Synthesis and Integration

For most of my life there has been a dialog inside my head - more of a dialectic, really (A.K.A. a nasty argument) - between two voices. My "self-talk" has been a fight, a bicker, a snarlfest. Who or what ARE these voices? I suppose they are aspects of my personality - either internalized or inborn - or perhaps the argument itself is an internalized reflection of how I saw the world as a small boy.

I have given voice to this running argument, over the years, in poems or stories, and once, memorably, as a warm-up exercise for writing poetry in which the bickering was particularly vicious. A few days ago, I engaged in an exercise involving a discussion between my young self and my adult self, which was the latest in the series - except this time there was a significant difference.

As Hegel wrote, thesis and antithesis can resolve into synthesis - a new concept built from complementary and/or common elements of both previously antagonistic positions. This was the difference in my work of dialog between my two selves: the adult self proposed a synthesis, and the young self accepted it.

The way this was done is not important, but what has stayed with me is the sense of integration that this negotiated agreement produced in me. It was a feeling of having a lot of energy released back into the system (i.e., me) that was previously bound up with engaging in the argument. It was also a feeling that I can only characterize as potent joy. There was a joyful release and a sense of new power gained through the integration of two formerly separate selves - two solitudes, as Hugh McLennan famously called it - that, united, could acheive more than either could separately.

I can't claim that the argument is now silenced. However, this is a very different model of resolution that I have experienced before. My "two solitudes" remain wary, in a cease-fire, but for the first time have a new option before them, and an agreement to try it.

This begins to suggest the elements of a new "action" set for my mission - that is, I create a world of healing connection by integrating (one meaning of "bringing together"), showing up, and blessing. This loses the "cutting apart" element, which I'm not happy with - so I'll keep working on it.

Going Invisible

I'm helping to facilitate a new men's circle. The leaders are strong, fully present men, and they often trigger each other, challenge each other and push back. I generally respond by going invisible. Last night one of the leaders checked out and I again "found myself" going invisible (the truth is I chose to go invisible). At the end of the evening, the remaining two leaders challenged me on this. I am a drummer, and these two men contrasted my drumming - which is very present, take-charge, and energetic - with how I showed up in the circle last night.

So, it turns out that in order to live my mission of creating healing connection, I have to show up. I have to risk being seen. I have to risk being attacked, and feeling small.

In a parallel process, I'm also doing work on my voice, using a voice coach. She also tells me that my voice goes invisible - I don't put enough breath into it. I have often had the experience in my life of people leaning in when I'm speaking, turning an ear toward me - body language that says, "I can't hear you!" She challenged me to speak loudly enough that someone actually backs away from me - in other words, the opposite body language. When I think about doing this, I have the same sense of exposure that I feel when I think about showing up in this men's circle by challenging the leaders.

And yet, when I take a step back and look at what I'm afraid of - for example, do I think I won't be able to handle an attack, or a challenge, or someone telling me I'm yelling at them? No - this is, I suspect, a little boy's fear of being forever small - and so any act of being "large" (i.e., of showing up in a fully authentic way) is somehow, paradoxically, a fraud.

I do not accept that being authentic for me is an act of fraud. Apart from its inherent illogic, it is based on a little boy's fear rather than an adult man's data. And the data here show me that I am strong and resilient, have survived attacks and can survive attacks. I have learned how to do as an adult what was unable to do as a little boy - so, it is time to base my responses to the world - and to my mission - on what I, as a man among men, know I am capable of.

A Trip to London

My dad turned 90 this May and his oldest friend (my godfather) turned 90 in November. Dad wanted to travel to London to celebrate these significant birthdays and re-visit family, and I got to go with him since I am looking for work and have the time.

It was a remarkable trip in a lot of ways, not least of which was the ways in which my relationship with my father was permanently changed as a result of this trip. I spent a week with him in London taking care of him (he is rather disabled with arthritis, hearing loss, and losing sight in one eye) and having some very open and frank conversations about family matters.

Most important to me, however, was the sense of mutual appreciation that came from our time together. We enjoyed each other's company and had some grand adventures -- including a day trip to Paris that was basically an excuse to sit in cafes and enjoy French food, wine, and ambience.

This may seem unremarkable -- but I must tell you that I have been angry at my dad for most of my adult life, and very disconnected from him as a result. He lives a long way away from me and I do not have many occasions to be with him or even to talk with him. It gradually became clear to me that this disconnection was not good for me or for my sense of being a father to my own kids. So, a couple of years ago I started to call him regularly (every couple of weeks), and did some significant work in my men's group on my anger toward my father.

A few weeks before the trip to London, I did some extraordinary work around this anger and finally felt it burn itself out -- it is not "over" and will never be gone, but it no longer has the hold on me that it did. I am more interested in connection now, and to my amazement, it is still possible. This is a true blessing, and one I believe my dad and I share equally.

Fear

The men's organization I participate in (www.mkp.org) groups all emotion into five categories: anger, sadness, joy, fear, and shame. This is useful, but I increasingly have come to believe that there are really only two fundamental emotional states: love and fear. All others are derivative to, or variations on, those two. I will go even further and speculate that love and fear may be two sides of a single state of human emotion.

I say this because I constantly struggle with one or the other of these two states of being; I either am challenged to move toward love, or challenged to remain centered in the face of fear. Is one my self-awareness, the other my shadow?

I also wonder about states of fear: I feel physical fear, for example, when I am in physical danger; and a different kind of physical fear when I speak in public. The fear of speaking to someone I care about, on a topic that is difficult, is much harder than either of them. And the fear of asking for what I need from those who might be able and willing to give it to me is the hardest of all.

Someone said that the true definition of courage is to choose love over fear. It is certainly a constant choice for me.