Look, Listen. . . and Learn

Four quotes: from a pedantic, 2000-year old zealot, a Minnesota poet, a French resistance fighter, blinded at age 8, and a teacher-composer.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
(1st Corinthians, 13).

I notice a caterpillar crawling over my sheet of ten-cent stamps. The head is black as a Chinese box. Nine soft accordions follow it around. . .skinny brushes used to clean pop bottles rise up from its shoulders. The caterpillar advances around and around the edge, and I see feet: three pairs under the head, four spongelike pairs under the middle body, and two final pairs at the tip, pink as a puppy's hind legs.
(Creatures glanced at briefly, from Robert Bly's What Have I Ever Lost By Dying)

Because of my blindness I had developed a new faculty. Strictly speaking, all men have it -- but almost all forget to use it. The faculty is attention. In order to live without eyes, it is necessary to be very attentive, to remain hour after hour in a state of wakefulness, or receptiveness, and activity. Indeed attention is not simply a virtue of intelligence or the result of education. It is a state of being. In its truest sense, it is the listening post of the universe.
(From Jacques Lusseyran's And There Was Light)

Listening is receptive. You allow something outside your body to come inside, into the deep brain. . .to be open and impressionable, to hear everything. . .the eyes are hungry. They eat brain energy. When you close your eyes, your brain opens to your ears; sound rushes in. Open your eyes and now the brain is crowded [again], and the bright screen of sound grows dim.
(From The Listening Book, W. A. Mathieu)

As we grow older and (ostensibly) more mature, conventional wisdom has it that we become 'more worldly', less naive. While this is most likely true in that we might grow more cynical or jaded, more tainted by the 'treasures' the world has to offer -- I would maintain that we may actually become less of the world. As Paul's letter to the Corinthians suggests, it is the child who engages the world fully and directly; the adult who, by stages, has his sight 'dimmed' -- has his experience of the world increasingly filtered by his own 'lens', becomes narrowed, selective, and capable only of seeing 'through a glass darkly'. We tend to withdraw into ourselves, increasingly 'derivative' and more out of touch with the full sensory experience of our surround.

Lusseyran, our French freedom fighter, makes a similar point. In his case, deprived of sight from middle childhood by a school-ground accident, his description of the figural importance of attention and what he characterizes as 'wakefulness' echoes, both in language and sentiment, the very teachings of mindfulness practice. Specifically, we all have the potential, the capability to 'pay attention' -- we simply fail to cultivate this faculty unless compelled by circumstance to do so. In his generous comment -- we 'forget' to attend. His vigilance, 'hour after hour', not only allowed him to survive, but to thrive; not only to hone his other senses, but to alter the way he experienced the world -- to change his 'state of being'.

Mathieu too, makes a compelling case against the exclusivity of vision as a preferred sense of awareness. He may be a bit too hard on the eyes, attributing to them an almost bullying sensibility, as they flood our brain with 'easy stimuli', quickly overpowering the ear and, in the process depriving us of the rich and nuanced subtlety available through our hearing the world. Frequently we choose to meditate with our eyes closed -- evidently, if Mathieu has his way, for good reason.

The words of our mid-western poet restore some legitimacy to our sight as a vehicle for sensory presence and immediate awareness. Bly's slim volume is at once a lament of that same 'sensory withdrawal' (alluded to in Paul's letter) and a celebration of the result when we resist the desire to 'pull each sturgeon and hollow tree' into ourselves. He makes a strong case for what happens when the writer is able to see an object or a creature -- without laying claim to it; without, in his beautiful prose, 'immersing it like a negative in one's [own] development tank of disappointment and desire'.

In a few weeks, our intrepid little group of meditators will once again 'make room' for the immediate experience of sensation, emotion, and thought -- in a silent space. A suggested preparation for this -- or indeed for mindfulness practice in general -- might be to cultivate what Lusseyran refers to as a more constant state of awareness and receptivity. In mindfulness terms, this translates into perhaps slowing oneself down, reminding oneself to return to the present moment -- when we notice that we're digging into a past experience and becoming stuck; or 'reliving' emotions with perhaps attendant anger or anxiety; or anticipating a moment before it's arrived.

