Safaris, Drivers and the Essentials of Survival

Standing at the edge of the Great Rift Valley in Kenya I looked out from the mountaintop.  I saw rolling hills that stretched to the horizon.  I knew that the adventure that lie ahead would be life changing. 

The driver was waiting in Nairobi.  He was a kind man of small stature.  He had kind eyes and it was obvious from the start that he had a true passion for his job.  Over the course of the following days he would introduce me to the Northern parts of the Serengeti. 

As we pulled out of Nairobi the buildings began to diminish in size, they became fewer in number.  Mile after mile Nairobi became less visible.  As we started our assent to the top of the mountain, which led to the Great Rift Valley, we passed cars and carts pulled by different types of animals.  The road curved and narrowed leaving little room for error.  The driver was experienced and he handled the bulky van with ease.  As we reached the top of the mountain I stepped out and walked to the edge of a tall cliff that overlooked the valley.  Rarely am I ever speechless but in that moment I knew that I was seeing one of God’s most beautiful creations.  The land seemed to go on forever. It was mostly empty of the modern sites that we are so used to.  There were no buildings, no highways it was like looking back in time thousands of years.

I stood there on the edge for ten or fifteen minutes in prayerful thought still in awe of what I was seeing.  I dreamed of a world that doesn’t exist to most of the world.  It was one of great animals that ran freely, with people that roam the land with little to few attachments holding them to one place.  I dreamed of sunsets that dominated the horizon with no obstructions and a night sky that was unhindered by the pollution of city lights.  As I was drifting further into my hopes of what was to come, the driver walked over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder.  He said simply, “my friend, it is beautiful yes, but there is more to see.  We should go.”  With that I took a few pictures and stepped in to the van.

We made our way down the mountain in to the valley.  Upon reaching the bottom I noticed that the road was roughly paved and that there were no buildings within sight.  I asked the driver where the closest town was.  He smiled and with a deep laugh said, “there is no town, only Nairobi is close now.”  For the next hour, as the mountain faded into the background, I sat watching the small brush pass by.  I opened up a small bag that I had picked up in Nairobi.  It was mainly full of essentials like a can of sugar free Redbull, some potato crisps, fresh passion fruit, and some other dried fruits.  I offered some to the driver.  He took a handful of Skittles and shared more about the area.  By this point we were off of the paved roads and from here on out we would not see pavement for several days. 

I sat back watching this new world.  On my right I saw a herd of Zebras standing together as we sped by.  Further along the road we came to what looked to be a small village.  The driver asked if I wanted any souvenirs.  I smiled and shook my head no.  I wanted to see more. He seemed pleased with this decision and told me about the village.  “Mr. Jason, this is one of the villages belonging to the Masai People.  He explained that the huts were constructed of mud and dung.  “The people live in these huts for six or seven months and then it is time to move and build new ones.”  I asked about the children.  Do they go to school?  He said yes.  “Recently the children have been required to attend a school, it is not far ahead.”

We passed through the Masai settlement and made our way deeper in to the sierra.  Along the sides of the road I saw men, women and children walking and playing.  They were wearing traditional Masai garments, which consisted of brightly colored sashes.  I was amazed at how alive and playful the children were.  They jumped and tumbled with one another as the Masai women sat together watching as they wove new fabrics.

Past the settlements, beyond the villagers we were now in deep sierra.  There were more and more animals passing by as we drove ahead.  I looked to my right and saw three elephants walking slowly away from the dirt road.  I took a few more pictures and the driver said, “those are only a few elephants, you will see many more when we reach Masai Mara.  As we neared the protected area of Masai Mara the driver began to slow down.  He pulled to the side of the road and said, “Mr. Jason, this will be a good moment for pictures.”  I looked around and saw nothing.  I asked what exactly I was taking a picture of.  He laughed with a deep and loud laugh.  “Mr Jason, do you see that concrete marker over there?  It is the border between Kenya and Tanzania.  If you stand on one side you are here, in Kenya and on the other you are in Tanzania.” I walked over to the obelisk shaped structure.  Sprays painted on it were two letters separated by a line.  T\K.  I assumed the obvious T was Tanzania and K was Kenya.  So I did the tourist thing and jumped back and forth between the two countries.  I think I was mainly thrilled at the fact that I could cross over without an hour of customs checks on each side.  The driver took a few pictures of me as he laughed. 

We boarded the van once more and began the next leg of our journey to the Masai Mara Reserve.  I saw another herd of Zebras one was facing away from the road.  I named her J.Lo for obvious reasons.  Finally we made it to the gate of the Reserve.  The gate was simple. It was constructed of stones and mortar.  On each side piled in stacks that were at least five feet tall were skeletal remains of various animals.  At the top of each was the skull of an elephant.  I walked up to them and was amazed at the size of the enormity of each skull.  The driver came beside me and explained that the skull is full of small holes, which makes it lighter than other bones.  This allows the elephant to hold its head up without being weighted down.

After a lengthy dialogue with the park officials the driver motioned me back to the van.  I jumped in and we were once more on our way.  The Reserve was teeming with animals.  I saw elephants, zebras, giraffes, even a few hippopotami bathing in a stream that snaked its way through the terrain.

After three more hours we made it to our destination.  I was staying in a place called Serena Mara.  It sat on top of a rolling hill and the view was breath taking.  The driver asked when I would like to take the first safari.  I laughed and said that I felt like we had already taken the first one.  He smiled and said, “my friend you have seen nothing yet.  Shall we go for an evening safari after dinner?”  I nodded with excitement.  He said that we should go by 5:30.  I unpacked my bags, walked around the resort and quickly finished my dinner.  It was time for my first Safari.

The van was equipped for the adventure.  It had a roof that lifted to provide shade and an open view of any animals that we would see along the way.  It also had four-wheel drive, which came in extremely handy on the drive to the reservation and would surely be useful in the safaris to come.

We left the reservation quickly.  It had rained for about an hour and a half before we left and though Kenya is located on the equator it was a cool evening.  I had a jacket with me and was ready to see what the sierra had to offer.

