Wabi-Sabi

            I recently read an interesting article about “untranslatable” words or sayings in various world languages.  Such words or phrases tend to somehow articulate thoughts or feelings unique to speakers of the particular language.  I knew a couple listed in the article because of my exposure to both languages. such as the Spanish word duende (roughly meaning passion, a magical focus, often associated with flamenco) and the Portuguese word saudade (roughly meaning a deep, emotional state of nostalgic longing).   In some way these two, and surely the others in the article, are cultural manifestations of those that speak them. 

It is hard to put feelings or emotions into words. Using the two words above as referents, both words indicate the profound emotions of Latino culture.  Having spent nearly two years of my life in Argentina and having been around Latinos all of my adult life, I appreciate their deep feelings.  I also spent 15 months in Japan, and have a profound appreciation for many of the aspects of the culture of the Japanese people as well.   In the article, there is a phrase in their language that is seemingly “untranslatable” as well.  The words pronounced in Japanese and written in Romanized characters (romaji) is wabi-sabi.  The English attempt to describe this feeling or sentiment is: 

“a way of living that focuses on finding beauty within the imperfections of life and accepting peacefully the natural cycle of growth and decay”

                My wife and I had accidentally put those two words together during and after our time living in Japan, not knowing the actual meaning, to connote a distinctly Japanese/Asian feeling of beauty and serenity one feels when walking in a beautiful Japanese garden.  But I really like the actual meaning. 

I like the idea of “a way of living;” of appreciating beauty and peace in the imperfections of ourselves and things around us that we encounter in life and accepting this process as part and parcel of a “natural cycle.”  My life is composed of growth and decay and my challenge is to look for beauty and contentment in my imperfect journey.

Wabi-sabi is a feeling that I am attempting to incorporate in this the transitional time of my life.

Passive-Aggressiveness and Me

One of the challenges in my adulthood and in particular to my 34-year marriage to a strong woman has been to transition from being passive-aggressive to more open about my feelings.   My passive-aggressive nature was nurtured in my family of origin where at times my feelings were not honored or appreciated, and sometimes manipulated, and then perpetuated through the years of my adulthood as I would be passive in many of my interactions with Ann.   Passive aggressiveness is composed of two words: passivity and aggression.  Passivity originates when we do not value what we are wanting or feeling and place more value on the wants or feelings of another (usually someone close to us) and as such do not give voice to our wants or feelings.  Aggression manifests when the unexpressed, non-assertive feelings are “set off” by an event, and anger or rage comes out.

In my marriage, I used to feel that Ann was superior to me in many ways and that her truth was, indeed, superior.  Even if I felt that her truth may not be correct, my shame (not valuing who I am) kept me from saying what I wanted or felt.  

The aggressiveness would manifest itself in me with anger that often would be out of proportion to the event that triggered it.  It wasn’t that I would rage; I’m not that kind of person.  But my fuse was short and it didn’t take much to set me off and become angry.  That anger came out at times toward my children, probably because I was in a position of power—a vertical relationship—and as the saying goes, “water runs downhill.”  It ran downhill onto them. That anger has been a source of guilt and shame for me.  It would also occasionally come out in as I drove in traffic.

Complicating matters, I perceived that my religious values taught that anger was not appropriate; that somehow keeping your feelings to yourself was some kind of a virtue.  It was almost a source of pride that I didn't see myself as an angry person—most of the time.

So as an adult married to a strong, assertive woman, with an upbringing of stuffing feelings, and a system of values that I thought valued such behaviors, I was not open about what I felt.  I got to a point where I realized that I had a short fuse.  I got to a point where the scope of my anger would surprise me.  I got to a point where I realized that stuffing feelings was not in my best emotional interest, and that for me to be a better husband and father and a psychotherapist—and be effective in those roles—I needed to be more forthcoming.

Now don’t get me wrong.  Anyone who gets to know me realizes that I do have feelings, and that I often wear my emotions on my sleeve.  I am quick to cry if I am touched by someone or something.  I see myself as being very empathetic, a necessary attribute for a psychotherapist in my opinion.  But the passivity was a blind spot for me.

I have learned that passivity was very damaging for me.  I am learning that I can be assertive and give voice to my feelings without blasting Ann or anybody else out of the water.   I am learning that it is okay to want, to need, to be okay with conflict, to be okay with disagreements.   I am learning that if there is a divergence of opinion on a subject, even delicate subjects, that it is important for me to send an “I message” to the effect of “when you say/do this, it makes me feel ____,” or “I feel strongly that we should ____.”   I am learning that when I do that, I feel freedom, and freedom from shame.

As I have gotten better at doing this, I have noticed more peace and serenity in my life.  I have noticed that I rarely get angry, and when I do, it is okay to feel it and to express it in a forthright but respectful way.  My fuse is much longer these days.  I still wrestle with some strong emotions at times while driving, but I am noticing that more often than not, I am the person who did the wrong action and deserved the toot on the horn.   

I admit to being in transition with this part of me, to being a work in progress.  But I have noticed significant progress and change in my life.  Yay for me!!!

