I sat boxed in my car, windows up mostly because of the chill in the wind.  The trashcan on the beach near me was checked at least every ten minutes for cash-value recyclables.  When I saw how many people checked the can, I was surprised; but it was when the relatively well-dressed man, the one in running shorts and shoes much like the ones I wear, when he checked the can, that is when I noticed my alarm at my surroundings.  Until that moment I didn’t feel connected to where I was, I was simply an observer.  Somehow the similarity, that I perceived in the man with the running gear to myself, stirred in me, or rather woke me up to, the feelings of how close I was to danger.  The glass windows of my car were all that separated me from this outside world, of Venice Beach, whose harshness was revealing itself in greater magnitude the more I looked at what I saw.

One of the men who checked the trashcans started hollering at the seagulls, motioning for them to leave him alone.  He yelled with an irrational tone, and I averted my eyes so as not to further aggravate him, or maybe so he would not disturb me.  He was throwing food out onto the beach, and then yelling at the seagulls who swooped into get it.  I became annoyed, how could he expect them to act differently?  I had empathy for his situation as clearly his thoughts were not lucid, but I also wanted to protect the animals.  Yet, I sat inside my box.

He threw food out closer and closer to my car, such that the seagulls were landing on my roof.  I stayed inside my box.  Finally, one of the seagulls landed right on my hood, it was limping.  In the sunlight I could see the reason, the fishing line glistened, tied and knotted too tightly around its left leg.  I motioned to open the door of my car, and then stopped, realizing the bird would never stay still long enough for me to remove the line.  I had nothing to do but sit, watch, and pray for the poor bird.  My eyes teared as I thought of the days of pain this bird endures so senselessly, it seemed to me it could have been avoided or easily repaired.  Then I noticed how many of the seagulls in front of me were limping.  The screaming man approached close and I saw that he had wild hair and shifty eyes.

Then I saw the most beautiful thing on the beach that day.  The limping birds were watching the man, too.  He was throwing the food to them.  The one on my hood with the fishing line around its leg waited.  The man caught my eye and I smiled, acknowledging I didn’t mind the bird on my car.  He approached and threw it a large piece of food, and it jumped gracefully in the air to catch it.  This was a regular event.  I then understood that the hollering he had been doing was at the healthy birds to keep them away, the man only wanted to feed the injured birds.  My feelings of helplessness dissipated as my feelings of admiration for the man grew.  I had written him off, so to speak, I had assumed he did not know what he was doing.  Instead, he was doing the exact thing I was unable to do, assisting the lame bird.  Even in his situation, he found a way to help.  I had underestimated him by far.  I noticed that the bag of food he was throwing from appeared to be purchased and intended for this purpose.

Somehow at the moment I realized what I saw, my place in the world felt a little less helpless and a little less alone.  It was a beautiful day at the beach.

This is one of the psychological topics which fascinates me the most.  It is of interest to the field of psychology because as you can imagine, and likely have experienced, that space is where interactions occur and therein lies the material for all of our life experiences, where we find love, pain, happiness, sadness, where we project our fears and realize our dreams.  The “space” between me and another, or for that matter me and my dreams, is where life really happens.  And as such, this space has been marveled at long before the invention of psychology and many poets, composers, and visual artists can evoke a sense of it better than any psychology construct will ever decipher.

Yet, it still bears understanding in psychological terms.  One psychologist, D.W. Winnicott, called it Potential Space, so named because the first experience of that space is between mother and child and within it the child’s ‘potential’ can be realized.  Another, a Jungian Analyst named Nathan Schwartz-Salant, calls it the Interactive Field.

Schwartz-Salant said that between two people there can be a “union” that is “characterized by the creation of something new that is often only glimpsed” by the participants and experienced as a “fleeting” moment where one can feel that space and time have been “suspended” for the moment because a “sense of expansiveness had appeared.”  Wow!  What a place this potential space, or interactive field, is, where I can I find it?

The suggestion is then that an interactive field is borne each time there is space between one thing and another.  Mostly psychology studies the space between people; however, these fields occur between one’s conscious awareness and any “other” thing with which one can relate, such as an animal, Nature, an old photograph, even an internal thought.

