The Toxicity Twins

Letting go is an invitation to cease clinging to anything: be it an idea, a possession, an experience, a time in our lives, a point of view, a desire. It is a conscious decision to give up coercing, resisting, struggling. In exchange, we are granted the gift of wholesome acceptance, free of attraction to or rejection of; free of the stickiness of wanting, liking or disliking. Letting go is the allowing of things to be as they are. (from Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are)

The ‘stickiness’, to which Kabat-Zinn refers, can (ironically) be a very ‘slippery’ creature, creeping into our thoughts and desires when we least expect; contriving all manner of justifications, rationalizations to support our choices; setting its hooks in ways that make it very difficult to shake loose. When we meditate, when we still the mind and open ourselves to a period of silence without ‘benefit’ of distraction or busyness, we are very often fertile ground for this little critter to nest in – let’s just call him attachment (or his equally dark twin, avoidance). Christening them two of the three poisons, Buddhist teachings feel sufficiently strongly about these two to assign them (together with ‘ignorance of the truth’ – i.e., self-delusion or confusion) primary responsibility for the dissatisfaction and unhappiness we experience in life. (And here I thought it was the Leaf’s not winning a cup since 1967.) Attachment (aka: addiction, obsession, codependence, control, greed, jealousy, conditionality – to name but a few aliases) and avoidance (aversion, phobic anxiety, hatred and resentment) are evidently a potent pair indeed.

Mindfulness practice is, at core, a bringing of awareness to a situation (or, in the words of a dear friend, ‘shedding the light of consciousness on. . .’) so that one is less ‘unconsciously’ controlled by it and becomes more an observer of it – and accordingly is better equipped to move past it (or to ‘let it go’ in Kabat-Zinn’s terms). Addressing the above two ‘poisons’ is yet another instance of this practice. Typically mindfulness practice suggests some variation on the ‘name and return’ protocol: when we become aware that we’ve been distracted away from the breath, we identify or label in some succinct way the source of the distraction (‘thought’, ‘sensation’, etc.); and return to the cycle of our breathing. In situations where the distraction is a little more stubborn, relentless, it is sometimes helpful to ‘address it’ directly. It’s sometimes useful to ask ‘what’s the pull?’ Not in the usual sense of attempting to ‘figure out’ the ‘why’ we keep returning to a particular image or situation (and only serving to get more caught up in the ‘intellectual’ aspect of the distraction); but rather taking the observer’s awareness to the spot, thought, or feeling that insists on ‘pulling us away’. This might involve shifting one’s attention away from the ‘stimulus’ – the object of our distraction – and back to the observer’s response to it: “what is arising in me as I sit in the presence of ________?”; “what do I experience?”

Notice too how you are relating to this image, thought, sensation. (Getting back to our two poisons), Am I attached to it – obsessing about it, ‘needing’ it? Fearful of its going, leaving, of losing it? Am I needing to control it; having it be a particular way, turning out in a particular fashion – to ensure my happiness (the conditionality of I’ll be content if and only if. . .)? Alternately, do I just need it to ‘go away’ – am I averse to or avoiding of this image, thought, or sensation? Do I resent its presence, perhaps rejecting it, even ‘hating’ it? These are not ‘analyses’ of what you are experiencing; they are simply suggested questions that may help identify the nature of your ‘relationship with’ the experience. Once established as attachment or rejection/avoidance, the work is done – no need to get caught up in the why.

Letting go of the need to have or make things be different than they are (in this moment) – or its flip side, lamenting that things are as they are right now – is an important element of this process as well. This is the letting be of what is, trusting that change is inevitable; circumstance will evolve in its own time; and equally we cannot hurry or force that process. Skills that come into play here are non-reaction and acceptance, the latter seen as one’s ‘agreement to experience a situation, to follow a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest, or exit’ (online definition). During meditation, a helpful exercise in this regard is to metaphorically place the person or image of a ‘triggering’ (preoccupying) situation on a chair – directly in front of and facing you, as you sit. (This is the metaphoric opposite of trying to avoid it.) Gently observe him/her/it. Develop a benign tolerance of his/her/it’s presence. No need to engage or respond – just observe, ‘sit with’. Being human, the investment we have in the object before us will change, usually diminish, as we remain, non-reactive and accepting of its presence. Again, back to the toxic tandem, the aspects of our relationship that ‘keep alive’ the intensity of this unholy bond with the overly desired or the intensely shunned is the degree to which we are attached or averse – not something inherent in the object itself.