A Daughter's Work on Shame

For those who have recently read my blog, you will remember a post about my desire to investigate my shame.  That work continues.  Also, many of you who know me will know that I have a hard time believing in coincidences.  To find out that my #2 daughter Emily is presently on her own journey of investigating her shame, just as my #1 son BJ (Robert) is presently on his journey to addiction recovery, IS NO COINCIDENCE!  

Just as I decided to include my son's thoughts about addiction, I feel impressed to likewise include Emily's recent blogpost about her "awakening" to the shame that has governed her life.  It made me feel privileged to have her as a daughter (I am grateful for all of my children) and for her vulnerability to share her struggles with the world. I hope this can in some way be of benefit to you. 

Emily's Awakening: Part 1

    As many of you know, I am not one to shy away from talking about my struggles with anxiety and depression. I’m always glad to talk to someone who has dealt with similar issues, so I figure it’s helpful to others, not just therapeutic to me, to share my experiences. I also think society as a whole needs to suck it up and start being comfortable dealing with mental and emotional health issues, just like it is with medical issues. We shouldn’t feel embarrassed to acknowledge that we struggle with anxiety any more than we should feel ashamed to tell others we have high blood pressure. Privacy I can understand. But shame, never.

    Over the course of my adult life, I’ve sought help through psychotherapy a number of times. I started in college, my freshman year, when I was having a really hard time making the transition. I also sought help on my mission, when I was in Texas, waiting for my visa to allow me to go to Venezuela (which never happened but that’s another story.) The anxiety was so bad, that it was all I could do to put one foot in front of each other as we’d walk the streets near UNT. It took me six months and a transfer to Florida (and the subsequent sunshine and friendlier folk) to feel slightly normal again. The commonality of these and other events in my life that caused me to seek professional help is that they all brought on anxiety and depression.

    If you’ve ever experienced either, and maybe you didn’t even know that’s what it was, you’ll know what I’m talking about: The feeling of nameless but impending doom; The tightening of the chest; The aching pain of nausea in your stomach; The numbness; The feeling of walking through water; the despair. The complete and total despair—that no one understands; that God has abandoned you; that you’ll never feel good again; that you are going insane.

    In my time in therapy, I’ve figured out that a lot of my anxiety comes from an irrational, though deeply rooted fear that I am not worthy of love. Or, to put it another way, I am not a good ______ and therefore not worthy of love. So all my life I’ve tried to be a good daughter, a good student, a good missionary, and now, a good mother.

    So now, here I am, the mother of four under four, and my life is filled with stress. And I get angry. Very angry. All the time. In fact, it was only recently in therapy that I figured out that the anger is almost constant because I am almost always anxious. It’s not the crippling anxiety I felt on my mission; it’s not anxiety attacks that come and go; it’s more of a baseline anxiety that simmers just below the surface and boils over anytime I get provoked. And living with toddlers is, in case you didn’t know, very provoking. So I lose my temper, I do something I regret, and then fall into the pit of shame and despair over how terrible a mother I am. One time, it got so bad that I had to put all the kids in their beds, for their own protection, and then had to talk myself out of taking the pile of sleeping pills I held in my hand. (Google helped. You can’t kill yourself with 12 sleeping pills. You can only make yourself violently ill.) At any rate, that’s the depth of the pit of shame and despair.

    Several weeks ago, when I was telling my therapist about this incident, I was saying something like, “I used to be such a good mother! With Elizabeth, I was such a good mother! Now I’m a monster!” followed by a lot of sobbing. But then I stopped as I thought about what I’d just said. Wait a minute. I was a good mother? That sounds … actually … really prideful. And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t a good mother when it was just me and Elizabeth. I was just a mother with more time and more resources. Now that I have the triplets, I am still a mother, but with less time and less resources. OH. MY. GOSH. You mean, all my accomplishments, all the things in my life that make me feel like I’m so awesome … THEY DON’T MAKE ME A “GOOD” PERSON!??!?! I just am!?!??!?!?!? I. JUST. AM! It’s ironic, but it took me looking at all my successes, not my failures, to realize that they do NOT define me! Think about it. I graduated from college with honors. Does that make me a “good” person? NO! It means I made good choices, yes. But it doesn’t increase my worth in any way. I lost my temper and yelled at my daughter. Does that make me a “bad” mom? NO! It means I made a bad choice, yes. But it doesn’t have to throw me into the pit of shame and despair, because, it doesn’t take away from my self-worth!

    Another way of looking at it is through the Atonement—the sacrifice Jesus Christ made for us. God loves us—every last sinner of us—and his love doesn’t depend on how “good” or “bad” we are. He loves us. Period. End of sentence. And by falling into the pit of shame and despair, I was only telling myself, “You are BAD. You can NEVER change. You are not worthy of God’s love.” What the WHAT?! That’s not true! That’s a LIE! Jesus gave his life and suffered for our bad mistakes—our sins—so that we can change and improve and so we’ll have the chance to make our actions match the incredible worth we ALREADY HAVE.

    Sitting in the therapy session, figuring all this out, I felt a physical weight lifted off my shoulders. And it didn’t end there. When I got home and I, once again, got angry and lost my temper, I didn’t fall into The Pit. I took a step back, saw my mistake for what it was—something wrong I did, not something bad I was—and could move forward from there. Incredible.

    This, my friends, was an awakening. It has set me free.