For the 'listening' version of this blog click: http://db.tt/FqUPFo02

Altruism: The Right Action Choice

My old friend and teacher, John Heider, was a card-carrying member and proponent of the Human Potential Movement. Growing out of the seminal works of such psychological theorists as Fritz Perls, one of the cornerstones of HP is the taking of personal responsibility for one's actions. Put simplistically: 'you make your choices . . . and you take responsibility'. The consequences -- good, bad, or otherwise -- are yours. But what drives us to make responsible choices? Do we all have the same 'moral (or human) potential'? Are there (genetically) good folk . . . and bad?

I have long been fascinated by psychopathy. Defining this disorder as 'a pervasive pattern of disregard for, or violation of the rights of others. . . [characterized by] the lack of empathy or remorse, false emotions, selfishness, and deception' (online definition), it paints a lovely picture of depravity and moral bankruptcy. There is little question that such individuals exist -- and that many of them are in jail (or perhaps ought to be). The issue of whether this is the appropriate placement, however, has been debated a little more heatedly in recent times. The work of Bob Hare (the psychologist most often associated with advances in this area of study and identification), as well as advances in neuroscience and brain scanning, has determined that psychopaths are, in fact, as much born as made. That their brains work a little differently from those organs that the rest of us rely upon to direct our day . . . and our choices. (And God did not create all Amygdalas equal.) And so the question of whether it's fair to incarcerate someone who evidently has no choice but to behave in the way he (mostly males . . . sorry guys!) does, has begun to surface a little more often.

The above quandary, in part, is predicated of course on the larger question of free will versus determinism. If there's no choice, if our behavioural patterns are cast in genetic stone, then how can we put someone away for merely following his cerebral, pre-wired inclinations? Equally, we find ourselves more or less at the other pole from my mentor John's teachings -- I make my choices . . . but I don't have to take responsibility, because it's not my fault! I'm just the Adult Child of a (fill in the blank).

Fortunately for all you devoted followers of this weekly ramble, I'm able to direct you to some definitive answers on this ages old philosophical question. This weekend's Globe contains a review of an interesting (scientific) treatise (Who's In Charge? by Michael Gazzaniga) which, rather than trying to resolve the free choice / determinism debate, reframes the issue: what are the consequences of failing to make folk responsible for their choices? To quote: 'in the absence of punishment, cooperation [in society] cannot sustain itself. In the presence of free-riders, cooperation collapses. (Defining 'free riders' as those who cheat, lie, steal, kill, etc. for their own benefit, thereby taking advantage of everyone else's cooperation, without paying the price of cooperating themselves -- sound familiar?) And so it becomes an issue not of choice or no choice; but one of providing a little firm guidance to that subset of society that, for quite accepted reasons, is a bit responsibility-challenged!

A second piece that I ran across that speaks to the same question appeared in this week's New Yorker. Jonah Lehrer looks at the evolutionary origins and support for altruism -- historically considered, even by Darwin himself, as a flaw in his theory of natural selection. If we define this 'highest of human ideals' as one's readiness to sacrifice self for another, for a greater cultural good, how could individuals with 'large helpings of selflessness' continue to survive? Throwing oneself in front of the bus to save the little old lady crossing the street is not likely to extend one's lineage -- and so another altruist buys it, progeny-less. Lehrer's article, in considering the scientific evidence for altruism across species (i.e., not just in us great apes), manages to reconcile this apparent paradox. It seems that acting in ways that will benefit the greater good of the colony (at least amongst leaf-cutter ants!), is just as selfishly driven as opportunistically swiping the pie cooling on the window sill when aunt Milly isn't looking. The group survives, I survive; the colony dies, I die (if we can anthropomorphize Mr. Ant and his pals for the moment.) To return briefly to Mr. Gazzaniga, 'punishment by incapacitation [plunkin' the buggers in the slammer - ed. note] resulted in temperaments being selected [out] for that which makes us more cooperative'. . . and responsible.

Within the realm of mindfulness practice, Right Action, the fourth step of the Eight-fold Path in Buddhist tradition, informs us at these critical choice points. Sylvia Boorstein is quoted on the topic in the following:

"Codes of ethics are most often associated with prohibitions: Don't do this; don't do that. . . all the don'ts elaborate on the awareness that if we are not alert (or in jail -- ed note), our naturally arising impulses of greed and anger might lead us to do something exploitative or abusive. The fundamental rule is: 'Don't cause pain'. Right Action use[s] the terms 'moral shame' or 'moral dread' [conveying] the sense of awesome responsibility they are meant to convey. . .that every single act we do has the potential of causing pain, and every single thing we do has consequences that echo beyond what we imagine. It means we should act carefully. Everything matters".