A lovely poem (The Guest House) by the 13th century Sufi mystic, Rumi, captures the essence of this unconditional ‘welcoming’ of circumstance – and the accompanying capacity to let go of our attachments and aversions:

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

One final thought about letting go. Perhaps the most profound example of this process is that of grieving a loss. In his very helpful little volume (Grieving Mindfully), Sameet Kumar makes reference to a five-step, sequenced protocol facilitating closure, one that is equally applicable to much less weighty circumstances:

Examining our regrets around. . . (the apology)

Cultivating compassion toward. . . (the forgiveness)

Cultivating empathy / understanding of. . .(the loving)

Thanking for the gifts from. . .(the learning)

Letting go of . . . (the goodbye)

PP (post-post, as it were): We watched Inside Job last evening, a film that chronicles the 2008 financial crisis triggered by (of all things) greed and unaccountability in the US money market system. Great example of the extreme (world-wide) impact of attachment (and the later avoidance of responsibility) of some very selfish folks. Talk about your 'Money for nothing (and your chicks for free!)

Rules of Engagement

In military operations, the rules of engagement determine when, where, and how force shall be used. The rules, while they may be made public, are typically only fully known to the force that intends to use them. (Online definition)

For better or worse, the same ‘rules’ increasingly appear to apply to verbal communication – or what we used to call dialogue. A number of elements, most of which are not particularly new to this arena (that of conversing with each other), have begun to dominate it. Not only that, but have also become highly celebrated in the bargain. Lead story in the Arts section of the Globe this past Tuesday featured an interview with Kelly Oxford, ‘Calgary blogger and Twitter queen’. Her daily ‘tweets’ are reportedly followed on a regular basis by those bastions of compassion and right speech, Howard Stern and Jimmy Kimmel (together with 100,000 other lesser lights) and are infused with her ‘snarky sense of humour’ as she posts ‘straight-up’ observations on motherhood, pop culture, and the media. I was particularly struck by the working title of a memoir-in-progress: Whenever I feel intimidated by someone, I imagine them drinking out of a hamster water bottle. I expect Charlie Sheen can’t be too far behind in the growing legion of Kelly ‘followers’, as he spews his ‘Violent Torpedo of Truth. . .’ to anyone who’ll listen (and lots appear ready to do just that).

Dialogue: generally seen as a conversation with two or more participants, typically involving an open exchange of opinions, and often representing differing points of view. 100,000 would seem to qualify. Posting remarks on the internet would meet criteria as open expression. And I’m guessing that observations as “Julianne Moore probably took the role of Sarah Palin because actors win awards for playing handicapped people” likely represent a point of view that might differ both from that of Ms. Moore and Ms. Palin. So what’s the problem? Possibly none, if the throngs of disciples are taken as validation.

I suppose it comes down to intention. I intend to hold this person or that, this opinion or that up to public scrutiny, having determined that such is deserved and wanting. I intend to convey these comments in language that is sufficiently challenging and caustic to seize the attention of others – but, of course, just short of being libelous. I intend to persuade. I intend to correct. I intend to instruct. I intend to demonstrate how much I know -- and how little you know. I intend to remain sufficiently remote / inaccessible – so as to both have time to consider and craft my responses and to remain insulated from the face-to-face, the immediate. I intend to be witty, notorious, dominant, and popular. I intend to entertain at this person’s or that opinion’s expense. I intend to do the ‘right thing’ – for just possibly the wrong reasons.

A very few days before reading of Ms. Oxford’s rise in the realm of the social network, I had occasion and the great good fortune to hear Karen Armstrong interviewed on CBC’s Tapestry. Ms. Armstrong, is a widely published religious scholar (or typist, if wishing to avoid all the usual, unsolicited commentary reserved for ‘religious scholars’) who has most recently come to the fore with her newest book, Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, chronicling the commissioning and writing of a ‘charter of compassion’ following her receipt of a TED (Technology Entertainment and Design) award in 2008. The core message of both interview and book is to explore alternatives in how we manage relationship; in particular how we communicate / dialogue in relationship. And by extension, how our highly entertained and entertaining, validated (if by no other measure than our attention paid to. . .), imitated, and promoted style of dialoguing just may be achieving little more than self-aggrandizement moving us away from the very ‘goals’ we seek (or at least put out that we are seeking) to achieve through witty repartee.

A number of abiding ‘ethics’ are raised and examined. Armstrong is invited to comment on the widely embraced practice of ‘hurting’ one’s partner in dialogue (unfortunately often one with whom we have significant differences of opinion), insulting, humiliating, denigrating to make one’s point – with the somewhat ironic expectation that this will move the ‘conversation’ forward. Seeking to dominate one’s ‘partner’, treating the engagement as a competition (to be won or lost – generally by ‘proving’ one’s opponent to be an idiot). Operating from ill-informed (but confident in our ‘complete knowledge of . . ‘), stereotypic postures – making the generalized verbal swipes ‘easier’. Seeking to convince, persuade.

