Hope Discovered: Opening To Your Authentic Self, Chapter 1 I Have A Question For You...
Chapter 1: The Only Question That Matters
The Wind, One Brilliant Day
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses."
"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead."
"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."
The wind left. And I wept. And I said,
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"
Antonio Machado, translated by Robert Bly
I have a question for you. It is an uncommon question, rarely pondered in our culture. It is a question that everyone on a path of conscious awareness asks him or herself at one time or another. It really is the only question that matters. The question is this: underneath all your experiences, every relationship you have had, under your triumphs and failures, your mistakes and successes, underneath everything you do or don't do, under who you have been told you are, believe you are or think you are, who are you really? Are you your thoughts? Your ideas? Your beliefs? Your fears? Are you your parents? Your children? Are you your cultural upbringing? Who are you underneath it all?
When I invariably ask my clients this question, often the answer is, "Uhh, I dunno!" I then ask another: "Would you be willing to find out?" Usually, there is hesitation for a blink. They know that the appropriate answer is an unqualified, "Of course!" After all, why are they in therapy if not to unwrap their authentic selves? And yet, the hesitation is almost universal. On the heels of The Question comes a bit of unease, a gurgling shifting in the guts that signals danger. Clients usually answer, "Yah, sure, of course!" accompanied by an audible gulp. I can almost hear Homer Simpson saying, "Doh!"
This hesitation is normal, and universal in the species. That gurgling feeling in the guts is resistance. We all feel it at one time or another, that subtle fear of change. Change is a scary thing for people, maybe the scariest. With change comes danger, the possibility of pain or injury. With change comes the Unknown.
I believe this resistance is hard-wired into the species. It is a very old part of us that emerged with each hunt, each forage, every time we emerged from our cave. I am reminded of the film The Croods, where Nicholas Cage voices the dad: "Don’t leave the cave! Be afraid!" he says to his family. "Be very afraid!" 50,000 years ago, venturing from our cave could mean death. We were prey, and the biggest predators would find us tasty. The only thing that persuaded us to risk danger was the need for sustenance. We hunted and foraged, but we did it carefully. This caution has been a part of the human condition for a long time. It was only 10,000 years ago that we planted the first crops. We also built the first fence. We knew that if it didn't stop the predators completely, it would at least slow them down.
Now, we have concrete walls, glass, and weapons to keep us safe from the unknown. We have rules, laws, police, and an army. We have killed off most of the predators that once threatened our existence, leaving only a chance encounter with a bear or mountain lion to remind us of our vulnerability. We have taken profound steps to ensure the perpetuation of humanity, and yet, resistance still arises for each of us. It is normal, and human. It is not, however, a reason to stay where we are.
I have this fear of change as much as the next man. My wife Jill and I wake to “Morning Edition” on our local National Public Radio station, KSUT. It’s soothing to hear Steve Inskeep’s voice ease us into the day with the latest news. Last year in December, KSUT changed its programming format. It did away with some part of the morning programming, a trivial part to be sure, but it was noticeably hard for both of us. We had grown accustomed to the routine, and the change was jarring. It took a couple of weeks to get used to the new way. This struggle with a little change was profound enough; big changes - like people aging and dying - are much tougher.
Despite resistance, part of what defines our character is the ability to deal with change. I know intellectually that change is inevitable, that it is, in fact, the only thing I can really count on. Yet I resist it, and this resistance costs me. How can I learn to be more flexible, more resilient, more open to the inevitable changes that are coming down the pike for me, changes that include aging, infirmity, and death?
Fair warning for the faint-of-heart: don’t expect to be rewarded for growth. Our culture is sick, and models sickness. Someone who wants to get well is the strange one, the loose cannon, to be regarded with suspicion. There is a reason counseling has such stigma attached to it. I am often reminded of the metaphor of the bucket of crabs on the dock. One lucky crab climbs on top of the others and manages to get one claw hooked over the lip. He begins to haul himself out, and what do the other crabs do? They grab him and pull him back down. “Hold on there,” they say. “If we can’t get out, then you’re not going to!”
This behavior, like many others, is not conscious. Few of us wake and plot the downfall of our species, like a villain from a superhero movie. Nonetheless, this behavior is alive and well, lurking in the unconscious. Like all unconscious behavior, as long as it remains in the Shadow - a Jungian term that represents all that is within us that is unknown - it will run us.
I heard a recent story on NPR where a neurologist was being interviewed about how the mind works. In the course of the interview, he casually made a statement that stunned me. He said that 80% of human thought was unconscious. I stopped in my tracks, and thought about what that meant. Only 20% of my thinking comes from my conscious brain; the rest, I am unaware of. I then wondered, what am I am thinking 80% of the time that I don’t know? How do my thoughts, conscious and unconscious, shape who I am, and my place in society?
This fantastic force in our lives called culture is a wonderful thing. It gives us art, music, technology, moral guidelines, and laws. It also tells us what it means to be a human. Some of these messages are great: be kind to others, help those less fortunate, express tolerance and compassion for others, even if they are different.
