There is something I have never seemed to understand: Why is communicating so difficult? I mean, I understand and deeply value the notion that communication is one of the most important factors in any relationship (relationship with a little r, not a big R). As humans, we are a species for whom communication is integral for survival. Why, then, is it so darned complicated?
(I have a feeling this post may end up being littered with many question marks. That's not necessarily a bad thing though, right?)
Why is it when we choose to share something with someone, it feels like we are tearing off a part of ourselves and feebly serving it to the other person on a silver platter? (By sharing, I don't mean something like cake; however, come to think of it, the same would apply in that situation as well). Sometimes it feels like if we divulge something or even utter a simple word, we will instantly become at the mercy of the other individual. The fear is reminiscent of the Simpsons episode when Bart falls in love with a girl, but then she viciously reaches deep into his torso, rips out his heart, and sends it straight to the trashcan, with a kick the caliber of at least a TFC player.
Then the fear incites guilt. 'Why am I letting a silly little thing get me all wound up?' It reminds me of the story of The Man Who Didn't Believe In Love by Don Miguel Ruiz. Here is an excerpt from it:
Happiness needs to come from within ourselves. If we base it on what other people will think of it, then it will most likely get shattered. But if we know this, why is that we still struggle with implementing it? And incidentally, it is usually the smallest, simplest of words or phrases that make us feel this way. We feel apologetic, but we choke on the "sorry" we wish to say. We appreciate someone's act of generosity, but acknowledging it requires us to muster up all of our courage (which sometimes is fails to be adequate enough a sum). We well up with warmth and joy and pure, unadulterated love, but three simple words suddenly appear too sheepish or silly or useless to express. Why?
Why do we expect others to just implicitly perceive how we feel or what we think? Why does that seem like a better option than to make an overt assertion? Wouldn't life be simpler for everyone involved if we just spoke what was on our mind and the general feeling chamber? If we all just took time to sit down, breathe talk, listen (no, I don't mean hear, I mean actually, sincerely, attentively listen) and learn. Wouldn't that make it so much easier to genuinely understand one another and actually get somewhere, as opposed to revisiting the same issues time and time again, like the trauma of a catchy song that is stuck on replay in your mindspace. (If that simile made absolutely no sense, I do apologize. In my defense, it is very late into the night.)
John Green always says, "Use your words!" I love it. It is so simple. Almost too simple. And that is wherein lies its beauty. If you don't know how someone feels, ask them. If you feel hurt, tell them. If there is a misunderstanding, vocalize it. Sounds like the cure to most relational hiccups. This tends to be a major issue within families. I know families come in all shapes and sizes, but one thing that is usually true for most of them, is that the members get stuck in a rut. As an institution, we usually wish for stability in families. That beautiful, comforting notion is also what makes it hard for any change to occur. Stability craves homeostasis, and by definition, homeostasis strives to minimize change- whether it for the better or for the worse. Usually every member plays a specific role, and the roles tend to be set relatively early on. If culturally, you have been taught that showing emotion is a sign of weakness, then that may solidify into a family law. Any utterance of feeling upset or angry may be viewed as negative. Or quite frankly, the family may just not know how to satisfactorily react to it, through a lack of being accustomed to it. In which case, instead of being malleable catering to the family member's needs, it becomes easier to just sweep all the dirt under the carpet.
...I forgot where I was going with this...
Right: family, change, tough = communication, difficult. And I mean, ever since we are young, our family is our learning ground. The values, beliefs, and habits we learn there are what are easiest for us to implement in the outside world as well.
Okay, so thanks to John Green, we have comprehended the importance of using our words. But what if we find that we are not quite as articulate as we would like to be? What if we want to use our words, but words fail us. Sometimes it seems as if those are the precise times when our dear words elude us. Maybe there is a language barrier. Maybe we have a limited vocabulary. Maybe our forte is in other modes of expression. Then again, there also is that tiny confounding matter that being emotionally charged and being articulate usually have a rather negative correlation. Why must our words strand us when we need then most?
Yeah, I haven't really figured out the answers to any of this yet. Sorry to stir the pot and then just walk away from the boiling stew. I am getting the sense that another pair with a negative correlation is passing time and my cohesiveness. (How I possibly managed to write University papers late into the night, I will never know.)
All in all, I don't know why communication is so darn difficult. It is so hard to say what you are thinking or how you are feeling, and then to make matters worse, sometimes those darn jitters decide to join you. Anyhow, no matter how onerous it becomes, it is still vital for healthy relationships, and it is essential for us to keep on striving and learning and morphing and growing. We are never too old to learn. And apt communication helps us continually achieve that.
So there you have it folks: a brilliant dose (humour me, will ya?) of my late night musings- nay, ramblings.
Sleep tight good world!
