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Bonds That
Make Us Free, Part 21: An Experiment in Openness
by C. Terry Warner
In
case you missed it, read Part
1 and Part 20 of this
amazing series.
The change in
Hal, like the change in Monte, seems to have depended upon an unusual
event. In Monte's case it was the sight of his daughter-in-law,
sobbing; in Hal's, it was finding that essay. Though Monte braced
himself and made preparations to control himself, he couldn't by
an act of will break down his suspicion and anger. Similarly with
Hal—though he had sought to serve and understand his boy, he
hadn't managed to look upon him in that fundamentally different
way that I have called a change of heart. Realizing this, we cannot
restrain ourselves from asking this question: Must we wait for some
unexpected, calamitous news about whomever we have been blaming
before our hardness toward them can be broken? Isn't there anything
we can do on our own, any initiative we can take, to set the process
of change in motion?
We need to remind
ourselves of a point made in connection with Monte's experience.
What softened the hearts of both men was not merely learning new
information. Information can affect us only to the extent that we
allow it to. We know from the self-betrayal cases we have studied
that we can accusingly and vigilantly collect every relevant scrap
of information or insight available without experiencing any softening
of our attitude. In order for the truth about a person to affect
us, we must be receptive. We must have eyes to see.
This important
fact should not discourage us at all. When we go in search of understanding,
and do so sincerely, we put ourselves in a receptive posture
toward the truth. This posture is different from being concerned
only about justifying and defending ourselves. In this new, searching
posture we are acting upon a desire, even if only feebly formed,
to be different. And we are doing it with a willingness, perhaps
only slight, to use what we discover respectfully. Though our attitude
may not yet be compassionate, it is crucially different from unbending
accusation. A crack has opened in our shell, and a little light
has broken through. We have become able to entertain a possibility
we had been rejecting and have given ourselves a genuine chance
to be softened by truths we have yet to discover.
There are some
fairly systematic ways to go about this search for the truth concerning
the other person's inward reality. Each of them focuses in some
particular way on reconsidering our judgments about that person.
Here is an example,
which I am going to call the reconsideration exercise. The
exercise is preceded by these instructions:
Imagine you
are living in a world that is different from this present world.
You are different, in that you are taking no offense. No
matter what others may be doing, you do not feel they are hurting
you psychologically or emotionally. You harbor no accusation within
your heart. In this imagined situation, yours is an I-You way of
being. But this is the only difference between your imagined world
and the present actual world. In your imagined world, everyone else
is exactly the same as they are right now.
Now from your
imagined perspective, think of someone who has inconvenienced, irritated,
or injured you in some manner, or who is doing so now. Think about
that individual as long as you like—but if at all possible
only from within the I-You mode.
Then, when you
feel ready, take a pen or pencil and write a description of that
individual.
Don't try to
make that person seem better than she (or he) really is; don't just
tell all her good qualities and ignore the bad. Instead, describe
her accurately; describe all her qualities—those you
have up to now thought bad as well as those you've thought good.
Just be sure to describe them, if you possibly can, from your new,
unoffended point of view. If she's a self-betrayer, filled with
negative emotions, describe that. Tell the truth.
I do not require
those who do this exercise to express publicly what they write,
though they may if they want to. I scrupulously try to avoid invading
their privacy. But I do invite them to share any insights they may
have gained from the experience. Some of them feel frustrated—at
least on the first try they cannot seem to imagine themselves into
a compassionate outlook and therefore have nothing to say. But others
come to what I consider a remarkable degree of self-understanding.
Here are some examples of insights I have heard expressed:
I discovered
that what the other person is doing really isn't being done to me.
He's just lashing out to try to make himself feel okay, and I just
happen to be there.
*
* *
I was flooded
with compassion. I feel feelings I didn't know I was capable of.
His self-betrayal didn't offend me anymore, but I felt sorrow for
him. I longed for him to change.
*
* *
It hurt me to
think of all the things I have done to hurt him.
*
* *
By being offended
I have added fuel to her offensive ways of acting. I have promoted
her destruction of herself.
*
* *
I realized I
have never been hurt. Only my pride—and that isn't me. For
nineteen years I was in a relationship that I resented. And now
I can see that in all that time only my pride was wounded, not me.
My pride isn't me.
*
* *
Doing this exercise
releases you from reacting. It sets you free.
*
* *
The irritability
of her qualities is something to which I have been contributing.
*
* *
I realized I
didn't really know him. He's just been someone who's irritated me
for a long time, but I didn't know him.
