometimes," you can change your belief from "being sick is stressful" to "being sick is an inconvenience and a signal that I need to take care of myself." You may think it is the situation itself that dictates your response, but it's not. It is your belief about it. Nothing - no event, situation, person, or object - has any value for us other than what we give it. The value we assign something is our belief about it.
A belief isn't a fact. That is why we call it a belief. It is more likely a habit that is so entrenched and convincing that we can't imagine having a different one. Therefore we believe it. And a belief is always open to question, examination, and change. Isn't that good news?
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Friday, October 23, 2015
Why Do We Fight?
We believe that the world we see is the real world. From moment to moment, we believe that what our eyes (and ears and hands and noses) tell us is reality. It doesn't, from moment to moment, occur to us that the world we see is one of perception: what we choose to see, or what we allow ourselves to see. We think that the world we see with our eyes is objective reality. We believe that there is a "me" and then there is an "everyone else." And we draw that world into divisions: the bad guys and the good guys. I am, of course, a good guy. It's the other person who has the problem. It's the other guy who's wrong. It's the other guy who needs to be put in his place or taught a lesson or punished or who "needs killin'". If I can overlook his deeds -- the ones that cause what I call harm -- then I am being forgiving. And I am letting him get away with something, even though he "deserves" some comeuppance. But I am generous and kind, so I forgive him. Which just goes to show you how good I am. And you know what, I am still good if I decide not to be so charitable. Because if I get mad at him, and, moreover, if I take some action against him, it's understandable, because he "had it coming." Because he's the bad guy, I am still the good guy whether or not I decide to forgive him or not. As the good guy, it's my right to bestow or withhold forgiveness. Because that's reality.
The problem here -- quotation marks aside, because we've all felt this way, admittedly or not -- is the assumption beneath all of it, that attack is justified. (Well, mine is. Because it's an answer to what was clearly a wrongdoing, and wrongdoings need answering.) Attack, we think, is justified, because my view about what that guy did is justified. That is, if my view is based on perception. Which, if I attempt to justify attack, it is. Perception is what keeps us seeing and living in a world based on fear and separation, which doesn't reflect the reality - the actual one - that we are all one. As The Course in Miracles says, if we see a world where attack of any sort is justified, it is because we are using our perception -- the view of a world full of attackers and victims -- to justify our own attack, or even our instinct to attack. In other words, if I see you as attacking me, it is only to justify my attack against you. The attack may be with weapons or even words. It might just be about feelings. If I feel anger at you, that is a form of attack, if a quiet one. It is all the same in content if not in form. It all points to my perception that you and I are separate, and that we are vulnerable, and that if one of us is right it means that one of us is wrong.
To be clear, no one is advocating a free-for-all on crime. No one is saying that a murderer shouldn't be removed from society or that a thief be made to repay his debts. What is being said, however, is that once you have moved from assessment of the deed to assessment of the person, you have put yourself in the position of the divine arbiter -- God, the Universe, whatever you prefer to call it -- who places a value on the person. In reality, I am pretty sure none of us has enough knowledge of another human being to decide whether they are a valuable person or not. A man is not merely the sum total of his actions. So, in reality, where we are talking about the value of a person, each one of us is love, each one of us is part of the whole, and no one else has the right or the capability to bestow a mantle of relative value to the rest of us. And if we're seeing through those eyes -- the ones that tell us that, in reality, every person deserves to be loved -- we can address the action, surely. But we can't address the value of the person. Keeping that in mind, we are more likely to come up with compassionate answers to form (in the present case, the murder or the theft).
If you believe that someone has sinned against you (and I'm using the term "sin" colloquially rather than Biblically), it is because you have decided that you live in a world where sin is possible. In reality, attacks aren't possible, because in reality we are love, we are reflections of the divine which made us. But we don't see that world -- that real world. We see the world we want to see: one where attack is real, where hate is real, where anything that isn't love is real. Why would we want to see this awful world, instead of actual reality, where none of these things are real? Because to see a world full of hatred, resentment, jealousy, and fear justifies our hatred, resentment, jealousy, and fear. The choice to see this illusory, terrible world is what lets us see it. It isn't real. We just think it is, because we still think hate is real, because we need to justify our own hate. We need to justify our own hate because we need to keep ourselves safe. We need to attack. We need to defend. This is why we fight.
No one is saying that you should not defend your body when it is attacked. The difference is this: you do not need to defend yourself. Your self is fine. It cannot be attacked. It cannot be harmed. It needs no defense. If you need to fend off an attack, it is because a body is attacking you. A person isn't. A person can't, whether they think they can or intend to or not. Only a person's body can attack your body. And you have every right to fend off or discourage a bodily assault, just as you have every right to ask that justice be served if someone steals from you. But there is no reason to perpetrate punishment -- attack -- on a person. In reality, a person's self cannot be attacked, because in reality, a person is love, just as you are, and love neither attacks nor suffers it. But if you and your enemy -- so-called, because there are no enemies in love -- believe in attack, then refrain from attacking the person. Defend an action, but don't attack a person. That is the first step toward undoing the perception of reality and toward the knowledge of reality, which is love. In other words, decry and take action about a deed. But remind yourself that a person is not capable of evil. Only of a mistake. It is your perception that makes it evil. Nothing is anything without the label you give it.
The reason we fight is to justify our impulse to fight, because we want to believe that we are separate from each other. We don't want to deny our impulse -- we think it is inevitable, because this is just the way the world works. That's just reality, we think. It's not, though. It is the reality we have made in our resistance to actual reality. If we continue to perceive the world as a place of attack, and some people as worthy of attack, then there will always be attack. But if we can move our perception to knowledge, view others' attacks as mistakes or need for healing, then we will begin to see reality, which is love. And we won't even feel the need to attack back, much less attack first.
The problem here -- quotation marks aside, because we've all felt this way, admittedly or not -- is the assumption beneath all of it, that attack is justified. (Well, mine is. Because it's an answer to what was clearly a wrongdoing, and wrongdoings need answering.) Attack, we think, is justified, because my view about what that guy did is justified. That is, if my view is based on perception. Which, if I attempt to justify attack, it is. Perception is what keeps us seeing and living in a world based on fear and separation, which doesn't reflect the reality - the actual one - that we are all one. As The Course in Miracles says, if we see a world where attack of any sort is justified, it is because we are using our perception -- the view of a world full of attackers and victims -- to justify our own attack, or even our instinct to attack. In other words, if I see you as attacking me, it is only to justify my attack against you. The attack may be with weapons or even words. It might just be about feelings. If I feel anger at you, that is a form of attack, if a quiet one. It is all the same in content if not in form. It all points to my perception that you and I are separate, and that we are vulnerable, and that if one of us is right it means that one of us is wrong.
To be clear, no one is advocating a free-for-all on crime. No one is saying that a murderer shouldn't be removed from society or that a thief be made to repay his debts. What is being said, however, is that once you have moved from assessment of the deed to assessment of the person, you have put yourself in the position of the divine arbiter -- God, the Universe, whatever you prefer to call it -- who places a value on the person. In reality, I am pretty sure none of us has enough knowledge of another human being to decide whether they are a valuable person or not. A man is not merely the sum total of his actions. So, in reality, where we are talking about the value of a person, each one of us is love, each one of us is part of the whole, and no one else has the right or the capability to bestow a mantle of relative value to the rest of us. And if we're seeing through those eyes -- the ones that tell us that, in reality, every person deserves to be loved -- we can address the action, surely. But we can't address the value of the person. Keeping that in mind, we are more likely to come up with compassionate answers to form (in the present case, the murder or the theft).