Drawing on sources as far flung as the teachings of Confucius, Gandhi, Buddha, and Socrates, Armstrong provides a compelling alternative to the above, all rooted in the principles of compassion as she defines them; and all essentially built around a core principle that she views as common to all religions: Never do to others what you would not want them to do to you. As for methodology, she suggests a model based on Socratic dialogue – much simpler than it sounds at first blush: the goal of any discussion is to ‘learn how little we know’; entering conversation with gentleness and the intention, expectation of ourselves being changed; seeking a resolution versus a domination – and, if a win-lose, demonstrating compassion for the vanquished, seeking to improve not punish; demonstrating respect for the other.

Armstrong identifies Mindfulness as the 5th step in the charter’s 12-step process, incorporating many of the elements common to this practice: self-examination (holding up a mirror to one’s own opinions, behaviours, prejudices, stereotypes); cultivating a ‘first practice’ of self-compassion (forgiving oneself); metta (extending compassion to others); and letting go of one’s ego-investment (in dialogue) – detaching from oneself by becoming more an observer and less a participant. I suppose the approach won’t sell many tabloids or rack up a bunch of views on YouTube – but then I’m not sure that’s the goal.

FYI: http://www.cbc.ca/tapestry/episode/2011/03/13/a-call-for-compassion/

Got Change for a . . . Personality?

“I’m home – just going upstairs to change”, my usual greeting coming in the door at the end of the day. “Into whom?”, my wife’s typical and wry response as we share our little chuckle. Indeed. But it does beg the question . . .

Usually ones to do our homework and heading off to St. James’ Cathedral this week for Evensong, we’d wanted to be well-prepared for the start of a series of homilies on T.S. Eliot’s poetry. Having somehow ‘skipped over’ Murder in the Cathedral – must have been in one of the many books my dog ate during college days – Nicola and I re-watched Becket (the 1964 film with Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole) and listened to a dramatic reading of Eliot’s 1935 work. And found myself musing over the same question: can, do people change – really?

The film and poem examine any number of conflicted relationships, most particularly that between King Henry II and Thomas Becket, culminating in the latter’s murder in December 1170 in Canterbury Cathedral as the now Archbishop prepared for evening prayer. Becket, a Saxon ‘survivor’ of the Normans’ conquest of England a century earlier, had become a close companion and ‘playmate’ of the young Norman king, as the pair drank and womanized their way through these turbulent times. Henry marveled at and envied Becket’s wisdom and cool, non-reactive demeanor, recognizing (and exploiting) these characteristics for what they were – elements of wit and temperament that set Becket apart from not only the boorish barons (who would eventually murder Becket) – but from Henry himself as he blustered and railed his way through the early part of his reign; alienating even as he secured what he thought would satisfy himself. Henry’s coup de grace, ill-conceived as it turned out, was to have been his appointment of his friend to the role of Archbishop, already having named him Chancellor of the Exchequer (essentially, minister of finance). Then watching as his bawdy buddy appeared to take his new job entirely too seriously, attempting to enforce the Church’s position and, in the bargain, cramping Henry’s authoritarian and largely arbitrary style.

Henry of course, viewing this as the clerical equivalent of biting the hand that fed, became enraged, eventually ordering Becket’s murder; but never reconciling himself to his awareness that the very elements of his friend that had so enthralled him in their early days, were the self-same ones that would frustrate him at the end: compassion, honour and integrity, planfulness and calculation, loyalty and homage to a ‘higher power’ – be it secular (king) or spiritual (God), and the relegation of ego to secondary status. Had Becket changed? Not at all. He’d simply found a vehicle more in consonance with his pre-existing value system – and Henry knew it! Henry too, for his part, remained what he ever was – expedient, opportunistic, self-serving, and political – having Becket canonized, establishing churches, as ‘penance’, etc. – essentially trading on his former friend’s death. And hating Becket’s infernal holding up of the mirror to his own twisted visage.

I had occasion to meet with a friend recently who had endured a number of significant losses in the past few years. She described her hard-fought resolve to come to terms with elements in her temperament and style that she felt had mired her in her sadness and had both hindered her healing and tainted her outlook for the future. The principle ‘villain’ it seems was a co-dependency, sometimes seen as a self-defeating predilection toward inadvertently supporting the very circumstances in one’s relationships against which one most struggles. The vehicle that often mediates this process is the act of enabling – wherein one becomes overly invested in particular outcomes, develops porous interpersonal boundaries, makes oneself responsible for the behaviours of others; and is, of course, ultimately angered, frustrated and disappointed when ‘nothing changes’. My friend had worked long and hard at eradicating this trait, when she was emailed a ‘personality test’ that purported to evaluate an individual’s ‘type’ amongst a choice of nine. “Damn! I’m still the ‘caregiver’”, her disheartened awareness.

