Archives for category: Logic & Reason

I like communication. I think most of us probably enjoy it, or some aspect of it. My favorite, as much as I enjoy words and talking and writing, is being heard.  I’d be surprised in that weren’t true of most people, but I’m not ‘most people’ in a lot of ways, so I likely shouldn’t go out on that limb. 🙂  I do enjoy being heard, however I have a lot to learn about listening; this is another statement I suspect is true of a lot of people, just based on observation.

It is a journey taken one step at a time.

It is a journey taken one step at a time.

I’ve noticed something strange…people who don’t feel heard are generally not listening (at least at that point at which they feel they are not being heard, themselves).  “Communication” so easily turns into tit-for-tat bullshit that there are actually enough books written about communication as a subject to fill a library without help from any other topic. Amazon has 339,665 books on “communication” across a variety of subtopics, such as “communication skills” (very popular, right at the top) and “law” (which I suppose gets involved when communication goes seriously awry).  Human primates work hard to communicate – hell, we created language to facilitate that! We consider both verbal and non verbal forms of communication when we discuss language, and make a big deal over one versus the other, and when it is appropriate to use them, and how to interpret them. We make rules about communication and set up hierarchies of information to sort fact from fiction, lies from well-intended misstatements based on erroneous beliefs, and novels from religious tomes. Us versus them. We get our emotions involved. All that fuss and effort – and we’re still communicating poorly, and taking shit personally based on untested assumptions, and expectations that source from fictions in our own heads.

Part of my own challenge in communication rests on the distinction between ‘hearing’ and ‘listening’. You, too? Have you ever been in a heated discussion, or contentious meeting, and rather than actually listening with awareness to the speaker of the moment, you were investing time in formulating a reply – to something you heard moments ago, or something you are only half listening to in the moment? It’s a poor practice. I can make that assertion comfortably, feeling pretty sure you’ll agree with me – all I have to do is make that observation from the vantage point of the disregarded speaker, themselves. We’ve all been there – making a point that matters to us, doing our best to be clear, concise, and hold the attention of our listener, and… aware that we are not actually ‘being heard’; the vaguely distracted facial expression, and loss of eye contact, or lack of focused gaze, are a hint – the real giveaway is when our listener begins to reply or rebut, and it is apparent they are not speaking to the salient points at all, they are just downloading what they spent time considering – while you were talking. They weren’t listening, they were waiting for their turn. Awkward. Rude. Ineffective communication. It’s so easy, though, to get wrapped up in what feels like matters the most – and lose awareness that what actually matters most is listening while someone is talking.  It gets more complicated if the person talking is an unqualified asshat, I get it, or espousing views that are “offensive” or inflammatory. That’s hard to take. Perhaps in that scenario the more effective communication is to say frankly that there is offense, or express clearly and simply that the information is in some way unacceptable – then disengage without further rebuttal or reply? (Is every battle mine? lol I’ve been making some different choices, lately, myself).

Deceit, treachery, willfully misleading someone, treating them poorly or bullying them with language; my perspective is that these things are not good uses of communication between honorable beings making compassionate choices, and treating people well. We don’t always make our best choices in the moment, though, do we? It’s easy for a person, in a moment of anger, to be willfully cruel, or in a moment of frustration to be impatient or callous. We’re all very human.

I dislike imprecise communication, particularly regarding emotion. I’m not always good at it, myself, and I practice some things I find key, and I do so in a very planned and studied way. The things I put that kind of structured emphasis on are simple enough. I practice communicating willfully in words – for me this means moving gently through physical space, and not using my body to communicate strong emotion instead of using words; no deliberate slamming or banging of cupboards, doors, drawers, etc to communicate distress or anger. It’s very upsetting and imprecise, and it tends (in my own experience) to foster panic, anxiety, and insecurity in the human herd without truly communicating anything with accuracy, or honesty. It seems mean, and it causes considerable extra wear and tear on household goods.  (Do you slam shit when you’re mad? Why do you do it? What does that satisfy for you? I’ve been there, but I can’t say I find anything of lasting value in that method of communicating; I gave it up in principle some time ago.) I won’t claim any mastery; I practice continuously whether I am upset or not.  The other key practice is listening, really attending to the words another person is taking time to share with me, without being distracted by the pressure of my own desire to speak and be heard, or caving to some need-in-the-moment to challenge or disagree. It’s very difficult for me – the disinhibition issues I struggle with often get in the way; practicing is very important for reinforcing better habits. Not interrupting people is a good start on a basic level. (I am so not there yet! I work at it every day.) It matters that much to me, that people speaking with me feel heard.