And so allowing that 'we don't have a choice' . . . maybe we do. To cultivate a fully present awareness of the responsibility that attaches to 'every breath you take'.

Audio Version: Click here http://db.tt/aTdxEJoT

The Secret. . .

The answer lies within. Right up there with other 'deep cliches' and tuppence wisdom: haste makes waste or one man's meat . . . As with so many aphorisms, however, that find their way into the vernacular, there's a strong element of truth beneath the predictable and over-used surface -- we just don't think about it. Some little neural pathway gets twigged -- and out it comes. (And, as often as not, if you're resident in my home county, generously blended with near neighbours: as easy as falling off a piece of cake; or burning the midnight oil at both ends -- but that's another kettle of fish, umm, story.)

A few conversations this past week reminded me of just how eagerly we embrace the external solution, the next big (or hopeful) thing -- the most recent and discarded 'thing' having failed to satisfy, to meet expectation; how expectantly we sit, waiting to be led or impressed or educated -- when most times we hold the key(s) within. We just haven't looked or perhaps don't trust our resident wisdom.

My wife has, these past four months, recommenced a long-delayed project having resurrected her musical training. For a variety of carefully considered reasons, she has chosen to study with a teacher with whom she has not been previously acquainted; and in a venue sufficiently distant that it necessitates a commitment of a full day for her weekly, one-hour lesson. As time with her mentor has unfolded and the two have begun to know each other, the relationship has blossomed. Although one has forty years of experience developing curricula and teaching at a very high level, the other an interest truncated in early adulthood, their association has, not without some surprise and satisfaction on both ends, proven quite mutual.

I suspect this happy and shared benefit has evolved for a few reasons. First, of course, has been an openness on both sides to 'hear' what the respective other 'has to say'. An almost eerie overlap in adjacent interests and demographics, equally, hasn't hurt the process, as talk of the arts in general, gardening, styles of learning, and commitment to any project worth undertaking have surfaced in conversation.

At core, however, has been a highly beneficial and increasingly 'blurred' view of just who the teacher is -- at any given point in time. Both principals in this partnership bring a hugely rich skill set to their association. "J" (let's just call her that for short) has a lifetime in music and affiliation with a storied institution. My wife, an accountant by training and practice, brings a single-mindedness, commitment, capacity for organizing, structuring, and sequencing tasks, time-management history, a penchant for lateral or horizontal and inclusive thinking, and a twenty-year mindfulness practice -- all elements that have informed her most recent project and been both shared with and welcomed by her teacher. Mutual respect, and perhaps most particularly, courage are key: to not only set aside the 'traditional roles' of teacher and student, but to trust one's instincts and innate abilities and to take responsibility for one's own direction and evolution. Looking inside for the 'answer'.

A second conversation transpired with an acquaintance of some thirty years and highlights a quite different facet of the 'internal answer' paradox. In this case, personal growth and 'moving on' have been the elusive grails for this individual: quite possibly because she has been 'looking in all the wrong places'. 'Paralysis' has been in part due to a relentless and persistent belief that the key to her prison lies outside the walls of her cell. A procession of gurus, strategies, courses and classes, self-help manuals have, in some measure been empowered and entrusted with her deliverance. I had occasion to 'read her the riot act' (note to self: work on compassionate presentation!) as part of this conversation, reminding her of what has ever been true: to charge the teacher (be it man or manuscript) with all responsibility is to give away one's own power, to betray an essential distrust we have in our own resources, and to set oneself up for Sisyphesian disappointment -- as the rock of hope rolls down the other side of the hill, only to be pushed upward again.

Mindfulness practice affords us three essentials as we 'adjust our view' (from looking out to looking in). First, the capacity to accept 'what is' -- being content, without needing things to be different than they are in this moment (confident that things will ever change and evolve). Secondly, the time and space to be fully with ourselves -- the opportunity to reflect on and contemplate what lies within us -- for that half hour each day. And thirdly, a practice that emphasizes process over product or outcome -- cultivating an appreciation for the journey over the destination (to cite another rather shopworn, but truthful cliche); recognizing that meditation is not for anything and that by engaging the activity, we actually 'solve' our issues. [For what it's worth, a lovely illustration of the third 'gift' is explored in the recent film Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. The movie chronicles the search by a young Aspergers boy for a lock that fits a key he's found; and the opening of which he believes will 'solve' the riddle of his father's untimely death. The exhaustive and compulsive search affords him opportunities to deal, unknowingly, with most all of his fears and avoidances -- and serves as his redemptive 'journey'.]