So whether Becket (or Henry), my acquaintance, or even Popeye (“I yam what I yam” – with apologies to God and Moses), my answer to my wife’s query must be: “Just the clothes – the rest of me stays the same”. And having fessed up to that truth, just what is our work, how do we address those pieces of ourselves that (karmically) continue showing up at our door – until we get it right. (Think Bill Murray in Groundhog Day!) What do we do with those predispositions that continue to direct us, explicitly or worse, in background?

I believe we do have some options, generally focusing, in one way or another, on two elements: increased self-knowledge (to coat-tail on last week’s posting) and increased self-acceptance. Becket, if we’re to acknowledge Burton’s interpretation of the man, was acutely aware of his earlier limitations and lack of fulfillment, experienced repeatedly as an inability to return love, no matter how deserving the person or persons might be on the other side. He struggled chronically with the ‘too easy’ solution (remaining a carousing pal to Henry, a ‘sheltered’ monk in France, or a token primate). Eliot’s poem so eloquently examines Becket’s awareness that, until fully accepting of his role as martyr, he would be destined to repeat his past ‘experiments’. Infuriating to Henry was Becket’s clarity (and readiness to speak it) on this point.

Mindfulness practice is but one of many vehicles facilitating this two-fold process. Regular practice promotes an opening to (self-knowledge) and an allowing of (self-acceptance). It lobbies against a compulsive need to be someone else, somewhere else. Clarity of thought is more available as one hones the practice of letting go of attachments (those controlling, obsessive preoccupations that consume us; or those much-desired outcomes which, when left unrealized, leave us sadly disappointed); and avoidances, the need to defend against an inevitable. We are who we are. Get used to it. Better yet, work with it.

Let There Be Dark

Unfortunately there can be no doubt that man is, on the whole, less good than he imagines himself or wants to be. Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. If an inferiority is conscious, one always has a chance to correct it. Furthermore, it is constantly in contact with other interests, so that it is continually subjected to modifications. But if it is repressed and isolated from consciousness, it never gets corrected. (Carl Jung, Psychology and Religion (1938). In CW 11: Psychology and Religion: West and East. P.131)

Jung was not the first to articulate the importance, indeed the sine qua non of (in Robert Johnson’s words) ‘owning your shadow’. Lao Tzu, some 2500 years ago, in four-score or so succinct reflections (Tao Te Ching) captured the essence of polarities and the essential role these extremes play in maintaining our balance, reworked in the following:

All behaviors contain their opposites. . . learn to see things backwards, inside out, upside down. (John Heider, Tao of Leadership, 1985 p. 36),

There can be no light – without the dark.

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of first hearing, then meeting, Canon Philip Lambert (Truro Cathedral, UK) as he homilized on the ‘north side of the church’. Speaking first literally, he offered a description of that wall of a little parish church he’d visited recently: damp seemingly perpetually, moss-covered, avoided and thus neglected. Then metaphorically (and surprisingly), he spoke not about those segments of humanity from whom we avert our eyes – as one might expect, as the priest slides into a gentle castigation of our self-absorbed, superior ways, etc., etc. But speaking to encourage us to spend time in those ‘nether regions’, exploring those aspects of self and, in the process (as Jung would suggest), shedding healing (‘correcting’) light on same. I was sufficiently struck by his message to inquire about his psychological background – “nothing formal – just interested”.

Fast forward: Holy Week, 2010. A longtime wish of Nicola’s and mine had been to spend this special time of year within the walls of an English cathedral, finding ourselves this time in Chester for just that occasion. We’d come expecting a full palate of sung Evensongs supplementing all traditional service elements of the ‘season’. We were not disappointed. The ‘bonus’, as it were, however, followed Good Friday morning’s service: a three-hour devotional, somewhat enigmatically entitled Let There Be Dark. Canon Trevor Denis, a teacher, writer, and performer – in addition to his role as clergy, had assembled a selection of readings from his (several) collections of poems and stories, mingled with periods of contemplative silence, organ music, and hymns. The readings were delivered, depending on their particular ‘spin’, from the pulpit (the ‘right’ side as one faces the congregation) or the lectern (the left / sinister side) – the ‘light side’, upbeat stories being explored from the former, the ‘dark side’ from the latter. A plea for understanding from a Jew of the day, recounting the potential for chaos visited on him and his confreres by Jesus’ radical ideas, asking for a bit of patience and time to adjust. A diatribe against chocolate and ‘spring colours’, appropriately ending with ‘let there be dark’. Job’s wife given a voice; along with Eve’s feeling that it was ‘safe to go back in the water’ – only to find her long-awaited celebration shrouded in black. It came as no great surprise that, in the silence following each reading, the nave was absolutely still. This was not a man advocating dark thoughts, depressing views of the world, the consummate ‘glass half empty’ type. Only that each side serves to define the other; to inform, clarify and give meaning to the other – and both require exploration.