Within five minutes we saw a herd of wildebeests.  They were massive and the number of the herd was in the thousands.  I had flashbacks to the Lion King.  I asked the driver to stop the van and I got out to get a closer look.  The driver apparently didn’t often receive requests like this and he was a little apprehensive but throughout the drive we had found a common ground in our love for adventure.  He had been a driver and a scout for some time and in his free time would go out for days into the sierra to watch the animals.  He studied their movements, their feeding habits, and had become an expert in finding them.  At one point he spotted a cheetah in a tree that was at least two-hundred yards away.  He pointed, I looked and saw nothing. Then I grabbed my binoculars only to see of all things a cheetah lying on a branch in a tree.  I was amazed and quickly came to trust his judgment.  This was still early in the ride and I was excited to get a closer look.  I left the safety of the van and wandered closer to the herd.  They were magnificent!  They moved as one unit.  If one sensed danger the herd moved with him. They were in perfect sync.  I snapped a few pictures and the herd began to move.  I could feel the ground shake.  It was a moment of pure awe.  After the herd moved on I stepped back into the van and we were once again underway.

We came to a stream and the driver stopped.  He pointed to the water and explained that there were four hippopotami submerged.  I stepped out of the van again to get a closer look.  The stream had carved a deep gorge into the terrain and the ground was muddy and wet.  I stepped as close as I could to the edge and took pictures.  I took one more step and felt the ground begin to give way.  I realized in a split second that I was headed down into murky water and there was nothing to stop me.  The driver had explained before that the waters were full of crocodiles and hippos.  This was all that was going through my mind as my feet lost their traction and I began to tumble.  Just as quickly as I began to fall I stopped.  I felt a hand grip me so tightly it almost hurt, but in the moment I was relieved.  I turned only to see the driver standing solidly with my life literally in his hands.  He smiled and in a thick accent that was more reassuring than Morgan Freeman he said, “Mister Jason, it is not a good idea to be this close”.  We both laughed as I regained my balance.  As he laughed he told me, “it is nice to see someone who is not afraid that will enjoy the wonderful creation around him, but my friend I believe you may enjoy it more than your health can tolerate.”  With this he laughed again and exclaimed, “Oh Mr. Jason, you are going to survive this trip without swimming with the crocodiles.”  We moved on, and throughout the way he pointed out more animals.  Some were huge and some were common rodents.  His eye for the detail of the land paired with his confidence was more than reassuring.  Over the coming days he would point out Giraffes, Lions, Cheetahs and animals that I had never seen nor heard of.  I was in constant amazement of everything.  There was no getting used to it and at no moment did it lose its wonder. 

I asked more than my share of questions and with patient smiles he answered each and every one.

On our last day he told me that he had a surprise in store for me.  We journeyed to another reserve.  The reserves were apparently established based on the types of animals that inhabit the area.  As we entered the new area I began to see apes of all kinds running and jumping.  He pointed out each one and told me the names.  They were care free, playful and whether they noticed us or not they were unhindered by our presence.  We stayed there for a couple of hours and I was lost in the complexity of their existence.  Just from my limited time there I could see a social structure.  The mothers were gentle and compassionate with their young.  They grouped together holding their offspring as if they were discussing their daily routines.  The males sat off to the side in groups also.  There was the occasional display of testosterone as one would stand and let out a loud shout.  It was obvious who the patriarch of the group was.  He was an older more laid-back guy.  He just looked wise, as if he had seen his share and more of the world around him.  The other apes showed respect and gave him his own space and distance.  I understood how easy it would be to spend years just observing these tiny actions of community.

Finally we made the journey back to Nairobi.  I was tired but still excited.  We chatted the entire drive and I continued to learn from this new friend.

As I returned I gave so much thought into my time with the driver.  I am an adventurer at heart and often show too much readiness and zeal for a new challenge.  It felt comforting to have a voice along with me that was more experienced, more in tune with the thrills and dangers that this world contained.  I started to apply this to other areas in life.  I thought about counseling and how so many people come with questions, fears, concerns, even panic.  I realized that for those I was able to serve as somewhat of a driver through the terrains of life.  I sat for hours in the airport and even in a hotel in Ethiopia thinking about it.  The question eventually came to mind, where does a therapist turn when he needs a driver.  This felt even more pressing as this particular therapist was sitting in an aged hotel in Addis Ababa.  I felt completely alone and out of my element.  I wasn’t counseling but I was definitely not in my comfort zone.  It dawned on me that in a counseling room I was safe.  I asked the questions, I did the digging when necessary but rarely was I out of my safe zone.  Then I began to remember the words of the men who trained me.  Their gentle encouragement and at times their tougher challenges rang through my mind.  I missed them as I thought about the risks that they guided me through.  They saw me at some of my best moments and quite honestly at many of my worst.  I realized that these men had been my drivers and that I had come to rely on their wisdom even when I was sitting eight thousand miles away.  There have been times when I am so perplexed with a decision that I ask my self what they would do in that moment.  I think about their words, their expressions and many times their patience and grace. 

I believe that we are made in a way that requires us to need each other.  We spend most of our hiding our weaknesses hoping that our drivers won’t  see them.  We dive into isolation because it seems safer.  As I think back to the moment when I was slipping in to the muddy waters of an African stream I realize that this was not the first time a firm hand had pulled me back to safety.  I am learning slowly to lead with my weakness.  This I believe is the lesson that many of the best drivers in my life have taught me and in all their patience they allowed me to grow until I saw it for myself.  In the end, what do professors, supervisors, and a driver in Africa have in common?  They have all known me at moments when the illusion of my own control was fleeting.  They all extended a hand of safety to me when I was helpless and they all have ventured with me into some of the scariest moments in my life.  Ultimately they have mirrored God’s love to me.  They have been the reflections of the greater hand which so many more times than I can count has pulled me from the edge and with a laugh that surpasses a driver or Morgan Freeman has rejoiced at the opportunity to be with me as I met my limits and clung to Him for safety.

Mars and Venus Revisited Part I

The idea of intimacy sounds wonderful on paper but is often much harder in practice.  Terms like trust, vulnerability, and love are often thrown out in conversation with enthusiasm and excitement, as they should be, but in practice they can be confusing, tense, and terrifying.  So how do we make sense of this crazy little thing called love?