If you believe that someone has sinned against you (and I'm using the term "sin" colloquially rather than Biblically), it is because you have decided that you live in a world where sin is possible. In reality, attacks aren't possible, because in reality we are love, we are reflections of the divine which made us. But we don't see that world -- that real world. We see the world we want to see: one where attack is real, where hate is real, where anything that isn't love is real. Why would we want to see this awful world, instead of actual reality, where none of these things are real? Because to see a world full of hatred, resentment, jealousy, and fear justifies our hatred, resentment, jealousy, and fear. The choice to see this illusory, terrible world is what lets us see it. It isn't real. We just think it is, because we still think hate is real, because we need to justify our own hate. We need to justify our own hate because we need to keep ourselves safe. We need to attack. We need to defend. This is why we fight.
No one is saying that you should not defend your body when it is attacked. The difference is this: you do not need to defend yourself. Your self is fine. It cannot be attacked. It cannot be harmed. It needs no defense. If you need to fend off an attack, it is because a body is attacking you. A person isn't. A person can't, whether they think they can or intend to or not. Only a person's body can attack your body. And you have every right to fend off or discourage a bodily assault, just as you have every right to ask that justice be served if someone steals from you. But there is no reason to perpetrate punishment -- attack -- on a person. In reality, a person's self cannot be attacked, because in reality, a person is love, just as you are, and love neither attacks nor suffers it. But if you and your enemy -- so-called, because there are no enemies in love -- believe in attack, then refrain from attacking the person. Defend an action, but don't attack a person. That is the first step toward undoing the perception of reality and toward the knowledge of reality, which is love. In other words, decry and take action about a deed. But remind yourself that a person is not capable of evil. Only of a mistake. It is your perception that makes it evil. Nothing is anything without the label you give it.
The reason we fight is to justify our impulse to fight, because we want to believe that we are separate from each other. We don't want to deny our impulse -- we think it is inevitable, because this is just the way the world works. That's just reality, we think. It's not, though. It is the reality we have made in our resistance to actual reality. If we continue to perceive the world as a place of attack, and some people as worthy of attack, then there will always be attack. But if we can move our perception to knowledge, view others' attacks as mistakes or need for healing, then we will begin to see reality, which is love. And we won't even feel the need to attack back, much less attack first.
Narcissism...The (New) Scourge
You read a lot these days about the rise of narcissism in our culture, as if it's a new phenomenon. It's not, of course; narcissism has been around since people have been around. The difference is, these days, it's a trend to apply the label to the aspects of our culture that are alarming to many who have grown up seeing them change. Somehow we used to be a warmer, more cohesive, community-oriented society, whose emphasis was on connections between and among people and not on the individual. Apparently, in the era before Facebook, reality TV and the immediate gratification that internet- and cellphone-based links to others deliver, we were naturally more predetermined to search out others to meet our need for community. Now that we have these easy vehicles for self-promotion and proclamation, we are becoming more and more self-centered. Walk by the self-help shelf (shelves) in the bookstore and increasingly you see space taken up by volumes short and long, scientific and not so, all warning the world of its impending Narcissism Crisis. Because before two or more generations of children were brought up latch-key, before helicopter parents were named as such, and before self-esteem became more popular than achievement (oh, an entire article, that last one, but sooo overdone), we were a smaller village. Before kids came home to online games and chat rooms after school, they played street ball and Barbies at each other's houses, which taught them how to get along and interact with actual other children, as opposed to now, when all kids know how to do is say what they want, communicate their own needs, and expect everyone to understand. Before all this new-fangled tech stuff that encourages isolation and chest-beating, before kids had to fend for themselves because nobody was at home to nurture them, and before we all had access to communication vehicles like instant and text messaging, we were a better people. A tighter-knit people. A kinder, less selfish, more altruistic people.
Mmkay.
In a speech in July of 2015, Pope Francis called the individualism that he sees everywhere a form of "bondage." He spoke of the brand of individual consciousness that he sees in these times as a precursor to "despondency," meaning that when people focus on themselves more than they do on others, they lose something of their humanity. Compassion and care for others besides the self become secondary to gains in individual material wealth, power, and status. The Pope has frequently emphasized what he sees as a loss of communal care and of morally necessary and enriching traits such as service to the poor and ensuring social and economic justice. He has bemoaned what he sees as a decrease in care for others as a result of an increase in greed, focus on personal achievement, and immediate, relatively grand-scale gratification.
In his book The Narcissist Next Door: Understanding the Monster in Your Family, in Your Office, in Your Bed-in Your World, author Jeffrey Kruger points at modern politics, celebrity, business, and athletics to showcase the narcissism we see in our present world. He doesn't claim that narcissism is a new phenomenon. He does, however, maintain that the heights to which it can reach are magnified -- and thus, worsened -- by the spotlight that current trends in broadcasting shine on it. His popular culture targets include Donald Trump, Chris Christie, Bernie Madoff, and LeBron James -- all figures who have made an art form out of the word "I" -- and he admits that they are extreme examples meant to serve as either icons or warnings, depending on your bent. Your bent, he further opines, is likelier than ever to be on the narcissistic side itself, simply because you live in and are subjected to the showmanship of our current culture. He does differentiate between the "everyday, self-obsessed, pay-attention-to-me narcissist" - the narcissist you or I, as current occupants of the culture, are in danger of being -- and the larger-than-life examples of the "love-me-ism" on view in the personages of Trump, Madoff, et al. But his tone of objective social observation is belied by the very terms he uses -- love-me-ism being one -- as an actual criticism. If he is right, we have got a bad situation on our hands. A state, as Pope Francis might say, of individualism at the expense of the common good.
The Pope's speech in July, given at a meeting of World Popular Movements in conjunction with the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace and the Academy of Social Sciences, was actually an entreaty to the world's governments and business leaders, at whose feet Francis has laid much of the entrenched poverty and social injustice he sees globally. His view is that the people with the most power have made keeping that power their prime objective, rather than what he sees as their real obligation, that is, the raising of all boats with their own tides. He claims that those whose tides have risen in recent decades have not only left other boats in drydock, but have also, in some calamitous instances, intentionally capsized or drowned them. This particular speech -- and many before and since -- have focused on the egregious and purposeful disenfranchisement perpetrated on those who have less by those who have more. Rather than communism, Francis calls consistently for collectivism, a system in which every person is valuable and by which great power, be it financial or political, demands great responsibility. But his finger remains indirectly pointed toward each of us individually, too, even if we are not CEOs or Congresspeople. He implies as often as he can that too much emphasis on personal, individual goals can mean trampled neighbors.
The Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM), now in its 5th edition, is the standard manual for diagnosis of psychiatric and mental disorders. "Narcissism," as such, is not a diagnosis according to the DSM; rather it categorizes Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) as one of several personality disorders, which generally account for a broad range of traits that cause people difficulty socially, impacting their ability to work, make meaningful connections, and behave in socially acceptable ways. The list of traits that manifest in a person with NPD are recognized as:
We all know people who fall into this range of traits and resulting behaviors. We have certainly seen the extreme examples like Mr. Trump or Mr. James. Most of us have a co-worker or family member or friend or two to whom we feel a connection, perhaps because of a history of relationship or loyalty, that we can place in the narcissist category. Often these people are charismatic, clever, and magnetic, and draw us in because, in the short term, they are good company -- funny, sparkly, and even kind when it suits them (often their gestures of kindness are grand, which may impress us at first). But most of us have also experienced the let-down that comes from spending more and longer periods of time with the narcissist (a term the DSM V does not necessarily condone, as it is colloquial) when they eventually show their true colors. When they lose their temper or become nasty when someone doesn't agree with them. When they hog the conversation at dinner or in a meeting where they have nothing of more value to say than anyone else. The point is, they believe they do. They think their idea is the best one just because it is their idea. We come to know these things after knowing someone for a period of time and over a variety of situations. Often by then we are in a relationship -- work, romantic, friendly -- and we begin to wish, sometimes at first with only a small voice, that we weren't. The things that used to be funny or endearing or merely peculiar now become redder and redder flags. And we wonder why we didn't see it earlier. And we start asking ourselves, "How did I ever let this behavior slide before? Why didn't I see it for what it was? This person doesn't care about me. They only appear to, so they can get something from me." And so on. Then you are left with a decision about how to get out, or, at least, minimize contact. Or minimize damage. Because the grossest thing a narcissist does to another person is take. They take without giving. Or they take a lot and only give a little, to preserve at least the appearance of giving. The ways in which this may manifest are myriad, but most of us know what this feels like. It is damaging, especially if you have no tools to undo it. You can choose, or not, to be hurt by what someone says. But if they have used your money or your resources for their own needs and have no thought of repayment, your loss is tangible. How you feel about it may be a choice. But building back a sense of reliance on your own instincts, like repairing an injured credit rating, can be difficult if that reliance is scarred. You are now doubting your own judgment. Such is the insidious effect of the narcissist's emotional reach.
According to the Pope, and to writers like Jeffrey Kruger, we are seeing an overabundance of narcissism the likes of which we have never experienced in Western society. I am not sure this is true -- there have always been narcissists. See Alexander the Great. Napoleon. The robber barons of the American nineteenth century. Ghandi. FDR. Hitler. Their actions, for good or bad, do not negate their grandiose sense of self-worth. Whether or not Mahatmas brought a revolution of peaceful thought to millions probably did not make it easier to sit at the breakfast table with him. But what both the Pontiff and other thinkers of our time may be onto is the overwhelming sense of insecurity of our time, at least partly driven by the constant assault of images and headlines. We live in a world that is increasingly smaller and increasingly less personal. We equate time online with gaming buddies with time outside playing hide-and-seek. Families are more often broken than they used to be, and more children are being raised by one parent rather than two, much less a village, because we have things like suburban subdivisions (not to mention triple-locked apartment doors) rather than neighborhoods. A mother who calls another mother to let her know her concern for her child whom she just saw in a precarious situation is likelier than ever to be told to mind her own business. We see our business as ours and yours as yours. We seem to have forgotten that we need to have some sense of shared business if we are to call ourselves a community.
We are able to put a conversation on hold - perhaps eternally -- if we suddenly feel bored by it or uncomfortable, or distracted by something else, because instant messaging and texting isn't the same as speaking in person. We can cut people off without immediate consequence simply by switching screens. Then we are bewildered when we see them on the street and they avoid us. Or confront us. Perhaps it is valid to view the electronic and the in-person portions parts of the same conversation. But talking without speaking cannot possibly be as whole a conversation as one across a table or a pillow. In fact, in a sense, the latter is the conversation, while the former is merely two parties taking turns talking. Each in their own little world.
All of these things are open to interpretation and expansion, of course, and there are positive aspects, too, like privacy and self-preservation. But some privacy is just insularity and some self-preservation is just a reaction to regular old discomfort. We used to have to learn to get through these parts of life. Now we merely dismiss them. This is a conversation in itself. What I am getting at here is the perhaps valid concern that our pendulum, as a reaction to perceived danger and possible over-sharing (see: nightly pics of "what I made for dinner" or weekly updates on "what I think about Election 2016," not to mention oops-pics of ex-spouses or celebrities) has swung us to a more and more closed culture. There is nothing wrong with a little quiet time or introvertedness. But we all lose, I think, when we become individual physical bodies with fewer and fewer cords to link us together. We become fearful and self-protective. And sometimes that little interior pendulum swings too far in response and self-protection becomes self-aggrandizement, or, at the very least, self-centeredness.
I am thinking, as a simile, of the difference between assertiveness and aggression. Similarly, there is a difference between self-esteem and selfishness. Between confidence and arrogance. Between concern for others and concern that others be your handmaidens or whipping boys.
I don't think we are at a crisis level yet (except insofar as the Pope does, when he refers to the financial and social economies of the world these days). And I do think there is a way to balance the scales between a frightened, insular society and a free-for-all on morality and inhibition. That pendulum has a way of swinging back into place. Rarely does it slow down and remain in the middle, though, and, essentially, that is what most of us are seeking most of the time.
Maybe a little self-examination is what is in order, then. From the lessons a parent teaches his child to the way a CEO handles her company, maybe some questions need to be asked. Do you think you deserve more than someone else? Do you think you are more valuable? What does the word 'special' mean to you? And...What can you do for someone else? What is an acceptable cost to yourself? Why do you view it as a cost? Do you understand that it is not necessarily a sacrifice to give to someone else, even if it means you go without? It will, after all, benefit you somehow, in the end.
I guess that last statement is the last question. When do we stop thinking, consciously or unconsciously, of the benefit to ourselves? And when does the answer to that question mean we have left self-esteem and entered self-centeredness? When do we use the label Narcissism when we are talking about ourselves?
Mmkay.
In a speech in July of 2015, Pope Francis called the individualism that he sees everywhere a form of "bondage." He spoke of the brand of individual consciousness that he sees in these times as a precursor to "despondency," meaning that when people focus on themselves more than they do on others, they lose something of their humanity. Compassion and care for others besides the self become secondary to gains in individual material wealth, power, and status. The Pope has frequently emphasized what he sees as a loss of communal care and of morally necessary and enriching traits such as service to the poor and ensuring social and economic justice. He has bemoaned what he sees as a decrease in care for others as a result of an increase in greed, focus on personal achievement, and immediate, relatively grand-scale gratification.
