When you know the word...
But you can't say what it means
I had this period in my life where I was convinced I did not really know what compassion was.
This is what I distinctly remember: when that word — “compassion” — kept coming up. In that moment I wasn’t feeling very good. I realized, I don’t think I even know what compassion is.
How could I “practice” compassion if I wasn’t even sure what it was?
I started researching. Definitions. Writing. Pondering words I thought were its synonym.
Other Words for Compassion
“Empathy” came up. I had done battle with the word “empathy” in my 20s. Did I know the difference between sympathy and empathy? Was I feeling for or at person?
I felt I knew what Empathy was. But, no. Compassion and Empathy were not the same.
“Grace” came up — a word I associated primarily with mystical Bible characters. Even though Grace is my middle name, I didn’t feel this was same as what Compassion was asking of me.
Then, you know, of course, Kindness, came up. My response to “kindness” is downright mean, ironically. To me, Kindness had started to become a kind of honeyed catchphrase to trap those of us who were too much: too outspoken, too direct.
No — compassion couldn’t be mired in the expectations of Kindness.
Another Word: Vulnerability
In the “Everlight” episode of “Mythic Quest” (Special Episode 2, Apple TV), David is gobsmacked to learn that none of his colleagues know who Brené Brown is (“I’m sending you links! I’m sending you all links!”).
All of the rattletrap above about compassion (which is its own mythic quest, one I continue) was my way of avoiding getting to real word. Vulnerability.
It’s only been recently that I’ve started to notice a disconnect. Something that feels roughly like a Grand Canyon-sized hole between the soft squishy inside of me and the Enneagram 8 reality I seem to be creating out here in the real world.
It’s not inauthentic, right? It’s deeply self-protective.
The Weird-Ass Experience of Observing Oneself
It feels awkward to me to write this shit about myself!
There are other writers in my writing group who seem to effortless unfurl their hearts.
I write accoladed and “professionally written” scenes and poems.
And also such awkward phraseology as “effortlessly unfurl their hearts.”
Oy vay.
It’s not inauthentic. It’s protective.
What is happening??!!
This is the exact fucking question I keep asking myself. How did I come to this? What is HAPPENING? Why do I feel so far away from myself?
There are lots of answers bubbling up — none of which I really want to make eye contact with.
Reading helps.
I saw a reflection of it in Unity minister Michael Gott’s story of becoming.
“So many times, I stopped myself from saying what I really felt or expressing what I really wanted because I knew my partner or my friends or my family members wouldn’t like it.
“If I show up as who I truly am, the people I love are harmed.”
Writing this — I’m feeling really sketch.
Like, as if “sketch” is a real emotion. WTF. What am I feeling?!
So many times I stop myself from writing what I really felt. Because I knew my loved ones wouldn’t like it.
I am just hearing this — and having to sit with it.
Hey, lady! Great reflection! I don't drink much anymore, but I often find myself missing the freedom from inhibition of a good weekend bender. There was nothing like quieting that inner critic with a generous helping of vodka and tonics. Reading your post made me think of Sara Bareilles's song Brave, which I know has been played a million times, but I really like this live performance:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNd_YXJXZOA
Well holy shit Zed 🙌🏼 “Kindness is mean” ❤️ “as if sketch” 😂 “…Because I knew my loved ones wouldn’t like it.” makes me want to say it and write it even more. Censorship is bad. You are good.