Other lessons are less wonderful. These include withholding vital communications, harboring resentment, a lack of integrity, addictions, and other “normal” behavior. The positive role models we have in terms of dealing with issues surrounding communication, conflict, sexuality, or finances are few and far between. There is something in our culture that does not typically reward people for leading lives of passion, commitment, and vitality. It is to this unnameable force - call it envy, but of a spiteful nature - that many bow. Better to be unnoticed, feel less hassle, keep your head down. It’s a great strategy, but it’s not a strategy for becoming great.
Those of us on paths of conscious awareness must notice this unconscious cultural force, and continue to grow despite it. We must find within us the courage to say to these powerful voices, “No! I am changing, even if it is scary for you.”
We’re good at killing each other. Even before the first Neanderthal defended the first watering hole from marauding tribes, we learned how vulnerable the skull was to a rock, or to a big stick. Our epidermis is a miracle of nature, designed to protect us from disease, infection, and dehydration, not a sharp spear, arrow, or bullet. Since the Stone Age, we have perfected ways of ending life; we do it with ease and comfort. Gunpowder, chemical and biological weapons, and nuclear power has made the mass killing of human beings a matter of pulling a trigger, or pressing a button. Pilots of drones dispense death from thousands of miles away.
Unfortunately, as our technological abilities have advanced, our responsibilities have not. We are still the slope-skulled primates defending territory. Recent inhumanities have demonstrated this in abundance: Somalia, Kosovo, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Sudan, Chad, Guatemala, Mexico, Liberia, Ethiopia, Syria - the list goes on and on, and these are only in the last two decades. Millions of people have died and been displaced. In some ways, the evolution of homo sapiens is in over-drive; in others, we haven’t taken a step.
The jury is still out. Will we destroy ourselves, possibly taking every multi-cellular species with us? Or, will we catch our fall in time, learning what we need to in order to reverse the course we have set for ourselves and for this beautiful planet on which we live? What choices will we make, as nations and as individuals, in the coming days, months, and years?
For me, it all comes down to choice. Will I purchase that thing I don’t really need, put it on my credit card, and hope for the best? Will we invade that country, or opt for diplomacy? Will I buy that Escalade or HumV, or choose the smaller sedan with better gas mileage? Will I protest environmental degradations, or turn my back? Will I recycle, or chuck my refuse into landfills? Will I speak truth to power, or will I shrug, click on my TV, and allow forces outside me to choose my destiny for me?
We have lost touch with who we are. We are creatures of unbelievable ability and potential, and yet we buy into the lack, limitation, and powerlessness our culture preaches. Power and effectiveness are beaten out of us from infancy; our strength is simply too much for our parents to bear. Many of us learned to work for the Man in public school, an institution created during the Industrial Revolution to supply factories with an organized, obedient workforce. We allow ourselves to be brainwashed into unquestioning consumers, and our culture wants us this way. If we are rooting for our favorite team, arguing about vaccinations on Facebook, or frantically wondering how we will make the next minimum payment on our credit cards, we simply don’t have the energy to question what is happening in the closed meetings of government and corporate officials. We have allowed ourselves to be disempowered, disenfranchised, and neutered. We have become automatons, working in factories, waiting tables, cleaning carpets, entering data, making book, teaching school, editing manuscripts, growing wheat, serving in the military, and writing parking tickets. We are doing things we don’t want to do, working jobs we don’t love, locked in relationships that feel more like entanglements, and burying our creative energies. No wonder we have so much violence all around us.
All this turmoil must have something to do with our all-too recent manifestation as primates, but there is another force we must consider. Our culture does not reward true excellence, let alone expression of our true genius. In Japan, there’s a saying: It’s the nail that sticks up that feels the hammer.
We’re all afraid of the hammer. We have witnessed, our whole lives, heads getting the hammer. Remember how the kids who were different were treated in school? Then there were the big nails like Martin Luther King, Jr., JFK, and Malcolm X; they really felt the hammer. We continue to do our jobs, not questioning too much, not making waves. We go home at the end of the day to the wife and kids, waking in the morning to do it all over again. We look in the mirror, and what do we see? Do we see limitless possibility, the ability to turn conflict into freedom, and the chance to work in our true genius, whatever that might be? If not, why not? What is it that keeps us from peace? Why is it so hard to be who we really are? What are we afraid of?
It’s important to note that most of this dysfunction is caused by men. As a member of the masculine gender, I see the damage those of us with penises cause.
I have a penis, and I’m glad. My penis is my best friend, and my worst enemy. With my penis, I have experienced ecstasy, and I have caused others unbelievable pain. Along with my penis comes testosterone, and a great deal of societal and cultural baggage surrounding what it means to be a man in this new century. Just what is that? What, exactly, ARE my roles, what is my job? What does it mean to be a man? Understanding this perplexing conundrum is essential for both conscious men and women.
50,000 years ago, our roles were clear: we were providers, protectors, and procreators. As providers, we hunted, and we were good at it. We had to be; if we weren’t, we starved, and so did our tribe. As protectors, we were warriors, keeping ourselves and our tribe safe from predators and enemies. As procreators, our job was to ensure the survival of the species, through the dissemination of our seed. Though by no means easy, life back then was at least less complicated. We knew what we had to do, and we did it, or we died.