In his book The Narcissist Next Door: Understanding the Monster in Your Family, in Your Office, in Your Bed-in Your World, author Jeffrey Kruger points at modern politics, celebrity, business, and athletics to showcase the narcissism we see in our present world. He doesn't claim that narcissism is a new phenomenon. He does, however, maintain that the heights to which it can reach are magnified -- and thus, worsened -- by the spotlight that current trends in broadcasting shine on it. His popular culture targets include Donald Trump, Chris Christie, Bernie Madoff, and LeBron James -- all figures who have made an art form out of the word "I" -- and he admits that they are extreme examples meant to serve as either icons or warnings, depending on your bent. Your bent, he further opines, is likelier than ever to be on the narcissistic side itself, simply because you live in and are subjected to the showmanship of our current culture. He does differentiate between the "everyday, self-obsessed, pay-attention-to-me narcissist" - the narcissist you or I, as current occupants of the culture, are in danger of being -- and the larger-than-life examples of the "love-me-ism" on view in the personages of Trump, Madoff, et al. But his tone of objective social observation is belied by the very terms he uses -- love-me-ism being one -- as an actual criticism. If he is right, we have got a bad situation on our hands. A state, as Pope Francis might say, of individualism at the expense of the common good.
The Pope's speech in July, given at a meeting of World Popular Movements in conjunction with the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace and the Academy of Social Sciences, was actually an entreaty to the world's governments and business leaders, at whose feet Francis has laid much of the entrenched poverty and social injustice he sees globally. His view is that the people with the most power have made keeping that power their prime objective, rather than what he sees as their real obligation, that is, the raising of all boats with their own tides. He claims that those whose tides have risen in recent decades have not only left other boats in drydock, but have also, in some calamitous instances, intentionally capsized or drowned them. This particular speech -- and many before and since -- have focused on the egregious and purposeful disenfranchisement perpetrated on those who have less by those who have more. Rather than communism, Francis calls consistently for collectivism, a system in which every person is valuable and by which great power, be it financial or political, demands great responsibility. But his finger remains indirectly pointed toward each of us individually, too, even if we are not CEOs or Congresspeople. He implies as often as he can that too much emphasis on personal, individual goals can mean trampled neighbors.
The Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM), now in its 5th edition, is the standard manual for diagnosis of psychiatric and mental disorders. "Narcissism," as such, is not a diagnosis according to the DSM; rather it categorizes Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) as one of several personality disorders, which generally account for a broad range of traits that cause people difficulty socially, impacting their ability to work, make meaningful connections, and behave in socially acceptable ways. The list of traits that manifest in a person with NPD are recognized as:
- Having an exaggerated sense of self-importance
- Expecting to be recognized as superior even without achievements that warrant it
- Exaggerating your achievements and talents
- Being preoccupied with fantasies about success, power, brilliance, beauty or the perfect mate
- Believing that you are superior and can only be understood by or associate with equally special people
- Requiring constant admiration
- Having a sense of entitlement
- Expecting special favors and unquestioning compliance with your expectations
- Taking advantage of others to get what you want
- Having an inability or unwillingness to recognize the needs and feelings of others
- Being envious of others and believing others envy you
- Behaving in an arrogant or haughty manner
We all know people who fall into this range of traits and resulting behaviors. We have certainly seen the extreme examples like Mr. Trump or Mr. James. Most of us have a co-worker or family member or friend or two to whom we feel a connection, perhaps because of a history of relationship or loyalty, that we can place in the narcissist category. Often these people are charismatic, clever, and magnetic, and draw us in because, in the short term, they are good company -- funny, sparkly, and even kind when it suits them (often their gestures of kindness are grand, which may impress us at first). But most of us have also experienced the let-down that comes from spending more and longer periods of time with the narcissist (a term the DSM V does not necessarily condone, as it is colloquial) when they eventually show their true colors. When they lose their temper or become nasty when someone doesn't agree with them. When they hog the conversation at dinner or in a meeting where they have nothing of more value to say than anyone else. The point is, they believe they do. They think their idea is the best one just because it is their idea. We come to know these things after knowing someone for a period of time and over a variety of situations. Often by then we are in a relationship -- work, romantic, friendly -- and we begin to wish, sometimes at first with only a small voice, that we weren't. The things that used to be funny or endearing or merely peculiar now become redder and redder flags. And we wonder why we didn't see it earlier. And we start asking ourselves, "How did I ever let this behavior slide before? Why didn't I see it for what it was? This person doesn't care about me. They only appear to, so they can get something from me." And so on. Then you are left with a decision about how to get out, or, at least, minimize contact. Or minimize damage. Because the grossest thing a narcissist does to another person is take. They take without giving. Or they take a lot and only give a little, to preserve at least the appearance of giving. The ways in which this may manifest are myriad, but most of us know what this feels like. It is damaging, especially if you have no tools to undo it. You can choose, or not, to be hurt by what someone says. But if they have used your money or your resources for their own needs and have no thought of repayment, your loss is tangible. How you feel about it may be a choice. But building back a sense of reliance on your own instincts, like repairing an injured credit rating, can be difficult if that reliance is scarred. You are now doubting your own judgment. Such is the insidious effect of the narcissist's emotional reach.
According to the Pope, and to writers like Jeffrey Kruger, we are seeing an overabundance of narcissism the likes of which we have never experienced in Western society. I am not sure this is true -- there have always been narcissists. See Alexander the Great. Napoleon. The robber barons of the American nineteenth century. Ghandi. FDR. Hitler. Their actions, for good or bad, do not negate their grandiose sense of self-worth. Whether or not Mahatmas brought a revolution of peaceful thought to millions probably did not make it easier to sit at the breakfast table with him. But what both the Pontiff and other thinkers of our time may be onto is the overwhelming sense of insecurity of our time, at least partly driven by the constant assault of images and headlines. We live in a world that is increasingly smaller and increasingly less personal. We equate time online with gaming buddies with time outside playing hide-and-seek. Families are more often broken than they used to be, and more children are being raised by one parent rather than two, much less a village, because we have things like suburban subdivisions (not to mention triple-locked apartment doors) rather than neighborhoods. A mother who calls another mother to let her know her concern for her child whom she just saw in a precarious situation is likelier than ever to be told to mind her own business. We see our business as ours and yours as yours. We seem to have forgotten that we need to have some sense of shared business if we are to call ourselves a community.
We are able to put a conversation on hold - perhaps eternally -- if we suddenly feel bored by it or uncomfortable, or distracted by something else, because instant messaging and texting isn't the same as speaking in person. We can cut people off without immediate consequence simply by switching screens. Then we are bewildered when we see them on the street and they avoid us. Or confront us. Perhaps it is valid to view the electronic and the in-person portions parts of the same conversation. But talking without speaking cannot possibly be as whole a conversation as one across a table or a pillow. In fact, in a sense, the latter is the conversation, while the former is merely two parties taking turns talking. Each in their own little world.
All of these things are open to interpretation and expansion, of course, and there are positive aspects, too, like privacy and self-preservation. But some privacy is just insularity and some self-preservation is just a reaction to regular old discomfort. We used to have to learn to get through these parts of life. Now we merely dismiss them. This is a conversation in itself. What I am getting at here is the perhaps valid concern that our pendulum, as a reaction to perceived danger and possible over-sharing (see: nightly pics of "what I made for dinner" or weekly updates on "what I think about Election 2016," not to mention oops-pics of ex-spouses or celebrities) has swung us to a more and more closed culture. There is nothing wrong with a little quiet time or introvertedness. But we all lose, I think, when we become individual physical bodies with fewer and fewer cords to link us together. We become fearful and self-protective. And sometimes that little interior pendulum swings too far in response and self-protection becomes self-aggrandizement, or, at the very least, self-centeredness.
