In my last year at high school, one of the girls wanted to talk to me. I was walking home from a swimming lesson that had taken place at the local leisure centre. From the other side of the footbridge I had just crossed, my name was called.
As I turned, she called for me to wait for her. She increased her pace; her long hair billowed out behind her and, coming closer, her smile broadened. After the customary pleasantries, and an acknowledgement that we hadn't really had the chance to talk before, she told me what was on her mind as we walked together.
That evening, she would be going on a date for the first time. She was nervous. She wasn't sure how she should act, what she should wear or whether she would meet the expectations of the young man in whose company she'd be spending some time. She had been thinking about cancelling the date, because she was sure to make a fool of herself.
I took a brief look at her, walking next to me. She was tall, slender. Her dark hair provided a contrast to her pale complexion. She was quite attractive, not just in outward appearance but also in her mannerisms, the tone of her voice, the pace of her speech and other things unique to her. Hearing that she doubted herself came as a surprise.
None of the girls had spoken to me in this way before. A number of the boys had, for reasons known only to them, walked at least part of the way home with me and talked about things that had been troubling them. A girl wanting to open up to me was new.
I knew that I was seen as a little unusual. It was, unfortunately, a particularly lonely time for me. Adolescence can feel like a limbo, in which we are neither a child nor an adult - neither one thing nor another. It's a time when many of us find our "crowd": the people with whom we identify as having similar traits or interests.
For some of us, it's a time when we come to realise that we don't fit in. We find no one with whom we particularly identify. In truth, I identified most with the world cinema I'd watch in the early hours of the morning. Using the small TV in my room, I'd watch numerous subtitled films which two of the available stations would broadcast at unsociable hours. They had a profound effect on how I perceived the world around me.
What I didn't want was to reinforce in any way the idea that I was odd. Actually, hearing a girl talk openly about her concerns to me, as we walked home, felt like a chance moment of connection with someone who might not otherwise have been too aware of my existence. Her eagerness to make a good impression, on her imminent date, mirrored my own eagerness to leave a good impression at that moment.
I asked whether she had asked her date for the evening to go out with her, or whether he had been the one to ask. She replied that he had been the one to ask. I said that I admired his courage. The possibility of rejection was something he had been willing to accept, I reasoned, in exchange for the mere possibility of spending some time with her. He had seen something in her which had made him want to spend that time with her.
How nervous did she think he might be about their date? She answered that he was probably feeling much the same as she was. She smiled. At that moment, we had come to the place where our paths home diverged.
She suggested that in future I might spend some time with her and her friends, and talk with them, during breaks in the school day. Knowing that some of the girls she thought of as friends would object to that development, I made excuses I can no longer remember.
The hug was unexpected. I didn't know how to respond. Much of the discussion I'd heard regarding such situations had suggested that males should be especially careful with the physical boundaries of females. As much as I resented the implication that some bodies were inherently more valuable than others, I didn't reciprocate. My arms hung limply by my sides.
She felt soft and warm. There was the feint scent of a musky, floral perfume. She released her hold, and said she'd see me at school. I only managed to nod in response, and watch for a moment as she crossed the road and walked down a side street. The impression left by her being next to me remained long after she had gone.
No one, as far as I could remember, had hugged me before. It seemed strange to think that it had never happened, but I certainly couldn't remember it happening. Until this isolated display of affection, I had been okay with that. After, I wasn't okay. I wasn't okay at all. In terms of my mental health, I went off the rails for a while. You can't miss what you've never had, I guess. After experiencing it, it was missed greatly.
Within a space of about ten minutes, I'd experienced more warmth from another human than I had for as long as I could remember.
If we experience, early in our lives, a lack of warmth and affection, it can be difficult to know how to respond. It can feel so disconnected from our experience that we find it hard to accept, and we may find it equally difficult to give to others.
It's all too easy to fall into the trap of believing that we must not have deserved warmth and affection, or it would have been offered to us. We dismiss the thought that those around us, for reasons entirely their own, may have struggled to show warmth towards us.
In more recent times, I've had to come to terms with the emotional response I have to any suggestion of warmth and affection from others. Speaking to a counsellor helped me to see this as something akin to a man crossing the desert, and suddenly being given a glass of water. Leaving behind the notion that I must have been somehow unworthy of love is a battle that continues to this day. The messages we receive in childhood have a profound and lasting effect on how we see ourselves.
Friday, 20 March 2020
Monday, 16 March 2020
Compassion in a time of crisis
Sometimes I forget. When my thoughts turn to those who are in need, and are denied access to what is essential to them, I feel anger towards those who selfishly serve their own needs to the detriment of others. What I forget in those moments is something fundamental to the practice of compassion.