Let’s start at the start…

I was sitting at the Nairobi International Airport waiting on a flight.  There was a boy there with his parents.  He was excited to the point of sliding across the floor and dancing.  This was his first flight alone.  From what I could tell he was traveling to India to visit family.  His Mother and Father were with him, definitely looking a little nervous about his first venture alone.  As he was dancing and sliding he looked over at me and I waved.  He suddenly stopped dancing and with some embarrassment he hid his face in his Mother’s dress.  He waited for a few seconds and then looked back to see if I was still there.  He smiled shyly and slowly began to slide and dance again.  The more confident he became the more he danced, finally to the point of showing off his dancing skills.  He knew that he had a captive audience and was working to keep that attention.  He slid harder and looked over more frequently to make sure I was seeing his athletic prowess at work.  I smiled again and he smiled back.  Sliding harder, to the point that he fell over, he became a embarrassed.  With that he ran back to his Mother’s side hiding once more.  He repeated the process two or three more times.  The reality was that he wanted attention, approval.  The more positive my response the more he risked.  He fell two or three more times but finally was sliding and falling all over with out embarrassment. 

By nature we all want to be acknowledged and accepted.  As we grow up our slides and dance moves become more complicated.  Our audience becomes much wider and our displays at times end up looking like the actions of a little boy sliding and falling.  We often grow embarrassed and run to the arms of safe behavior.  We rebuild walls of propriety and act, “normal” again.  The more we risk, the more normal the falls and slips become and eventually we learn to have a confidence in our own actions.  Sometimes we become excellent at embracing risks and performing in front of our imaginary audience.  There are times when we come across a very different Audience.  For men, we fall pray to the attention of the fairer sex.  We crave to be noticed and accepted and our slides and dances look more like an awkward mating ritual.  We try to look cool and in control.  We try to pull off the smooth dance moves of a George Clooney but often look more like Curious George.  This performance is one that we wrestle to balance.  Questions come to mind and insecurities mount.  We have to decide is it worth the risk of looking like a Curious George bouncing about awkwardly to gain the attention of the lovely object of our bumbling ritual.  As men we don’t do awkward well, though we do, do it often.  At the root of the insecurity we are asking two questions… One, are we acceptable? And secondly are we enough to maintain the attention of our new audience.

If you want to see this theory in practice just go out in public.  I play basketball at the local courts in Salmiya.  Mostly the audience is a group of sweaty guys talking trash and attempting to exert some form of social dominance on the court.  But, every so often there is that subtle feminine presence, it could be someones girlfriend or just a girl with her friends.  When, “She” is present everything changes.  The guys play harder, their look is more intense and they will try harder shots hoping to gain her attention and to prove to themselves that they are enough to hold that attention.  They basically want her to know that they are, “The Man”.

The lighter side of this is when those shots are missed and a guy looks more like a ball hog, receiving the criticism of his teammates.  He will quickly puff up his chest and become defensive.  He will return criticism with anger and sometimes will become even more of a ball hog or the opposite will simply pass the ball and not shoot any more.  Rarely do you see a player recognize the potential grace in his awkwardness, the gentle or not so gentle tug of his teammates and find balance as a player but mostly as a man playing a game with other men in the midst of a beautiful onlooker.

Why do we crave this attention so much?  Why, when you go to a club do you see the same dynamics at work?  You will see guys dressed in everything from Armani to Thug, strutting through the club as if it’s very existence dependent on their presence.  You’ll see guys come up with the craziest lines, silliest bravado, and some strange dance moves.  This of course is often reinforced by a few shots of liquid courage, which pushes them to risk more and balance less.  It is a truly amazing sight.  Most of the time this persona is met with rejection and the exchange of a fake phone number.  The guy walks away feeling like he’s won the trophy of manhood and in the background is a group of girls giggling and laughing.  The guy feels affirmed, that is until the following day when he dials the number and someone at Pizza Hut answers.

We crave to be accepted from the time we are a little child until we are the awkward guy on the basketball court or the king of disco fever performing intensely 30 years after disco died.  We have a deep need to be seen, to be known.  I think that we confuse being praised by our image for being truly accepted.  So our image grows regardless of whether it is genuine, fueled by insecurity or one too many shots of Cuervo.  Deep down we know that we are awkward and we crave to be accepted in our awkwardness but fear being seen as weak.

Girls, at this point I know you are all agreeing and probably remembering all the times you have been the object of this awkward show of testosterone and caveman behavior, but you are in this as well.  Being more graceful by nature and having twice as many neural connections for social engagement you are much more elegant in your awkwardness but it’s there…

I was recently talking to a good friend about her perception of herself and how she sees the world around her.  She is very graceful, quite beautiful actually.  When we got down to the facts, she shared that rare moment of fleeting composure.  Her eyes looked down and she said, “you know girls are so critical of each other.  It doesn’t matter what I wear, how smart I am, what I do for a living there are always girls looking for tiny cracks and imperfections.”  I was amazed.  I thought she was a really confident person and that she pretty much had it all together.  She continued, “you know what I really want?  I want to just walk out with no make up, no heels, just pretty much me without the covering of who I’m told I should be, and just be accepted for that.  Don’t get me wrong, I like it when men notice how I look, but there’s a lot more to me than my hair and my heels.”  I asked what it was like to have those moments where guys would do silly things to get her attention.  She said, “sometimes it’s sweet, you know?  Here’s this guy who’s probably really nice trying to be something that he’s not, I can see it from a mile away, but you know, he’s risking.  I like that.  Those other guys that pretty much live like they are the coolest act in town? Those are the ones who believe they really are that façade.  Then they want me to be in the façade with them and then it’s all about my hair and heels again.  I want more than that.  I’d rather have the silly guy that is awkward and knows it, at least he can see there’s more to me than that other stuff. “

I thought this was truly profound.  Guys, here’s the reality… They know we’re goofy and awkward.  It’s out there.  Girls, we know that beneath the layers of grace and beautiful eyes that there’s insecurity.  We see it. 

So that leaves us with one question.  What do we do now?

Here’s the deal. Over the next couple of weeks I want to know your feedback and stories.  I want to take those stories and begin a conversation that will hopefully lead us to an answer.  Guys?  What do you want?  How do you go about it? Ladies?  What is it in a guy that you treasure?  What do you really want from all of us awkward hairy humans?

I’m looking forward to hearing your input and also to continuing this conversation.

-JRS

The Side Nobody Knows.....

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After a few months and a little travel I am back at least for a week…  My silence however has not been due to some extended trip or even because of a hectic schedule, in fact, I usually write a lot more when things are hectic.