I am in the business of therapy. This process starts and ends with one’s capacity, indeed willingness, to self-examine, to ask one critical question: what am I to learn from any experience? It tracks one’s gradual shift from fault-finding in the world outside oneself to examination of one’s own inevitable role in, contribution to the circumstance in which one finds oneself. Its success turns on the courage to implement the answer(s) one is able to find on this introspective journey – and to steadfastly resist thereafter the temptation to place responsibility outside one’s own skin. For this to be a fully meaningful experience, it demands that we first accept, as Jung would have it, that there are those quirky, socially less-than-desirable, ‘private’ elements in each of us. Secondly, as Lambert and Dennis suggest, that we explore these aspects, not from a shame-faced or denying posture; but from a stance that is eager for understanding, candour, and objectivity (free of rationalization). And finally, to welcome these ‘exiled’ parts of self and grant them equal status. A charmingly, disarmingly simple examination of this process forms the core of a favourite film of mine – Enchanted April – and worth a look.

And so for those to whom it may apply, as we approach yet another Lenten season and are casting around for something to challenge ourselves over the next six weeks, perhaps taking on a little ‘shadow boxing’. Having a look at that elusive, shifty thing that only shows itself when some bright light sneaks up behind and illuminates us. That dark, distorted representation of self that mimics one's every move — but in sometimes perverse, sometimes scary, sometimes barely recognizable form; that we know to be present — but is out of sight, just for now. That paradox that we know we're responsible for — I mean who else could it belong to? — but seems somehow foreign, autonomous, not a part of us at all, as we gaze at its ragged form on the ground.

Pause It!

Noon time run just commenced, I trot easily along a little-used stretch of road beside the river. An easy hello from an acquaintance heading home for lunch. Heaving into sight behind and approaching, four adolescent boys strung loosely abreast, across the road, Chicago Bulls hats twisted brim-to-rear, Raiders jackets unzipped, and soggy runners on foot in lieu of discarded winter boots. Familiar as I am with the verbal jibes tossed my way by members of this set, I discount the too-loud remarks about the “string bean”, and carry on running, hard against the left shoulder of the street.

Five feet separates us now. Adjacent-most lad, apparently not yet fully exorcised of his feelings toward approaching runner, jumps sideways into my path, menaces briefly, and then back — but sufficient only to allow the narrowest of passage between his bulk and the snow bank. . .

TIME OUT FOR CONSIDERATION OF ETHICAL DILEMMA: My socialized, therapist side would dictate, slowing, drawing the lad aside — perhaps offering a seat on the nearest available park bench. Reflect to him my awareness that his behaviour confirmed a need to act out against adult authority, to challenge a symbol of the world he wished to define himself as distinct from, and to elevate his status amongst his peers. To point out my feelings and the impact of his actions on another human being. To suggest alternate ways of connecting with me, should we meet again under similar circumstances. (This would be method # 1: six, beautifully orchestrated steps to resolving conflict between the adult and adolescent sphere.)

OR. . . It was so easy. Good forward momentum; accessible target; exaggerate that arm swing just a bit and BAM — right fist planted in solar plexus without even breaking stride. From behind, I pick up the reaction: "The ______ hit me!" Carry on running. Some fifty feet apart and perceived as a safe distance away, the expletives begin to float my way. I turn and begin to trot after the group. Two break for cover. A third, turns toward me — to challenge; to delay so his friends might escape. No. As it turns out he merely wanted confirmation that his friend hadn't hallucinated the whole encounter.

"You ain't gonna hit me are ya?" "No", I reassured, placing my hands on his shoulders; "I'll just show you what your buddy did." "Oh, he said you punched him." "Well, if his running into my hand as we passed constitutes a punch, I suppose he's right. See ya." Sometimes, to enhance personal growth and awareness — you just gotta use Method # 2!
Excerpt from an anonymous runner’s journal, Winter, 1994