It was slow going to reach a place where I understand that because I desire to be heard, learning to listen is critically important. It was also a struggle to reach a place where I understand that communicating emotions is not about pushing the visceral experience of strong emotion into the consciousness of other human beings against their will, or without their consent; it is about using gentle words, clearly and simply, while allowing that other consciousness to continue to have its own experience. There’s a lot of practice ahead of me. The day I realized I am practicing these qualities and behaviors because they are who I want most to be – and by intention, who I am – I became so much more able to step back from frustrations built around ‘I will when they do’ and ‘they don’t so why should I?’ or issues of unfairness, and suddenly I felt more heard – because I am listening to my own voice. That matters, too. So often it has turned out the person not listening to me, is me.

Savoring each precious moment through awareness is a nice place to start a journey of discovery.

Savoring each precious moment through awareness is a nice place to start a journey of discovery.

Some rambling notes on communication early on a Tuesday morning. It’s a good day to communicate with love, and with great attention. It’s a good day to really hear the message I am sharing with the world, from the world’s perspective. It’s a good day to be kind, and to treat others with courtesy – not because they deserve it, but because it is who I am. Today is a good day to change the world.

And sadly, the fun of it may die right there…because this morning, rather than being some sly joke, or foreshadowing of words to come, today’s title sort of stands there mocking me. Yep. I woke feeling good. I slept pretty well. I’m in pain, but also in a pleasant mood. We have additional house guests, and the ‘vibe’ in the background feels different – and I know I bring much of that experience with me, simply because I am, if nothing else, the one making the observation, and therefore most likely it is simply my own experience. My espresso is tasty and hot this morning, a purist’s dream; one double shot, pulled well, good crema, just the right temperature, without adornment, flavor additives, or sweeteners. Lovely. Coffee.

I woke ahead of the alarm, which doesn’t quite go without saying, but is the likely experience each morning. There was an instant when an idea of what might be ‘worthy’ to write about slipped by my consciousness ever-so-briefly, and then dissipated with the morning realization that pain starts now. Here I sit, now, fingers poised over the keyboard chuckling in the background about the humor in transposing nouns after reading a comic early in the morning shared from xkcd.com… And… I’ve got nothing. This morning, I have nothing to say. Apparently. This is rare and extraordinary. Now what?

Googling ‘how does inspiration work’ for my own amusement returns 166,000,000 results in .48 seconds. Huh. Not one article on the first page of the search holds much promise in the moment, and suddenly the fire of my moment of curiosity is quenched – because I also don’t much feeling like investing in this particular inquiry at this particular moment. My restless mind is largely a byproduct of my level of pain this morning; my helpful brain is studiously working to take my mind off of my pain, while also continuing to contemplate it. lol This is not an efficient use of mental bandwidth. I feel a bit frustrated with myself; this time in the morning isn’t about pushing information into the eye holes of the world. It isn’t a test of endurance in office chairs, either. This is quiet time to reflect and be content and… and I feel like I’m dealing with a fussy toddler, while also being the fussy toddler.

Just thoughts over coffee - less filling than tiramisu.

Just thoughts over coffee – less filling than tiramisu.

A few minutes of meditation later, and I am contemplating assumptions and whether our (my) response to other people is based on what we (I) know, or what we (I) assume. I occasionally find myself feeling argumentative with a person more because of who they are (seem to be) than what they are saying, even behaving contentiously in response to information I actually agree with. I am on the verge of saying ‘it makes no sense’ when I realize how utterly irrelevant that observation would be – because the phenomenon itself is not about ‘making sense’ in the first place. I had an experience last night that seems relevant. We have additional house guests overnight, visiting friends passing through who are dear to my traveling partner. I’ve only recently met them, myself, and getting to know people beyond the superficial moments is something I like to do, but have some challenges with doing it gently. Disinhibition has been a challenge for me for the entirety of my recollection of living. The excitement of meeting new people, mixed in with the specifics of my life experiences, and the disinhibition, results in a generalized sense that I am ever-teetering on the edge of saying something completely inappropriate at just the wrong time – and not finding out about it until later, from some astonished and dismayed third-party.  I have to wonder if, for my loved ones, watching me getting to know someone has something in common with watching a toddler handle a small kitten for the first time – mostly just kind of nerve-wracking. Last night I found myself feeling inclined to argue with one of our guests, and each time I felt it surge in my tone I was surprised to observe that I wasn’t disagreeing with the content of what he was saying. So… what the hell?

