106 and counting…

Dad & me, Tuesday, 7-29-86, Charleston Int'l Airport

Note: Today would have been my dad’s 106th birthday. William John Abernathy (August 7, 1911-April 27, 1996) and I had a difficult relationship; one fraught with the daily tension and enduring mutual resentment of the clash between his irresistible force of an alway-authoritarian, at times, arbitrary disposition and my ever-immovable object of adolescent rebellion (which continued well into my adulthood). O’er the years and o’er many trails of solemn reflection and trials of sober regret and sincerest repentance for my great part in our brokenness, I’ve come to understand, love, and respect my father. Today, the thought occurring (Why? I’m not entirely sure) to leaf through one of my journals, I found this forgotten (and astonishingly dated) twenty year old entry…

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Thursday, August 7, 1997: On Sunday evening, August 3, Pontheolla and I attended a Healing Eucharist at the Washington National Cathedral. At the time worshipers were invited to come forward, we went and knelt at the altar rail. I asked “to be delivered from my long held bitterness against my departed father so that I can be free and so that he might be free!” I was anointed with oil and received the laying-on-of-hands by the celebrant, Ted Karpf, who prayed a prayer for my healing. I experienced then and continue to experience an ever-deepening sense, spirit of relief and of release. I wept a single, slow-moving tear of thankfulness as I sat with Pontheolla, holding hands, praying my healing would abide.

Ironies, painful and heart-rending, abound…

Ted had preached a homily, speaking eloquently and provocatively of the human condition, which finds self-worth in work and does not (cannot!) hear and respond to God’s gracious word of worth in being…simply being. Ted couldn’t have known that he was speaking so directly to one of my life’s issues, hurts, questions! (I pray my healing will abide.)

Moreover, the service was held in the War Memorial Chapel. Perhaps what I perceive as the irony of setting a service of healing in the place memorializing those who have died honorably in defense of country in times of war, if not intentional, was, at the least, purposeful. Verily, those who have endured the wars of acceptance and rejection in wounded, broken relationships need healing, for they have died a 1000 deaths and perhaps have killed others a 1000 times in those recurring mental scenarios of vengeance. (I pray my healing will abide.)

 

Photograph: Dad and me at the Charleston (SC) International Airport, Tuesday, July 29, 1986 (one of the few pictures of my father and me in which we are more or less smiling)

common?

Subtitle: a Monday rant

Sub-subtitle: an admission of a personal pet peeve

confess - regret

I don’t know (or if I once did, I don’t recall) who was the first person (even the second, thus close enough to claim being the first) to make that insightful observation of human behavior, saying, in so many words, “As far as I can tell common sense is far from common.”

By common sense, I’m not referring to that Aristotelean category concerning that inherent animal and über-useful capacity to employ varied senses to perceive collectively (or commonly) the nature of the surrounding environment, say, the proximity and speed of approach of a potential predator. Nor am I thinking of that native human (given our desire and need to be in relationship) sensory awareness of others.

Rather, by common sense, I mean that garden-variety-everyday-we-know-it-when-we-see-it-even-if-we-can’t-explain how-or-why shared human rational ability to perceive and understand situations and circumstances and to respond reasonably.

Closely associated with common sense, I think, is common courtesy; that human trait of civility in relations with others, expressive of one’s respect for others’ (and one’s own) individual dignity.

My pet peeve?

(I digress. I understand the peeve-part, from “peevish”; connoting a behavior, habit, or trait that provokes my ill-temper. But why is my peeve my “pet”, which I generally associate with something favorable or valuable? Thus I think my peeve is the pet behavior, habit, or trait of another that riles my viscera. Oh well, back to my point…)

I hate it (and I don’t use the word carelessly, but rather candidly descriptively) when folk don’t respond to my communications.[1] For, when this happens, I usually feel the hurt of disregard.

And when it happens and happens and happens, I also usually think afresh that common sense and courtesy ain’t that common.

