Dear Friends, Family, Neighbors, and Those of You I Don’t Yet Know —
I planned to send a short issue of Odd Company from my folks’ house in Reno tonight. Everything was set to go. We had permission from John’s doctors for a short “test flight” of the new lung. (Lung transplants and air travel can be a tricky combination, due to the relatively low air pressure in the cabin at altitude.) We had a favorite student lined up to watch the house and feed the cats. We had our tickets. We had our ride to the airport. We had reservations for a rental car. All that was left to do was pack our bags, when I started feeling a little off. Yep, that tickle deep in the throat, and I’m not talking about a purr. Plans! God must love ‘em. He sure has a lot of fun with them. In a matter of an hour, our visit with my parents was toast. Instead of hoping our flight gets to its destination with the fuselage intact, I’m hoping John doesn’t get this bug. His immune system is so nearly non-existent. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile, we’re spending a lot of time in separate rooms.
So here I am at home in my cluttered little studio, as usual on Odd Company nights. About the only piece of The Plan remaining is this: it will indeed be a short issue. I’ve had an idea in my back pocket for a few weeks now, waiting for a night like tonight. I’m pulling it out now. Presto! “The Complaint Sandwich.”
Somewhere in my reading, I came across an enticing review of a book by Guy Winch, a pop psychologist who has made a career out what he calls “emotional first-aid.” He’s written a number of books, and done a lot of TED talks. That’s about all I know about him. The book in question is The Squeaky Wheel. It’s about complaining in a productive way. He definitely has a point.
Most of us complain to the wrong person when we complain, because saying the unpleasant truth aloud is easier to do if the person we’re complaining about is not present. (This is also called “venting,” which is fun, and can be affirming, but is not very effective if what you want is to change the situation. That’s the “productive” part.) Too bad the non-present person we’re complaining about is usually the person who could do the most to solve the problem. The other difficult part is that even when we’re complaining to the right person, it doesn’t always go very well. We often say the wrong things — that is, things that sound judgey or cutting, and make the person feel like they’re being attacked. It’s hard to get into the castle if the drawbridge is up and the gates are barred.
So, how to get around this? I’m really, *really* simplifying here. But Winch, amazingly, does call it The Complaint Sandwich. The complaint sandwich consists of two compliments (the bread) with the complaint itself in between. The thing is, the complaint can’t have too much “fat” in it. That is, pick the one most important incident. That’s your sandwich filling. Not a long list of things that have gotten under your skin. Just the one thing you’re upset about and would like to get fixed.
So, for example, it’s your job to feed the cats and your partner’s job to wash the bowls promptly when the cats are done — because, you know, the ants have a real field day when the dirty bowls are left on the floor, and who always gets left cleaning up the ants? The first thing to know is that your sandwich filling does not include the ants, or cleaning up after the ants. *It’s only about washing the bowls.*
Your complaint about dirty cat bowls starts with a true statement that is also kind and complimentary. Something like, “You know, you’re so thoughtful in so many ways, and I’m so glad to be living with you.” Then the meat of the complaint. “I noticed that the cat bowls from this morning are still on the floor.” Plain and simple. No implications of laziness or stupidity. And the ants have been left out of it. Then another slice of bread — a second positive statement. Like, “It makes me so happy when you clean the cat bowls and they’re in the cupboard ready to use again.”
This is just a rule of thumb, of course. Every situation (and every person) is different. The main thing to remember is that if you want to change someone’s behavior, you have to be kind and compassionate about it. If you hurt someone’s feelings, they won’t be able to hear anything you say after that. And nothing will change.
I’m running out of steam now. The pesky virus is taking its toll. But before I go, I want to mention a wonderful book a dear friend gave me recently. The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, by Elisabeth Tova Bailey. Bailey is an award-winning writer of natural history books and essays. I love this book partly because the object itself is a thing of beauty — carefully bound, with a lovely cover and carefully selected paper and fonts. It rings the chimes of this old graphic designer. It’s a pleasure to touch. But I also love it for its spare, yet lush language, and Bailey’s eye for minute detail. It practically begs to be read aloud. At the age of 34, Bailey became seriously ill with a terrible virus that kept her bedridden for a year. What does a person who is usually very active and who has a very active mind do when bedridden for such a long time? In this case, she observed a snail that arrived hidden in a pot of flowers a friend placed on her bedside table. If this sounds boring, believe me, it’s not. I once did research for a story about a woman who turns into a snail. (Yes, it was horror.) Snails lead alarmingly interesting lives. And yes, due to the array of very sharp little teeth on their radulae, if you are very quiet and hold very still, you can hear them eat!
I’ve left the music for last tonight. An odd thing about human psychology is that the last thing in any procession of things is the thing we tend to remember best. For the past ten days or so, I have been listening, enchanted, to a new album by Christopher Tin entitled “The Lost Birds: An Extinction Elegy.” Tin, it turns out, is one of our own here — raised in Palo Alto and educated at Stanford. He is mainly known for his work on musical scores for movies and games. “The Lost Birds,” though, is all Tin, and all from the heart. It is performed by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra of London, and the vocal group VOCES8. The album has twelve movements, ten of which use texts by the poets Sara Teasdale, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Cristina Rossetti, and Emily Dickenson. Here, from “The Lost Birds,” is “Hope Is the Thing with Feathers,” based on Dickenson’s much loved poem by that name. This is just a small sample. It’s worth listening to the whole album.
Till next we meet, croakily yours. :-)
I hope you feel better soon, Nancy! Thanks for another nice column.