I’m generally a decent sort. (Hey, that feels nice – have you said something nice to you lately? Maybe take a moment now? Try it – it’s lovely.) I’m not particularly contrary or prone to being confrontational at this point in my life… so what’s up with ‘feeling argumentative’? Why is that even a feeling to choose from? It’s not a very pleasant one, and it doesn’t make a good impression. I can’t say I approve at all of ‘disagreeing with the person’ rather than disagreeing with a point they are making, and if it weren’t so annoying it would be hilarious to find myself, again and again, feeling provoked to disagree with stuff I actually agree with… for no obvious reason. I gave myself a moment of compassion over being so utterly human, and some patience with myself in the moment. This morning as I contemplate it I realize what I was actually disagreeing with – neither the man nor the content of his statements – it was the form in which they were presented: flat assertions, unsupported except anecdotally, delivered with conviction and a challenging tone – in anticipation of disagreement. Well. That’s likely to get a rise out of me, however carefully I police myself… I’m the sort who will actually ask my own friends to cite their references in a conversation, or point out a logical fallacy (with sketches).

It’s not a bad morning to consider being considerate. It’s even a pretty good one. Good, too, for considering a better approach to communication (maybe “I agree with what you are saying. I’m interested in where you are getting information that you feel so confident about it, though; I’d love to read more.”?) It’s nice that not all of life’s lesson have me weeping in a corner. It’s okay to smile and say “that’s a great perspective!” 🙂

...One possible perspective of many.

…One possible perspective of many.

I woke early this morning, and I woke gently. I felt good, and simply wasn’t going to back to sleep. It was 3:02 am. Too early, even for coffee. Not too early for meditation. Not too early for yoga. Eventually, it was no longer too early for coffee, either. So far a lovely morning in every sense; it contrasts the strangely emotional weekend, full of powerful lessons, opportunities for growth (some of them passed up, frankly, in favor of less worthy actions), and although it began in difficulty and drama, it finished gently and in love. There’s nothing simple about the life of a human primate in the 21st century; I had a rough weekend, emotionally, and woke this morning realizing I made choices that made it much worse. (Good one, Awareness, way to stay on top of things. lol)

Perspective still matters, even when I'm not looking.

Perspective still matters, even when I’m not looking.

A couple of deeply connected moments yesterday really shifted my perspective on the weekend, and in light of my challenges in the moment, on life and love as well.  It’s pretty awesome when life throws me a freebie in the way of a living metaphor, a teachable moment, or a lifeline…this one wasn’t that, but totally worth it, anyway.

One such moment, I admit I was openly weeping at a train station. Between the PTSD and the vagaries of getting through menopause, I’ve learned to find a certain acceptance of tears, even public ones, though I am not truly comfortable with weeping. I stood there in the sunshine, tears slowly making their way down my face one by one largely unnoticed. A small girl watched me intently, and for one moment we made eye contact, I tried to smile or mold my face into something less scary for a small girl than an older woman crying – that can’t present a very desirable outlook on adulthood, and I don’t want to blow the fun of it for some child. She frowned, more puzzled than distressed, and walked away. Moments later, there was a tug on the hem of my shirt, and I heard an adult woman nearby exclaim “Chelsea! Don’t bother that woman!”. I looked down into Chelsea’s face, her wide open unfrightened gaze met mine and she extended her small hand, in which she had a fairly large flower, drooping from a long stem, no doubt snatched eagerly from some nearby border or bit of landscaping. The bright orange of it pulled a smile through the tears and I accepted her gift and returned her smile. She said to me in a fairly grown up practical tone “It won’t live very long; I picked it for you. You should enjoy it right now, before it’s gone.” She was quite serious, and spoke to me with a tone she probably picked up from her mother, or a teacher, firm and no-nonsense, she was earnest with me and determined that I hear her. I looked at the flower as I held it, and courteously thanked her. “I will enjoy this very much right now, thank you, Chelsea. This is very kind; I needed a moment with a flower to brighten my day.” She beamed at me and affirmed confidently “They’re growing right there” she points to the border along the edge of the parking lot, where there were indeed a number of bright flowers swaying and bobbing in the summer breeze. “I won’t be here next time, you’ll have to do it yourself” she said, almost sternly, but with honest affection for another human being. A lovely moment. A lesson. Thank you, Chelsea, I hope you show the world a thing or two along your journey.

Enjoy now; too soon the moment will be gone.

