A mile in my shoes

There is a term we use in therapy and some would say far more crucial to therapeutic success than any technique or theory we might apply. It is called empathy and loosely describes the capacity to put oneself in the experimental shoes of another, or more simply see the world through their eyes. And even now you may well remember the heart felt words of those well wishers announcing that they were sorry for your loss, generally in response to  the death of a loved one, rather than commiserations at the TAB when your horse came last again and the Dunlop express was the only way of getting home. I have also witnessed grown men openly weep when their football team loses the grand final and i 'm not really sure how to react to this. My own team losing, now that's  a different story, no tears, but a profound frustration with the injustice of bad calls by a referee who should be banned from even judging a snail race, or as you may well remember "we was robbed" as emotion gets in the way of grammatical correctness. 

All this talk of loss and commiseration brings back memories of John Howard's announcement  of "deep and sincere regret that Indigenous Australians suffered injustices under the practises of past generations" , and the ongoing impact of this. Many said it was poor form at the time and a few years later compared with Kevin Rudds "Sorry day speech". I remember living and working in Western QLD at the time, traveling between Charleville and Cunamulla and happened to be there on the afternoon of John Howard's 'faux pa' feeling slightly vulnerable and guilty, taking responsibility by contrast. I was visiting one of the districts elders on a mildly contentious issue, namely alternative placement options for a foster child. From the initial greetings I felt more than compelled to apologise on behalf of our  PM which in retrospect seems a bit unnecessary but emotion has a way of clouding judgement. 

My fears were dispelled within seconds as she reassured me that there was no need to apologise for anything and that "true reconciliation can never come from political policy, but from two people having a yarn, like you and me brother". It was and still remains a special and enlightening moment for me and a crucial adjunct to my current practises both as a person and a professional. To clarify and reassure those two contexts are not mutually exclusive. And yet even as I prounounce these words, my self adordment is a trajc and blatant misnomer. Strong statement I know, but my heartfelt aspirations often fall short of the mark. "Love me, love my dog" the same friend who had more triggers than an ammunition factory used to appeal as acknowledgment of the shadow self.

Perhaps an inaccurate analogy because I sometimes feel our canine companions know more about empathy than we ever will. ? And yet what I mean is I am not perfect. All the more reason to listen and reministent of my own justification to compose a "sorry day speech, for the past both recent and distant wrongs I have inflicted on others. Reflection can sometimes suck but who are we and who can we become if we don't admit our imperfections", insight being a mandatory adjunct to growth. Those who attend AA are required at some point to make ammends for the hurt their  drinking has caused others, a necessary adjunct to healing and growth.

Maybe we don't  know the specifics of how we have hurt the other person, but the sincerity of an apology rests more on the action, rather than the receipt as the aggrieved may not even want to acknowledge us or our words. True empathy also acknowledges the other persons right not to accept the apology as much as this hurts. Yes sometimes empathy involves walking away and giving them the space to reflect and heal in their own way and time. The question is can we give them that time without suggesting they don't know how to move on, the verbal manifestation of our emotional state. Perhaps empathy begins with the self. 

 ears of all those well wishers and sympathises announcing that "we are sorry for your loss" reminding  me of John Howard's statement that "we deeply regret" timelessly contrasted and castigated because it did not measure up to Kevin Rudds "we are sorry "to our indigenous Australians. 

At the time of Mr Howard's apparent 'faux pa' I was living in Western QLD and spending quite a lot of time in Cunnamulla. 

I remember actually apologising for Mr Howard's speech and I still remember her reply. "Thanks for that brother, but you don't need to apologise for him. I beleive true reconciliation comes from two people having a yarn like you and me and our politicians need to learn this. 

Rearview Mirror

 "Oh life,  transient image on the silver screen, flickering and flashing before your very eyes or that small country town you pass through on your way to a more prominent destination - blink and you'll miss it."

"Hey I think you missed the turn" my travelling companion announced as we we headed to some vaguely familiar destination. I'd been there a couple of times over the span of about two years and it was always easier to find in daylight than at night which was when we were heading there on this occasion. And I think it was this particular mind set plus the emotional embers of an argument with my then girlfriend that preoccupied me to the point of ending up miles away from our destination. However, my companion was an understanding type who knew my girlfriend, the destination and my  tendency to become distracted with the slightest provocation.  "Better late then never mate" he said as I did yet another u turn.

I was kind of dizzy at that point but thanked him for his understanding while inwardly cursing the magical mystery and wonder of relational disharmony wondering how something so good could turn into something so bad and if dissociation was something prescribed in relationship counselling.  