**Edit: I just realized the previous post was about Stability. Romil's post makes for a pretty sweet segue. Lucky.
(I have a feeling this post may end up being littered with many question marks. That's not necessarily a bad thing though, right?)
Why is it when we choose to share something with someone, it feels like we are tearing off a part of ourselves and feebly serving it to the other person on a silver platter? (By sharing, I don't mean something like cake; however, come to think of it, the same would apply in that situation as well). Sometimes it feels like if we divulge something or even utter a simple word, we will instantly become at the mercy of the other individual. The fear is reminiscent of the Simpsons episode when Bart falls in love with a girl, but then she viciously reaches deep into his torso, rips out his heart, and sends it straight to the trashcan, with a kick the caliber of at least a TFC player.
Then the fear incites guilt. 'Why am I letting a silly little thing get me all wound up?' It reminds me of the story of The Man Who Didn't Believe In Love by Don Miguel Ruiz. Here is an excerpt from it:
"If you take your happiness and put it in someone's hands, sooner or later, she is going to break it. If you give your happiness to someone else, she can always take it away. Then if happiness can only come from inside of you and is the result of your love, you are responsible for your happiness."
Happiness needs to come from within ourselves. If we base it on what other people will think of it, then it will most likely get shattered. But if we know this, why is that we still struggle with implementing it? And incidentally, it is usually the smallest, simplest of words or phrases that make us feel this way. We feel apologetic, but we choke on the "sorry" we wish to say. We appreciate someone's act of generosity, but acknowledging it requires us to muster up all of our courage (which sometimes is fails to be adequate enough a sum). We well up with warmth and joy and pure, unadulterated love, but three simple words suddenly appear too sheepish or silly or useless to express. Why?
Why do we expect others to just implicitly perceive how we feel or what we think? Why does that seem like a better option than to make an overt assertion? Wouldn't life be simpler for everyone involved if we just spoke what was on our mind and the general feeling chamber? If we all just took time to sit down, breathe talk, listen (no, I don't mean hear, I mean actually, sincerely, attentively listen) and learn. Wouldn't that make it so much easier to genuinely understand one another and actually get somewhere, as opposed to revisiting the same issues time and time again, like the trauma of a catchy song that is stuck on replay in your mindspace. (If that simile made absolutely no sense, I do apologize. In my defense, it is very late into the night.)
John Green always says, "Use your words!" I love it. It is so simple. Almost too simple. And that is wherein lies its beauty. If you don't know how someone feels, ask them. If you feel hurt, tell them. If there is a misunderstanding, vocalize it. Sounds like the cure to most relational hiccups. This tends to be a major issue within families. I know families come in all shapes and sizes, but one thing that is usually true for most of them, is that the members get stuck in a rut. As an institution, we usually wish for stability in families. That beautiful, comforting notion is also what makes it hard for any change to occur. Stability craves homeostasis, and by definition, homeostasis strives to minimize change- whether it for the better or for the worse. Usually every member plays a specific role, and the roles tend to be set relatively early on. If culturally, you have been taught that showing emotion is a sign of weakness, then that may solidify into a family law. Any utterance of feeling upset or angry may be viewed as negative. Or quite frankly, the family may just not know how to satisfactorily react to it, through a lack of being accustomed to it. In which case, instead of being malleable catering to the family member's needs, it becomes easier to just sweep all the dirt under the carpet.
...I forgot where I was going with this...
Right: family, change, tough = communication, difficult. And I mean, ever since we are young, our family is our learning ground. The values, beliefs, and habits we learn there are what are easiest for us to implement in the outside world as well.
Okay, so thanks to John Green, we have comprehended the importance of using our words. But what if we find that we are not quite as articulate as we would like to be? What if we want to use our words, but words fail us. Sometimes it seems as if those are the precise times when our dear words elude us. Maybe there is a language barrier. Maybe we have a limited vocabulary. Maybe our forte is in other modes of expression. Then again, there also is that tiny confounding matter that being emotionally charged and being articulate usually have a rather negative correlation. Why must our words strand us when we need then most?
Yeah, I haven't really figured out the answers to any of this yet. Sorry to stir the pot and then just walk away from the boiling stew. I am getting the sense that another pair with a negative correlation is passing time and my cohesiveness. (How I possibly managed to write University papers late into the night, I will never know.)
All in all, I don't know why communication is so darn difficult. It is so hard to say what you are thinking or how you are feeling, and then to make matters worse, sometimes those darn jitters decide to join you. Anyhow, no matter how onerous it becomes, it is still vital for healthy relationships, and it is essential for us to keep on striving and learning and morphing and growing. We are never too old to learn. And apt communication helps us continually achieve that.
So there you have it folks: a brilliant dose (humour me, will ya?) of my late night musings- nay, ramblings.
Sleep tight good world!
**Edit: I just realized the previous post was about Stability. Romil's post makes for a pretty sweet segue. Lucky.
