On Human Emotion

A friend wondered why emotions are never simple.  Indeed, with all the understanding there may be in academic, scientific, and practice circles, the complete nature of human emotion remains mostly a mystery.  Anything at all can trigger one.  They are the joy, spice, and passion of life, and the source of its greatest suffering.  They are wholly contained within the person and his boundaries, they are no one else's responsibility but that of the one bearing them, and they account for both the source and much of the fallout for what we call "mental illness."

It is common to include the factor of human spirituality.  Among those who believe in a single God in the Judeo-Christian traditions, most, if not all, believe that even He has emotions.

Wikipedia has a pretty comprehensive article about such a broad subject, but reading it simply offers a look at the many facets of it.  Doing so offers no real, palpable answer to the question with which we began.

In psychotherapy, we often attempt to help people simplify how they think and speak of emotion in order to provide "handles" that can be grasped for conceptualization and conversation.  It has been said that there are only five feelings: mad, sad, glad, scared, and hurt.  All the words that we use to describe emotions can be conceptually squeezed into one or more of these five words.  It is not an academic concept, but merely a therapeutic tool to attempt such a thing.  At least, this simplification process can help us be as precise and descriptive as possible when thinking or speaking of our emotional experiences.

In my humble opinion, human emotion transcends everything about human existence, save for spirituality, which is a much more nebulous concept, and will have to remain so within this discussion.  But few people would characterize spirituality as being unrelated to emotion, or even emotion to spirituality.  What about this idea of transcendence, though?  It is this transcendent nature of human emotion that best answers our question.  To fully understand the complexities of emotion would be to fully understand what we are.

The arts have provided perhaps the most comprehensive attempts in human history to approach the human experience, and usually from an emotional standpoint.  Surely when we see Michaelangelo, hear Bach, or read Tolstoy, our human experience is enriched, almost as much as our experience of real life itself.  Ancient cultures seem to have usually supported artistic expression in its finest forms, from the ranks of royalty to the most humble of people.  Perhaps when (if) our culture becomes more aged, it will have the collective human wisdom to do the same.  As the most purely capitalistic culture in history that I know of, I have my doubts.  So far, in our brief, newborn-cry as a culture, what have we done about the arts?  Perhaps more importantly, what have we done about the arts enriching the lives of our own human race?  Perhaps more telling, what resources have we committed to more base pursuits as opposed to the more valuable?  The broad subject of education in this country comes to mind easily, in light of recent events.

To me, the final question is the most disturbing: what will happen -- indeed what has already happened in our culture -- to human. social, and cultural emotion and experience as a result of what we have or have not yet done about the arts in America?

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Am I a feather on a brook, or refuse in a tsunami flood?

Am I a rescued infant, or a worn-out rescuer?

Am I more aligned with my own problems, or with the world's Solution?

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Do I care about my loved ones, or just that I am a caring soul?

Do I see the glass as half-empty, or the toilet overflowing?

Do I want what is best, or do I only see as best that which I want?

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Who is the greater enemy, others or myself?

Who are those who love me most, those who know me best and do not pray for me, or those who don't know me at all and pray for me every day?

Who pays attention because they care, and who cares because they pay attention?

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Love is the simplest thing in the world, and complicated things kill it.

Peace is easier than war, but so often we feel like wastefully doing it the hard way.

Joy lives in infants who are loved, and in the elderly who have loved.

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Many questions, few answers.

Many trials, few acquittals.

Many miracles, few who believe.

Many poor, and besieged, and few to help.

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Crossing My Line

A friend said, "I wish I could be less effected by the moods of other people. What's the secret to that?"  My off-the-cuff response was, "Cement this thought into your head, and recite it every time: "Her feeling is hers, not mine. My feeling is a gift to us both."


Maybe it's mostly the coffee kicking in, but this has me thinking.  People often do not understand one of the basics of healthy relationships: healthy boundaries.  In mental health circles, this has been discussed and hashed over and taught for decades.  But such things as developing healthy boundaries are learned from parent to child, in relatively functional family systems.  So the impact of this broad notion will take many generations to sink into our culture, and, of course, in many family trees, never will.


What is a healthy boundary?  I Googled it, of course, and the top thing on the list was this short PDF article, courtesy of someone at Mississippi State University (I think; MSState.edu?) that does a pretty good job of introducing this.  Those who are interested enough to read for just a couple of minutes would do well to take a look.


My thoughts as a retired mental health professional follow.  I remember a friend, mentor, and colleague who was the most assertive man I ever met.  "Assertiveness" has to do with boundaries.  Perfect assertiveness would be behavior that always protects one's own interests while completely allowing all others to protect theirs, and never being the source or the chooser of conflict.  The result of his model-assertive behavior was frequent conflict with others, usually coming from their side of his healthy boundary.  Generally speaking, people in our culture expect us to maintain an unhealthy, too-loose boundary of our own so that they can "get in" to us to whatever extent they want at the moment.  The same people often have a rigid, un-crossable boundary over which none may pass.