The reason these interactive fields fascinate me so much is because of how perceptive one must be to be able to side-step one’s own conscious awareness of the interaction with another to also be observant of the interactive field where the interaction is occurring.  As you might imagine, this is relatively easier when relating to a store clerk by awaiting one’s change up to the very challenging interactions with one’s closest loved ones.  Nevertheless, there is always an interactive field occurring.

So, what happens when one person experiences the interaction one way and the other person a different way?  Well, in my opinion that is why the great tales of love lost and gained, and all other variations of colossal misunderstandings, will never wane from cultural interest- because that ALWAYS happens!  This is how the psychological industry was built, as well as the film industry.

And, perhaps even more interesting, how much is lost in this space that neither participant will ever be consciously made aware?  In a way this is sad to acknowledge.

As I said, artists seem to be well aware of this space; Dave Matthews even named a song The Space Between, of which the last lines are these:

“The Space Between
What’s wrong and right
Is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you
The Space Between
Your heart and mine
Is the space we’ll fill with time”

Interesting that Dave has alluded to some of the same concepts that Schwartz-Salant did.  But, if you know the song, then you know that earlier on there are hints of the miscommunications experienced as well:

“These fickle, fuddled words confuse me
Like ‘Will it rain today?’
Waste the hours with talking, talking
These twisted games we’re playing”

And here Dave has described exactly what I think is most confusing about the interactive field.  Very often when we are interacting with someone we talk about things that have absolutely no relevance to the interaction being experienced.  How strange!  But, also how normal.

How about you?  Have you marveled at the space between you and another?  And what are your thoughts?

There is pain associated with endings, and one of my favorite quotes from the movie, The Princess Bride, explains it well:

“Life is pain, Highness.  Anyone who says differently is selling something”

I have spent many years with this quote, or ones like it, trying to decipher the hidden message within it that would make it all OK, that would take the sting out of this statement, something that I could think about, if only I could understand it better, to make it make sense.  All the while I was asking my head to process it, to guard against it with rational thought because I was afraid it was too painful for my heart to feel.

Recently, I have come to believe that rituals, particularly rituals that include the gathering of people, have stood the test of time because in the face of loss, that is to say at the precipice of an ending, there is not much rational thought that is helpful.  Instead, the knowing glances, loving gestures, inviting ears, and open hearts of friends are about the only way to endure an ending.

Yes, yes, I know, there is the anticipated beginning after the ending, that is the highly celebrated phase of life.  But, I would like to give endings their due.  More importantly, I would like to spend time acknowledging that all of those things I never understood as a child, like holiday rituals or rites of passage have a very important role in society, and in personal lives.  I’m not speaking of specific religious ceremonies, no, I mean the things, the rituals, the ways in which every society recognizes endings, for example a funeral.

I do not think the importance of these rituals has to do with the actual ceremony that is performed; rather, I think their unifying factor, the one that makes any ritual helpful, is the simple gathering of others.  I now believe that somehow knowing that we all experience that fact above, that life is pain, or at least painful, the common understanding and witnessing together of this fundamental nature of life, is the way we survive.

Recently, I have experienced many painful endings, one of which was the loss of a beloved pet.  Talking to people about it, and knowing that my friends and loved ones knew and would acknowledge my pain, even though none of us understand it or can find the precise words to describe it, was what helped the most.  Connecting with others and hearing their experiences with similar confounding loss in their lives, and having to begrudgingly admit, as they did, that there are many things in this awe-inspiring life that I simply cannot control, was the only way I survived.

Earlier I mentioned that I was looking for rational ways to deal with the quote above, that life is pain.  Now, I feel it is more the strength of the heart that endures endings.  The heart, in contrast to the head, has irrational ways of knowing.  Although the word has an unfortunate reputation, irrational simply means a non-logical way of knowing things.  I used to think of logic as the only way, but in dealing with the undefinable abyss of endings, I found it to be lacking.

From my experience with endings over the past year, I have learned some things, such as-  There is nothing that can be said which will make it all make sense; some of these endings will always be painful; many people are going through a lot of pain at any given time; when I interact with others if I can acknowledge my own pain as well as theirs–even if it is just through a smile- I show compassion for us both; and the only way to survive this life is with each other and connecting our hearts together.

In this way, endings have taught me to love, and to receive love.  My friends and loved ones have helped me in steadfast, sturdy, wise, and surprising ways; and I thank each and every one with tears and smiles.  The best part of life, of my life, are the friendships and relationships I share with others, and I cherish them.