In recent weeks, the breaking out of a pandemic has put a spotlight on human behaviour. The shelves of supermarkets have been emptied at a greater rate as the panic sets in. Governments around the world have been applauded or condemned by their people, depending on how they have responded to the crisis.
I found that I became increasingly puzzled, and then angry, at reports that people were buying supplies in bulk, leaving fewer or none of the essentials for others. In my mind, it was an example of those who already had too much, and could afford to buy in bulk, depriving those who weren't able to do so. In my mind, it was an all too visible representation of social and economic inequality.
It would seem that those buying in bulk lack compassion for their fellow human beings. Their behaviour, at least, would suggest a lack of compassion. A self-centred greed, which appears to be a symptom of a society's move away from a sense of community to a greater focus on the individual, may be the root. That, however, may not provide an adequate explanation for what is driving the behaviour on an individual level. Print, broadcast and social media perpetuate assumptions much of the time, and serve through those assumptions to fuel fear, hatred and anger.
What if we were to separate the behaviour from the person? What if we observed the behaviour and looked for other potential mechanisms behind it? We might then see fear and anxiety. What we see then, is that acts which cause great suffering are being performed by people who, internally, are suffering too.
Recognising the suffering of others is not to excuse their behaviour - it is simply to change our perspective. It has been said that holding on to anger is akin to holding a hot piece of coal. Our choice is to vent our anger, in a way that is appropriate, or to question from where our anger arises.
It's all too easy to say the above. My work involves listening to the suffering of others with sensitivity, compassion and a non-judgemental attitude. Sometimes though, as I said at the start of this piece, I forget. Part of the training for my work covered this, and I've started to make peace with the fact that sometimes I fall short of the standards I set for myself.
After all, how are we to show compassion for others, if we are unable to offer it to ourselves?
In recent weeks, the breaking out of a pandemic has put a spotlight on human behaviour. The shelves of supermarkets have been emptied at a greater rate as the panic sets in. Governments around the world have been applauded or condemned by their people, depending on how they have responded to the crisis.
I found that I became increasingly puzzled, and then angry, at reports that people were buying supplies in bulk, leaving fewer or none of the essentials for others. In my mind, it was an example of those who already had too much, and could afford to buy in bulk, depriving those who weren't able to do so. In my mind, it was an all too visible representation of social and economic inequality.
It would seem that those buying in bulk lack compassion for their fellow human beings. Their behaviour, at least, would suggest a lack of compassion. A self-centred greed, which appears to be a symptom of a society's move away from a sense of community to a greater focus on the individual, may be the root. That, however, may not provide an adequate explanation for what is driving the behaviour on an individual level. Print, broadcast and social media perpetuate assumptions much of the time, and serve through those assumptions to fuel fear, hatred and anger.
What if we were to separate the behaviour from the person? What if we observed the behaviour and looked for other potential mechanisms behind it? We might then see fear and anxiety. What we see then, is that acts which cause great suffering are being performed by people who, internally, are suffering too.
Recognising the suffering of others is not to excuse their behaviour - it is simply to change our perspective. It has been said that holding on to anger is akin to holding a hot piece of coal. Our choice is to vent our anger, in a way that is appropriate, or to question from where our anger arises.
It's all too easy to say the above. My work involves listening to the suffering of others with sensitivity, compassion and a non-judgemental attitude. Sometimes though, as I said at the start of this piece, I forget. Part of the training for my work covered this, and I've started to make peace with the fact that sometimes I fall short of the standards I set for myself.
After all, how are we to show compassion for others, if we are unable to offer it to ourselves?
Friday, 21 February 2020
Martial arts, how we train and why we train
The hand placed at the centre of his chest surprised him. It surprised him because it had been placed there without him noticing, and had stopped him moving forward. He'd managed to back me up this far, but there was a road a few steps behind me, and he wasn't going to back me up any further.
We had reached this point due to a fundamental flaw in his character. Like all bullies, he was accustomed to getting his way, with everyone going along with what he said, and he certainly hadn't expected to meet with the level of assertiveness I had shown a few minutes earlier. He'd not known how to react, and fell back on what he knew - using his size and weight to intimidate anyone who dared to challenge him.
This time, it wasn't going to work. Oh no, sir. Not this time.
The bruises on my forearm would later bear testament to his attempts to shift the offending palm, and to my reluctance to allow that to happen. Despite his bulk, it had stopped his forward momentum, and provided me with a good reference point to deal with any attack he might launch, or to launch one of my own, if doing so became necessary. In truth, those thoughts hadn't been at the forefront of my mind at that moment; a trained response to a threat had been activated.
Maybe his attempts to move the hand were a sign that he understood the danger. It was like the red dot which might alert you to the sniper aiming a high velocity rifle in your direction. He had the advantage in terms of height, weight and even reach, but he'd made the mistake of placing himself within range of my artillery.