So What's Wrong with a Choir?

So who amongst us has never experienced a 'brain-storming session'? The ubiquitous newsprint flip chart, the magic markers (usually a full palate of colours -- for emphasis!), and the facilitator's caveat of 'don't hold back, just throw out those suggestions; there are no bad ideas'. The (as it turns out) illusory presumption is that quantity is preferred to quality (if we need to make a choice) and that assessing the merit of a particular idea will suppress the creative flow. Put a group of chimpanzees in a room with full access to (it used to be) typewriters and, with enough time, they'll re-create the Bard of Avon's canon -- it'll just take a lifetime of editing to find it! And so it is with the hallmark technique of Madison Avenue, company board rooms, and a whole host of other groups in search of an idea -- any idea.

To rescue the baby as the bath water swirls down the drain, there is apparent benefit in this process -- but it's not what the originators of the brain-storming protocol thought it was. Evidently it's the group itself that provides the real creative juice; and not the liberty to free associate endlessly without fear of having to justify or defend one's thoughts. So being in community is superior to working (and thinking) in isolation. But it's how we're in community. Apparently we need to grate on each other a bit for the process to be optimally productive.

Charlan Nemeth (U. of California at Berkeley) is quoted in a recent article in The New Yorker: '(Although) authentic dissent can be difficult, it's always invigorating'. The article's author, Jonah Lehrer, elaborates: 'criticism allows people to dig below the surface of imagination and come up with collective ideas that aren't predictable'. Reading this, I recalled a hiring protocol attributed to Nissan which they christened 'creative abrasion'. When interviewing middle management candidates, the company generally attempted to hire pairs of individuals whose perspectives were often in opposition one from the other. The rationale was that the dyads would challenge each other and foster accountability -- rather than just automatically validate and endorse what their partner had proposed.

The article goes on to examine the particular type(s) of group interaction that most fosters creativity. It turns out that (surprise, surprise), Steve Jobs' vision of creating a working environment that promotes (mandates, in his rather dictatorial style) a 'benign collision' of individuals from different departments with different focuses is a 'best way' of achieving this end (increased creative energy). The prototype for this model was evidently created, quite by accident, in the latter years of World War II at a research facility at MIT (somewhat anonymously labelled 'Building 20'); charged with the responsibility of perfecting radar technology. The dilapidated physical home to this critical research, scheduled for demolition immediately post-war -- but lasting decades longer -- has its longevity attributed to the phenomenal string of ground-breaking inventions that continued to emanate from within its drafty walls. The reason for this unique contribution: a host of thoughtful, curious, and critical thinkers from any number of different scientific backgrounds, regularly getting lost (the floor and office numbering apparently grew up with no identifiable logic to it) and stumbling into rarely encountered colleagues, co-tenants. Curiosity being what it is, ideas were shared and 'critiqued' over coffee -- along with directions provided back to one's own work space! In the process, perspectives were given a quarter turn and gently helped 'outside the box' long enough to foster an abundance of 'aha moments'.

On reflection, a few aspects of this process resonated with me. When this blog began, it was intended as a forum to stimulate discussion. The blog site, Hinc Videndum, translates from the Latin (rather generously) as 'The view from here'; and was intended to convey 'one person's thoughts on . . .' -- but inviting comment, expansion, and most particularly, challenge. One of our regular group members, on selecting his seat opposite me a few weeks ago, joked (but not entirely) that he was choosing the 'devil's advocate chair' -- a role he regularly and enthusiastically takes on; and happily so from my perspective! Several writers and teachers of meditation and mindfulness draw connections across the boundaries of different 'brands' of practice, showing how each is enriched by the contributions and traditions of the other(s). When we sit in isolation (or 'sing with the choir'), we risk stifling our creativity, limiting our exposure to challenge (and by extension, the stimulus that gives our practice that quarter turn); we become less vital and more complacent.

Even in mindfulness practice, feedback, questions, and authentic dissent are essential.

