The Curious Soul (Week 4)
Fire In The Voice, or, Praise Father, Son.
I have refused to live locked in the orderly house of reasons and proofs. The world I live in and believe in is wider than that. And anyways, what's wrong with Maybe? You wouldn't believe what once or twice I have seen. I'll just tell you this: only if there are angels in your head will you ever, possibly, see one. -Mary Oliver, The World I Live In
This chapter is difficult for me because it is about speaking up, speaking our truth, and how sometimes saying yes to things means missing out on potential magic.
I haven’t lived out Mary Oliver’s words in the poem above. Instead, I spent decades bottling my voice inside, relying on the voice and desires of others to serve as the waypoints and map of my life. And it should be no surprise that that map did not align with the terrain before me. No matter how I turned it, it didn’t correspond. Still, I pretended to have an understanding of the terrain, a handle on the map, and an idea of the destination. Yet, inside, I was confused, longing for clarity and keeping quiet as not to upset the journey. To do this, I had to numb out, suppress, and find affirmation in the wrong places.
Whyte starts chapter four by describing the voice as representing our inner world. He does this by telling a story of a boardroom meeting where the CEO demands that the employees rate his plan for the project at hand. The employees all rate the program a 10 out of 10, even though the plan is complete crap. His abrasive and demanding tone bulldozes the opportunity to create a meaningful solution. Yet, because the employees have so much at stake (jobs, mortgages, school tuition, etc.), they say yes to “the man.” They can’t risk losing their jobs, so they keep their truths shoved down, their creative expression suppressed, and the possibility of real connection cut off.
This experience isn’t unique to the board room, of course. It happens at home, when you’re a kid, or with a spouse. It occurs when consulting clients. It happens with friends. It happens with(in) ourselves.
Somewhere along the way, we were given a message about ourselves. Someone told us who we were, what we were meant for, and what we were capable of.
You’ll never be pretty.
You have an annoying voice.
You’re too loud.
You’re weird.
You’re not smart.
You’re too fat.
You’re lanky.
That’s a nice hobby, but you should pursue something “real.”
You have to respect adults.
Sex is bad.
Obey. Submit.
I could go on and on.
Be Quiet & Go To Your Room: A Memoir
The grief and traumas of childhood follow us around, asking for attention. It is generally accepted in modern psychology that children suffering emotional trauma unconsciously refuse to grow any older until that trauma is resolved. They do not want to hear anything more on the matter; it is just too painful.
Or we might more accurately say that the part of a child which is traumatized or threatened refuses to grow older.1
I loved to draw as a kid. Most kids do. I was obsessive at times and wanted to be a Disney animator.
More than anything, though, I wanted to be the kid from Mcgee and Me. Please take a moment to watch the introduction to this show.
That’s a lot of work to sharpen a pencil and draw a little cartoon. But still, I wanted the marbles and track and all the spinning stuff.
At some point, that part of me quieted.
Around the age of 8 or 9, I became more aware of the anxieties of my parents. Whether it was the tumult of their own relationship (that had to be kept quiet because my dad was a pastor), the stress my dad emanated when I’d come home and see him doing finance and budgeting at the dining room table, or the quiet desperation my mom seemed to carry from her childhood trauma, I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I was perpetually concerned about getting in trouble or making them more upset. I’d clean my room so I wouldn’t upset them with a messy room. I’d walk out of the room anytime sex-type stuff came on the TV or in movies. (During the movie The Sandlot, there is a scene where the boys are at the swimming pool, and the kid, Porter, says the word “sexy.” That was a time I left the room).
Remain unseen. Unheard.
I was plagued by persistent stomach pains in high school, especially during freshman year. It was my first time in a public school, and I had no friends. I hated it. I remember asking my parents to let me go to a different school or to even home-school me, but they said no. I was nervous, scared, desperate, and didn’t know how to express that. Around the same time, my parents told me they didn’t like my attitude and that I used to be “such a sensitive and tender-hearted boy” but that I had changed into something they didn’t like. I was 15 and already feeling out of place. This was also when I discovered porn. That same kid who was made uncomfortable by the word “sexy” in a movie now found a sense of acceptance from some flesh-colored pixels. I rewired my brain, and the secret world was created.
At 18, I told my dad I didn’t believe in God. He was concerned and gave me a couple of books about how science proves there is a God (a Christian God). I never read them. I also said I didn’t want to go to college and wanted to move in with some guys in my hometown. My dad cried and told me he was disappointed. I said I wanted to be a musician, and my mom told me it would be better if I pursued a real career. Anytime I said I didn’t like a particular song by a specific artist, my mom would say, “Well, I don’t hear any of your music on the radio.” I was unheard.
