Dear Friends, Neighbors, and Family —
This morning I came across this beautiful song by Noah Gundersen. It sets just the tone I want for this week’s issue. It’s called “Honest Songs.”
Last week, I mentioned that I know from firsthand experience how transformative compassion can be, and I promised to tell that story. It’s a very personal one. But I can’t think of a better way to get my point across. Deep breath.
At the age of 35, I was the young mother of a two-year-old boy. My husband was an up-and-coming assistant professor of philosophy. And we had just purchased our first house. Our marriage was a good one and stable, but all this was a financial stretch for us, as it is for most young families just starting out. So in order to supplement our income, I set up shop as a graphic designer, a trade I knew well and was good at. Self-employment offered the flexible hours I needed. But the fact that I would be my own boss was more important, since I found it impossible to work in a traditional job. I didn’t know how to talk to someone in authority about work-related problems. I was sure that if I expressed anything but satisfaction, I would lose my job. So resentments would build up till they began to show in physical ways, like hives or stomach troubles. At which point, I would lose my temper (by which I mean I would throw things) and walk out. This happened more than once. Really, really not your ideal employee.
Most of us have an internal voice that offers a running commentary on the world around us, including not only the present, but also the past and the future. It seems to be part of being human and being conscious. It’s tempting to think of this internal narrator as a product of our deep nature or “true self.” But usually it’s not us at all. It’s just a mental habit that comes from our current beliefs about people and things.
Back then, my internal voice was almost always angry and judgmental. It turned its wrath on me as often as it turned on others. Sometimes it was loud; other times just a whisper. But it was always with me, always pointing out the ways in which everything and everyone, including me, fell short. I thought it was my real self and would always be with me. I had no idea that I could change it. So there I was, a person full of anger and miseries that tended to come out in physical ways, who thought she couldn’t change.
One day, my right thumb turned red and hot and began to hurt. This was well before desktop computers and design apps. Hard as it is to imagine now, all the pre-press portions of a design project had to be done manually on paper, with things like t-squares, razor knives, technical pens, and rubber cement. I couldn’t handle my tools without pain, and it was getting worse. In a year's time, I could no longer play my guitar or pick up my child. I could barely brush my teeth. I needed both hands to lift a glass of milk or pour a cup of tea. A low-grade fever, anemia, and exhaustion had become permanent features of my life. And I had my diagnosis: rheumatoid arthritis. My inner voice became a constant, accusatory companion. Never mind that those accusations were distorted and incorrect. I couldn’t see that. It seemed I had become a liability to myself and everyone around me. I had nothing to offer and nothing to live for, and I couldn’t imagine that changing. Psychologists often refer to the thought that comes next — I want to kill myself — as “a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”
We can see by looking at those last few sentences that there was no compassion at all there, least of all for me. Though I thought I was thinking about those I loved, my disgust for myself kept me from seeing that maybe I was dear to them anyway. Luckily, I did not kill myself. Instead, with help from a friend, I found a good counselor, who got me to promise him two things. The first was that I would come back to see him in two days’ time. The second was that I would look for and stop to savor every good moment during those intervening days.
Good moments? I was on the verge of offing myself. How could there be any good moments? But — and this seemed miraculous at the time — once I started looking for them, I found them everywhere. As I left the counselor’s office and walked out onto the street, I smelled bread from the bakery next door, and I thought what a shame it would be to never taste bread again. I saw a planter painted a beautiful blue and filled with colorful flowers. As I turned to admire them, a passer-by smiled at me. And I started to cry. Not because I was sad, but because I was so grateful for that little bit of kindness, and the kindness of the counselor and the friend who gave me his name. I had evidence that maybe things could change, or that I could change. Or both.
As I began to climb out of the hole, I realized that what I truly wanted was to live, and I needed help in order to do it. I wrote a poem about the way I was feeling.
DON’T LET ME GO
palms pressed to the window of our bed,
feel the snow pulling, brilliant
as the death of suns!
outside us, descendant winter glows
on trees, dormant grass, unmoving dogs,
silence sifted in their ears,
poor things. don’t let me go.
in this moment, the world craves heat,
the steam of our breath combined,
the molten light of our joining.
in this moment, we cry victorious,
invulnerable, strong.
please don’t let me go.
When we study loving-kindness meditation — in which the focus is on wishing everyone peace and freedom from pain — we learn to include our self in those wishes. Because until we learn to be generous, kind, and understanding with our self, it’s very difficult to offer those things to anyone else. Compassion has to start at home. But how can we learn all this? Where do we begin? Where did I begin?
That’s the subject of our next issue.
Nancy, who is this deep honest soul I am reading? I know you so little but you are opening up your inner being and with your amazing writing gift. You.are so gifted in so many ways and much admired by me. I am compelled to stay tuned.
Nancy, I just found your original email introducing Odd Company, and this entry is the first I've read. Your compassion for your former, aching self is is remarkable, in part because of the lasting memory of that random smile that pierced the blackness. Would love to walk & talk if you ever have time...