Patience, Perfection, and an Excellent Cuppa

Let's make tea. A mug, a bag, some (sorta) hot water. Pour last into first and drag the middle one thru' it. Or. 'Hot the pot'; discard (water, not pot); place bag(s) in warmed pot and cover with freshly boiled water; wait a short while; then top up with appropriate quantity of boiled water; wait five minutes (or so), allowing a steeping, an infusion of; remove bag(s) and cover pot with cozy. What's the diff? Well, it depends. Tea is tea (well, even that's not a true statement). What it can and may become, however, is a function of the process, timing, intention, and . . . patience.

My waking conversation with my wife today (she'd been up for a few hours already!) began with an invitation to 'read this sentence': as it turns out, a rather long, grammatically complicated (but still quite precise and seemingly complete) comparison of terms for musical scale relationships; and how, despite the detail, each failed to specify the form of the scale so described. (Not unlike the sentence you just successfully navigated -- possibly.) There followed a re-reading, a pause, and then a three-word response: 'None articulates form'. 'Well, if that's all he's saying, why didn't he just say it!', came her somewhat exasperated retort. I couldn't answer that one. But it did remind me of my process -- in this instance, how I read. . . and a wealth of other awarenesses that tumbled out as the conversation continued.

As a middle school student, I'd been identified as a 'slow reader'. This pronouncement was attended by much parental hand-wringing, enrollment in speed-reading courses, psychological assessment, and angst and envy on the part of the young student. In particular I envied my friend who could 'read a book a night'; and wondered how this was possible. (He also earned much lower grades than I did -- but I think may have had a better social life.) He confided at one point that he 'skimmed', aka, read down the centre of a page and skipped dialogue, picking up the 'gist' of the page, chapter, and evidently, book. I, by significant contrast, read each sentence, complete with punctuation and sometimes just marveled at the elegance of the construction. Two very different strategies, approaches -- with quite different outcomes (both favourable and less so).

My fondness for mathematical logic and Latin seemed to spring from similar seed. A quirk of the latter's 'normal' sentence structure is the placement of the main verb (which also contains the implied subject of the sentence) at the very end of the sentence. Far be it from me to speculate that Roman orators were passive-aggressively trying to slow people down a bit and compel them to listen to the whole sentence -- right to the very end -- but it is one possibility! Maybe I was just born 2000 years too late.

But back to my wife's morning studies. The broader topic, once we got past the convoluted language, was a comparison of different styles of practice. (Hmm, some possible overlap with tea and textbooks?) The pro's and con's of 'sight-reading' music were under examination, the particular author describing, this time very clearly, the seductive appeal of sitting down at the keyboard, cracking open a previously unseen score, and in 'no time at all', tickling the ivories in a good approximation of the tangle of notes on the page. His cautions were framed in terms of some familiar, mindfulness-based concepts: breadth of awareness of and attention to the present moment, discipline, and an internalizing of and more complete appreciation and learning of what, in this case, is being practiced or 'studied' -- achieved only by a 'sitting with' and allowing the material 'to steep'.

He lauds the proficient sight reader for his unique skill. But there are significant 'downsides', if you will. He is always 'one step ahead of himself' (of necessity playing one bar or measure while attending to the next). He is committing a good amount of his energy to on-the-fly decisions about what to leave in, and what he can 'safely' leave out (and accordingly, figuring how to cover up those, truth be told, flaws in the performance). And he is completely foregoing the hallmark of building a piece into one's repertoire -- transferring the piece, not just into the momentary 'performance', but into 'muscle memory', able to be pulled out days, weeks, years later, often without benefit of the score before him. Sounds a whole lot like my friend's 'reading' of books, the quickie cuppa that passes for tea -- but misses the essence. I am reminded of the student who crams for an exam, successfully earns his 'A', then moves on, quickly tiring of 'that old stuff', yesterday's news; and craving ever 'new and interesting' material to sate the appetite for novelty -- impatient, easily bored, restless.

A last word on the 'other side of the mountain'. Like any good cup of tea (ruined if the bags are left in too long), any thorough reading of a book (themes and metaphor lost to obsessing over analysis, detail), the specter of perfection lurks at the other end of the road, threatening to paralyze and block progress of any kind. If the speed/sight reader flies over material, missing its nuances and subtleties, the perfectionist lingers too long, worries things to death, experiencing what the economists are so fond of calling 'diminished returns'. I find patience, excellence are often most constructively thought about as being plotted along a curving path rather than a straight line (that steadily rises, the more time and energy spent). At one end we have the 'faking of', the approximation; at the other the fixation of the stuck perfectionist. In the middle, we have excellence with performance and practice peaking midway between the two.