I’ve pretty much passed the torch to my daughter – at least where Mercury’s winged feet are concerned. I must say, I don’t really miss suiting up for a 25 kilometer run on a cold and windy Sunday morning in February (or the adolescent confrontations). But while the obsessive commitment and discipline may have downshifted a generation, some of the sidebars continue to linger. In particular, as I look back, what seems to have stuck around is the (obstinate) arrogance and entitlement that comes with facing the elements (human or meteorological) equipped with little more than a pair of running shoes and the flimsiest of clothing – while all those slugs, bundled to the nine’s, insist on driving down ‘my road’ and pushing aside this hero of winter. And with it, the ludicrous ‘mouse that roared’ standoffs between a near-naked, 135 pound runner and a significantly better equipped automobile, complete with pissed off driver at the wheel. Many’s the time where the mouse’s roar consisted of the first few letters of the ‘Jersey alphabet’ – effin A, effin B, and effin C – phonetically speaking, complete with the Canadian sign language equivalents. Age seems not to have diminished some things – good old fashioned, knee-jerk reactivity to the challenge. ‘Road rage’ to be sure.

So what’s to be done? Another excerpt, in a more somber vein, this time from a letter to the Beacon Herald from some friends and responsive to the ‘calls for his head’ following the killing of one of Stratford’s swans; the public need for extreme consequation:

We wonder if it might be timely and helpful for all of us to take a few, slow, deep breaths and reflect on our reactions to swan Angela's death. It is appropriate and natural for us to feel pro­found grief over the horrific death of a beautiful mother, and our accompanying anger at the "sad cruelty" that was directed at her is also normal. It is further reasonable that we would hope that the perpetrator(s) would be found and held accountable for what happened. However, we are concerned about the vindictiveness that is being expressed against those responsible. Calls for public humiliation and ruthless punishment only serve to place us all in a similar role of inflicting cruelty — that which we claim to be denouncing.

On reading, I was reminded of the little ‘pause button’ so much a part of our ubiquitous, electronic gadgetry. The symbol, of course, is that of two, short, vertical, parallel lines – with a convenient and appropriate space between. Quite unlike the ‘play’ or the ‘fast forward’ buttons – that compel us to ‘get on with it’ – it seems to suggest a space to ‘pause’ and reflect; to pause and reconsider; not unlike the writers’ plea above.

They continue:
Further, might we gain a different perspective if we asked ourselves: what if the perpetrator were my child? My brother? My friend? What would best serve him in learning and moving on from this event? We wonder what suggestions we would come up with then.

Several possibilities are offered as to how we might conduct ourselves – as we spend that brief moment ‘between the lines’:

Take some time to develop a different perspective (the child, brother, friend vs. faceless villain view). Karen Armstrong, in the opening chapter of her Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, comments on the universality of the ‘Golden Rule’, common to all faith structures and attributed in its origin to Confucius as the constant guide that informs one’s daily conduct: ‘All day, every day, never do to others what you would not like them to do to you’ (aka, empathy).

Or we could collect data, understanding of the circumstance, the individual before acting. Further, Zindel Segal (The Mindful Way Through Depression) encourages us to consider alternatives: “Acceptance or allowing (vs. action), as a vital first step, lets us be­come fully aware of issues, and then, if appropriate, to respond in a skillful way of addressing these issues -- rather than to react in knee-jerk fashion, by automatically running off some of our old (often unhelpful) strategies” – what an acquaintance calls ‘sitting with. . .’ versus ‘acting on’. Resisting the view that, when one is ‘inactive’, one is condoning, endorsing a situation; rather than simply reflecting on it.

And finally, Breathing. As the letter suggests, ‘let’s take a few, slow, deep breaths. . . ‘ Again, Segal offers a variant on this common ‘pause button’. He calls it the ‘three-minute breathing space’; the A, B, C’s (not from New Jersey this time!):

A - Awareness. Observe – bring the focus of awareness to your inner experience and notice what is happening in your thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations. Describe, acknowledge, identify – put experiences into words; for example, say in your mind: “A feeling of anger is arising” or “Self-critical thoughts are here.”

B – Breathe. Redirecting your Attention. Gently redirect your full attention to the breath. Follow the breath all the way in and all the way out. Try noticing, at the back of your mind, “Breathing in . . . Breathing out”; or counting, “Inhaling, one . . . exhaling, one. . . inhaling, two. . .exhaling, two. . .etc.”.

C – Connect, in a Considered way. Allow your attention to expand to the whole body – especially to any sense of discomfort, tension, or resistance. If these sensations are there, then take your awareness there by ‘breathing into them’ on the in-breath. Then, breathe out from those sensations, softening and opening with the out-breath. Say to yourself on the out-breath, “It’s OK. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Let me feel it”. Become aware of and adjust your posture and facial expression. As best you can, bring this expanded awareness to the next moments of your day.

So the space between the lines is as much about bringing intention to our behaviour; informing our actions before doing, versus the automatic ‘knee jerk’ (hmmm, jerk?) I suppose there is a time for Method #2 – at least that anonymous runner considered his choices. . . I suppose.