However, I also usually recognize that my pejorative judgment of the other person is precisely that, a pejorative judgment of the other person; and, doubtless, with no information from the other person, inherently unfair to the other person.

So, also usually, I don’t spend too much time (some time, yes, but, again, not too much) pondering, wondering why the other person didn’t respond. For truth to tell, as I’m the only one I know thinking and feeling what I’m thinking and feeling, the issue is with me.

And also usually where I end up is recognizing again one of my soul-deep needs for acknowledgement of my person. The roots of this need trace back to my formative years and what I’ve discerned was a lack in my adolescent individual psychosocial development. And, as I believe that the one person I cannot escape is me, this, my need and deficiency is something I’ve been working on for years and, I trust, will continue to work on until I die.

I still hate, well, don’t like it when folk don’t respond. But I also know it’s not really about them. It’s about me.

 

Footnote:

[1] In a faintly related way, this, for me, is in the same group or class of (or perhaps classless) behaviors as one’s not replying to an RSVP, but then showing up. But, in such an instance, at least the person does appear; her/his arrival and presence being, however late and unexpected, a demonstrable response.

“and…authenticity & toxicity” – a personal reflection on human behavior, part 6 (and last)

In yesterday’s post, I wrote about self-differentiation, defining it as “knowing where others and I begin and end.” Being (most of the time!) a well-developed “self”, was…is for me one of the most difficult aspects of human living. For I arrived at adulthood through childhood and adolescence (I write this without any want or need to blame my folks, but rather with a firm hold on my responsibility for me) with a powerful and abiding yearning to be acknowledged and accepted.[1]

Whenever I’ve followed the leading of this longing, I’ve fallen into a chameleonic trap, adjusting what I do and say, even what I think to adapt to others’ expectations. (I say “trap”, for such people-pleasing conformism always proves too high a price to pay in misshaping and losing my self, my soul. Moreover, given that the person I’d presented myself to be was inauthentic, whatever acknowledgement and acceptance I gained was counterfeit.)

Now, whenever I’ve maintained a genuine respect for (that is, acknowledging and accepting) my need for acknowledgement and acceptance, I’m able to behave in a variety of healthy ways. I can hold in balance my dependence on others and their dependence on me, truly, our mutual interdependence. I can face criticism without defensiveness, conflict without retaliatory offensiveness, and rejection without self-pitying sadness.

This brings me to toxic people or, truth be told, people when they are (when I am) toxic. For the balance of self-differentiation is simply and profoundly that. A balance that I do not believe any of us, being marvelously and maddeningly consistent in our human inconsistency, always achieves or constantly maintains.

Speaking always and only for myself, when satisfying my hunger for acknowledgement and acceptance is my topmost aim and especially if…when I don’t get the response I seek, I’m subject to exhibit manifold unhealthy and unhelpful behaviors. Though I don’t intend to universalize my experience, there are two chief attitudes and actions I’ve seen in myself and others that I now identify as toxic: being unpredictable and unapologetic.

Unpredictable. I’m smiling, chatty, and engaging, then the next day or hour or moment, dour, quiet, and withdrawn. You, concerned, ask, “What’s wrong, Paul?” I shrug and sigh, “Oh, nothing.” Will you take the relational bait and pursue? If so, I’ve got you hooked wondering, worried about what you may have done to provoke such a change and perhaps wishing you could fix it.

At times like this, one my dearest friends, truly, brothers, the late, great Tim Veney, knew best, that is, healthily and helpfully, what to do. Walk away, leaving me to deal with me and telling me, always with a kindly smile, “Come back when the real Paul returns.”

Unapologetic. You try to engage me, reasonably describing your observations of my suddenly sullen discontent. I’ll lie, “No, I’m not. I don’t know what you’re talking about” or I’ll deflect, refusing to name and claim my feelings, “Hmmm, methinks you’re the one with the issue. Are you upset about something that you’re not saying? If I had a problem, I’d tell you” or I’ll exaggerate, “You always try to make it about me” or “You never really try to understand me” or I’ll recriminate, “Do you remember last week when you were acting like you’ve accused me of behaving?” or I’ll judge, “When you’re like this, I’m much kinder to you than you are to me.”

