On Connection

Growing up, I was a very shy person. I preferred my own company vastly more than that of other people, and unbeknownst to me, had a constant scowl on my face. In my teenage, some kind girls advised me to iron out the furrow on my forehead and smile more. So I did. And soon I had more friends (not that I missed having them before), and suddenly a whole world of social conventions opened up to me. Over the almost two decades since, I have continuously been amazed at some basic ways that fail to observe social conventions: being too invasive, or too stand-offish, sometimes too dominant, and other times too direct. All this despite what my true intentions were: to put people at ease, to understand and be understood, and for all everyone to get along.


Through these years I nevertheless maintained some of my earlier mechanisms to keep people at bay. I barely ever made eye contact with strangers; I categorised and judged people, so that I did not have to engage with those who were too different from me; I cultivated a tough and no-nonsense exterior; among other things. And it worked very well. One of the things that was often said about me was “she is really a nice person once you get to know her” – but not many people got past the thorny exterior. My issue was always that once they got to know (and maybe like) me, then they would discover that I was not perfect, that I was sometimes moody or irrational for instance, or that I supported gay rights, or that I bit my nails and sometimes picked my nose, and then they would really know me for who I was, and that was just scary. If not that, then I dreaded having to tell them no if they asked for more than I was willing to give, for fear that they would feel bad or rejected. In short I just was not willing to do the work required to manage relationships, so I chose safe relationships. Those that I could manage. Those with people similar to myself. Those with people who accepted me unconditionally.

Recently I decided to listen to some Buddhist teachings that a friend of mine gave me; at first I listened idly as I packed for a weekend away, but without realising it I begun to really listen and reflect on what was being said. Some of the ideas that the teacher was trying to communicate had to do with our perceptions of reality (well, naturally; that is the crux of Buddhist teaching), and he made references to what I assume are common ways of exploring reality. He spoke of the fact that we humans view things as separate, such as thinking of a mountain as a "mountain", as if it is separate from the ground around it, or a river as a "river", when in fact water is flowing through it all the time going someplace else, and it's character is ever changing. In addition, we think of this "mountain" or "river" as separate from us, or of other humans as separate from us, when in reality we are all part of one continuous, ever changing whole. Even people who think of themselves as "I", as if this is some permanent thing that continually exists have a wrong view of themselves, because in fact we are continually "becoming", changing, growing, ageing; getting wiser, having new insights, breathing in this air and breathing out that air. Swallowing things. Excreting things. And so on.

The other idea that he shared that captured my attention was the idea of time, and how our culture has led us to believe that time is a linear entity; that there is a past, a present and a future. Never mind that Einstein showed that time was in fact relative, and that if you were moving fast enough, it stood still, and that as such, the only "time" that exists at any one time is the present moment. Nevertheless, we are often skipping back and forth between the (imagined) future and the (remembered) past, both of which do not exist in reality. On the contrary, the teacher gave an illustration of time being less like a linear progression from past to present to future, and more like a flower that is constantly unfolding, so that one is only ever experiencing the present moment.

These ideas gave me pause. I realised that I never really focus on the present. That I am usually simultaneously thinking of the past, of things far and near, or all sorts of things except the present. Me typing now. The cars whooshing past outside. Even when I am speaking to a person, I am often having an underlying conversation about the conversation - wondering what the expected answer is; what they think of my previous answer; where this conversation is going; how it relates to our last conversation; if my office looks untidy; what is on my computer screen; I wonder if so-and so has replied my e-mail; and on, and on. So I had to ask myself: is there value in experiencing the present? In really looking at a person? In really hearing what they are saying? In really responding to it as it is presented in the moment, without projecting all sorts of things from the past and future on it? In really focussing on the now?

This clamour of thoughts and projections and impressions and hopes and fears, and the desire to please, to be liked, to impress, to be understood (rather than to understand), surely impedes our ability to truly connect. To hear what is really said. To understand. And therefore to enable us to accept things as they are without passing judgement. And not only do we fail to connect with others in that case, but we also fail to connect with ourselves. To hear what our bodies and minds are telling us. To examine our energy, and our response to the other's energy. To make decisions based on what's really going on, rather than what we would like to be going on.

In a follow-on post, I will tell about an experience of connection that brought me new insight into the value of connection. But for now, I need to write an e-mail to a friend of mine, because I have not connected authentically with him in the past.