For those that have followed my blog for the past several years, even when it was on the other website, you know that I have a tendency to look at the world around and draw some sense of meaning from it.  Please don’t be disappointed, because in this entry I am going to shift gears.  I’m going to look inside, I want to share with you the side that nobody knows.  I know that we all have that inner monologue, kind of like a sitcom.  That inner voice that drives us and often expresses in our minds what we would never dare say out loud.  I can talk about that, but I want to go a step further.  Behind that sarcastic, skeptic, and often critical monologue is something else.  It is a side, that even as I write this, I struggle to grasp.  I have learned to ignore it, to let the monologue drown out this other side.

This year I have made my way around the region.  I made a couple of stops in Dubai, a quick day trip to Bahrain, and a week in India.  In ten more days I’m going to spend a week in Kenya.  The idea is to get away from the rush of daily life and spend a few days on safari in the jungle.  As excited as I am about seeing lions, hippos, monkeys(especially the monkeys), and what ever else might swing out of the trees, there is something more that I want.

There is this amazing feeling when you step out of an airport in a country that you’ve never visited.  You are immediately surrounded by the sounds of a different reality.  You hear languages that are unfamiliar, you see people who dress differently than you are used to and in that moment you face an enormous decision.  Do I play it safe, take on the normal mannerisms of the American tourist?  For those of you that have traveled abroad I’m sure you know what I am talking about.  It usually looks something like this, and this is a true to life example….  I had been in Mumbai for several days.  I had visited an island with a temple and carvings that were almost a thousand years old.  My hotel was directly infront of the famous Gateway to India and I spent some time at Mani Bhavan, this is where Gandhi had lived when he was in Mumbai. I had been to the local taverns, not the tourist traps, the ones that you have to know a little Hindi to order you Kingfisher and tikka.  By no means do I know Hindi..  I am slowly learning through Podcasts and friends who speak this beautiful language.  On this particular day however I was rushing to find souvenirs for my coworkers and friends. I was all over the main street in Colaba.  I walked up and down the streets bargaining with the vendors talking to different people that were either living there or visiting.  Needless to say the street was very crowded and was a buzz with visitors from all over the world.  I decided to depart from what had become my daily ritual of tikka at one particular local restaurant.  I decided to eat in a restaurant on the main street.  I am still adjusting to the categories on some menus as I travel.  You often have the options of chicken, beef or meat.  This usually leads me to the question if it’s not chicken, it’s not beef then what exactly is this mysterious other meat that has no specific name.  I ordered the lunch special and a large bottle of water.  As I was sitting I saw a group of tourists eating across from me. One man had a shirt that proclaimed George W. was his president, another had a bright orange hat with a State side college logo.  They were loud and demanding, calling the waiter over at least a dozen times.  They were making jokes about the staff assuming that no one around could speak English and if they could, would probably see the humor in what they were saying.   The look on the waiters face spoke volumes.  He was tired.  I’m sure he had worked extremely hard all day and now was dealing with the table from a nightmare.  I waited tables in college and I know that feeling all too well…  Being a counselor I did what all counselors would do in this situation (and in most situations), I sat back and observed.  At first I felt angry.  I was angry for the waiter.  I saw this kind man respond with amazing patience and even with a kind smile when complaint after complaint was shouted to him.  I remember dreading these parties when waited tables and on more than one occasion I had to put on the smile and wait patiently as people complained about things that I had no control over, it’s not fun.

After twenty minutes I heard a shout… “Hey!... Hey!... You American?” It rang out with a deep southern draw.  For a moment I thought I was somewhere in Arkansas or Louisiana.. 

I told you in the opening I was coming from a different direction in this entry so here it is.  I’m going to give you the dirt. I’m going to give you every reason to not read another entry I ever write… I’m going to let you in to the mess that is me.

I sat, still eating the plate of noodles in front of me.  My head began to rush. I had been so successful all week, just blending in with the scenery, just being.  I had hung out the previous night with a taxi driver who spoke about as much English as I spoke Hindi.   We spoke the common language of beer at a local tavern.  We sat for two hours playing an app on my Ipad just laughing in those awkward moments when we didn’t know the right words.  I wasn’t proclaiming some national pride, I was waiving the red white and blue.  I just felt comfortable being a guy in a tavern hanging out with another guy playing ludo and laughing.  I wasn’t analyzing nonverbal, my hypervigilance was at rest.    I didn’t feel a need to compensate with a flag waving session.  It was a great moment and I wanted to drink in every second of it..(pun intended)

Now, sitting in front of a group of people that were doing the very thing that I had intentionally avoided I was faced with a huge decision…  I wish I could say I had the perfect answer.. In my mind I looked at the group and my first thought was, “Bro the election was four years ago move on”.  I sat for what felt like an eternity trying to decided how do I respond in a way that shows friendliness and yet still offered me the distance to not be lumped in with these guys.  For a moment I felt like such a mess.  These seemed like nice American people.  If I had seen them at the local watering hole in Florida I’m sure it would have been a different story.  My perception of them would be completely different.  They probably wouldn’t be in that awkward state of compensating for their insecurity of being in an environment that felt totally foreign to them.  I might have been playing Ludo with one of them for goodness sake.. Who knows…

The lasting thought, the one that produced action was so off the wall and out of no where that I just went with it.  I realized, they didn’t really know if I was American that’s why they were asking, and I did spend eight years studying different languages.. I knew that Koine or Attic Greek wouldn’t do much for me, plus I wouldn’t even remember where to start, not to mention that they’re both dead languages..  There was one hope… I had spent six years studying Spanish!  Spanish… That was it… Now what do I remember from all over those declensions and conjugations.. Aaaahhhh!!! Of course!  Then without thinking the word flowed out in my best Spanish accent… “Como?”  I crumbled to my pride and went for a language that no one would know.  I’m in India, in Mumbai and I’m being yelled at by a group of Americans…  Como?  It fit and before I could really process it, it was out there.

The man looked at me with a puzzled expression.   Before he could gain a sense of composure more Spanish popped out from that vast expanse deep within the recesses of classes past.  Como?  Lo siento, no yo hablo un poquito Ingles.  How accurate my recitation was I have no idea.  The man’s expression changed from confusion to disregard.  With a brush off hand movement and a laugh he said nevermind.  Then he went on to tell his companions that you can’t find an American anywhere in this place.