One of his patients provided an example of healthy boundaries and assertiveness that he often cited.  He worked for many years with men who had been referred by the courts for domestic violence, and was regarded in a large metropolitan area as the local expert.  This patient had learned well, and had come a long way.  After his treatment, the man's wife became very angry, in part because she could no longer cross his healthier boundary when she wanted to.  She became so enraged that she was out in the yard, violently destroying some of his favorite and most irreplaceable possessions.  She was making a lot of noise, and several neighbors had gathered to watch her.  For his own reasons, some of which should be obvious, he chose not to retaliate in kind.  Instead, he stood with the neighbors and watched, talking calmly with them about what she was doing.  He had no appropriate way to control her behavior -- indeed, none of us ever does, since each person is responsible for his own behavior -- so he had to accept what she was doing, for the moment, and maintain his own healthy boundary, assertively protecting his own interests -- to the extent that he could.  Funny thing (?) is, the less he did to respond to her inappropriately, the more enraged she became.  Perhaps she wound up behind bars that evening.


Reminds me of a ground-breaking philosopher and psychiatrist who wrote a poem that became the content of a best-selling poster in the 60's.  Known as the founder of Gestalt Psychology. his name was Frederick S. "Fritz" Perls.  He was writing about healthy boundaries, but he was far more honest and wise about them than the publishers of the poster.  They left out the last line:


Gestalt Prayer

I do my thing, and you do your thing.
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you and I am I,
if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.
If not, it can’t be helped.

~

On Divorce and Loss

I wonder if other divorced people have an experience closely similar to mine, one in which there finally comes a time when you know you have "moved on."  Perhaps it usually comes to people as mine did, after a long period of thinking you had moved on, but really hadn't.  It seems as if one doesn't realize the moving on has taken place until after it has.  I'm assuming this kind of experience is pretty common, since the aftermath of divorce is really a grief experience, natural to people when they experience a loss of any kind.

I notice a different outlook on life, one that is less centered upon the past hanging on, and more centered upon creating a future.  Remembering all that came with the loss is rueful, but settled, like the sludge in a stream, stirred up by a storm, finally becoming part of the bedrock.  I have learned the modern term for this "stage of grief:" acceptance.

Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross forever changed mankind's understanding of grief in her 1969 book On Death and Dying, still required reading for anyone studying the human experience.  During my education and career in human services (including hospice work), I sought to apply my knowledge of such foundational work to my own experience.  At age 56 now, I have survived many losses of all kinds, including loved ones, a marriage, and even the former relationship of my children to myself, which always suffers some sort of change in a loss.  In my fortunate case, my children are wonderful adults, and the change has been as healthy as our grief experiences were.  I am even more fortunate that my ex-wife is still a valued friend who is able to enjoy time with me, the children, and their families.

Not so for many.

The clinical term for a troubled grief experience is "complicated," which always secretly amused me.  "Complicated" is a good, non-alarming term for post-surgical infection, but a bit mild for grief.  When someone is troubled or "stuck in" the grief process, the suffering can be deep, and permanent.  In the specific case of a divorce, this can even have many multi-generational aftershocks.

So what is my point?  The grief, of a divorce or other loss in life, is important, to each of us and to all those around us, not to be taken lightly, or its peaceful resolution for granted.  It deserves our attention in many forms for us to heal, and the attention of our loved ones especially, who often mean well, but nonetheless can throw a lot of fuel onto our grieving fire.

Regarding losses that have come, or certainly will, to you and to those you love: read the book.

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Sleeping Dog

Late Saturday afternoon.  Dog sleeping.  Bored with the movie in the DVD player.  Meal didn't quite hit the spot.  Cold rain outside.  Friends all otherwise occupied.  Think I'll call my sons.

Son #2, called him first because he has weird work hours right now, and it happens to be the time he's usually up.  Left voice mail.

Son #1, voice mail: "To leave a message, press one."  Pressed one.  Nothing.  Couldn't leave a message.  I hanged up.

Now what?  This is a dangerous situation, idle hands and all that.  Bypassing deviant thoughts numbers one through four.  Maybe it's time to let my creative mind take over.  Concentrating.

Bypassing deviant thoughts number five through eleven.

Son #2 calls back.  He's busy.  Wish I were busy.  Everyone but me is busy.  What's that about?

Concentrating.

Go outside in the cold rain in shorts and a t-shirt.  Look around.  Nothing.  Look at the car.  No ideas.  Go back in.

What is this, writer's block?  No; writer's block is when you want to write but can't.  I tell myself that I should write, at least because I don't have anything better to do, but I really don't want to write.  Maybe I really don't want to do anything.

