I’m taking a break this week from Father’s House and The Whole Language, to write about a different small group I’m in. There are four of us, meeting via Zoom to share our experiences through a compassion and wholeness workbook. The author of this workbook is my beloved sister, Dr. Jody Washburn. “Dr. Washburn” doesn’t roll off my tongue right, so at the risk of being an impudent younger sister, I’ll refer to her as “Jody.”
The full title of the workbook is, “Compassion & Wholeness: Engaging with Care and Curiosity on the Healing Journey.” This makes me smile. I love every beautiful word strung together into an invitation. Compassion… my invitation to care for another. Wholeness… my invitation to care for myself. And each of these spaces explored with curiosity, which is the antidote for judgement and shame—a healing journey indeed.
Jody writes about two barriers to belonging: 1) feeling “we have to hide or downplay who we are in order to belong,” or 2) feeling like belonging will come when we can “fix” others so they are more like us. Is there a space in which we can maintain our individuality, allow others to maintain theirs, and experience intimacy, belonging?
I have often felt this tension between hiding me or fixing you. I’m certain I will only be accepted if I meet expectations—not just in the workplace, but in friendship and at home as well. Therefore much of my energy goes into meeting expectations (real or imagined). Yet I know from painful experience that performance does not breed intimacy. People may “like” me, but they don’t know me. They know my performing self, or my “representative,” as Glennon Doyle would say. My real self suspects that if she were known, she would be rejected. Each time I allow my tired or confused or sad self show, there is a real possibility of shame-reinforcing rejection. People need me to make sense, to show up consistently, and to manage my own emotions. I suppose the most awful thing about this is that there is some truth to it. But this truth no longer has my loyalty. I have left it behind for something else.
I suppose my “something else” could be described as discomfort, but it is a discomfort leading to delicious comfort, to an internal wholeness I didn’t know was possible, and an intimacy with others I could not imagine. The discomfort is in losing control (or the illusion of control), receiving my own impossible-to-understand internal experiences, and receiving the experiences of others. No fixing. This is a terrifying freedom and a portal to a new dimension, a tangled and beautiful garden of love.
“Connection with [myself] and connection with others,” Jody writes. Yes, I respond. Yes.
Jody illustrates these two connections with pairs of words from various authors and speakers:
individuation and intimacy
authenticity and attachment
individuality and belonging
and my personal favorite, from Maya Angelou: “I belong to everyone. I belong to no one.”
Jody is a Hebrew scholar (I know, my sister is super cool). She describes the Hebrew word “Shalom,” which we often equate with peace, as “the harmonious working of a complex system”—another way to imagine this space we occupy of belonging both to ourselves and to others. Shalom makes an outrageous suggestion, that the complexities of ourselves and our world are somehow beautifully compatible. My own existence and the existence of each person I know, is an invitation to dance. I am invited to dance with myself, and I am invited to dance with you. Together we find a balance we could not find alone. This balance requires authenticity—a willingness to see and share my own insides, and to see and receive your insides. This seeing shines a lights into the shared spaces we occupy and allows us to dance the dance of intimacy, a miraculous, harmonious duet emerging from what seemed like incompatible notes and unwilling instruments.
As my friends and I talk on Zoom about all these ideas, we are drawn repeatedly to our own desire for an increased capacity to show compassion. As mothers, we lament our bitterness, anger, and attempts to control our children. Yet it is clear that compassion is not a “fake-it-till-you-make-it” prospect, nor is it achieved by trying harder or learning more. How are we to cultivate something that cannot be wrestled or prayed or shamed into being? How do I move from desiring compassion to a real response of curiosity and care when my children are battling for the upper hand in an insult war, or waking me up for the fifth time in one night? I am certain compassion must come from my core, yet I know I cannot surgically place it there. Oh, how I wish for a compassion pace-maker to fill in my glitches and keep me alive.
My sister’s workbook holds hints about what it looks like to move into compassionate space. One hint is embodiment. Hillary McBride writes, “Embodiment is a coming home, a remembering of our wholeness, and a reunion with the fullness of ourselves.” This remembering is the beginning of creating. Before I create, I need to make friends with my body. I answer Jody’s workbook questions. “What messages have you received, growing up and at other times in your life, about your body?” My answer surprises me. I had not put this into words until now: “My body is useful apart from my spirit/emotions/mind. It is useful for showing up where I don’t want to be, doing what I don’t want to do, accomplishing things for other people.” It makes sudden sense that I have felt divided against myself, ill with chronic internal bickering. I have used my body, and allowed others to use it. I didn’t know my body was me. I think this is what “dis-integration” means. Resentment and a lack of agency follow disintegration, and all at once it makes sense that I have been mired in a stinking swamp of resentment.
Another hint about compassionate space is “compassionate witnessing,” which includes the ability to hold space for what feel like mutually exclusive experiences. How can I feel comforted and fearful at the same time in my husband’s arms? How can I desire time alone and long for connection in one moment? How can my friends be both graceful and judgmental? How can my world be crammed so full of pain and beauty that I find the two squashed together in uncomfortable proximity? Jody talks about expanding circles of compassionate witnessing, encompassing self and others. She closes her workbook with these words from Stephanie Foo.
So this is healing, then, the opposite of ambiguous dread: fullness. I am full of anger, pain, peace, love, of horrible shards and exquisite beauty, and the lifelong challenge will be to balance all of those things, while keeping them in the circle. Healing is never final. It is never perfection. But along with the losses are the triumphs.
Little by little, I find the spaces inside me where compassion resides, and I step into those spaces more often. Compassion lives in my awareness of my body. It comes to life in my imagination and springs forth from my inherent creativity. I am shocked to discover that as I occupy these spaces, I walk out of fear into love. I see without squinting and I touch without recoiling. My life appears before me as a patch of wildflowers to enjoy rather than a blotch of weeds to destroy. An invitation to compassion is ultimately an invitation to joy and pain. It is the wonder of occupying what at one time seemed untouchable—the space between two people. Jody shares the words of Orland Bishop: “Future is the space between two or more human beings.” God invites me into that future, into what Jody describes as an emerging, co-created, relational space, and what I like to call, “the light between us.”
Dr. Jody Washburn’s “Compassion & Wholeness” workbook is available here. All quotes in this post are from her material.
Photo by Ray Bilcliff: https://www.pexels.com/photo/antelope-canyon-arizona-1533512/
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