A little gem of a poem, hidden away in Cary Tennis' advice column:
The way you are now is the way you are loved. Those who love you do not love this other person you wish you were. They do not even know who that person is. The way you are now is the way you are loved.
There is only one person who can be loved as you and it is your job to keep being that person.
You are here to do the one job no one else can do and that job is to fulfill the destiny written on your skin in a place you cannot read without turning inside out. Take several deep breaths. Stop what you are doing.
What is the source of your sadness?
I'm struck by how moved I am by this passage, and how uncomfortable it makes me to think about hitting "Publish" on this post, allowing anyone to see just how much it moves me. I know I'm a deeply sentimental person, at times almost overwhelmed by feelings of tenderness, affection and love. And yet despite all the work I've done over the years recognizing that aspect of myself and becoming more comfortable sharing more of it with more people in more settings, it's still a struggle.
It's a struggle in part because at times it feels safer to hide that aspect of my self, and in part because I'm not only a tender, affectionate, loving person–I'm also a snarky, competitive hard-ass. Less so as the years pass and I become more comfortable with my softer side, but still, both dimensions are important to me, and I don't see them as mutually exclusive. And yet I find it difficult to integrate them, and I know that I can gravitate toward one side or another in certain roles or relationships.
As I mentioned while expressing my thanks to the GSB's Class of 2012, I'm proud of my ability to simultaneously support and challenge others, and while I'll never master that crucial skill, I believe I've made meaningful progress because I identified it as a personal goal, told people I was working on it, and asked for feedback on how to improve. This past year I've also been working on expressing more of my tenderness and my snarkiness, but perhaps it's time to up the ante.
<Publish>
Thanks, Amy.
Photo by Candida Performa.
5 Responses
Hi Ed! Thanks for hitting “publish.” I think it takes great courage to be vulnerable, which you have done with your post.
Reading, I hear or see ambivalence, simultaneously attracted and repulsed by an idea, a concept of identity. I am ambivalent about it all; being a human, being a woman, being alive. For me, ambivalence is the area where our greatest skills and challenges swirl together and it creates a creative dynamic tension.
I have a great capacity to feel emotions and empathy. I can feel such a surge of warmth and affection and later that day, feel anger and rage. The ability to be present with both end of the spectrum means I am bendable and flexible, which in this ever evolving world, comes in handy.
Thanks again for your thoughts. Becky
Thanks for this, Ed. Couldn’t have been better-timed.
Thanks, Becky–I really appreciate you taking the time to share those thoughts. “Vulnerable” is just the right word–how fitting that I saw this post today from my role model Brene Brown.
And while it can feel vulnerable to share my tender side, it can also feel vulnerable to share my snarky, competitive side. As much as I love the world of coaching and personal development, in part because it’s helped me accept my tender side, at times I feel vulnerable sharing my snarky, competitive side in this world. So many coaches and people in related professions seem so earnest, so Zen, and while I can be pretty earnest and pretty Zen at times, I can also be a hot mess 🙂
I suppose it comes down to self-acceptance, self-compassion, self-validation, yet again, and allowing myself to be “bendable and flexible” (as if any of us could be any other way.)
All beautifully said, Ed. The poem is wonderful. (And somewhere I’ve heard that some of those Zen masters weren’t always such nice, stoic people!)
Personally, I feel it as a kind of perfectionism. Reacting by having a “messy moment” leads to an inner battle of voices, self-justification on one side and self-criticism on the other, two brothers fighting. Then I find I have to trace the roots of the tree, going back down to an almost mineral level to reclaim affirmation. Sometimes it would be nice to be just human, and messy, like anybody instead of being saddled with this awful self-requirement to be “a model.”
But there it is.
Thanks, Tori–I’m glad to hear it came in handy 🙂
And thanks as well, Dan. Your point about modeling highlights two points for me: 1) Truly good and meaningful modeling means letting our messiness show; as Sheldon Kopp once wrote, “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him,” i.e. seemingly perfect role models are charlatans, and 2) No one asked me to separate my tender, snarky, Zen, competitive and goofy sides–I do that to myself.
Reflecting a bit further, I realize that I’m comfortable under many circumstances integrating these various selves and letting my freak flag fly, but one area I find it particularly challenging is online, where there’s less in-the-moment feedback and where so many people seem to be presenting these perfect, airbrushed versions of themselves. It can feel very vulnerable to let a little of my mess show here–which, of course, is why I should do more of it. Thanks again.