The Single Story

I read a story recently about an organ transplant that went horribly wrong. It happened in a prestigious Taiwanese hospital, well established in these procedures. A patient, who was on record as an organ donor, died and blood work was done to determine his suitability. Human error ensued and, instead of his results being recorded as reactive, or HIV+, his organs were given clearance and, as a result, five people were given tainted donations. I thought about the ever widening circles of people affected: the clerk who made the original mistake, the five organ recipients and their families and friends, the surgical teams, the hospital administration; people like you and me, thousands of miles away, who read the story. It was a small human error, a miscommunication of terms, but with tragic consequences. My first thought was how could one live with themselves after making a mistake like that.

I told this story to several people, all medical personnel, and it was interesting the different reactions. The first person I told immediately felt sick at heart and went into fear of her own work and the potential for mistake. The second could only look at the bright side of the issue. She stated that those patients were at low risk and, anyhow, they were lucky to get an organ in the first place. The last person was morally outraged at the erroneous clerk and the “minions they hire these days”.

I just listened to two TED Talk by Nigerian authors Chimananda Adichie and Chris Abani. They both spoke of the dangers of what they call the “single story” — the essentialization of culture and the people within. The single story, for example, that Africa is a continent of dictatorship, strife and poverty, rather than a complex region full of multiple stories with the same contradictions, living conditions and philosophical extremes found in North America and Europe.

I thought about this when I reflected on the medical error reported above. Each person I spoke to, including myself, attached a different story to the tragedy— each perspective coloured by the individual’s unique response to life. There was deep pathos, fear, optimism, and anger. And there was my reaction to their viewpoints. I found the Pollyanna response naïve and judged the holder of that view to be fearful of confrontation. I deemed the outraged person to be steeped in unexpressed anger, always on the lookout for a way to vent and I thought the fearful reply to be reflective of one who was not confident in their skills. My judgment, or story, melded into their judgments or stories — it was no longer a human tale about a tragic mistake but a vehicle to condemn others or, as the case may be, ourselves.

Everyone I spoke to — each single story — was correct to some degree about this medical mishap. Yes, it was a horrible mistake but true, the organ recipients might still be better off. Yes, it’s a cautionary tale to inspire diligence but also one to encourage stronger checks and balances, and yes, it is a story of ineptitude, however singular, however chronic. Each story viewed alone gives us one perspective and through that perspective, seemingly one path of correction. Generalizations are made and a complex story is simplified into a single narrative and a platform for our beliefs. The story and the storyteller become one-dimensional.

But life isn’t like that and either are our stories. Being human, among others things, is a complex tale of erroneous beliefs, judgments, missteps and communication breakdowns. It is also about love and compassion, innocence and open-heartedness. The question is, which story will we follow, which story will we tell and which will we believe?

The Human Dance

He walked up to me as I sat on the bench, enjoying the sun and the people watching. He was a thin man — “all bones” mom would say —wearing loose, well-worn clothes, dirty sneakers and a baseball cap. His movements were jerky, like those of a marionette’s puppet, and they accentuated his angular frame and the flows of unused material. He smiled. Hello, he said, going travelling? I said no, deciding against explaining the baggage sitting next to me. The packsack and suitcase belonged to a friend. She was the one travelling but had run an errand while I watched over her gear. Oh, he said, coming home then. No, I replied, returning the smile. My expression kept his hopes up, he said: Vancouver sure is a beautiful city. Yes, I said, it is.

Despite my monosyllabic answers an internal debate was raging in my head. I knew, or assumed I knew, who and what he was: a panhandler who, needing a fix, wanted money; but I also saw, or tried to see him as a person deserving of respect, polite conversation and human connection. I didn’t want to lead him on, that is, I didn’t want him to expect money at the end but I also wanted him to know that I saw him.

He asked if I was from Vancouver. Yes, and you? No, Saskatchewan. Lots of people here from the prairies, I said, better winters. His toothless smile broadened, eagerness barely hiding his anxiety.

The internal debate got heated. What was I doing? Why was I giving this man monetary aspirations when I was only going to disappoint him? I felt like the cat teasing the mouse, sadistically playing with his emotions. No, I rebutted, you are treating him like any other person you enter into conversation with, just pretend he came over because he thought you were interesting, pretty or perhaps, even lonely.