I reflected on this for the rest of the day.  Was I ashamed of my own heritage?  I have always been a huge supporter of the States and was very active in the 2008 campaign.  I volunteered hours and hours at the local campaign headquarters.  I felt this deep sense of guilt.  I thought over and over at how my response to these guys was to intentionally speak yet another foreign language to these obviously confused visitors.

The more I thought about it though my ideas evolved.  I realized that it wasn’t about nationality.  Those were the details that I noticed directly seated in front of me.  What it came down to was this.  To jump in to that conversation I would have had to step out of my comfort zone.  I would have had to decide to take a position in a limited public place saying, “yep there with me”.  It was at all about nationality.  In this sense even in the States I avoid these compensating advertisements of party pride and allegiance to college football teams that play for schools that the majority of the fans never attended.  The football thing is it’s own topic entirely.. I could blog for days about that…

I have dark hair, an olive complexion and Hazel eyes.  I look every bit the Mediterranean many do in this region.  I can blend.  Just as the guys in the restaurant were compensating by proclaim their various national allegiances I was doing the same.  I was compensating, not only that but I went deeper.  I am by no means even fluent in Spanish.

See in the moment I was faced with a huge dilemma.  Do I step out of a comfort zone that allows me to just exist without the stigmas that I fear or do I risk?  This is not a question of nationality at all and as a matter of fact it is a deeper insecurity.  It’s about intimacy.  I realized that I would rather dive deeper in to my own camouflage than risk meeting people that exist outside of my comfort zone.  I see it all the time in counseling.  We all do this to some degree.  It looks different for each person but what it comes down to is this.  I want to have intimacy but I don’t want to risk.  The truth is that by it’s very nature intimacy is risk at every single level.

I realized that I have had friendships that could have been full of so much depth and joy but I responded with the emotional equivalent of Como?  Now I’m going to let you into a little secret about therapists.  For those of you that are therapists I know that this is like a magician that says look this is how you do that trick, it’s not real magic…lol  For those of you that are not therapists you might already know this.  The safest place to sit in a counselors office is the counselors chair.  We are trained to nod, encourage, to even proclaim the anthem of Jung, Erikson, or for the less vetted therapists Dr. Phil.  We observe, we wait, we long for our clients to make that connection and to experience the intimacy that they have long avoided but it doesn’t mean that we are any better at the practice of the sermon that we preach than anyone else.  So if you attend therapy, know that you are by far the bravest person in the room.

I have run in packs of therapists that in their free time stimulate themselves with amazing stories of self-discovery and at times over compensating non-verbal gestures.  These are our George W. shirts, our college mascot hats and worst of all the Halloween masks that we often wear through out the year.  Please know that I am not saying that all therapists are fake, or not real people.   Quite the opposite.  We have the training to have the most complex facades.  I can share stories all day, I can emote with the best of them.  Why?  Because at the end of the day there is a side of me that very few know, that aches to be known.  All the training, all the hours in the safe chair in my office they just allow me the position to appear like I have answers.  In theory and in therapy sure.. We are trained observers but observers by their nature are great at watching and describing in brilliant detail what they see.  I have come to the conclusion that when looking for a therapist the vetting process should consist of two questions..  As much of an antagonist as I am of CBT the criteria has nothing to do with theoretical orientation.  It comes down to two questions.

            What is your façade?

            Who knows the real you?

If the answer is anything other than honest reflection and a clear answer… Run…  No one and I will say it again no one escapes the façade on some level and if there is no outlet for the real person behind the therapist then the client becomes the outlet.  I have my façade just like everyone else but over the years I have learned that I have to have an outlet.

Many of you know that I live in Kuwait.  I have been here a little over two years my façade has been tested time and time again.  I have made more than my fair share of weepy phone calls to close friends.  Not with eloquence most of the times just weeping and venting.  My friends always prove that they love me for the weepy mess.  I think that often times they tolerate the therapist waiting for that moment to see the side that nobody knows.

-JRS

Soul Care

Psychology is so often reduced to a set of behaviors and conditioning.  It is easy to forget that even the term Psychology comes from the Greek meaning, study of the soul.  As a Therapist the challenge of finding balance between a given set of circumstances and the true wellbeing of an individual is always at steak.  It is easy to put the problem at the forefront and to offer fixes.  “So you’re unhappy?  Change your circumstance and your feelings will follow…”  The circumstance is always present and if we are talking about simply retraining responses to a set of stimuli then of course there will be a pragmatic element.  That’s a given.  In regards to true Soul Care we are often left speechless.  This goes far beyond the realm of normal cognitive restructuring.  We are asking a question central to each and every person and in my opinion this is why it is one that often discourages the care giver from truly diving into this area of Counseling.  It is no secret that many of us stumble into the career of Counseling because we have sorted backgrounds that set the stage for us to care for others in similar positions.  We can relate and in some unhealthy cases you will find counselors that will sort out their own issues in front of their clients.  This tells us that the challenge of soul care is an issue because we as therapists often don’t know how to care for our own souls.  It is easy to become hardened and jaded in this line of work.  You will sit for hours a day listening to the struggles of others, pouring your thoughts, reflections, and even your heart into sessions.  It is an amazing profession, but one that can quickly take its toll on the heart of the counselor.  The idea of giving steps and quick solutions for behavior becomes a way of containing the magnanimity of what we see each day.  If there is a problem that we can reduce to steps it feels manageable and manageable seems like a great option.  By all means we want to help our clients manage their lives and situations this almost goes unsaid, but is that all?  The art of counseling is about so much more than that.  The art of true soul care must be developed in the heart of the caregiver first before it can be offered to those around them.  This is something, for the caregiver that cannot be developed in the counseling room with a client.   It is a grace that one learns to offer one’s self over time.  With so many sorted backgrounds in our profession we are often the first to miss our own advice.  I say this not as condemnation but maybe even as an admission of my own guilt in the matter.  I find myself so often pushing to find answers, solutions for the things that torcher my soul at its depths but that is often where the journey ends.  I busy myself with paperwork, responsibilities, goals etc…  It is hard to stop my own distraction.  I have truly learned the art of avoidance, avoidance of the voice of the soul. 