Enjoy now; too soon the moment will be gone.

A contrasting moment, later the same morning, occurred when I chanced to have a conversation in passing with a woman running an adult foster home. She cares mostly for brain injured adults; injuries so severe that a lifetime of full-time care is what remains of an injured human. We chatted briefly, curbside, about her operation, the community, the neighborhood… I asked her what kind of people she provides support to, what sorts of injuries and conditions. She told me she works primarily with folks with severe TBIs who have limited mobility, impaired life skills – in short, people who need full-time care because their TBI was just that devastating, and their prognosis for recovery is that grim. Wow. Then she said something that took my breath away… “…except frontal lobe injuries. I’m just not equipped to deal with that.” She went on a few words more that I half-heard through the sudden ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart. What I heard in my heart was ‘not your kind’. I found a quick polite end to the conversation and departed. I found a quiet shady parking lot and broke down in heart-felt sobbing; real crying, no bullshit. I wept without reservations. I’m not sure, now, quite why.

It was a turning point on the day. I spent the rest of it trying to ‘get things right in my head’ on a number of things I suddenly felt pretty sure I didn’t actually understand well at all. It was a good afternoon to stare into the face of my fears about my injury and realize how much worse it really could be. Perspective. I contemplated how practical life can force us to be, however kindly and well-intentioned we are when we begin. Perspective. I wondered if the woman running the adult foster care home understood, when I admitted I, myself, have a frontal lobe injury, how incredibly patronizing her forced attempt to make it right actually sounded (“Well, and look at you! How good you are doing!”). I wondered why it really mattered, any of it, in a world where small girls are savvy enough to hand out flowers to people who need them.  Perspective.

I wondered, too, why my day was so…difficult. As I stood again at the train station, preparing to head home, I recalled something said to me quite some time ago about the physical side of emotional wellness. Something about the necessity of addressing physical things with physical remedies. I recalled the morning, the first moment of the day… and realized I’d put myself at a profound disadvantage; I failed to recognize the physical outcome of being startled awake, and had been living all morning with my PTSD just raging in the background, and wandering around loose in the world wondering why I felt so disordered and shitty. lol. No. Way. Seriously? Oh yeah, still human. I went home, took care of calories, connected with a partner, took medication to address symptoms, meditated, enjoyed a long soak in Epsom salts, did some yoga, and spent the afternoon reading. When evening came, my partners and I enjoyed it; it was lovely.

Like a lighthouse on a rocky shore.

Like a lighthouse on a rocky shore.

Perspective matters. There’s no overdoing that one, and no ‘down side’ I’ve yet found. Today is a good day for perspective. Actually…today is generally a good day, so far, with amazing potential. Today is a day someone will change the world.

It’s an expression that’s come up a couple of times in a variety of conversations – one of them was even about flight safety on an air craft, but that’s by far the exception. Generally I hear something about ‘putting your own oxygen mask on first’ as a metaphor, delivered in the context of a conversation relevant to taking care of one’s self, and whether doing so is ‘selfish’ or necessary. Logically, of course, it isn’t ever ‘necessary’ to take care of myself, not even at all; the necessity of it is related to the desired outcome.

Large numbers of human beings manage to get through what amounts to a lifetime without ever really taking care of themselves, their own needs, the needs of their heart, mind, body, or soul.  Some number of those people are in exploitative relationships that may have some symbiotic qualities; they get some return on investment in met needs, that sustains them over time and makes life endurable, or profitable. Others are simply used up, eventually, and cast aside. Some invest heavily of themselves without regret, in the lives and needs of others, and find their sustenance therein; lives of service, contemplation, or consecration to a cause are not without value. Aside from the logic, and obviousness, that taking care of me isn’t an absolute necessity… I’ve got to admit that the quality of my everyday experience of life, of love, of me, myself, is much improved by taking care of me. Learning to be emotionally self-sufficient seems a valuable next step.

The puzzles get more complicated as life’s lessons become more advanced. When faced with complicated moments, challenging decisions, and uncertainty – what’s the key point? What can I balance all the rest on and be assured that my choices and decision-making have a firm foundation in both reality and my values? That’s generally when it comes up…’put your own oxygen mask on first’. In a crisis on an aircraft, they always say it specifically regarding taking care of young, ill, or injured passengers; the most vulnerable among us. “Put your own oxygen mask on first.” Well sure – because if I fail to do so ‘in time’, I could lose consciousness and be unable to help others. That matters. Among those others I would then be unable to help? Yep. Me.