What about you?  Would you like to comment on how you have survived endings in your life?

I also like meeting new people as I travel.  I mean interacting with sales clerks, other tourists, savvy locals, basically anyone who shares the road with me.  I am always struck by the kindness of people.  Many times my faith in my fellow humans has been enriched by my experiences traveling.  I have asked for help in many languages, many situations, from many people, and by and large I find a helpful face who is willing to point me in the right direction (see above regarding my navigational skills), recommend a restaurant, or give me a hand with my luggage.  Or, on more rare but special occasions, I have received money and time from concerned on-lookers who just seemed to know that I was in trouble and needed assistance.  In these moments of vulnerability the kindness of strangers has a poignancy that is underscored by the fact that they did not have to do any of it.

This gets me thinking about how travel is like life.  Many people like to say, and I am hearing this a lot more these days, that life is about the journey and not the destination.  If so, then the “journey” of life is lots of “travels” put together, is it not?

I suppose when I think about my favorite experiences while traveling almost none of them are at the actual tourist hot-spot I was seeking.  Instead, one is on a no-name side street that I probably could not find again if I tried, following a volunteer tour guide around the streets of the French Riviera as he thought I needed to learn how to avoid pickpockets.  My tour guide demonstrated as though some unassuming woman who approached us on the street might be trying to pick our pockets and as she looked up bewildered I didn’t know whether to look at her apologetically or look at my tour guide appreciatively; I simultaneously attempted both looks and ended up in a laughing fit.  Other favorite moments include cheering when the food I ordered, via the point-and- hope method, did arrive and was very edible.  Or of rehearsing for hours what to say (in French) to the train attendant and then successfully buying tickets for a trip I did want to take, that is simply buying the tickets was a highlight.

So, if I relate this to the idea that life is like one long string of different travel experiences, I guess I can feel why this idea of life being a journey is so powerful.  Generally however, in life it seems there is so much pressure to know and strive toward the specific goal or destination.  I know at least in my life I have felt this way.  But, as I reflect on it now, I see that if I were to apply the things I love about traveling to the journey of my life, what a difference that would make! I am now considering how I could enjoy the feeling of not knowing exactly where I am going more in my life, and how I could receive and give more support to those in my life.

How about you?  Do you encounter this idea that life is like a journey, not a destination?  Given your travels, what do you make of this notion?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet, knowing how way leads onto way

I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference

Why are these words from Robert Frost so evoking and haunting at the same time?  As so much of today’s decisions seem to be in flux, in transition, perhaps that is why these words have a special poignance.  Transitions imply a fork in the road, choices arise and decisions are required.  For me there has always been an association of the last line, “And that has made all the difference” with some type of relief, a happy ending of sorts.  As in, ‘whew, that decision was the right one and my, how it changed everything.’  However, upon reading it today I see there is no specific cause for this association.

But, isn’t that why we want to look backwards and forwards at the roads in our lives, to see which were or will be “the right” ones?  What I like about this poem is it evokes this pain, “And sorry I could not travel both,” that is, the pain of making choices and thus leaving the road not chosen behind, because “I doubted if I should ever come back.”  What does a “right road” mean if there is no way to distinguish its path from the other road?  As Frost so eloquently states, we are but “one traveler” and with no likelihood of returning to this fork in the road, the values of right and wrong roads start to make no sense.  They are roads, pathways, journeys, life stories, and yes some ways have more or less challenges, more or less scenic views, more or less mild weather, but we don’t know what the other road would have entailed, once we have chosen the one we will travel.  And thus saying one is “right” or another “wrong” becomes irrelevant.

Oh, how long do we take to make this decision, “And be one traveler, long I stood”? Yes, I’ve stood long before a fork in the road, very, very long for some forks.  For while they may not be right or wrong, nevertheless these are important decisions…which will make all the difference.  How humbling that thought.

What about you?  Do you feel the weight of Frost’s “sigh” when you choose between two roads?