In many ways we are all there.  The journey is one that started at birth and will continue til death.  Shakespeare said it this way, “to thine own self be true”.  The verbage suggests a continual process.  “Be” true.  The journey of soul care begins with learning to be.  There are times that I find myself an infant in this art.  My desire as a counselor is growing to be one that looks more like a co-journeyer on the path to soul care.  It offers hope not just to the immediate situation but also for situations to come.  In the coming months I will continue this conversation and would as always love your thoughts and feedback.

jason 

Chapter 1: Fear and Folly

Before we begin the first Chapter it is important to note that the following account has been approved to share with you by the participating parties. 

With that being said, here is Chapter 1

“Do I love him? How could I love someone that would treat me like this?“  The questions rang out with tears and a subtle despair, her eyes streaming with years of pain that were finally coming to the surface.  She was two weeks from her wedding day.  A day that would unite her with the man that she had in the past described as, “the man I’ve waited for my entire life.”  Now, after an argument over how they managed their time with each other and their community of friends, her insecurities rose.  He had spent the last several evenings with his friends playing cards, watching sports while she had worked tediously on the final details of their wedding.  Upon confronting him after the third or fourth night he responding with an explosive rage that she had never seen in him before.  “I want to spend some time with my friends before you’re in charge of my social life!”, he exclaimed as he stared at her with a furious gaze.  She responded to this by taking a small glass figurine that he had brought back for her while on a business trip in Paris, and hurling it across the room just missing his head.  The figurine, which had been something she had treasured, as it had been a symbol to her that she was in his thoughts, even when he was thousands of miles away laid on the floor in as many pieces as her heart.  She screamed at him with a ferocity that she had not seen in herself since she was a little girl, “don’t worry about me running your social world, I’m done!  I don’t want to ever be with anyone that would treat me like this.  You’re just like my Dad!  He was always busy with “his friends”.  He was never home and Mom was always stuck alone.  She had all the responsibility and he played, just like you are doing now!!!  So run off to your little club house and play with your friends because I refuse to be your mom.” At this his face turned an even brighter red and he pulled out a small box from his jacket pocket. “Fine, you think I act like your Dad?  You have no idea!  My Mom was always riding my Dad’s case, “John do this, John do that, John you never spend time at home”.  Now I get it.  I wouldn’t want to spend time with someone that was always demanding my attention.  I don’t want it and I don’t want you.”  He then tossed the small box on the ground and stormed out the front door.  The next sound she heard was the sound of his tires screeching out of the driveway.  Now she was sitting in my office questioning the past four years of their committed relationship, weeping.  Her insecurities were peaked.  She was certain that she didn’t want to be back in a world that was full of the neglect and rage that was her childhood.  He was also committed to not returning to that world as well, and yet in the moment they both ran clumsily back to the ways that they had dealt with these fears as children. 

As we talked I asked her to remind me how they met.  She grabbed another tissue from the now half empty box on the table beside the couch, took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  As she remembered, a smile overtook her face.  Her expression became calm and serene.   She described a small French restaurant in town. 

“I was there with a girlfriend; we were celebrating her promotion at work.  There was this soft music in the background, it was some kind of French Jazz.  There were candles on all the tables and when I looked around the room, that’s when I saw him.  He was wearing this sports coat with a nice button up.  He looked, well, he looked put together, like he knew where he was going in life.  I remember looking at him throughout dinner and then it happened.  I was watching him sip his wine while he was waiting for his dinner and then, just like the movies, he looked up and saw me.  He put his glass down and as the music played in the background it was as if time stopped.  We looked at each other and he smiled.  Then he did the most unexpected thing, really unexpected. He got up walked over to my table looked at my friend and apologized for interrupting our dinner then introduced himself.  He seemed so strong, so confident.  It wasn’t like a cheap come on, he was genuine and kind, just like the movies.  After that we invited him to join us.  He sat with us and we had a great time. It was like he had just been a part of my world for years.  It just fit.”

After this she opened her eyes and as quickly as the smile came it vanished.  The tears began to pour and she exclaimed, “where did that man go?   He was the man of my dreams, he moved me just like a beautiful song and now the music just feels so different.  It’s dark and scary, it doesn’t feel familiar now and I’m terrified.”

Sometimes as a therapist I take these moments for granted.  In our field we see these exchanges happen all the time, so it’s easy to miss the true magic that happens when we face our fears.  This moment however had a sacredness to it that was inviting, unavoidable.  Neither of them were actually dealing with the other.  They were reacting to the scars of the past.  Those tender wounds that had been imbedded in both of them before they had the ability to make sense of them or even know how to cope with that kind of pain.  Instead of reaching a moment of departure, in many ways they were finally arriving.  They now had the opportunity, for the first time in the four years of their relationship to finally see what true movement would mean for them.  They were seeing the hard work ahead of them and in that sense it is terribly easy to miss the sound of the moving music that still played for them.  Instead of ultimatums they had exposed their deepest fears and with this type of movement it can be violent and even scary.  There is being moved by French Jazz and then there is being moved by a tidal wave.  Both are moving but the latter is terrifying.  They had just weathered two such tidal waves and the work of moving forward if they chose to engage would move them like an entire symphony.  The pieces were there but the bigger question was, were they willing to walk into this territory? 

The more I have studied the world of relationships, emotions and even disorders I have noticed one resounding theme.  That theme is this that at the root of most of these is isolation.  When we are exposed to pain brought by others we lose trust and shut ourselves away.  It is a form of self-protection and depending on the degree of hurt, the family of origin and at time even genetics it can cause us to go from simply being quiet to full blown disorders.  The challenge of being moved is that we are exposed by our want for more, we are pushed to move towards something that is alive, powerful, different, and in the end we are faced with the fear of being overtaken and even hurt by what moves us the most.

Later in the session she shared that she had been afraid for quite some time. She shared that she had been waiting for, “the other shoe to drop”.  She was convinced that under the surface that he was just like any other man that she had been close to.  The tears welled up again as a sense of hopelessness overcame her tired eyes. 