Years later, meaning now that destination has vanished, as has the girlfriend who preoccupied my thoughts at the time, but the memories remain as they often do, especially when it involves the semblance or full blown manifestation of failure, either as a traveller or a boyfriend. "You don't act like a boyfriend"  I still remember her complaining one day, the emasculating criticism tempered only by the sweet scent of the Vanderbilt perfume she used to wear. Actually if by emasculated I mean mildly amused than we are on the same page, and yet with that admission maybe she was right. In the end what ever happened in the distance of yesterday is history, though in the temporal sense only as the memories remain, more apparent if accompanied by emotion. 

But what do you remember oh avid and distinguished reader ? For me it's a mixture of the bitter and sweet, more of either depending on my current emotional state. I remember all those joyful Christmas' and coastal holidays of my younger years, but I also remember the embaressment of peeing myself after being smacked  off the jungle gym as a 6 year old by yes,  one of those Irish Catholic nuns who did not want me to be late for recorder practise. Another vague and imprecise memory of 33 grade 1 students murdering hot cross buns making cats fights sound melodic. Years later I heard the instrument played by a professional recorder player and  requested he play hot cross buns. He just laughed  at me, perhaps remembering his own humble beginnings. 

 Have you ever heard the expressions, "you are the sum total of your experiences", "you become what you see" and my personal favourite, "the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour". If your not just the least bit insulted by these sentiments then I will be insulted for the both of us. Such sentiments seem to suggest an unshakeable determinism and totally disregards the human capacity for change. Sure we can all blame and lament the past at times, but there is no future in the past unless your an academic historian who makes a living out of teaching and writing about history. 

And yet why is it that the past looms so large at times that we seem to be reliving it due to those annoying triggers as a consequence of mortal longevity. A friend of mine once said that he  had more triggers than a gun factory. If you ever met him you would see the personification of bitterness and regret, a man hopelessly stuck in the past. In a sense not living but reliving the reasons for his ongoing despair. The straw only breaks the camels back if we continue to live in the desert of memory.

So, you may well ponder, what is the solution to this universal problem. How do we truly move on from the past and become all that we are meant to be ? We do this by moving forward. Apostle Paul, writes of this in his letter to the Church in Phillpi, encouraging people to forget what is past and press on toward the goal, oneness with our perfect creator. What is even more remarkable is that Paul was in prison as he was writing this letter. Sometimes it may just be one foot in front of the other, but any step forward is a step in the right direction. I encourage you, myself and others to do as many of those things each day that bring happiness and fulfilment, to enable the creation of new and positive memories to minimise the impact and relevance of a painful past.

As any traveller knows, things look smaller the further away you get from them. Now I'm not suggesting a complete eradification of memory for life experience and consequential memories are the things that shape us, and the past is made up of the bitter and the sweet, the highs and the lows. By all means revisit those experiences thoughtfully and actively, that made you smile and left you wishing for more of the same. The  experiential antidote to depression,  is to do the things that are meaningful and life affirming. To be happy we need to do happy ! 

Happiness is not a destination but a manner of travelling  

Mountain Top Experience

Mt Beerwah

How many times did I climb the mountain and how many times did I think about it? The slow and laboured ascent, mildly treacherous in parts, but only for an instant as effort became synonymous with achievement. I laboured, but not in vain as that one goal of reaching the top came to fruition.

I first climbed Mount Beerwah, one of the Glasshouse mountains as a year 10 student in 1985. We had a guide and were constrained by running belays, as we climbed the mountain in unison, as if we had anything else in common besides the school we attended. It was fun, and yet the memory presents itself as an edited adventure, not to negate the duty of care aspect to a group of post pubescent males, who considered risk to be a natural part of life. It was hard, but not as hard the slow and measured decent back into school life, the drudgery of exams and assignments, sometimes accompanied by study. 10 became 11 and 11 became 12, not to infer a definitive, demarcated process but rather a languid traversal to the freedom of graduation and the rest of our lives.

3 years later I found myself back at the mountain, gazing at its awesomeness, the tallest of the glass house mountains with stunning 360 degree views from the summit and a sweet serenity, far removed from what ever I was doing during the 5 day week to earn money to enjoy the 2 day weekend. Never seemed fair that equation and many would concur. Still it was what it was, it is what it is, and as it is it shall be. That's why weekends are golden and the working week bronze for the most part, except the silver tinges of Friday, unless you also work on Saturday or Sunday as many do.