Knowing that I need to ‘put my own oxygen mask on first’ doesn’t always make putting verbs in action a whole lot easier…but it gives me something to count on, a starting point that is a reliable best practice. It complicates matters that this particular aircraft (to continue the metaphor) is just packed to the rooftop with people and things I love. Some choices can wait, and forcing decision-making isn’t necessary; events unfold whether I make choices or not, and that is also something I can rely on. Taking care of me is still my highest priority, generally; my unique issues and challenges require I not lose focus on it, no one else has the same understanding of my needs. Today life’s curriculum seems to be about learning to balance taking care of me, and holding the needs of dear ones close to me, preserving good intentions, acting on the best of my will, following practices of non-harm – of myself as well as others – and being mindful that although we are all connected and interdependent, all ‘in this together’, we are also very much having our own experience.

Honest is never enough, there’s also Kind to consider.  Love so often feels like it ‘gives me everything’; Love is the most demanding of emotions, and requires the best of me to thrive. Life sometimes feels like an endurance race – when I feel as if there is a ‘finish line’, a time commitment, or urgency, I’ve generally been blown off course, somewhere; mindfulness practices are still the most powerful Rx I’ve had, and practiced from a place of compassion and love, easily ‘bring me home’ to the only moment in which change is possible. Some days doing my best, directed outwardly toward the world, just isn’t going to meet the needs I have myself.

Each time for the first time, each moment, the only moment...

Each time for the first time, each moment, the only moment…

Today is a good day to put my own oxygen mask on first. Today is a good day to change the world.

When I was 18, and until I almost 40, I danced. I moved. I bounced. No good groove could hit my consciousness without resulting in the exquisitely free feeling of being able to move to it sweeping over me, and utterly lacking any self-consciousness in the matter, I danced. I am not a trained dancer. I haven’t ‘studied’ accepted forms of dance or movement. I grew up on Soul Train, and hanging out listening to dance-able tracks, hitting the clubs in my 20s as much for the experience of dancing, of losing myself in the experience, as anything else.  It isn’t something I talk about much now; I still grieve losing that spark.

I don’t know when it actually happened. At some point I just sort of ‘froze up’. Oh, I still let go and feel the freedom to move now and then, but something inside me now quickly identifies it and puts and end to that shit as soon as I’m aware of it. What killed the dancing? I usually point to the arthritis, but my arthritis set in back in the early 90s. It wasn’t until much later than I lost the will to dance, and I remember the very poignant moment I finally noticed it had died.  Odd that I mention it this morning? No. Not really.

Yesterday at work I was thinking about it. Thinking about movement. About dance. Contemplating why I prefer one sort of music over another, and realized it has a lot to do with that ‘urge to move’; even without actually following through, I love music that drives dance. There’s incredible power in that freedom to move expressively, to celebrate with utter freedom, to let go of convention and self-consciousness and be, in motion. It is a different meditation. I miss the strength of it. I found myself thinking I might benefit from some truly novel experience, a departure from my norms, a return to more primitive pleasure in movement…or…something.

My email alerted me that I had a message; my partners asking me if I am interested in attending an event… a festival… a ‘sacred dance’ festival. Wait…what? That couldn’t be any more different that what I’m generally doing any given day of the week if it had been crafted to be so. It struck me strangely that it speaks to directly to the heart of the chaos and damage, inviting me to come and stare into the face of whatever has kept me frozen for so long. My fingers eagerly type an enthusiastic ‘yes’ reply of some sort while my demons sit back, quite astonished and helpless. I am tickled by the strangeness of it, even now, smiling and wondering what may come of it.

Happening.

Happening.

Sacred dance has a long history with human primates. Native American Ghost Dancing.  Bharatanatyam of the Tamil Nadu. Sufi Dervishes. Circle dances are multi-cultural, existing in many places, times, and cultures. There’s more. There’s always more. There’s ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ – creating a stage for some amazing art in a very commercial way. There are still nightclubs, and in spite of the comedy about it, even ‘twerking‘ is ‘real’ dancing (there are even handy YouTube tutorials!). “Ecstatic Dance” movements, tribes, events, and communities exist; human beings dance.

I miss dancing. Arthritis or not, I want to be movement and rhythm again; I want to dance. I suppose diving headlong into sacred dance as a shared sacrament and celebration is taking a bigger than small step… It is, however, the step I am taking. I wonder where it leads?

Today is a good day to take another look in the mirror. Today is a good day to explore all my potential – even the uncomfortable bits. Today is a good day to change the world.