“I am so afraid that I will always be alone, I don’t want to end up that way but I know that I can’t live like my Mom did.  She was married and still alone.  She seemed so hopeless at times.  Dad would leave every night, the same time every single night.  Mom would put us to bed and then when she thought we were sleeping she would cry.  I remember hearing her cry and there were so many nights that I cried too.  I didn’t want to hear my Mom cry.  I knew at such a young age why she was crying.  Sometimes I would get out of bed and walk in to the living room.  There she’d be curled up on Dad’s recliner.  When she saw me she would wipe her tears and smile.  She never wanted me to see her this way.  She told me years later that she was afraid that I would resent my Dad if I knew and she didn’t want to be the reason that I didn’t get along with him.  She was so strong.  She never mentioned it to anyone.  She just hurt alone.  I don’t want that!  I can’t do that!  I need to just get through this and move on.  I won’t be hurt, I won’t be stuck the way that Mom was.”

She shared with such an ardent resolve.  She had not only learned of a man’s absence from her Father she had learned to isolate in her fear from her Mother.  The family system was so tattered that by the time she was twenty years old her Mom and Dad didn’t even sleep in the same room.  They were married in name but they merely coexisted as nothing more than distant roommates.  Her Father would still retreat each and every evening to be with, “the guys” and her Mother still isolated.  The only difference was that her children were all adults and she was truly alone.  She had taken up a few hobbies over the years; none were means to draw close to others.  They were only ways of biding her time until something finally gave.  She had only experienced a shell of a marriage, a shell of a husband and in the midst had become a shell of the once vibrant and graceful young woman that had entered in to a marriage much as her daughter was on the verge of doing herself.  I knew that this would be a tough journey.  This was not about the marriage that was soon to be coming, rather it was about the marriage that had died in her childhood.  It was the grounding for vows and promises that she carried into her relationship now.

I asked if we could meet together as a couple and before that if her fiancé was comfortable he and I could meet one on one.  I explained that what she was going through now was actually a good thing, even though it is painful and heart wrenching.  She looked at me with an expression of surprise and uncertainty.  “How can this be a good thing?  How can his temper tantrum, his absence be a good thing? I just don’t see it.”  I agreed that their reactions to the fears they faced were scary and hurtful.  I shared with her that in every marriage we face the fears of our parents.

“Those relationships are the model, the language of intimacy that we are taught.  We are inundated with them from the time we are born throughout our entire lives.  These fears, they are with you but they are not you.  You were moved deeply by your parent’s relationship.  In fact you were moved to build strong walls around you that allow you to retreat into isolation much the way you saw your Mom retreat.  It’s all you were shown, it’s all you have known.  The question isn’t do you love him or not, rather it is whether or not you can both walk together, move each other in ways that you have never been moved before.  I promise that you will both mess up and we can deal with that, but you are not your mother, he is not your Father.  You can move each other differently.  You can move each other beyond the pains that you have both experienced.  If you are both willing to do the work you will have a wonderful and happy marriage.”

Two days later I received a call from a young man.  His voice was shaky, he was nervous and his words were full of shame.  “Mr. Sullivan, I think I need to set up an appointment with you.  I did some pretty bad things and I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse in my entire life.  I’m sure you’ve heard all the details and I’m ready to hear about the mess that I am, and I am a mess.”  We set up a time to meet.  I scheduled the time for noon. 

When he arrived I had two sandwiches and two sodas waiting.  He was a tall thin young man no more than twenty three years old.  I met him at the door of the office and introduced myself.  His gaze looked downward immediately.  “I’m the mean guy that you’ve probably heard all about.  I’m sure everything she’s told you is true and honestly I’ve been dreading this since we spoke on the phone the other day.”  I reached out my hand and said simply, “welcome to the men who make mistakes club, I’m one of the founding members.”  His eyes turned upward and for the first time he made eye contact.  Slowly a smiled crept up and I invited him in to the office for lunch.  “I hope you like turkey.  I wasn’t sure so I guessed.  I did have them put the French mustard on it.”  With this we both laughed.  He shared with me about his job and how he was constantly making trips to France and told me that he even met his fiancé in a French restaurant.  His confidence slowly returned as we talked.  He was laughing and there was a deep excitement when the conversation turned to his soon to be bride, which it did often because he mentioned her several times throughout the conversation.  I explained that the reason that I invited him to come alone first was to add to his shame but really to build some relationship with him.  I think it is often hard for men to come to counseling for several reasons.  Shame often plays a huge role and in this situation it would have hindered their growth as a couple had his first interaction with the therapist had been in front of his fiancé.  I shared him much of the same information about mistakes and growth.  I shared some of my own mistakes to reassure him that he was not alone.   During the session he shared what had happened that night and how he felt backed into a corner.

He said that, “it felt like so many of the arguments that I watched my Mom and Dad have.  I didn’t even know I was doing anything wrong.  I always hang out with the guys.  When she brought it up I just reacted.  I saw myself doing and saying things that my Dad used to do.  It was like I was watching the whole thing play out and I didn’t know where it was coming from.  It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I realized just how badly I had treated her.  She deserves so much more than that.  I knew that I had done to her what her Dad used to do to her Mom.  When I realized all that I just couldn’t face her.  I love her too much to hurt her that way.  If that’s how I’m going to act when I’m backed into a corner, well, she deserves a better man than that.  Is there any hope for me?  Will I always do this kind of stuff?  Is it in my genes or something?”

At this I smiled and said I have good news and bad news.  “Do you want the bad news first?” he nodded. 

“The answer is yes you will hurt each other again and this is definitely not your last argument.  And yes you have both learned bad habits from your parents.  The good news is that you are not doomed to repeat the same mistakes.  You can do it differently.  Right now you are feeling the burn of shame.  Shame is one of the most powerful moving forces in a man’s world.  It can push him to react, to hurt the people that he loves the most.  So let’s start there.  There is shame and there is guilt.  Knowing the difference between them will allow you to embrace an entirely new direction that neither your parents nor your fiancé’s parents ever grasped.  Guilt is a word that we use in court.  It is a word that tells us that you are responsible for an action.  You were found guilty of a crime.  You were guilty of neglecting to stop at the redlight.  After a guilty verdict then sentencing is passed.  Since you were found guilty for this or that the penalty is a fine or in worse cases a jail sentence.  When you have paid the debt to the court you are considered a free man.  What you felt when you realized your actions the other night, that was guilt.  You saw that your reaction was hurtful and you found yourself guilty of hurting your fiancé. The penalty for your action was shame.  Your sense of who you are as a man was diminished and you isolated from the person you hurt.  Shame was the penalty that you have been paying since those actions.  That is your parents system, the system that you were taught to adopt as your own.  Fortunately you are not the only one.  As men we are pretty efficient at beating ourselves up for days, weeks, and sometimes for the rest of our lives. Would you agree?