The Perfect Mistake

The self-contradictory title of this piece is a reworking of a book title that's been floating around the house for the past few months, an important addition to Nicola's library of musical reference material: The Perfect Wrong Note (and subtitled, Learning to Trust Your Musical Self). Intrigued, I'd turned to the chapter entitled A Guide to Healthy Practicing -- and was not a little surprised to find cited an old favourite of mine, Fritz Perls. Perls, variously considered as the father of Gestalt psychology, had a great deal to say about awareness and attending to the present moment. One of his many contentions is that our direction 'from here' (that is, from where we happen to be right now! ) is best determined by what's going on, again, right now; that the 'best' pathway is a fluid, shifting, entity; and not something that remains fixed, once determined. Ignoring the most current information about our present position is done at our peril.

Confronted with a set of steps, we intuitively raise our leading foot to accommodate the change in topography -- a self-evident adjustment that, executed seconds earlier, while crossing a flat floor would, at the very least look pretty weird. Pouring a beverage from its container is always a more successful endeavour if we've first placed a glass under the spout. What's going on right now, determines, at these rudimentary levels the success or failure of our decisions. So why abandon these instinctive truths in more complicated circumstances? Good question!

This being 'awake' to the present moment is sometimes referred to as the continuum of awareness; and may be defined as 'a flowing, nonjudgmental openness to events, . . an acceptance of how things really are (regardless of prior intentions)' (p. 77, Westney, Perfect Wrong Note). Bears a striking resemblance to Kabat-Zinn's definition of mindfulness practice: paying attention (in a particular way), in the present moment, non-judgmentally.

So what happens when we 'make a mistake', depart from the expected, hoped-for path, or, in Perl's or K-Z's terms, stop paying attention? I suppose it depends on the situation. A minor slip or trip and we 'wake up' pretty quickly, hopefully correct our balance (maybe look around to see if anyone noticed) and carry on, likely a bit more mindful of the unevenness of the terrain. A little more serious (say, if the balance doesn't get restored and we actually hit the deck) and the 'awakening' may take a bit longer, the resolve a bit more lasting. (I still recall, years afterward, taking a flyer off the top step of a concrete flight of stairs, having slipped on ice, landing very heavily on my backside -- ever so grateful to have it my gluteus maximus that took the impact rather than the back of my skull.)

But these are the physical manifestations. What might our responses look like if this was a 'mental slip'? Regaining our 'balance' becomes a bit more complicated -- but no less reactive or automatic. What happens when we're trying to concentrate or perform a task in a particular, desired way -- and have a distracted thought intrude, lose our concentration, or 'make a mistake'? We might become frustrated, feel disappointment. Perhaps rationalize ('well I am tired') or blame the situation, the surroundings, even our companions. We might launch into interpretation (the why's of the mistake) or analysis (not always a bad thing when determining where to go from here -- but one that does take us pretty quickly away from the present moment!). We might evaluate, judge (too often ourselves -- sliding into self-derogation, -criticism); depending on the perceived pressures and importance attached to the task, we might even panic. In one way or another, these are all automatic, reflexive responses -- and all ones that distance us from the 'data', compelling us to stop paying attention to what just happened. How novel would it be to ask the question: 'what's that about?' To, as the old saying goes, learn from our mistake. And just maybe foregoing in the process, the anxiety, anger, avoidance, confusion, distraction, or personalizing that too often accompanies unwelcome events, accidents -- mistakes!

Trusting the process, the maxim of Human Potentialists, a school of thought closely aligned with Gestalt, maintains that not only are these events, these mistakes, needing to be noticed -- but that they frequently represent the 'most important unfinished business' of the moment, surfacing to give us the opportunity to deal with them. And moreover, that failure to address this 'data' merely adds to our baggage, the thousands of unfinished, unresolved, unaddressed things that will re-visit until appropriately attended to. So why not now? 'Gitter done', in bumper sticker lingo! While we're engaged in any of the bolded responses (above) -- the 'that was so stupid' or the 'what's wrong with me, I know better' -- this internalized chatter moves us out of the present, into past rumination, future anxiety, freely associating our way right out of the here and now.

So the 'things happen for a reason' needlepoint on the wall is not necessarily an invitation to embark on a journey to find that reason. Finding the source of the Nile may have been an exciting and illuminating adventure -- but it didn't change the water as it flowed into Mediterranean. It may just be a cue to stay here, accepting and allowing what is . . . paying attention to the data, the 'perfect (and timely) mistake'.