Lots of culture here, he said. Hmmm, I murmured, thought there was more on the prairies, I’ve heard Saskatoon is quite the place for the arts. No, he corrected, I mean cultures, you know, multi-cultures. Oh, yes, I agreed, we are a port city, more cultures here.

He looked over his shoulder, gums biting his lips. His eyes transversed the streets and came back to mine, making a decision. Don’t suppose you have a loonie or something you could give me? Ah, I am sorry… I have some food though, some nuts. I held out the leftovers in the bag I had. He shook his head reminding me he had no teeth. You could give me money for food, he said, the last word wavering on a high note. Shaking my head, I once more apologized. Fifty cents even? No, I can’t.

He closed his eyes for two, maybe three seconds, overcame a slight grimace, nodded and moved on. I took a deep breath. I almost called him back but he had disappeared into the crowds. I felt bad as if I mislead him somehow, made him work and then denied him wages. I don’t have a set rule regarding who and when I give money. Sometimes it’s on a whim; other times because of the pathos involved, the panhandler has creative methods or makes me laugh. I try to smile and greet whoever asks for money and usually I get a smile back but it is not easy being poor; even harder if you have an addiction. One could counter that it is not my fault he needed a fix and not my fault he lives on the street but I question whether blame is where we should focus our queries. Maybe it is more about what we value. If I value smiles and conversation between strangers, perhaps that would be given more value by the person, however destitute, that I encounter. Just maybe, if the internal debate was not raging within me, I would have been more present, more able to join in a moment of true connection. Maybe, just maybe then, he too could have, at least momentarily, forgot about his needs and joined me in a human dance that holds more value than money could ever buy.

Compassion

Black Bear came to a meeting late and said, “I’m feeling frazzled after dealing with my cubs. What if don’t feel compassionate?”

Raven said, “Fake it.”

“That doesn’t seem honest,” said Black Bear.

“It doesn’t begin with honesty,” said Raven.

From: Zen Master Raven: Sayings and Doings of a Wise Bird

The Remembered Dance: Acts of Courage or Betrayal?

Was this a betrayal, or was it an act of courage? Perhaps both. Neither one involves forethought: such things take place in an instant, in an eyeblink. This can only be because they have been rehearsed by us already, over and over, in silence and darkness; in such silence, such darkness, that we are ignorant of them ourselves. Blind but sure-footed, we step forward as if into a remembered dance. The Blind Assassin Margaret Atwood

This passage touched a tender spot. I didn’t want to admit that past acts of betrayal, however subtle or minor, had indeed been practiced or self-rehearsed. They seemed momentary decisions, like the courageous ones, that surprised even me as I found myself committing them. I sat with it, first digesting the easier one, that of spontaneous acts of courage.

In previous years, I often critiqued my ability to act fast when witnessing an accident or even a minor mishap with another: I wasn’t the first to grab the parcels dropped on the ground or the first to ask a stranger if they needed help when in distress. In reflection I put this down to a reluctance to put myself forward and, in effect, be seen. To be seen was not safe — it risked exposure, ridicule; humiliation. Safety involved being behind the scenes, going slow; avoiding visibility. The consequence to this supposed safety, however, was that my humanity suffered: I was no longer involved in life in a way that gave internal satisfaction or a feeling of being connected.

So, I started practicing, rehearsing in my mind, things I would do in case of mishap. It started quite innocently, just a desire to be a more compassionate person. I watched as elders got on the bus and imagined how I would help if they fell or dropped something. I observed others and, creating sometimes absurd stories, planned how I would assist. It worked. Through this rather active imagination, I am now quicker to move when adverse things happen. Not that I put myself in danger, but I am less concerned with what I look like and more with how I can show another, whoever they are, that they are important enough for a stranger to offer support.

This example is by no means the equivalent of saving children from burning houses but for those, like myself, who have not felt safe enough to risk being seen it is, however subtle, courageous. But what about betrayal? I thought about the times I betrayed another and, once again, I do not talk of betrayal on a grand scale. I speak of the little betrayals from thoughtless gossip, minimizing a friend’s hurts or assuming the worst about someone. Had I somehow rehearsed these actions?

The answer is, unfortunately, yes. Not that I planned how I would hurt someone but, in an indirect manner, have contributed to this way of being by falling into self pity or negative thinking. From melodramatic “nobody likes me” and “they hurt me” to “I’ll show them” is, in a way, rehearsal for larger actions. Is it not easier to withhold support for a friend, for example, when you feel nobody likes you? Is it not one short step to gossiping when you assume (but don’t ask) what the other really thinks? Dark thoughts and actions like these compulsively swirl inward and stop us from connecting to others and from manifesting our interdependence.