I graduated high school, and my dad told me I was lazy. However, I started working as the school janitor at my Christian school at age 12 and did it until I was 16. I was cleaning up shit and piss from kindergarteners, so I could buy a guitar (because my dad said he wouldn’t buy me one), but I was lazy. Unseen. Unheard. So that summer after graduating, I got three jobs. During the day, I worked at Arby’s, slinging roast beef. In the evening, I worked catering at a local event center. Overnight, I stocked shelves at Office Max. I was exhausted.
That July, a month before most people my age set out for college, I finally caved and said I would go to the university my parents wanted me to attend, where they met and where my two older sisters went. Indiana Wesleyan University. My dad cried again and said he was glad I was sensitive to the “Holy Spirit” and said it would be an excellent spiritual experience.
Toward the end of my freshmen year, I was set to drop out and move to New York City. I had found an apartment and roommates (no job, though). However, I was told I needed to work, so I went back home that summer and began work as a carpenter (still a carpenter). I spent daily framing houses, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, getting sunburned, and having no friends. My dad told me I was never content with anything and that I needed to change my attitude. The saving grace that summer was that two of my sisters were still at home, and I liked being with them. My sister, Emily, and I would watch a lot of reality TV. That was also the summer I saw Pedro the Lion for the first time.
I went back to college. I was aimless. I picked a major that would require very little of me, worked 20+ hours at the coffee shop, skipped many classes, and tried to emanate the vibe of having it all together, being cool, and being smart. Inside, I was an insecure, lost, and desperate child. I was still that 8 or 9-year-old, being overly concerned with the feelings of others. I managed this by acting like the “too cool for school” asshole. What better way to keep everyone at a distance than to be a dick, right? I was angry and scared.
I met the person who would become my wife, not knowing how to have a loving relationship. I didn’t even know myself. The short version of that story is that I kept my inner child quiet and wound up harming myself and my marriage. Certainly, marriages are two-way streets, but I can only take responsibility for my part in its ultimate demise.
I was told by a local pastor that I was a “toxic and poisonous person,” and that I was “fucking everything up.” They were right that my behavior was terrible, but to them, my existence was reduced to my biggest mistakes. If this is true, why would I want to be seen or heard by anyone?
I don’t share any of this for sympathy. I don’t share it because I think that my story is unique. I think we all have some manner of this story. The results aren’t always the same.
Mouse vs. Lion
The more we give voice to our pain in living, the less build-up we have between our should and our way in the world.
Mark Nepo2
We become the mouse by quieting our voice, not rocking the boat, etc. We become the lion when we bulldoze, railroad, talk over, and make others feel small. Whyte suggests that both responses come from the arrested development of the person. Our self-worth is frozen in that moment of trauma, refusing to develop those tools beyond what worked or what was needed at that moment.
I became the mouse by over-drinking, constantly checking to see if others were happy, worrying about what they thought about me, and striving to keep the status quo.
I became the lion by trying to exude charisma and that too-cool-for-school aura.
In effect, I became a machine of self-protection, but in the end, I was hurting myself.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing: wait
without
love
for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet
faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the
waiting.
T.S. EliotBy working so hard to keep the status quo, quiet our voice, and appear to have it all together, we miss out on opportunities we never knew were possible. Obsequiousness is a sure path to losing the Self.
We say yes to more things that force us into this position: the new car, a huge mortgage, and more things to help distract us. We are saddled by the oppressive need to conform, keep our heads down, and stay quiet. Whyte suggests that by practicing saying “no” to these things, we create the freedom to discover new parts of ourselves and new possibilities. Often, the “yes” is just a reaction to a future we can imagine. It is uncomfortable to think of things being any other way. We say “yes” because we are familiar with that path.
Even if we don’t recognize or feel like we belong on that path, we will say “yes” because we know it. Choose the devil you know over the one you don’t, right?
Shadow Work, Again?
By facing our shadows, we can come to know our most authentic and deepest values, what’s most precious to us.
Like Carl Jung said, “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
This is the beauty of AA and other recovery groups I am a part of. You come in, share your shadowy side, and the community affirms and supports you. They don’t scoff at you, make you feel small, or write you off. Shadow work on its own might not be enough. A key element is the support of a community. Jung was integral in some tenets of AA, citing the need for a type of union with a higher power, a greater Self, and a more profound spirituality.
Giving a voice to what seemed voiceless is union and creation realized. To see the world and yourself, not as something that needs to be fixed. To paraphrase Whyte, we don’t need to do this deep work because something is wrong with the world that needs to be put right. Instead, we do the work because everything is right with the world, and we want others to experience it that way too.3
THA, pg. 127
The Book of Awakening, pg. 52
THA, pg. 142