*
* *
When we no longer
need the other person to validate the lie we are living, she becomes
real to us—a real person like ourselves with real feelings.
*
* *
The same features
that can be described irritably can be described compassionately.
The woman who
shared this last insight—I will call her Claudia—wanted
to tell about the person she had in mind while doing the exercise.
In the class, she did not say he was her husband, but I knew he
was, for she had explained her worries to me when she called me
about enrolling. After the class, she said:
For twenty years
I have seen this individual as cocky and demeaning in his manner.
In my eyes he acted so superior I felt put down in his presence.
Other people felt the same way, and that is no doubt why he had
personality conflicts in his work. But as I did this exercise I
suddenly saw all the same qualities that had offended me in a different
light. I saw him as a little boy who was afraid of life and everyone
around him. He hadn't changed, but I had. Where I had been heavy
inside with self-pity, I now felt only love. And where he had seemed
cocky, he now was only insecure and even afraid.
"I suddenly
saw all the same qualities that had offended me in a different light."
These were qualities of the very person that not long before she
had accused of blighting her life. What brought about this new
understanding was not a change in him, but a change in her. When
he became more real to her, she herself became a more "real"
person—more open and responsive and centered in another person
outside herself.
After a break
in a training course for business leaders, a handsome young man
named André asked to share something.
He had used the break time to call his wife, to tell her how he
was going to be different.
"I wish
I could be there," she said.
"It's not
necessary," he replied.
"But then
I could make some changes too."
"No, I
am changing," he said, showing the depth of his understanding,
"and that will be enough."
This man understood.
He understood that by his change of heart he would put an end to
all the difficulties he had been giving her to deal with. She would
then be free to be the kind of person he had just rediscovered her
to be. Reconsidering her, he could see how big a part he had played
in any problems between them and that her part in them had depended
heavily on his. What he said to her expressed his high regard for
her and his belief in her.
In another class
each person present wrote a personal collusion story. I asked them,
"Who is responsible for a collusion?" Instantly and almost
in unison they responded, "I am." This is the same deep
wisdom André had expressed.
Over the course
of more than twenty years I have watched many people change by engaging
earnestly in this exercise. Taking up the sensitivities of an I-You
person for the purpose of this exercise can bring about a change
of heart. We enter into the realm of pondering, meditation, inward
searching, or prayer, and by this means withdraw ourselves from
distractions and addictive desires. I speak here of more than the
cultivation of silence, stillness, and quietude, an art especially
perfected in some Eastern religions. I speak of reconsidering, with
a good and courageous heart, our self-absorbed judgments and proud
attitudes.
Inside the
Other Person's Box
Some of the people who can't quite get the full impact of the
reconsideration exercise on first try—and most of those seem
to get it if they try again, when they have more time—have
less difficulty with an exercise that centers on an actual collusion
in their lives. I simply invite the people present to write the
story of a collusion cycle in which they have been involved.
Any of us can
fill in our own side of the story with ease, since we will have
gone over it in our minds many times. The challenge is to fill in
the other person's side of the story, for it is acknowledging what
he or she is feeling and experiencing that we have been refusing
to do. Doing this part is vital. It liberates us from the falsity
of our side of the story, for we cannot put ourselves in the other
person's position and at the same time continue to accuse him or
her. When we do put ourselves in the other's position, we in effect
"break through the wall of our box," or, in other words,
we give up projecting our accusing attitude onto that person and
are suddenly able to see things straight. Occupying the position
of another person for even a few moments means admitting that he
or she might not be guilty as charged, and with that admission,
our previously inflexible accusation crumbles. It always works
out this way—the truth dispels the lie.
Listening
to a Face
A California woman named Jenny told the following story in a course
I was conducting; it illustrates what can happen when we open our
hearts to the truth. These are her words:
Erin doesn't
care if her schoolwork is right and even cheats to get it done.
Like any concerned mother I have taken charge of the situation and
I make her do her homework, even if it takes her hours. She whines
and complains, and I encourage her as cheerfully as is possible
when a child is acting like that, but she keeps it up anyway. I
get sterner until finally I start yelling at her.
The trouble
with Erin is especially frustrating because for years I have given
her my best efforts. Our first daughter, Ashley, was the most beautiful
and delightful and gracious child I have ever known. She lit up
any room she entered. But she was killed on the way to kindergarten
nearly ten years ago. Erin wasn't as naturally charming, and so,
sensing the danger of the comparisons with Ashley I would inevitably
make, I decided I would give her physical love—warm hugs—every
day of her life. I have done that faithfully, but apparently to
no avail.