I am thinking, as a simile, of the difference between assertiveness and aggression. Similarly, there is a difference between self-esteem and selfishness. Between confidence and arrogance. Between concern for others and concern that others be your handmaidens or whipping boys.
I don't think we are at a crisis level yet (except insofar as the Pope does, when he refers to the financial and social economies of the world these days). And I do think there is a way to balance the scales between a frightened, insular society and a free-for-all on morality and inhibition. That pendulum has a way of swinging back into place. Rarely does it slow down and remain in the middle, though, and, essentially, that is what most of us are seeking most of the time.
Maybe a little self-examination is what is in order, then. From the lessons a parent teaches his child to the way a CEO handles her company, maybe some questions need to be asked. Do you think you deserve more than someone else? Do you think you are more valuable? What does the word 'special' mean to you? And...What can you do for someone else? What is an acceptable cost to yourself? Why do you view it as a cost? Do you understand that it is not necessarily a sacrifice to give to someone else, even if it means you go without? It will, after all, benefit you somehow, in the end.
I guess that last statement is the last question. When do we stop thinking, consciously or unconsciously, of the benefit to ourselves? And when does the answer to that question mean we have left self-esteem and entered self-centeredness? When do we use the label Narcissism when we are talking about ourselves?
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
How Did I Get Here?
I was brought across a chasm from a place where there was no 'I.' When I got here I couldn't remember any more than that - no sounds or sights or feelings from that place before. If it even was a place. All I can remember is that yawning, gaping chasm that fell beneath me like an eternal, black well. Silence. Fear. Flesh. I felt them as I took them on, as they flew toward me from the nothingness, that black silence, that impenetrable darkness that was separating me from my earlier home. All at once I had these constraints, these limbs, these eyes, these hands, and it was only because I now had them that I knew I hadn't had them before. Now I knew there was an I, although I didn't know what that meant.
As I flew, or drifted, for I had no gauge for the speed at which I traveled, all I knew was grief, for a time, although time, too, was indistinguishable from a singular point. It washed over me like a tide, drowning me in despair and loss, and as I reached out I could feel nothing else. Where and what and who I had been, when I hadn't been self-aware, was gone, like a drop of water vanquished by sunlight. My bereavement was thick, like a scar covering my entire soul. It was only in turning toward that conceit, that there was a self, that there was a soul, and they were me, that the depthless dark hole of abandonment and wholeness rent asunder began to retreat. If I turned toward this new knowledge, this new way, I could begin to slide that solid, black pain first to the corner of my vision, then, gradually, to shun it to the most distant recesses of what I was coming to know as my mind. I found that if I didn't see it, I didn't have to look at it. And if I didn't look at it, I didn't have to see it. And I began to breathe. In this new way of being, this was relief.
I looked around and soon could see the others who had not been others when they had been with me in that place before. They had not been anything. And now they were here. With me. We were here. The chasm was gone, as was the hard, smashing pain of leaving behind what I could no longer remember. For a moment I could still feel them inside me, us all together, when we were one. But then I remembered that I was. I was. And so they were too. And were each an I. And soon I forgot that there was anything but I. And there was a world. A world full of beings called 'I.' And I grew happy to be lost in it, and to be left to my own devices.
As I flew, or drifted, for I had no gauge for the speed at which I traveled, all I knew was grief, for a time, although time, too, was indistinguishable from a singular point. It washed over me like a tide, drowning me in despair and loss, and as I reached out I could feel nothing else. Where and what and who I had been, when I hadn't been self-aware, was gone, like a drop of water vanquished by sunlight. My bereavement was thick, like a scar covering my entire soul. It was only in turning toward that conceit, that there was a self, that there was a soul, and they were me, that the depthless dark hole of abandonment and wholeness rent asunder began to retreat. If I turned toward this new knowledge, this new way, I could begin to slide that solid, black pain first to the corner of my vision, then, gradually, to shun it to the most distant recesses of what I was coming to know as my mind. I found that if I didn't see it, I didn't have to look at it. And if I didn't look at it, I didn't have to see it. And I began to breathe. In this new way of being, this was relief.
I looked around and soon could see the others who had not been others when they had been with me in that place before. They had not been anything. And now they were here. With me. We were here. The chasm was gone, as was the hard, smashing pain of leaving behind what I could no longer remember. For a moment I could still feel them inside me, us all together, when we were one. But then I remembered that I was. I was. And so they were too. And were each an I. And soon I forgot that there was anything but I. And there was a world. A world full of beings called 'I.' And I grew happy to be lost in it, and to be left to my own devices.
Friday, October 9, 2015
It Is Perfect
If everything were already perfect and there was nothing left to strive for, then what would you do? Does it ever feel like the life you want is visible, but just out of reach, and that you are at some convergence of getting close to it and not getting it at all?
Most of us exist in a state of being where we believe everything we see, touch, feel, hear, and taste is real, and we wonder why it is that we can't get to the thing or place or experience that we want. We have somehow convinced ourselves that the way to fix things is to...well, fix them. But we never will. That isn't possible. That isn't what's real. It's like seeing a photograph of a broken toy and trying to fix the toy by fixing the photograph.
When did we lose the knowledge that the only thing that is real is love and the only means to it peace and joy? How did we let that wisdom wither?
The Course in Miracles says that this world we experience with our physical senses is an illusion. It is a construct we've created out of our misplaced alignment with fear. It is what we have made so that we can keep our selves contained inside physical bodies that seem to be real and seem to be separate from each other, me over here and you over there, because somewhere along the way we forgot that there is really only one of us here. That sounds preposterous if you believe with your physical eyes. But at some level - where we can see through other eyes - we know it's true. We tell ourselves that the joy and elation we feel in dreaming, laughing, dancing, and loving is an illusion. In the end, "reality" will set back in, we say. But the Course tells us that we have it backwards. It is peace and joy that are real. What we call reality is the illusion we have made because we are more comfortable with fear and separation than with love and oneness.
Buried deep there is something in you that knows it's true. Like most of us who aren't enlightened masters, you go through each day with a vague sense of knowing you just don't have it quite right, that you somehow aren't who or where you're supposed to be, but you're not sure even what that would look like. But there is something in you that knows that you're supposed to be more connected. Still you find it easier to criticize than to sympathize. It's more comfortable to keep your distance than to draw close. It seems more natural to point out differences than to find similarities with those who are "other." You know what it means when I use the term "other." And you wonder why you still ever feel lonely. Or afraid of anything. Or directionless. Or not good enough.
The truth is, we are perfect. Not the "we" we have made for ourselves, but the "we" that we were made to be- in reality. The truth is, we are nothing but love. The truth is, we are one, because there is only one of us, and what you do for another you do for yourself - because there is no difference. The two are the same. The two are one.