The Conundrum of Silence

Music and silence – how I detest them both! How thankful we should be that ever since Our Father entered Hell. . . no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied with Noise. . .the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile. . .We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. (C.S. Lewis, Screwtape Letters, 1942).

So ‘senior demon’ Screwtape enthuses to his trainee, Wormwood as he counsels the latter in the finer points of corrupting humanity.

And Paul Simon, a little more recently from the Sounds of Silence, as he once again acquaints himself with ‘darkness, his old friend’: "Fools", said I, "You do not know, Silence like a cancer grows. . .”

Silence, it would seem then has accumulated something of a bad rep – that state, the very presence of which we seemingly struggle to displace; that which we instinctively associate with emptiness, isolation, being ‘out of touch’. To fend it off, we whistle in the dark – any sound, even of our own contrivance, is better than the alternative (no sound) – lest we fall victim to the ‘demons in the dark’, apparently, hopefully kept temporarily at bay by our hollow, atonal efforts; the unwatched TV, elevator music, white noise generators all providing (reassuring?) background sound. Even our own brain is programmed to generate some sound, any sound, to fill the void, if one accepts current explanations of the psychological bases of tinnitus (that irritating, sometimes crazy-making whine we ‘hear’ inside our heads, when our surround quiets down).

Perhaps in keeping with the envelope-pushing of the 1970’s, ‘altered states’ were of sufficient ‘scientific’ interest to prompt researchers to experiment with any number of means of inducing same. Timothy Leary and his ‘acid trips’ aside, immersion tanks, essentially ‘sensory deprivation pods’ (not all that different from claustrophobic, sound-proof tanning beds), surfaced as vehicles to explore our response to the absence of . . .everything. Suspended in body-temperature saline solution, in the dark and silence, no surprise that, left very alone with one’s thoughts, the therapeutic intent would sometimes slip off the rails and skate pretty darn close to hallucination, psychosis.

Be we graduate psychology students, struggling to ‘sit in silence and listen’ (vs. filling the quiet times in sessions with compulsive chatter) or bored adolescents tweeting and instant-messaging (r u thr? – and what do I do if you’re not!), the apparent aversion to silence is near universal.

And so summoning the courage to actually invite silence into our space, to embrace it – if only for the 30 minutes we carve out to sit mindfully each day – must seem like a nearly counter-intuitive act, working against what the culture and the individual would advocate and encourage as acceptable behaviour. But the potency of quiet – particularly quiet in the presence of others – is undeniable. Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, in a BBC interview recently referenced an anecdote following the 9-11 tragedies. He recounts the meeting of a priest, a rabbi, and an imam, sharing neither a common language nor essentially a common belief, as the three contemplate the enormity of what’s just happened and struggle to define what their respective roles might be – as they minister to their damaged and damaging flocks. Acutely aware that words cannot begin to capture the task before them, they sit in silence – and, in that wordless space, the healing began.

Consider the paradox that the very capacity to speak, not merely ‘communicate’ (as, obviously some ‘sub-human’ species are able), at once contains perhaps the single most defining aspect of our ‘humanness’ and the particular seeds of our undoing. Although the point of Babel was to highlight the folly of human achievement for its own sake, an interesting sidebar is the mechanism by which the endeavor was ultimately quashed – failed communication. How many times have we heard variations on the theme of being ‘misunderstood’, when our meaning fails to match the intention of our spoken word; heard email pilloried because it lacks the nuance, the face-to-face quality and cues, the inflection in the voice – and is ‘mis-read’. How, when we sense we are being misinterpreted, our compulsion is to throw more words at the issue – and succeed in only making things worse.

If words sometimes unnecessarily complicate our lives, silence might just enhance its quality. Sara Maitland, a British author, in her memoir A Book of Silence, charts her extended personal experiment as she flees the ‘noisy world’ in which she spent her childhood and adolescence and moves increasingly to ‘silent places’. She chronicles the good and the bad – but generally concludes that, it is only in silence and solitude that she began to hear and see what is around her. How close is that to a working definition of mindfulness?

And so to coattail on last week’s focus on ‘right speech’ – and its implication for less talk – I might encourage a little personal experiment. Finding opportunities to cultivate formal quiet times in one’s day when the household agrees to be in each other’s presence – but not speak. Or, at a slightly more ambitious level, consider a ‘silent retreat’ for a day or two, either structured or self-directed – and see what ‘floats up’. Just as a regular mindfulness practice affords you the (quiet) opportunity to ‘see what’s of interest’ to you, carrying this directive out into your day can be surprising instructive.