For myself, I notice my interest in these patterns, of loss and gain, gets most acute around the changing of the seasons.  In the spring there is something universal about the start of something new, and hence we are often encouraged (particularly by retail stores who would like to provide the replacements) to be “out with the old and in with the new.”  Strangely, I would much rather do a “Fall Cleaning” than one in the spring, but actually more often than not most years I prefer not to give away or change anything.  Bottom line, I don’t like to lose things.  Yet, to gain things, one must lose, don’t you think?  I heard an idea attributed to Jungian psychologist Robert Johnson the other day about sacrifice.  His idea is that sacrifice is not simply the giving up of things, but the giving up of small things in order to attain the larger things.  Of course, this does not mean material things only, and I am not suggesting the giving up of a raft for a yacht, although that may happen.  In a Jungian sense this is more likely the giving up of ego desires for soul desires.  For me, the idea was important because lately I have noticed that one result of this down economy is that it has caused an awareness of the fact that resources are finite.  We live in a world where things have limits it seems, and this may be a fact we forgot in the last decade or so.

Time, effort, money all these things have limits.  Limits bring the necessity of choice, since we can’t do or have it all, we must choose what we really, truly desire.  I know many people, myself included, who are considering major life transitions at this time.  In light of this idea about sacrifice, I think of it as giving up some things in order to do or have the thing that is truly desired.  For me, it may mean deciding to rent my home, so that I can apply those expenses to my stronger desire of my degree pursuit.  If you can’t do it all, which things will you do?  For me, the choice to stop attempting to do and have it all came with a blow because it felt like a failure of sorts.  However, with Robert Johnson’s idea of sacrifice, I now see it light of the fact that I have chosen to sacrifice one thing in pursuit of something I want even more.  It is like taking a trip, sometimes not everything we want to bring will fit in the suitcase, and we have to choose which things to bring, the ones that are the most useful, versatile, and able to travel with us to all the places we want to visit are usually the ones that end up in the bag, and if we’re really experienced, we know to leave enough room for souvenirs!

What about you?  How do you experience the cycles of loss and gain, and what do you see happening with them in light of the current economic situation?  And in another way we lose…I would like to acknowledge the amount of loss in the very tragic way of death -lately experienced by many of my friends and loved ones.  Sometimes this topic is almost too painful for words, but if you would like to share your thoughts, I’d love to hear them.

Where does that inner wellspring of creativity live and how can one touch it? In continuing on with our interview of Dr. Allen Bishop, I’d like to discuss his views of how music can become a way for getting in touch with one’s internal essence, or beauty.

Dr. Bishop stated about the way children develop through music and art offerings in school, “mainly it’s a vehicle for developing your interiority, and not your external, social, compliant self.”

He explained his views on how music can be therapeutic personally by giving the example of Beethoven’s transformation. “I’ve used music as a therapeutic modality for myself at different points in my life. I use Beethoven as a model of an individual who has triumphed over adversity and some limitations. Also an individual who shows us that, as Bion says, is always possible to bring beauty to difficult circumstances. Beethoven brought the energy of his deafness in 1802 in the midst of suicide and depression, to reinvent himself. As a composer and musician, his greatest music emerged out of that struggle. I think he points to a kind of a psychology based on a certain kind of acceptance, or what he would call, resignation. He had to resign himself to this loss. Once he could do that, then all the energy was freed and came back in this beautiful way. I think that’s what human beings have to do.”

In my view, Dr. Bishop’s statements have a lot to do with letting go of our vision of how things “should be” and instead engaging with that inner knowing and following its calling. Frankly, I tire of how romanticized this can sound, “just follow your calling.” Sometimes the things that call to you are not that easy, or obvious. Can you imagine Beethoven’s disbelief and disillusionment when he became deaf to the very thing that called to him? Sometimes this journey gets extremely difficult, and that part of it is oft overlooked. In Jungian psychology, this is called the Hero’s Journey, and it is the term for that path that reconnects you to the things you want most in life, to the things you are called to do, to the inner you. Paradoxically, the myths of how heros and heroines develop usually entail the giving up of everything else, in order to achieve the ultimate prize. In real life, I believe there can be many prizes, maybe one for vocation, for love, for family, for each person. But, we do share something in common with our mythic heros and even contemporary legends, like Beethoven, there is usually some great sacrifices along the journey.

What have you given up to get closer to your inner self, or your calling? Are you being asked to resign to a fate, at this time? Does music assist you in the connection to your inner self, or your calling?

Note:  I originally published this post on www.depthpsychologytoday.com on April 24, 2009.