So, you see, there is nothing left to strive for. We are perfect already. The only reason for this physical existence is to learn what it is we aren't, so that we can begin to reassemble - to
re-member - who we are. I am you, and you are me, and we are one. That's what love is for, and it is what love becomes. And every time you feel, show, or give love, you have reassembled one more piece. You know how it feels. How could that feeling ever be the illusion? The illusion is made clear whenever what we feel is NOT love. And that is just another chance to shine the light of reality - love - into the darkness that is fear, separateness, and desolation. You don't have to throw your arms around everyone you see. You don't even have to like them. But you can see them for who they are - a reflection of you, because you are the same - and love them, just like someone, somewhere, loves you.
Most of us exist in a state of being where we believe everything we see, touch, feel, hear, and taste is real, and we wonder why it is that we can't get to the thing or place or experience that we want. We have somehow convinced ourselves that the way to fix things is to...well, fix them. But we never will. That isn't possible. That isn't what's real. It's like seeing a photograph of a broken toy and trying to fix the toy by fixing the photograph.
When did we lose the knowledge that the only thing that is real is love and the only means to it peace and joy? How did we let that wisdom wither?
The Course in Miracles says that this world we experience with our physical senses is an illusion. It is a construct we've created out of our misplaced alignment with fear. It is what we have made so that we can keep our selves contained inside physical bodies that seem to be real and seem to be separate from each other, me over here and you over there, because somewhere along the way we forgot that there is really only one of us here. That sounds preposterous if you believe with your physical eyes. But at some level - where we can see through other eyes - we know it's true. We tell ourselves that the joy and elation we feel in dreaming, laughing, dancing, and loving is an illusion. In the end, "reality" will set back in, we say. But the Course tells us that we have it backwards. It is peace and joy that are real. What we call reality is the illusion we have made because we are more comfortable with fear and separation than with love and oneness.
Buried deep there is something in you that knows it's true. Like most of us who aren't enlightened masters, you go through each day with a vague sense of knowing you just don't have it quite right, that you somehow aren't who or where you're supposed to be, but you're not sure even what that would look like. But there is something in you that knows that you're supposed to be more connected. Still you find it easier to criticize than to sympathize. It's more comfortable to keep your distance than to draw close. It seems more natural to point out differences than to find similarities with those who are "other." You know what it means when I use the term "other." And you wonder why you still ever feel lonely. Or afraid of anything. Or directionless. Or not good enough.
The truth is, we are perfect. Not the "we" we have made for ourselves, but the "we" that we were made to be- in reality. The truth is, we are nothing but love. The truth is, we are one, because there is only one of us, and what you do for another you do for yourself - because there is no difference. The two are the same. The two are one.
So, you see, there is nothing left to strive for. We are perfect already. The only reason for this physical existence is to learn what it is we aren't, so that we can begin to reassemble - to
re-member - who we are. I am you, and you are me, and we are one. That's what love is for, and it is what love becomes. And every time you feel, show, or give love, you have reassembled one more piece. You know how it feels. How could that feeling ever be the illusion? The illusion is made clear whenever what we feel is NOT love. And that is just another chance to shine the light of reality - love - into the darkness that is fear, separateness, and desolation. You don't have to throw your arms around everyone you see. You don't even have to like them. But you can see them for who they are - a reflection of you, because you are the same - and love them, just like someone, somewhere, loves you.
Monday, October 5, 2015
WORK of HEART
Work of Heart Why mental and spiritual health seems like hard work
"Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go..."
(Bonnie Raitt, "Angel from Montgomery")
First, let's define some terms.
For the purposes of this article, let's agree that mental health is a state of mind/brain, that is, the convergence of biological structures and chemical processes that results in emotions, like joy and sadness, and states of mind, like love and despair. Included here are the effects of nature and nurture - genetics and environment - on how we think, feel, process events and situations, and lean in any given moment toward love or fear. Attraction, revulsion, elation, and fight-or-flight responses can be included here, with the caveat that these are changeable depending on where one is in time and circumstance.
Spiritual health, on the other hand, is less defined, and less definable. In my mind, it is where and who you are once you have passed thinking and feeling and are instead in a region where words are irrelevant, or are, at least, merely conveniences. Your spirit is what connects you to the divine, no matter what your definition of that is. It is what leads you beyond yourself. It's that space where knowing and feeling merge and where interconnectedness is tangible. It's what's in your (non-physical) heart.
We could conceivably argue about these definitions, but we are constrained by time and space, and for the sake of getting on with it, let's just start with the above.
Mental work is something with which we are all familiar. We sit at our desk all day and do it. We deliver lectures, keep files straight, remember which wire connects to which circuit, and keep children's schedules organized. We know how a long day of work, even if it involved very little physical activity, can wear us out. Mental health is what we achieve when we attend to our mental needs. We see a psychotherapist when we are depressed, or have been traumatized, or are just confused (and, of course, when there is clinical mental illness, such as bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, which are beyond the scope of this article. See Postscript below.). Even when we don't pursue therapy in a formal setting, we work on ourselves. Every time you ask yourself "Why do I do this?' or "Why do I feel this way?" you are in therapy with yourself. Some people do it naturally and without hesitation. Others set things aside, compartmentalize, or put things off until they become too large to ignore. Did you understand all the things I said in those last few sentences? Then you have done some measure of mental health work. In fact, if we were to sit down and discuss all those concepts, THAT would be mental health work.
Spiritual work isn't all that different, but because it is so ethereal, we have fewer defined terms to rely upon. When we are speaking in terms of faith, of "knowing" things without knowing them, or when we are tuned into something as subjective as inner peace, discussion points become a little less at-hand. To be clear, for the sake of this article, I am not referring to religious dogma, doctrine, or practice here, but rather the things that religion may (or may not) point to, such as relationship to the divine, or to the universe, when one is not only talking about planets and stars. As an example, if you have ever been in a group of people and been moved because you feel connected and close to them, as if your souls (or inner children, or higher selves, or whatever term you prefer) are in concert and joined at some level, then you have experienced spiritual connection. Definitions like this are perhaps a bit hazy.
People who "work" on themselves, or on their relationships with others, are "working" toward mental and, usually, spiritual health. When a person is well-adjusted, has relatively few bouts of anxiety or depression, and is able to function successfully throughout each day with a minimum of anguish or emotional struggle, we usually agree that he is mentally healthy. If someone is at peace with herself, sees her relationships as mostly harmonious, and feels as if she belongs to and is at home in her smaller world and the greater interconnected web of all things, we may call her spiritually healthy. Great. But most of us have something here or there - whether it's an illness, a relationship, a financial or power situation, or just about any other kind of circumstance, finite or existential - that keeps us from considering ourselves 100% healthy on either front. And here is where the work comes in. Those questions we ask. The self-examination we do (or put aside). The help we find in experts and counselors.
I once had a couple in my mediation practice who were having trouble in their marriage. They had grown apart and were finding that they were just very different as people, with different ways of seeing things. They both wanted to save their relationship and they agreed that a marriage counselor might help them find the solutions. The trouble was, they couldn't even begin the counseling from the same viewpoint. The wife wanted the counselor to delve deep into the issues and help explain why each saw things so differently from the other so that they could arrive at some kind of compromise. The husband, on the other hand, wanted the counselor to decide who was right and who was wrong. He wanted her to tell the wrong one what was needed to fix the problem, then help fix it. He wanted a quick solution. In his misery over his marriage, he just wanted a solution, like an antibiotic for an infection. He was dismayed when the counselor told him that the wife's idea - not to find fault but to explore each spouse's viewpoint so that each could better understand the other and endeavor to maximize the other's comfort level - was more what the therapist had in mind. The husband was immediately downcast and said "that's so much work. It will take too long."