Sitting in a Group. . .in Silence

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the centre hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we value.
Tao te Ching, 11.

Pay attention to the silence.
What's happening when nothing is happening in a group?
This is the group field.

Thirteen (or 30) people sit in a circle,
but it is the climate, the spirit in the centre of the circle where nothing is happening
that determines the nature of the group field.

People's speech determines the content.
But it is the silence, the empty space
that reveals the group's essential energy.
Tao of Leadership, 11.

The second of these quotes was written twenty-five years ago by my longtime friend, John Heider. The first, by Lao Tzu, 2500 years ago! Truths endure. For twenty years I would happily make the trek to meet with my friend, once, occasionally twice a year, to participate in his ongoing groups. These travels took me to California, Florida, and more recently and enduringly, Kansas. And the question occurred more than once (even to me!): what's the magic that would take me thousand's of kilometers to sit for three, sometimes five or even seven days, in a circle of a dozen or so folks -- mostly in silence, just listening?

During our short feedback session, wrapping up Saturday's silent retreat of a few weeks ago, and hearing about the experiences of many of the participants, I was reminded once again that, indeed there is something very special about the group space. One can sit, eyes closed, breathing -- anywhere. One can walk slowly back and forth or round in circles -- anywhere. Or stretch. . . or balance. But something is different in the circle.

'Alone . . . but not alone' was the way in which one of us described her experience. Sitting in one's own, 'protected' space -- but surrounded by like-mindedness, experiencing a shared purpose, focus. Coming into a group, particularly a large and unfamiliar gathering, it's typically the uncertainties, the anxieties that dominate. One often feels alone . . . and most distinctly cut off from the other people. Perhaps this is projection -- but I don't think so. I frequently find myself, 'taking the temperature' of the assemblage, seeing where I fit in, wondering how I measure up, if I'll be accepted (or, in the catastrophic, ignored, even shunned). All distractions, usually contrived in my own apprehension; and certainly detracting from the experience. Being welcomed merely for walking into the room and sitting down is a unique experience.

Close beside this observation were various comments on the shift in the 'social climate' that many noticed. The ease of not talking leveled the playing field for some. Coming into a group, knowing few if any, often applies a particular and peculiar social pressure, amplifying one's natural style, temperament. The shy may become more withdrawn, awkward, uncomfortable; the gregarious, more ebullient, engaging, launching into hyper-social mode. We, in short become caricatures of ourselves, displaying only those extremes of our personality that, in more familiar conditions, have the 'corners rounded off' a bit. When 'small talk' becomes 'no talk', these extremes too are muted; the need, compulsion, reflex to participate thru' speech -- be it witty, sage, self-conscious, or forced (or, God forbid, boring!) -- is removed. And we can let go of the 'dance' that preoccupies and steals our attention.

Many commented on the 'life lessons' -- more life reminders -- arising from walking the labyrinth. Even the luxury that walking in silence affords, of noticing one's thoughts, feelings, sensations (good and bad -- if I'm allowed an evaluative comment) around the simplest of experience, proved to be something of a revelation for some. Impatience, frustration, a (social) sensitivity to 'holding things up' (and the ever in the wings, ever so Canadian apology for same); the urgency to finish, the delay in start, the 'should I pass or slow down' -- all were noticed. . . and quietly resolved or considered or just allowed. Action becomes reflection. 'Fixing', addressing becomes tolerance (maybe!). And we 'sit with' (or in this instance, walk with) a situation, waiting for it to evolve and change (as it most certainly will), released from the compulsion to act on it or even against it.

Metaphors presented to some. Observing the 'illusion' of being behind -- or ahead -- of another, as the labyrinth's track circled back on itself, changed direction, became more central or more peripheral. And applying that observation to the often 'competitive' value we take into life situations; the measuring of how I'm doing in a comparative way ("if I'm ahead of so and so, I must be OK, right?"); instead of the intra-individual (the within self) perspective. The luxury of going at one's own pace.

And finally, trust. Consider the last time you sat in a group of twenty-nine other people, awake and alert -- with your eyes closed, no need or expectation to explain or account for one's behaviour or choices.

I think I know why I found John's groups so compelling, such a pull. These values and others all lived in the 'hole at the centre', in the group field.