As Rashin mentioned, we recently interviewed Dr. Allen Bishop, who is one of our professors at Pacifica Graduate Institute, as well as a musician.  Further in the interview (from what is written in Rashin’s post last week), we discussed the archetypal qualities of music.  By using the term archetypal in this way, we’re talking about things are universal in human experience- not only across cultures, but also across time.  Jung used the archetype term to describe a pattern of human experience that is consistent.  For example, there are some events like love, loss, birth, death that we all experience at some point.  When we experience these events, we feel a connection to a larger human realm.  For example, new mothers often report a feeling of being connected to all mothers, to motherhood, to the Great Mother, Mother Earth, etc.  In Jungian psychology, we call this the mother archetype and regardless of gender, each human will typically have an experience of it.

With Dr. Bishop we discussed how music can be a form of an invitation to that archetypal, mysterious experience that somehow invokes a desire for connection, and yet it is difficult to articulate why this is so.  We discussed how in making music, composers create a gateway to this experience.  In our discussion we started talking about those pieces of music that transcend time, and wondering about the composers who created them.
I asked him, “Do you think they are consciously creating an archetypally relevant piece at the time, or is that just what happens afterward?”

Dr. Bishop replied, “I imagine and do recall in my studies that Beethoven suggested he was aware of the muse and the call and the import of what he had to bear to the world in terms of art. He fought against dying until he could give all that he had to give. So what we are saying here is I think some artists and composers really do think about it as well and actually know they are part of a bigger experience.”

Brenda: “The reason I asked is that what you are describing, in terms of transcending time, does also apply to some other works of art like Van Gogh’s paintings, and Dante’s Inferno, for example.  I am pretty sure Dante wrote at the loss of a woman, and he just happened to hit on transcendental, archetypal experience because, in my opinion, he allowed himself to feel himself so deeply.  Van Gogh also lost love.  In his lifetime he only sold one painting, so perhaps he didn’t feel the impact of the legacy he created. I wonder if there’s something different about musicians than other artists where they are more cognizant of their impact.”

Dr. Bishop: “I would have to say it’s hard for me to imagine a person who would paint or compose, who wasn’t aware of some special experience for which they are the medium. They’re not naïve, but there’s a tremendous seriousness. Beethoven, for example, was a very serious soul. He took his art as kind of a mission and would stomp out of prince’s homes and castles if that seriousness of purpose and respect was at all toyed with. So I think the great artists do bring that to it. My feeling is they are aware of being the vehicle for something very special. Not that they could completely explain it, but they know this is what’s happening.”

And so I ask you, do you agree that great artists know their potential impact, or hear a calling to create something that will transcend time?  What about you, have you heard such a calling?  What things are you willing to take seriously, so seriously that you consider them your mission?

Note:  I originally published this post on www.depthpsychologytoday.com on April 9, 2009.

He took it as an invitation to start talking to me.  He explained how the first time a young woman had done that was fifteen years ago and he yelled at her and wouldn’t take the seat.  “These days,” he said, “I’ll take all the nice things people will do for me.”  Aside from “oh,” “yes,” and “yeah” I wasn’t really able to say much for the ten minutes he talked to me (or was it at me?) until my stop.  Finally, I broke in mid-sentence and wished him a good day as I hopped off the bus.  The smell of his stale breath stayed with me for the two blocks I walked to my destination.

In her book Pyschoanalytic Diagnosis, Nancy McWilliams describes narcissists as, “People whose personalities are organized around maintaining their self-esteem by getting affirmation from outside themselves.”

Was the gentleman who sat next to me displaying narcissism?  Perhaps.  But, I learned so much about him.  He had fought in the war, he was in Germany and had had a secret affair with a German girl in the town where he was stationed.  His voice got uncomfortably loud when he described seeing her school text books report that Hitler was a kind man.  It is amazing how much pain people carry around.  This man was in pain and somehow he seemed to feel better looking into the reflection of my eyes and expressing it.

The term narcissist comes from the Greek myth of Narcissus.  Narcissus spent most of his days staring at his own reflection in a pool, that is when he wasn’t chasing around his girlfriend Echo, a muse with whom he fell in love.  As her name suggests, she echoed back to Narcissus his own words and philosophies.