Why did the husband consider it work? Why do we think exploring our feelings and habits and points-of-view - and those of others - is work? And why is it so hard?
I think that anytime you challenge yourself mentally or spiritually, it feels like work. You are asking yourself to consider something new. Perhaps the hardest part of this is the eventually possible conclusion that you may have been wrong about something. If you've thought or felt something for a long time and you then have to consider the possibility that you have been wrong all along, or that one solution does not fit all problems, the conclusion that you have been incorrect, or merely missing the mark, can be a hard pill to swallow. Why? Because of fear.
Fear is what keeps us stuck anywhere, it is what leads to and causes most of our anguish and upset, and it is the hardest habit to extinguish. Most of the time, fear about being wrong is unjustified. In the end, it is not so terrifying to realize that you have been wrong; you just hit reset and go on with emboldening new knowledge. Admit you have been wrong one time, and you will find it is not the end of the world. Anyone with any integrity will commend you for the strength to admit it. Yes, strength. Heaven forfend we admit we are wrong: politicians will tell you that that puts you in a weakened position. Let's not align ourselves with (most) politicians; we can guess how that will work out for us! In the end, remaining adamant that you are right in the face of insurmountable evidence to the contrary just makes you look impudent and stubborn, and, perhaps, self-indulgent and in denial. (Note to some politicians. You know who you are.) The overarching theme here is change. It is hard to change. It is hard to discipline your mind and remain calm and focused when it wants to ruminate over the personnel issues at work, the balance in the checking account, or the grocery list. It is hard to change habits and take the time to listen to someone else's ideas when for years you have relied on your own ingenuity to solve problems. It is hard to countenance the idea that one person is just as objectively valuable as another if you've been raised to think that some people deserve more. It is hard to admit you've been or are now wrong. Why? Again, fear. Fear that we have not done all that we could have. Fear that we have let someone else or ourselves down. Fear that we are not as wonderful as we have always thought we were. Or fear that we have not been as deserving of criticism. Yes, it can be scary to realize that you are pretty darn great when you have long had a habit of self-reproach. Habits serve a purpose: they allow us to be lazy and not do the work it would take to change.
Just because you've always done something a certain way does not mean it is the best way. Or even correct at all.
Think of this: if you have always eaten basically the same way and always gotten around the same amount of daily exercise, then you have probably always had more or less the same level of fitness and physical health, barring accidents or catastrophic illness. Then one day, at age 45 or so, you begin to see that those habits aren't cutting it. You've gained some weight. You ache here and there now and then. Some things have diminished, and others have sagged. "But," you protest, "I have always eaten properly and gotten enough exercise! What the heck is this?!" And your doctor says," Well, looks like it's time to change things up. A little more protein, a little less bread, some vitamins, and two hours more cardio every week, if you want to have something like what you've had."
" But," you protest further, "I've never had to do that before!"
" I know," soothes your doc. "But you need to do it now."
And you know your doctor is right. But you hate it. You've gotten used to the old routine. You've gotten used to it working. You don't want to change. To change means to admit the old way isn't working anymore. It means admitting the old way is...yep...wrong. At least if you want anything close to the results you're used to.
Same thing for mental and spiritual health. Like physical health, there is some discipline involved. Some reordering of habits when they become obsolete. Some examination of motives, needs met and unmet, and preferences. The most fundamental of whys and wherefores. Some insight into the excuses we make for ourselves. Is it your habit to feel guilty rather than to do the right thing? What is going to enable you to look yourself in the mirror at the end of your life? How is doing it this way serving you? How is it serving others? Which do you emphasize? Why? Is it tiresome to even ask yourself these questions? Is that why you're not doing it? Is it self-indulgence? Are you really that worried about what you might see if you clean that smoke from the mirror? Are you just so satisfied with who you are that you feel no need to examine it?
We all know someone who "is never wrong." You know, they are the people you can't tell anything because they already know everything. Usually these are people whose habit is to deny themselves the possibility of being wrong because they are worried about the person they might actually be. To them, the idea of being wrong contravenes their constructed identity - someone who is wise, strong, smart, and, therefore, valuable. For these people, their habit of fear of being wrong can be so entrenched they can't even understand it when you ask them to look at it. Fear of the habit of fear of being wrong. Sheesh.
It is hard work to confront the things in ourselves that cause us disquiet. It is hard work to admit where we have been wrong, whether due to misunderstanding or to self-delusion. At the deepest heart of it, we may be frightened that the very essence of who we've been has been, somehow, wrong. The answer to that is this: would you rather keep being wrong? Or would it serve you and everyone else more to stop now and do something better?
Think of the person you love most in the world. If that person discovered an uncomfortable truth about himself, and vowed to change, would you celebrate that decision and do everything you could to support him in his efforts to do better? Or would you condemn him continuously until you and he thought so little of him that change became pointless? Think of what you would do for that person you love. Then do it for yourself. Someone who loves you would want that for you. Why can't that someone be you?
Mental and spiritual work are hard because change is hard. Admitting you are or have been wrong is one of the scariest things we can do. But if you have ever encouraged - kindly or not - someone else to admit their wrongs, why not encourage yourself (let's stick to kindly)? And let's stop using the word "wrong." It's so judgmental, and who are we to judge anyone, even ourselves? Let's use "mistaken" instead. If you were at one time sure you were right, but you find out later that you weren't, you were mistaken. Being mistaken isn't the end of the world. It's just an opportunity to feel better from now on.
POSTSCRIPT/DISCLAIMER: I realize that the kind of therapy, formal or informal, that deals with painful memories or managing the effects of traumatic events is hard work because it can really hurt - in a real and definable way - to relive feelings when dredging up the past. Just the memory of a tragic or upsetting incident can be painful, and the process to inner peace is hard because pain is hard. I am not addressing that kind of deep, wrenching work here. That is a topic for another article. Or two. Or twelve.
Spiritual work isn't all that different, but because it is so ethereal, we have fewer defined terms to rely upon. When we are speaking in terms of faith, of "knowing" things without knowing them, or when we are tuned into something as subjective as inner peace, discussion points become a little less at-hand. To be clear, for the sake of this article, I am not referring to religious dogma, doctrine, or practice here, but rather the things that religion may (or may not) point to, such as relationship to the divine, or to the universe, when one is not only talking about planets and stars. As an example, if you have ever been in a group of people and been moved because you feel connected and close to them, as if your souls (or inner children, or higher selves, or whatever term you prefer) are in concert and joined at some level, then you have experienced spiritual connection. Definitions like this are perhaps a bit hazy.