Bypassing deviant thoughts numbers twelve and thirteen.

Thirteen.  Now there's something to write about.  Unlucky number.  In tall buildings there are no floors numbered thirteen because of that.  Why was the last deviant thought numbered thirteen if people go so far as to purposefully skip that number when they number floors in a tall building?

Imagining myself in an elevator in my mind.  No thirteenth floor button.  I wonder about the button numbered fourteen.  Will it take me to a floor, a new deviant thought, or the same deviant thought I had that was numbered thirteen?  I decide I don't want to find out.

I have a fleeting thought about how they make movies as I look at the solid-blue screen left on the TV from when I stopped the DVD player.  If I dance around in front of it, can I later put in a background that makes it look like I'm dancing around in front of a waterfall or something?  Ah, that would be deviant thought number fourteen.  It was different than thirteen.  The scary thing is that I decided not to push the button.

Food.  Just ate, not hungry.  Dessert.  Don't have any, except butterscotch pudding powder, the kind you have to stand and stir for an eternity, because it tastes better than instant.  But it doesn't taste better if you never make it because you don't want to stand and stir for an eternity.

Besides, there's no milk.

Ok, then, go to the grocery!  Now we're onto something!  HA HA!  Get a dessert while I'm there, something really good, like one of those cheesecakes that costs as much as a whole bag of other groceries!  And get milk.

I remember my long grocery list.  If I'm going to go, I might as well get it all.  I'll be worn out by the time I get home with a trunk full of groceries.  Emotionally worn out, too, because of the grocery bill, fattened by several things like the cheesecake, each item a futile effort to comfort myself while in a comfort-less mood.  Then I have to carry them all in.  Then I have to put them away.  Well, at least the cold stuff.  Sounds exhausting.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Nap.  Not really sleepy.  Could probably sleep anyway.  Am I depressed?  One of the few things that ever depresses me is that I'm always wondering if I'm depressed.

Ok, that is most likely deviant thought number fifteen.  At least I'm moving up in the world.

plankton plantations whirl about my glass-paned face and rubbered head distant swimming shadows threaten or strike wonder eyes straining hoping the adventure will appear the treasure the bones a mermaid the Nautilus Johnny Depp that big-assed jewel from the old lady who was Kate Winslet falling past me love to float weightless weightless weightless

Guess I dozed off for a minute.  Maybe longer, it's darker now.

Dog still sleeping.

A Cow Peed On Her Car

You can't make this stuff up.  Just this morning, a friend was driving on the interstate next to a cattle truck, and a cow peed on her car.  On a rainy day, she went and got her car washed!  This kind if thing keeps reminding me of Roseanne Rosannadanna, played on the old Saturday Night Live by Gilda Radner, saying things like, "Well it just goes to show you, it's always something, you either got a toenail in your hamburger or toilet paper clinging to your shoe!"  She does an entire bit here on smoking!  LMAO!

But what is the freaking Zen here?  Where is the meaning of this encounter with the oneness of all things?  (By the way, my favorite book on Zen is STILL Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig.  The best place to see it is on this page in the World's Coolest Stuff! store.  There are many categories there to browse, and it's all COOL!).  Where is the KARMA!?

I mean, you're driving along, not a care in the world, and SO many things are more likely to happen!  Why a cow and not a bird?  Birds have tagged my car like a million times!  Isn't there some kind of health law that requires cattle farmers to, I don't know, catheterize the beasts or something?!

In Rosanne Rosannadanna's honor, I'll continue the rant.  I HAVE had some pretty weird things happen to me in my long (?) life.  I am not proud to say that this is a true story.  Once when much younger, I had the poor judgement to walk into a smelly strip club -- just out of curiosity, of course -- to see what was what in such a place (ahem).  I did not want anyone to know I had done so.  LOUD music.  Colored lights.  Nudity.  The unfamiliar taste of beer.

I had a friend with me.  He proceeded to get blind-drunk enough to dance with a 55-year old trailer trash woman in a worn-out, white, fringed leather cowgirl outfit, and short, white, old-fashioned go-go boots.  He was so drunk he talked of taking her home.  I mean, this woman looked like Ghandi.  As I leaned my forehead against the wall in front of a disgusting urinal there, a guy next to me said someone had just broken into a car in the parking lot -- describing my car.  It was true; much stolen, including irreplaceable things.  Walking back inside, I immediately noticed the song that was playing.  It was one you should already know, download, or at least listen to somehow, both to get the impact -- and to have such a fine song in your collection.  It's called "Gotta Serve Somebody."  That means, "Well it might be the Devil, or it might be the Lord."

The next day the break-in -- including my full name, the time (2 AM), and the location -- was published in the newspaper.


It just goes to show you, it's always somethin'.  Either you're with a drunk guy that wants to sleep with Ghandi, or a cow is peeing on your car.

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