Things are different now. While our role as providers is still firmly in place - we earn money to buy our food, rather than stalking and killing it - our roles as protector and procreator have grown fuzzier and more unclear. Few of us have to live in fear of predators, or of other people trying to take our possessions or lives. And, with more than seven billion people on the planet, procreation has become a luxury rather than a necessity. The problem is, the evolutionary forces in our genetic makeup have not shifted to match the bewildering technological and societal changes we have experienced in the last two hundred years. Inside, we are still cavemen, while outside we wear ties and three-piece suits. In many ways, we’ve left behind our purpose, forgotten our place. We don’t fit anymore. In our modern-day society, men are discouraged from feeling their emotions, from telling the truth, and from living lives of fulfillment and joy. Women are encouraged to emulate the photo-shopped Twiggys they see in magazines, to pluck their eyebrows, and goop on pancake as if they are going on stage. We are conditioned to be good consumers, buying things mindlessly, keeping up with the Jones’s. We are told that might makes right, that little boys don’t cry, and skillful conflict wins every time. Real men have cut pectorals, big biceps, and full heads of hair. Women are tanned and skinny, with big hair on their heads, and little hair elsewhere. Our bodies are dirty, our minds impure, and we are born into lives of sin and degradation. We have been pushed into living in fear and desperation, hunching around our TV at night, remote in one hand and beer in the other. We are lacking positive role models who can show us possible ways of being. Instead, we worship athletes or celebrities who, despite their talent, may or may not be good people. We are taught that we are powerless victims, ineffectual and helpless, that we are pawns of greater and more powerful people, and locked into cultural stereotypes that keep us that way. No wonder people are hurting, no wonder we are dying by the tens of thousands of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, and other illnesses.
So, what can we do?
We can learn to blend with the forces inside and around us. We can learn to see conflict as an opportunity for growth, and we can get good at communication, especially listening. We can learn to be in integrity, with ourselves and with others. We can learn to dance through this thing called reality, and live full lives of unlimited power, creativity, and joy. This is the birthright for all of us, male or female, black or white, rich or poor. Within each of us is a well-spring of possibility and joy, but most of us have spent decades plugging it up so that our spring doesn’t flow anymore. It’s still there, but it’s blocked.
When we are born, our parents welcome us into the world. From our first breath, we represent infinite possibility. Like a bubbling mountain spring, limitless and pure, we pour ourselves into our new lives. Our parents, bless their hearts, take one look at that perfection and say unconsciously, “Well, we can’t have THAT.” They then do what their parents did to them: they wave in the cement truck. “C’mon back!” BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! It backs in and lays down a thick layer of grey cement, covering up the spring. That energy is stubborn, though. It seeps out from under the concrete, soaking the ground around it. Mom and Dad notice, and call for another load: “C’mon back!” And another layer, and another. Eventually, the child’s whole world becomes grey concrete.
Parents, bless their hearts, don’t do this consciously. They mean the best, but under the surface, they know that if they send us out into the world with that much innocence and wonder, the world will eat us alive. They are preparing us for the mainstream, toughening us up for the inevitable sharks that swim in the waters of our culture.
I have seen this in action. A while ago, I was in the grocery store, and I passed a shopping cart. In it was a little girl with blue eyes and golden curls. She was dressed beautifully in a dark blue dress, with pink ribbons in her hair. She was obviously well-cared for. As I passed her, she began to sing loudly, “La, la, la-di-dah!” The mother, who was nearby, hissed at her, “Shhhh!” The little girl, chastened, hunched down in the cart and clamped her mouth shut. She had just been taught a lesson: don’t be too loud, or too big, or shine too brightly. I took it in, noticed the change in her and in the store. Yes, it was quieter, but it was emptier, too.
She will grow up, leave the house, and assume the misguided role of self-protection. She notices when the ground around her begins to get soggy with possibility, and it’s her turn to wave in the concrete truck. “C’mon back!” she says. Another layer, and another. In time, with enough layers, she will forget that energy is even there, and she’ll resign herself to a life of hard grey, a prison of her own making. Thus do we create our reality.
The spring inside each of us yearns to be open again, to flow freely. For years, I thought my well-spring was dead. I had so thoroughly sealed it off, I panicked: had I done TOO good a job? Was my creativity gone for good?
Luckily, I realized that it’s not something that can die. It is eternal, endless, infinite. It is the part of the universe that lives inside me, the empty yet completely full place where live the best bits of me: imagination, communication, empathy, possibility, creativity. Every man and woman has this inside them. We just have to remember it, and practice its use.
There is, however, the matter of freeing the spring from the crap we used to block it up: we must repair the damage we’ve done before we can once again sip the cool, clean water. We must strip off the layers of concrete, one at a time, until we remember who we really are.
And so I ask again, underneath it all, who are you really? You don’t know, you say? That’s fine, a perfectly appropriate answer. And, would you be willing to find out?