People who "work" on themselves, or on their relationships with others, are "working" toward mental and, usually, spiritual health. When a person is well-adjusted, has relatively few bouts of anxiety or depression, and is able to function successfully throughout each day with a minimum of anguish or emotional struggle, we usually agree that he is mentally healthy. If someone is at peace with herself, sees her relationships as mostly harmonious, and feels as if she belongs to and is at home in her smaller world and the greater interconnected web of all things, we may call her spiritually healthy. Great. But most of us have something here or there - whether it's an illness, a relationship, a financial or power situation, or just about any other kind of circumstance, finite or existential - that keeps us from considering ourselves 100% healthy on either front. And here is where the work comes in. Those questions we ask. The self-examination we do (or put aside). The help we find in experts and counselors.
I once had a couple in my mediation practice who were having trouble in their marriage. They had grown apart and were finding that they were just very different as people, with different ways of seeing things. They both wanted to save their relationship and they agreed that a marriage counselor might help them find the solutions. The trouble was, they couldn't even begin the counseling from the same viewpoint. The wife wanted the counselor to delve deep into the issues and help explain why each saw things so differently from the other so that they could arrive at some kind of compromise. The husband, on the other hand, wanted the counselor to decide who was right and who was wrong. He wanted her to tell the wrong one what was needed to fix the problem, then help fix it. He wanted a quick solution. In his misery over his marriage, he just wanted a solution, like an antibiotic for an infection. He was dismayed when the counselor told him that the wife's idea - not to find fault but to explore each spouse's viewpoint so that each could better understand the other and endeavor to maximize the other's comfort level - was more what the therapist had in mind. The husband was immediately downcast and said "that's so much work. It will take too long."
Why did the husband consider it work? Why do we think exploring our feelings and habits and points-of-view - and those of others - is work? And why is it so hard?
I think that anytime you challenge yourself mentally or spiritually, it feels like work. You are asking yourself to consider something new. Perhaps the hardest part of this is the eventually possible conclusion that you may have been wrong about something. If you've thought or felt something for a long time and you then have to consider the possibility that you have been wrong all along, or that one solution does not fit all problems, the conclusion that you have been incorrect, or merely missing the mark, can be a hard pill to swallow. Why? Because of fear.
Fear is what keeps us stuck anywhere, it is what leads to and causes most of our anguish and upset, and it is the hardest habit to extinguish. Most of the time, fear about being wrong is unjustified. In the end, it is not so terrifying to realize that you have been wrong; you just hit reset and go on with emboldening new knowledge. Admit you have been wrong one time, and you will find it is not the end of the world. Anyone with any integrity will commend you for the strength to admit it. Yes, strength. Heaven forfend we admit we are wrong: politicians will tell you that that puts you in a weakened position. Let's not align ourselves with (most) politicians; we can guess how that will work out for us! In the end, remaining adamant that you are right in the face of insurmountable evidence to the contrary just makes you look impudent and stubborn, and, perhaps, self-indulgent and in denial. (Note to some politicians. You know who you are.) The overarching theme here is change. It is hard to change. It is hard to discipline your mind and remain calm and focused when it wants to ruminate over the personnel issues at work, the balance in the checking account, or the grocery list. It is hard to change habits and take the time to listen to someone else's ideas when for years you have relied on your own ingenuity to solve problems. It is hard to countenance the idea that one person is just as objectively valuable as another if you've been raised to think that some people deserve more. It is hard to admit you've been or are now wrong. Why? Again, fear. Fear that we have not done all that we could have. Fear that we have let someone else or ourselves down. Fear that we are not as wonderful as we have always thought we were. Or fear that we have not been as deserving of criticism. Yes, it can be scary to realize that you are pretty darn great when you have long had a habit of self-reproach. Habits serve a purpose: they allow us to be lazy and not do the work it would take to change.
Just because you've always done something a certain way does not mean it is the best way. Or even correct at all.
Think of this: if you have always eaten basically the same way and always gotten around the same amount of daily exercise, then you have probably always had more or less the same level of fitness and physical health, barring accidents or catastrophic illness. Then one day, at age 45 or so, you begin to see that those habits aren't cutting it. You've gained some weight. You ache here and there now and then. Some things have diminished, and others have sagged. "But," you protest, "I have always eaten properly and gotten enough exercise! What the heck is this?!" And your doctor says," Well, looks like it's time to change things up. A little more protein, a little less bread, some vitamins, and two hours more cardio every week, if you want to have something like what you've had."
" But," you protest further, "I've never had to do that before!"
" I know," soothes your doc. "But you need to do it now."
And you know your doctor is right. But you hate it. You've gotten used to the old routine. You've gotten used to it working. You don't want to change. To change means to admit the old way isn't working anymore. It means admitting the old way is...yep...wrong. At least if you want anything close to the results you're used to.
Same thing for mental and spiritual health. Like physical health, there is some discipline involved. Some reordering of habits when they become obsolete. Some examination of motives, needs met and unmet, and preferences. The most fundamental of whys and wherefores. Some insight into the excuses we make for ourselves. Is it your habit to feel guilty rather than to do the right thing? What is going to enable you to look yourself in the mirror at the end of your life? How is doing it this way serving you? How is it serving others? Which do you emphasize? Why? Is it tiresome to even ask yourself these questions? Is that why you're not doing it? Is it self-indulgence? Are you really that worried about what you might see if you clean that smoke from the mirror? Are you just so satisfied with who you are that you feel no need to examine it?
We all know someone who "is never wrong." You know, they are the people you can't tell anything because they already know everything. Usually these are people whose habit is to deny themselves the possibility of being wrong because they are worried about the person they might actually be. To them, the idea of being wrong contravenes their constructed identity - someone who is wise, strong, smart, and, therefore, valuable. For these people, their habit of fear of being wrong can be so entrenched they can't even understand it when you ask them to look at it. Fear of the habit of fear of being wrong. Sheesh.
It is hard work to confront the things in ourselves that cause us disquiet. It is hard work to admit where we have been wrong, whether due to misunderstanding or to self-delusion. At the deepest heart of it, we may be frightened that the very essence of who we've been has been, somehow, wrong. The answer to that is this: would you rather keep being wrong? Or would it serve you and everyone else more to stop now and do something better?
Think of the person you love most in the world. If that person discovered an uncomfortable truth about himself, and vowed to change, would you celebrate that decision and do everything you could to support him in his efforts to do better? Or would you condemn him continuously until you and he thought so little of him that change became pointless? Think of what you would do for that person you love. Then do it for yourself. Someone who loves you would want that for you. Why can't that someone be you?
Mental and spiritual work are hard because change is hard. Admitting you are or have been wrong is one of the scariest things we can do. But if you have ever encouraged - kindly or not - someone else to admit their wrongs, why not encourage yourself (let's stick to kindly)? And let's stop using the word "wrong." It's so judgmental, and who are we to judge anyone, even ourselves? Let's use "mistaken" instead. If you were at one time sure you were right, but you find out later that you weren't, you were mistaken. Being mistaken isn't the end of the world. It's just an opportunity to feel better from now on.
POSTSCRIPT/DISCLAIMER: I realize that the kind of therapy, formal or informal, that deals with painful memories or managing the effects of traumatic events is hard work because it can really hurt - in a real and definable way - to relive feelings when dredging up the past. Just the memory of a tragic or upsetting incident can be painful, and the process to inner peace is hard because pain is hard. I am not addressing that kind of deep, wrenching work here. That is a topic for another article. Or two. Or twelve.
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