Well, because
her work did not improve, her teacher recommended last week that
she repeat the second grade. I was assigned to help Erin with her
flash cards. She counts on her fingers or guesses or, I swear, gives
the wrong answer when I'm sure she knows the right one. It is about
as frustrating as anything I have ever done. I think, "Is she
doing this on purpose? Why? I've been doing the right things to
help her. She just refuses to cooperate!"
I haven't just
provided a home for her. I've played with her and helped her with
her schoolwork and given her physical love and then I've gotten
kicked in the teeth. I don't know what more I can do.
In the third
session of the class Jenny recounted a moment in which this story
of her relationship with Erin underwent a profound revision. Jenny
was able to perceive Erin differently—or I should say, truthfully.
She experienced a change of heart. Later she recounted what happened
in a letter, from which I quote.
The experiences
in the class have helped me look at both Erin and myself differently.
What I learned will be with me for the rest of my life.
I realized
how much I had been a part of Erin's problems, how I was always
harder on her than on the others. When we worked on the flash cards
I was outwardly encouraging, but inwardly I mistrusted her, and
she felt that message from me. I cried when I realized the price
she had to pay for my inability to love her without reservation.
After I came
to this realization, I was a different person when I was with Erin.
One afternoon we went over her flash cards. I believe she sensed
something different about me, because she missed only three out
of some thirty cards, whereas before she would usually only get
about three right. And to top it off she left the table with a smile
instead of tears.
Things went
fine for a couple of days, but I have learned that change doesn't
happen overnight. Sunday was a real test day. Erin did everything
imaginable to frustrate me. We try to make Sunday a family day,
and she said, "I hate being with the family—I want to
be with my friends." My normal response would have been, "Erin,
don't talk that way. You're going to be with us today and we're
going to have fun together!" But this time I pulled her up
on my lap and looked at her, and I had this overwhelming feeling
of love for her that just seemed to flow between us. I hugged her
tightly and told her how much I love her. I realized that for the
very first time in eight years I was expressing true love for her.
Previously I had hugged her, but the love didn't flow. This time
the love just flowed. It was as if I was holding a new baby for
the first time. Tears were streaming down and she looked at me and
said, "Are you crying because you love me, Mommy?" I nodded.
She whispered, "Mommy, I want to stay with you forever."
From where did
the light come that dispelled the darkness of Jenny's eyes? Partly
from Erin. It was as if there issued from Erin's face, and especially
her eyes, a call to her mother: "I am struggling. I need you.
I am hard toward you only because I am afraid of your hardness toward
me. Please don't harden your heart against me. Don't close me out."
No doubt Jenny
had often heard this call. But until the day she wrote about, she
interpreted the call as Erin's whimpering or obstinacy. As long
as Jenny remained resentful and anxious about her own place in the
world, her eyes were darkened; she could not discern Erin's fears
or hear her call.
I have been
suggesting that, strange as it sounds, Jenny heard this call
or summons when she looked at Erin, especially when she looked
into Erin's eyes. This way of talking is suggested in the writings
of Lithuanian writer Emmanuel Levinas. Jenny heard the summons when
she began to listen to Erin's face.
In my own life
I have found very helpful a slightly different way of describing
experiences like Jenny's. Jenny changed when she gave up trying
to push her influence upon Erin and instead let herself be influenced
by Erin. It happened when she stopped trying to change her daughter
so as to make her own life story turn out the way she had in mind,
with herself as heroine at the center of it. Instead, she let
the unfolding story of her life be determined by her daughter's
need. She let Erin's need direct her responses. It was from
that moment on, when Jenny stopped trying to have the relationship
her own way, that Erin stopped insisting on having it her own
way.
From the countenance
of every individual, as we stand before him or her, comes the imperative,
"Treat me as a person separate from yourself, but just as real—with
hopes and needs of my own." Or, to use the words of the philosopher
Immanuel Kant, "Treat me as an end and not as a means."
If we will hearken to this summons and do as it dictates, we will
change in our relation to those people, if change is needed. We
will care for them and resonate with them. And this change will
happen naturally, without our trying to make it happen.
In
the next few articles we will begin to examine how allowing others
to influnce us can actually exert an influence on them...
This article
is part of a serialization of Bonds That Make Us
Free: Healing Our Relationships, Coming to Ourselves by
C. Terry Warner.
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