And yet why should it be so and my rhetoric pessimistic, accepting a status quo as if it was  predetermined long before April 23 1970 when I hit the ground crying,breathing on my own for the first time. Oh that first breath that underpins our growing independence, crucial to our survival and as those of the rebirthing persuasion propose the only time we breathed effectively and perfectly. Little wonder, our very life depended on it.

"Take a deep breath and count to three" a father once said to a distraught child. Timeless and invaluable words urging us still to slow down when life overwhelms, pressures screaming from ever which way. Life's problems, simple or complex can not often be solved by rushing headlong and thoughtlessly in to them, like the child trying to communicate something so relatively profound through the veil of emotion. And we don't need the mountain to induce the mountain top experience, we just need to be still and listen for the answers. 

Often times as a therapist I have seen the wonderful insight clients possess and that the solutions to personal and occupational issues lie within them, only covered over by emotion.  Talking without the fear of being judged or edited as being delusional is not only therapeutic but emancipating.

Arguments and misunderstood messages only occur because as reasonable and rationale as humans are, we still process things emotionally, almost instictively, particularly in matters of the heart. And yet without this emotional process life has no meaning, good and bad no longer exist. There is no true appreciation of the up if we don't know the down. 

I locked my keys and phone in the car the other night and called the RACQ for assistance. And rather than, immediately hearing those pacifying words of "we will send some one straight away" the friendly but obtuse voice seemed very interested in my life story, which I reluctantly provided only to be transferred to a more appropriate section. Exasperated by the procedural protraction I finally, after 10 minutes received the welcome words "Someone will be there within the hour." "Thank you" I vaguely mouthed as the operator  urged me to be safe.

No doubt the call staff were following RACQ process to the letter, while I was subject to my own process, profoundly emotional and as far from objectivity as the last Tim Tam. Admittedly my knight in 'yellow armour' arrived in 15 minutes to liberate my keys from the impenetrable fortress which sometimes doubled as my car. But as I drove away the after burn of emotion cursed my stupidity and loudly pronounced that such experiences reflected and confirmed cognitive decline.

And yet two days later, with the benefit of time and objective reflection I realise I am not in cognitive decline, I  just need to remember to breath deeply and count to 3 !

Mulberry Tree

The mulberry tree  has an unrivalled allure and presence. Unmistakable and instantly  recognisable amongst other trees, larger in stature with those wonderful leaves that facilitate the manufacture of the finest of silk. Mention mulberry trees and one can almost taste that sweet and sour juice and remember the purple stains on shirts and fingers and a parents frustrated sigh - you've been eating mulberry's again. Little wonder mulberry's  are rarely found in the fruit and vegetable section of your supermarket. And yet beneath the mild consternation was their own fond memories of mulberry trees and the delightful simplicity of childhood. 

Today in the hustle and bustle of responsibility and commitment these simpler times can seem almost foreign and unconnected to who we are adults. Sometimes it seems pressure exerts and overwhelms from every facet of life till the inner child in each of us screams " let me out, I've had enough"

I want, I want I need my happy place ! Where for art thou my happy place. 

Do I even have one. Yes you do, we all do, undeniable and irrefutable despite the ragged tapestries of time. Buried deep within countless deadlines and the perpetual push to make the grade, albeit there is a place in each of us or a self actualising moment where we are totally free and at peace. 

A mother once said to her kids, "Go outside and play" as if it was something laborious and obligatory, perhaps forgetting that kids know this instinctively. 

Oh and by the way I was too busy to attend that relaxation seminar. Relaxation,  sadly something many of us need to re-learn, no longer a natural ability, but something we need to schedule into the the day with every other thing. And yet how do we keep up the pace, relentless and unabated without the occasional break or the alternative stress related flu or peptic ulcer which forces us to take a break anyway, Have you ever heard of a child who had to retire because of burnout or another stress related illness. Yet  most of us receive 4-5 weeks of annual leave per year where we can take that break more revered than money, and yet meaningless without. 

But have you ever noticed that even 5 weeks is never enough, as the first week is spent resting to the point where you can replenish your energy bank enough to enjoy the remainder of your holiday, before preparing  to go back to work. And then sometimes with your well deserved inertia comes the unseasonal and unbelievable cold or flu.  No it is never enough, and it's definitely not fair, and yet there is an alternative, buried beneath responsibility and maturities repression. All it costs is a moment to rediscover those things that were meaningful in the past and so wonderfully and blessedly present centred. Those moments of perfect peace, joy and tranquility where we could simply be, before we were forced to become. Where we were all that we ever needed to be - Free !