What Jeeves Didn't Say

Intrigued by the giggles, I began, ineffectively, to try to read over my wife’s shoulder as she plowed her way through The World of Jeeves. Ultimately I asked that she read passages aloud that she felt might be of mutual interest and entertainment; and happily, she complied. Fans of both Wodehouse and Stephen Fry, we were both soon Googling (and giggling) YouTube for clips of Wooster and Jeeves, Fry and Hugh Laurie’s (aka, House) wonderful adaptation of Wodehouse’s extended lampooning of this ‘English gentleman’ – and with him, the British aristocracy. One of the ‘idle rich’, Bertie Wooster is regularly in need of rescuing by Jeeves, his capable and attentive valet. The only cost it would seem is the latter’s quietly understated, but acerbic commentary on his employer’s naïve, self-absorbed, and often witless behaviour – to which Bertie is typically quite oblivious.

Having settled on ‘Minnie the Moocher’, we listened as Bertie plunked out a piano rendition of the Cab Calloway tune, all the while soliciting comment – and the occasional assist or explanation – from Jeeves. The skit includes Bertie’s observation on the wittiness of the lyric, inviting Jeeves’ opinion. “Now that is clever, Jeeves!” “What is, sir?” “Well, don’t you see: ‘Sweden’ rhyming with ‘needin’”; and Jeeves’ terse but very complete retort: “Almost, sir”. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwgS1ctxglw for those who might want to see the original.)

Now Jeeves in his self-effacing style would hardly have considered himself a model of the Buddhist way. But contained in variations of that oft repeated dialogue between Bertie and Jeeves, are all the essential elements of a simple and effective means of transferring Metta mindfulness, Loving-kindness into the rest of our day as we struggle to find ways to extend our 30-minute sit to the other 23 ½ hours: Right Speech.

One the rudiments of the ‘eight-fold path’, right speech is variously seen as communicating according to three or four simple ‘rules’ or principles. Is what I am about to say truthful? Is it helpful? And is it timely? After listening to the Fry-Laurie skit, I was tempted to add a fourth: is it succinct? (On doing a bit of research, I later found a quote attributed to the Buddha that seems to support the latter’s inclusion: “Better than a meaningless story of 1000 words, is a single word of deep meaning which, when heard, produces peace”.)

Jack Kornfield tells the story of attempting to act strictly by the parameters of right speech for a day in his life: not speaking unless what he was about to say met all the criteria listed above. If one or more ‘tests’ were failed, he didn’t speak – or at least reworded with more thought / compassion what he was about to say. Remarkably, although perhaps not so surprising after all, the volume of communication dropped by some two-thirds. He was simply more quiet.

Truthfulness is a particularly tricky one. I suspect most of us, under ‘normal’ circumstances, don’t likely lie all that much. But what about sarcasm / irony: “The expression of one's meaning using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous effect”. Right speech doesn’t preclude expressing the thought – only asks that it be spoken in a direct and clear (versus inverted, ‘backwards’) fashion. Gossip anyone – ‘second hand stories’, the provenance of which is much less important to us than the juicy details. Try, for a day – or an hour – avoiding commenting on anyone not present in the room with you. Joe Goldstein maintains that this simple exercise compels you, ever so briefly, to abstain from analyzing, judging, evaluating; and to raise your awareness of how much of our communication is devoted to ‘absentee subjects’ (targets?). Much easier to talk about the person not present. Or the exaggerated tale, embellished just that little bit for effect, emphasis – no harm in that, right?

Washing our comments through the filter of helpfulness can be equally challenging. I’ve always wondered about the vaguely oxymoronic feel to ‘constructive criticism’. (Who hasn’t heard the old knock: ‘military intelligence’?) If I’m being constructive, being critical must be somehow OK. If it’s for ‘someone’s own good’, it’s quite acceptable to be both ‘truthful’ and (oh yeah) just a bit nasty in the bargain. Right speech would compel us to vet our communication not only through the ‘is it good for them’ criterion; but equally through the empathic, compassionate, positive ‘sieve’ as well. Get all those spiteful lumps out, before the thought flows trippingly off one’s tongue.

And timeliness. When a ‘gem’ is shared may be the difference between a thought heard and a thought ignored or even resented. Perhaps pointing out that the weather is finally warming to one’s neighbour, thrilled with the deal that he’s just made for a snow blower, is an observation a bit badly timed.

And so, as Jeeves moves gracefully about the flat, fluffing pillows and shifting floral arrangements, he speaks when invited to do so, with clarity and frankness (“You know Jeeves, I could do better justice to this song – if I knew what the words meant”, opines Bertie; “Oh, I doubt that sir”, from Jeeves); with every intention of easing his employer’s confusion, frustration, and ignorance – without ever once disturbing a self-satisfied feather. Right speech to be sure.