Blind but sure-footed, we step forward as if into a remembered dance. The remembered dance is the steps we take every moment of the day. Are these steps ones of courage? Or are they ones of betrayal that ultimately lead us to hurt ourselves and others?

Eve Ensler and Interdependence

I’m a big fan of Eve Ensler. I respect her work, her courage and her voice that encourages others to tell their story. I first saw her on Ted talks about two years ago when she spoke of the “girl cell” in all of us — men and women, boys and girls.

“Imagine that ‘girl’ is the part of each of us that feels compassion, empathy, passion, intensity, association, relationship, emotion, play, resistance, vulnerability, intuitive intelligence, vision.

Imagine that compassion informs wisdom. That vulnerability is our greatest strength. That emotions have inherent logic and lead to radical saving action.

… Now imagine that a few powerful people, invested in owning this world, understood that the oppression of this cell was key to retaining their power, so they reinterpreted this cell, undermining its value and making us believe that it is weak. They initiated a process to crush, eradicate, annihilate, humiliate, belittle, censor, reduce and kill off the girl cell.”

A few months ago, she appeared on video again. She talks about being diagnosed with cancer and finding her healing through love, community and coming into relationship with her body. Although she has always believed in our interrelatedness she now physically felt it: how cancer was not her private personal story but an international tale. One that resonates throughout the world where rampant, heedless growth, abusive power, hate and fear not only threatens us but hurts, demoralizes and kills us regardless of who we are and where we live.

This is a story about interdependence: caring for the world as we care for ourselves; caring for ourselves as we care for the world. Valuing our interrelatedness and thereby beginning the healing of our wounds. Knowing that when we hide or ignore injustices we only hurt ourselves and when we hide from ourselves, injustices occur.

Choice

I recall a discussion I once had with a client about choice. Choice, I said, is the only thing we really possess. Even when the power we hold over our daily life is minimal, we still have choice in how we respond to that powerlessness.

The discussion had begun over the topic of suicide, the ultimate choice that, paradoxically, reneges on itself once completed. And, viewed in that way, it cannot really be seen as a choice but an abstention of life. Choice engenders new choices; suicide cancels the vote.

On a smaller scale, we make parallel choices throughout the day. Every choice we make is a new pathway, a new fork in the road. The unchosen path dissolves, a metaphoric death, never to be seen in quite that way again. Sometimes we agonize over these choices, other times they are impulsive moments, forgotten seconds later. Regardless, we choose, and in that choice, we have power. Or we choose to abstain from decision making and we flow with known (or unknown) forces —a potential power in its own right.

Understanding the power of conscious choice is the basis for interdependent living. This fall I will teach three classes on the different manifestations of choice:

Codependence – the choice of living life in false hope

Boundaries – recognizing the choices that are ours to make (and those that our not)

Interdependence – the choice of responding (rather than reacting) to life

Check out the calendar of events on my website.

Creative Living: Being "Paid" to be Yourself

I’ve never been one for horoscopes, couldn’t quite see myself as the home spun nurturer, cooking-up-a-storm while caring for the world kind of “crab” I was typecast to be. So, when I received a 20 odd page birth chart compiled by Steven Forrest complete with the meanderings and influences of all the planets from a client several years ago, I didn’t pay much heed to it. I glanced through it but for whatever reason I put it aside not to pick up again till this year. And what a shock, it was like reading my autobiography. Spooky, really, with its high degree of accuracy.

One of things I most enjoyed in it was the quote: “With the Sun in the Tenth House, it’s as though Spirit has asked you to figure out a way to get paid for being yourself.” Nice. Maybe that is why I have been devoted to writing about interdependence and codependence — the latter to figure out the past and the former to chart a path for the future… all in the name of finding and being true to me.

Unfortunately, many of us “get paid” to be anyone but our self. And I don’t necessarily mean paid in money. We can get paid with approval, status, promotions and just plain acceptance. It is the nature of society, or at least much of society. It is also the basis for codependence. But with interdependence, our payoff comes from within. And that is the jewel worth fighting for.

I’ll be teaching a few classes on interdepence, codependence and the boundaries therein this fall with what I call the Creative Living Workshops. Look forward to seeing you there.