YOU.logy is a practice in four basic skills. The first three, PAYING ATTENTION, CURIOSITY, and LISTENING, are ones we naturally possess as children. The final skill, APPRECIATION, is one I believe we foster with age and experience.
While the story you are about to embark on may seem made up of irrelevant, disparate parts; each part arrived with such clarity, it was able to catch my attention and show just how steadfast our guidance comes when we return to the skills of paying attention, being curious and listening to all of life’s teachers.
My First Teacher: A Puzzle
Having received a rainy weekend forecast, I decided to pull a puzzle out of the closet and settle in for the kind of lazy home recreation this type of weather invites. I love puzzles. Hours fall away effortlessly and something quite liberating happens in my mind. As a quiet focus moves in, I receive respite from the incessant inner voice I am usually accompanied by. With this shift, space is created for my subconscious mind to deliver keen moments of clarity. It was in this state that a clear feeling arrived “I am actually tired of being angry and defended in this relationship.” (The message was more specific about which relationship BUT I am not sharing those details because frankly they are not important.) What is important is how clearly the message arrived and how unexpected it was.
The relationship involved is complicated and like most of us, when something emotionally disturbing or painful happens, I not only lock it into my memory, but I also hold a resentment like a necessary emotional sentinel. This particular resentment had been part of my emotional infrastructure for decades and I had no interest or indication I was ready to set down my armament until that moment. In truth, I am not even sure I agreed with or was willing to do anything about the message. But it was received and noted!
My Second Teacher, Two Days Later: A Conversation with a Friend
On the surface, this particular friend and I are unlikely companions. But he shares a similar inquisitive nature and is remarkably willing to be vulnerable in our visits. Because we quite effortlessly while away hours, it is impossible to trace how it was we arrived at the conversational nexus that delivered my next powerful message. But somewhere along the line, we ambled into a discussion about challenging relationships. With tears slowly streaming from his eyes, he shared with me about a profound transition he experienced after he heeded the advice of a therapist, who had encouraged him to write a letter of gratitude and share it with his parent. In relating the details of that experience he said, “Melissa, I walked into that visit as a child and walked out as an adult.” The words landed like an anvil. Again, at the moment, I had no intention of taking action similar to his. But the weight of his words held a sort of “promise” that felt attractive. And I found myself remembering the message that arrived two days earlier as I was working on the puzzle.
Later That Day, My Third Teacher: An Electric Pencil Sharpener
My husband, Ken, and I were at his art studio rehanging artwork and tidying up. In the process of gaining better access to one of the walls, we moved a handful of items that had been occupying a corner of the table we were working over. As we reassembled the items, returning them to their original position, Ken had his hand on the electric pencil sharpener and said, “This thing isn’t working anymore.” Although it was not explicitly stated, it suggested there was an inner dialogue occurring; simultaneously weighing the option of throwing it out, or at least acknowledging the need for something more functional. As an afterthought, he climbed under the table, unplugged it, and said, “I am going to go into it and see if I can figure out why it isn’t working.” Admittedly, at the time, the words did not land with any real gravity but today I recognize the precursor to a very literal metaphor of self-inquiry.
We got home and Ken was visibly torn between needing to shower and get ready for his evening plans and what now felt like a compelling drive to fix the pencil sharpener. He turned the sharpener upside down attempting to discover how to access the insides. Four plastic holes housed deeply recessed screw heads, and he was unable to see if a Phillips or flat head screwdriver was the appropriate tool. Experimenting, he found the Phillips head was correct. Pressed by time to move in a different direction, he tutored me in using a loose touch to allow the screwdriver to find purchase within the screw. Successful with each of the four screws, I quickly had the cosmetic casing stripped away from the inner mechanics.
As if sucked back in, Ken returned to the counter and started inspecting for an obvious visual malfunction. As if recalling the precise moment in which the tool stopped functioning well, he quickly spotted a lick of yellow lead housed within the spiral burrow. “Do you see that?” I could not.
With an untraceable orchestration of fingers and tools, more surrounding components were discarded on the counter. Having not seen how all the parts were originally assembled, a small panic surfaced about our effectiveness in reassembling everything back into working order. But I followed his focus and now spotted the clearly visible piece of broken lead lodged within the mechanics. He handed me the spiral adorned sharpening element and said, “You are going to have to find something thin to get into that area and push it out. Maybe a toothpick.” And with that he abandoned the room.