He nodded and was fully attentive. “So when I do something stupid like lose it, well, what am I supposed to do?  I feel like if I had stayed I would have just kept on punishing her for my fear.  I left, I just left.  If I were there again I’m terrified that I would do it all again.  I can’t imagine just sitting there punishing her with that rage.  It still is echoing in my head, the things I said, the way I said it, throwing her ring on the floor.  I mean I was a mess.  What should I have done?”

“In that moment you made the mistake.  It’s done, over. The hurt is there.  It will be every time you argue.  The mistake was an action.  It was one point in time that after it is done it can’t be taken back.  So to spend hours and days wishing that you could reign in the past becomes another series of actions that continue to punish both of you.  So after you cooled off and realized what had happened the question became, what do you do now?  Do you continue in the actions that brought guilt and shame or do you pursue a different course.  You were, like every other man on the face of the planet at one time or another moved by your shame to isolate.  So how do you do it differently?  If you could talk with her now what would you say?”

At this his eyes rose once again.  His countenance lifted and he said, “ I would look her in the eyes and apologize.  I would tell her that I am so scared of hurting her and that the thought of what I did and said still tears me apart.  Then I would ask her to forgive me.  That would be really important.  I would want to tell her that it will never happen again but if what you are saying is right then I will mess up again. So I would say that even when I blow it, when I say things that I regret, I will hang in there and that at the end of the day I will be there, right by her side.”

Shortly after this a wedding took place and I can say with great confidence that the couple is continuing to risk with one another.  They are growing in ways that they never thought possible and continue to see ways that they move each other.  They are now planning to start a family and asked me to share with you that they will actively move and be moved in and by the lives of their children.

On Being Moved... (The Preface of a New Manuscript I'm working on)

There are so many things in this world that move the soul. Some are moved by a restful sunset, others by a new adventure in life.  No matter the vehicle we are all wired with the capacity and the desire to be moved.  The point and purpose of this book is to pose the simple yet evasive question, “why?”  Why are we created to move and be moved.  You can look at the lives of countless others, movers if you will, and you are left scratching your head and asking what moved them to act.  Whether you look back into the annals of history to some of the great movers like Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther or to the wicked acts of those whose movements gathered many followers and caused the suffering of many there was something dynamic, something desirable and attractive to the followers of these men and women.

It seems timely to pen these words as we as a whole are at the pinnacle of a new day.  In the United States we are witnessing changes that have never been seen in our history.  On the world stage the experience is much the same.  There is a world recession, Governments are looking for answers for something greater than they have seen within their own ranks.  As a whole we are waiting to be moved.  In January I sat with a few friends glued to our television watching history be made as the revolt of one young man inspired a revolt in Egypt that toppled an entire Government.  I was in a flat in Kuwait watching such great passion as Mubarak renounced his leadership.  Horns were blowing in the streets and there were many celebratory demonstrations as the people of Egypt stood unified after years of oppression.  There was excitement and yet in the back of all of our minds a subtle fear.  We had seen rebellions developing in neighboring countries and there was talk that Saudi, Bahrain, and even Iran may be on the brink of similar protests.  What a terrifyingly exciting moment.  We, Americans, outsiders, had been invited to be in the midst of movement, change, growth and sadly at many points even destruction.  Rumors flew for weeks of civil unrest throughout the region, there were protests eventually in Bahrain and much blood was shed.  People were crying for freedom, literally.  Many of my dear Egyptian friends were constantly watching the news, checking emails, and writing blogs.  They were in every sense of the word intertwined with their brothers and sisters in The Square with arms raised and hearts broken as their homeland was shifting to new unknown territory.  One of my closest friends shared with me that tear gas canisters had been shot through the windows of his Mother’s home.  The canisters were passed their expiration dates and the gas was much more potent than it should have been.  The effects were almost fatal.  We sat many nights and talked about what he would do when he returned to his home.  There was always a settled determination in his voice and he would share of his plans to return home and rebuild.  He was moved by something greater than the revolution, something terribly central to his heart was alive and ready to fight for his home.  Suffering moves us, often in ways that words fall flat to describe.

Months later I was attending a church the founder and lead pastor of the church had passed away the night before the service.  He was a very strong leader, with a charismatic personality that moved those with whom he led in fellowship.  The service was a bitter sweet mixture of sadness at the loss of this shepherd and sweetness as they reflected over the person who had now gone on to the eternal life that he had hoped for and had led others to understand more deeply. 

It is so often the case that in the midst of suffering that we ask the desperate why questions.  Why me? Why now? Why did this happen?  We cringe at the idea that there may be more in the moment than pain alone.  We all have these basic fears, in my opinion they stem from the fear of being alone, abandoned.  The why questions come, as a sort of security blanket for those in the midst of their anguish.  I say this as a man who has experienced suffering, a therapist that has led other through their suffering, but more deeply as an individual who is terrified of being alone.  We develop billion dollar space programs to search for life on other worlds and we ask both in conversations and headlines, “are we alone?”  We want to know but if anyone has watched the movie interpretations of these potential discoveries they are terrifying.  We want to know we are not alone but we are terrified to think that if we are not that we are indeed vulnerable.  This is true not only in the extraterrestrial sense of the word but in the relational sense as well.  When you look at any of the major psychological disorders at their base they isolate the individual.  Depression, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Paranoia and the list goes on.  At our roots we are terrified of being alone and yet terrified of being known.  We are desperate to be moved but are aware that there are always consequences, both good and bad in being moved.  You and I are created to be moved, we are created to move and in nautical terms from tip to stern we are shaking in our boots to find ourselves anywhere on the spectrum. 

This is an idea that in it’s basic form will be familiar.  We will put flesh on the bones of this age old story and it is my hope that as you read you will be moved.  I will pose one challenge for you that will span from cover to cover of this book, and that is simply, to embrace this great capacity to be moved.  As you embrace it know that it has been placed in you for a clear and noble purpose.  Simply put it is to be known in all of the simplicity and complexity of your being and to carry that knowledge to the world around you.  Know and be known.

As always I would love your feedback and suggestions!

-JRS