When I’m in my toxic rut, my beloved wife, Pontheolla, like Tim, well knows and faithfully practices healthy and helpful, sanity-saving responses. Sometimes, she does it with a look, all at once, understanding and firm and sometimes with a word, “Paul, I will not engage you now. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.” Either or both ways, the effect is calming and disarming and sooner than later I return to my best…well, my better self.

There are myriad toxic behaviors, but the two aforementioned shall suffice. Moreover, this is my final word (for now) on human behavior. So, I’ll end where I started…

I began this series (October 12: “and” – a personal reflection on human behavior) with an opening word about a certain presidential candidate. As I reflect, he professes to be unpredictable and unapologetic. Hmmm

 

Footnote:

[1] I mentioned my need for acknowledgement and acceptance in my October 13 post: “and…most of the time!” – a personal reflection on human behavior, part 2. It took me quite the while to discern how and why I am this way. For years now, I’ve seen it clearly. The roots trace back to my formative years and upbringing. I perceive my hungering need to be acknowledged and accepted as a combination of the sometimes spoken and largely unspoken and perhaps unintended lessons of my household and, equally, how I reacted to my foundational, familial environment. Given the latter, again, I have no desire or need to blame my folks (Lord, have mercy, I confess that I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime!). I also need not or ever blame anyone or anything else, for, until I die or become too decrepit or disabled to remain a sentient, semi-autonomous, ethical actor in the world, I’ll be the only me for whom I’m – and no one else is – responsible!

“you and I…from blame to responsibility” – a personal reflection on human behavior, part 5

A companion development of my moving from selfishness (now, less of the time) to selflessness (now, more of the time) involved my taking responsibility for my thoughts and feelings, my intentions and actions, in a word, for my responses to life. During much of my adolescent and (though I hate to admit it, honesty compels the confession) through my early adult years, I was fond (well, not fond, but, at the least, favored) blaming others.

During my periodic fits of self-pity about my shortcomings and failures, my parents were a prime target of my attempts to negate my accountability. Words of rebuke silently resounded in my mind (for rarely would I speak aloud, save in the privacy of my solitude): “You made me this way…” “If you hadn’t done (this or that negative thing), I wouldn’t have turned out this way” or “If you had done (this or that positive thing), I would be better!”

When that didn’t serve to alleviate my guilt for what I’d done that I ought not have done and what I’d not done that I ought to have done (and my shame for being one who did things he ought not and didn’t do things he ought), I always could aim my blame at that ubiquitous and uncontrollable trio of circumstance, chance, and change.

When that didn’t work, there always was God (whose omnipresent eternality made for an ever-available scapegoat!). In moments of greatest grief, I’d cry: If God is all-powerful, then God, allowing evil, can’t be good and if God is good, desiring the welfare of all, then God, unwilling or unable to restrain evil, can’t be God.[1] (Yet, in railing at the heavens for the existence of evil, thus, raising theodicy’s age-old question and critique, at least I was focusing less on my personal worries and woes and more on the world’s sufferings amidst natural calamities of earthquake and tempest, plague and famine and the human-manufactured horrors of war, racism, and the like.)

Over (looking back, Lord, have mercy, it took a long) time, I now daily exercise a useful, faithful ability (behavioral muscle!). In the words of the trite phrase, I “know where others and I begin and end.” In the light of this self-differentiation, I readily can distinguish my responsibilities (and my abilities and liabilities) from those of others. Hence, I am less susceptible to falling prey to the dual temptations of the threat of tyranny in becoming an object, a victim of the unhealthy, unhelpful behaviors of others and the sense of superiority in taking charge of the happiness of others.

More to come…

 

Footnote:

[1] A paraphrase of the observation of the character Nickles in Archibald MacLeish’s modern retelling of the biblical Book of Job, J.B.: A Play in Verse (1958).