Now, equally allured by the task at hand, I grabbed a toothpick and pressed against the end of the yellow point that stuck out at the open end of the sharpening cylinder. The toothpick broke. This item was quite firmly lodged. In that moment two things seemed clear to me. Every pencil that followed the mishap with the yellow-colored pencil, must have pushed it deeper and deeper into the narrow confines of the cylinder; further embedding it within the metal grooves designed to shape it. Additionally, I knew I needed to find something small and metal to work with.
I grabbed a steak knife and pushed its tip against the portion of the yellow lead that was extending out the end of the cylinder. Not particularly surprising, the unsupported tip broke off, but nothing else moved. With the lead now completely housed within the chamber and essentially inaccessible, I opted to push the point of the knife into a 1/16” slit that ran the length of the cylinder. The lead fractured a bit around the pressure point, turning to powder. Recognizing I was going to have to pulverize what remained trapped, I suddenly became aware of my hands and how dangerous my current strategy was. Blackened and a bit slick from pencil lead residue, I decided I needed to find a safer way to position things, so I did not impale or slice my fingers inadvertently. I also had a ridiculously intrusive thought about how unsafe this knife was being rendered for future food use. Nonetheless, I persisted and after three earnest punctures, the yellow lead was successfully removed.
I exhaled with relief. Although I was aware of a rather risk adverse part of me that was relieved to have emerged unscathed from the process, it felt bigger than that. Like I was feeling the physical release experienced by the pencil sharpener. I know, weird, right? Inexplicably, I felt compelled to clear the cylinder of all signs of the yellow lead. I went to the bathroom to find a Q-Tip, thinking it would contour nicely around the spiral grooves and collect all remaining traces of yellow powder. Not entirely successful, it felt strangely nurturing to tidy up after the intrusive and extended stay of the yellow lead. The sharpening element moved in my fingers with a fluidity and intimacy that earned a greater appreciation for its fine engineering.
I set the now unobstructed parts back on the counter and eagerly reported to Ken that I had dislodged the offending pencil tip. I washed my hands and went on with another task, content I had done my part and completely confident Ken would reassemble the device. He did with ease, plugged it in and had the satisfaction of receiving a perfectly pointed pencil tip. Seemingly pleased with the results, he said, “not bad” while simultaneously choosing to pull on the tip of the pencil. The lead pulled out of the wood like a slide whistle and we both looked at each other wide eyed and amused. With exasperation and a slightly perceptible eyeroll, Ken said, “Office Depot.” And slid the lead back into its apparently “temporary” wood housing. I did not ask him why he had pulled on the lead; but it seemed while the pencil sharpener was encumbered by the blockage, Ken had gotten accustomed to both looking at the writing point and evaluating the inner constitution of the lead. Clearly, the inner obstruction of the pencil sharpener not only compromised its effectiveness in sharpening, but it also created a back pressure within each pencil, causing hidden inner fractures.
I do not’ know why that detail broke me, but…The next day, I wrote a letter of gratitude for the person whose relationship I was obviously ready to work on.
I am going to be honest, the results I had did not resemble my friends. In many ways, it added more complexity and a bit more intensity of emotion. But for the first time in DECADES, I looked at the original traumatizing event and was able to view it as an adult. Which meant I chose to see the experience from a wider, more objective lens, which included, for the first time, this other person’s perspective. In practicing empathy and recognizing what they must have been experiencing at the time, I realized this was not only a painful experience for me, but a deeply troubling time for them, as well. I wept profoundly for them, and suddenly found compassion and understanding about some of the choices they made that had inadvertently injured me. It does not change what I experienced, or how I experienced it as a child. But today, their choices no longer hold the same malevolence that my earlier story had included. With time, equanimity has seeped into this relationship, and it feels lighter. Something I am incredibly grateful for.
The Lesson:
While we are loathe to do so, often in life we must take the time to look within ourselves to find out why we are not functioning at our optimal level. When we do so, we may find something has lodged itself within the intricate parts of us from an incident that did not go as planned. Just like when I was working on the pencil sharpener, letting go of this resentment felt as if I was exposing myself to a new and greater risk of injury. Also like our interaction with the pencil sharpener, inner work may take several tools, some strategizing, and a good bit of willingness to get messy in order to free things up. Whether it is an emotional wound, a limiting belief, or a resentment we are attempting to excavate, I believe the most poignant part of the lesson is this: When things remain concealed from our awareness, they are not only compromising our desired results in life, but they may also be causing hidden damage to ourselves and others.
Everything in life can be a teacher when we pay attention.
Do you have a story about an unexpected teacher or lesson? Tell us about it.