Narcissism is something that is present in all of us.  Early in our development we start to need another to reflect back to us our states of being, our feelings, emotions, all of it.  Some theorists go so far as to say that humans only exist when in relationship to another.  The way I conceptualize it is this: I have to know what is not me, before I can understand what is me.  And, with the loving gift of a mirror to myself, I can better understand myself.

Sometimes it hurts to be used in this way, to be Echo.  And sometimes it hurts to realize you have been Narcissus.

In coming to awareness of these terms, I idealized and wished to be neither, but instead find some higher state where I was able to be in relationship without feeling as though I was using or being used by another.  But, I’m starting to realize that we all are both, and that that is not only OK, it may just be part of the deal, the deal that is of being in human relationships.

Are you aware of when your friends, loved ones, strangers need you to pull out your pocket mirror?  Are you aware of when you ask them to do so for you?  When are you Narcissus and when are you Echo?

Note:  I originally published this post on www.depthpsychologytoday.com on March 16, 2009.

One of my teachers at one of my programs, James Flaherty, asked me an intense question once.  He asked, have you noticed how many people in our world are doing out of the ordinary things, just for the sake of being seen?  His examples were about recent Olympians who had felt like if they didn’t win gold, all would be for not.  And, I extended this notion, what about people who misbehave?  For example, sometimes criminals seem to me to be just acting out for the attention they perhaps did not receive as a child.  What about the loud, obnoxious person in a restaurant, about which we always say, “Oh, ignore him, he just wants attention.”  Yes!  That’s exactly what he wants, and perhaps a question we could ask ourselves is why someone needs attention so badly that they must act in uncomfortable or inappropriate ways to receive it.

I’m still reading Chögyam Trungpa’s Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior, and in it Trungpa states, “A great deal of chaos in the world occurs because people don’t appreciate themselves.  Having never developed sympathy or gentleness towards themselves, they cannot experience harmony or peace within themselves, and therefore, what they project to others is also inharmonious and confused.”

In my opinion, Trungpa is talking about the ability to “see” ourselves.  If we can see our own successes and pains, we have the ability to appreciate and be gentle with ourselves, and then we can give this loving gift to others.

I travel to big cities often, which I enjoy immensely.  However, I have a hard time when I am approached by someone begging for money.  Perhaps no where was this harder for me than one time when I was in France.  Being approached by someone asking for a hand-out in another language is rather interesting because you think you won’t know what they are asking of you, but there is a universal nature that one cannot miss to this sad question.  A woman with distant eyes and disheveled hair approached me.  I remember being haunted by the fact that her eyes would not meet mine, even though I was intently searching her gaze for some connection.  She was young and frail, and I was concerned for her safety on the streets.  She had a way of addressing me that suggested she was entitled to my handout.  I remember being frustrated by this, and even more so because I gave her something (I think it was my leftover food, but I can’t remember), and she moved on quickly past me to ask another passerby the same question.  Later, I happened to be walking down the street, likely out of a different shop, and she approached me as she had before.  I looked at her again for recognition, and I started to explain that I had already given her something.  My French however, is not that good on the fly, and I was afraid I would state “I give” instead of that I already had, so I kept silent.  Again, I searched her gaze for some recognition, I was naively even hoping for a thank you, and at a minimum an acknowledgement that I didn’t need to be asked again.  But, she gave neither and this time realizing I was not worth her time, pushed past me to get to someone else.  It was awful, I felt used.  I felt sad that I wanted to see her so badly, and yet she did look back to see me trying to do so.

A few years have passed and as I was reading Trungpa’s quote it occurred to me that that moment wasn’t about me.  In other words, she did not intentionally dismiss me.  Instead she likely could not see me, because she could not see herself.  I don’t know anything about this woman beyond what I wrote above, and still I hurt for her.  To me her pain was so palpable it was in the air, like a taste.  I thought that with my one glance I could give her some dignity in my acknowledgement, my seeing of her as a fellow human, if even for a brief moment.  In some ways that is a noble intention on my part, however it is also embarrassingly arrogant.  Why did I think I could give her what she needed, when she was not able to take my gift?  And why did I think I knew what she needed?  I’m looking inside for those answers…

Have you had experiences of being seen, either being seen by yourself, or by another?  What are the elements necessary to make it a loving exchange, do you think?

Note:  I originally published this post on www.depthpsychologytoday.com on March 1, 2009.