"You wouldn't last a minute," he screamed at me - a reminder that his interest in watching boxing and cage fights had given him an unrealistic notion of how long a fight would generally last outside of a sporting arena. He'd been shouting for the past few minutes, which was in marked contrast to the calm, muted responses I'd been giving to his anger. Unfortunately for him, I saw quite clearly where his anger was coming from - it was coming from uncertainty.
Sure, there were points where I was tempted to let him bat my arm away and counter with a punch he wouldn't see, due to his preoccupation with moving the obstacle. If he'd thrown a punch of his own, it would have been quite easy to sense it coming, evade and push him backwards. He was unwise to allow me to gain contact.
"What ya gonna do? Throw your chopsticks at me?" I hadn't needed the reminder of my experience as a martial artist, but his lame attempt at ridicule reminded me that he also knew about it. As he backed away, a little confused and still very angry, he continued to insist things wouldn't have gone my way, had he forced me to fight. I couldn't disagree with that. The last thing I wanted was to fight, so if it had happened, it would already signify a loss of some sort for me.
I watched a video earlier today that, on the surface, seemed to have nothing to do with martial arts at all. From the comments on the video, no one had noticed something that I had seen. To be honest, it happens quite quickly.
At the 2:27 mark, the young woman in the middle has a panic reaction, and instinctively brings her hands up to guard her face. When her younger associate in the black and white jumper then tries to cling to her, when she's not looking in that direction, she seems to draw back her fist before connecting with a right cross. The young woman in the black and white jumper then falls to the floor. I had to watch it a few times, and then watch it in slow motion, to verify this.
As I follow this group, I actually know who they are. In this context, the fact that they are called Rocket Punch seems to be a tempting of fate. The member who seems to connect her right cross with another member's face is Juri Takahashi - the oldest and only Japanese member of this Korean group. In their latest release, which is being promoted in this video, is the line:
"I wanna hit the world with Rocket Punch." Quite.
In an interview, Juri was asked if she'd ever been involved in any sports. Her reply was that she'd spent a few years learning karate. She then demonstrated this with a perfectly executed high roundhouse. The interview was during a series called Heechul and Shindong's Internet Cafe, if you're interested in finding it.
I've got to admit to having something of a soft spot for Juri. She came to prominence as a member of a Japanese idol group called AKB48, and that was where I first got to know about her. Actually, following her career was how I got to know about Rocket Punch, as did many other fans. Along with two other members of the group, she came to the attention of the Korean audience mostly through her participation on the Produce 48 show (a joint Japanese-Korean venture).
All of that, and the story of how I got into Japanese and Korean pop music, is not the focus of this piece. Our focus is on Juri's martial arts experience. If I had the chance to interview her personally about it, I'd be more than happy, but there are a few reasons why that isn't going to happen, and one reason why it shouldn't happen - I know very little Japanese. I know about karate though, and in Juri's case, we're more than likely talking about Japanese karate, rather than Okinawan karate. I believe she hints at this during her brief interview - "I learned taekwondo... well, not taekwondo... the Japanese one." It's logical that she wouldn't know that the Korean word for karate is... karate.
What we'd call a left or right cross, in western boxing, is quite similar to the reverse punch in Japanese karate. How often is the reverse punch trained in karate? Ideally, often enough that it becomes instinctive - like a panic response, maybe.
The arguments about which martial art is better haven't stopped. If anything, the sport of mixed martial arts has come to prominence as comment streams on the internet have become increasingly polarised on the issue. What I've known for some time is that there is no better or worse martial art, but there is a better or worse martial art for you personally. What's more important is how you train, and how often you train.
The question should always be whether what you learn could become your panic reaction, if trained repeatedly. If it looks overly complicated, the answer is probably "no".
I was trained in Shotokan karate as a child, but for nowhere near as long as I had judo lessons. What I remembered was that judo worked, when I needed it to work, and I rarely used anything I had learned in a karate class. I'm hoping that I never have to use any of this stuff again, but maybe I misjudged karate. Maybe a lot of people have misjudged karate.
Actually, there's something that happened, twice, with two separate opponents. This is something that happened once in a fight where a self-professed martial arts expert was trying his luck against me outside a bar, and once on a mat in a Japanese jujitsu class. Both times, a high roundhouse was fired at me. Both times, I shifted back, just out of range. Both times, I came back into range just in time to kick my opponent in the behind, dropping them forward onto the floor. That was karate. That was my karate.
We had reached this point due to a fundamental flaw in his character. Like all bullies, he was accustomed to getting his way, with everyone going along with what he said, and he certainly hadn't expected to meet with the level of assertiveness I had shown a few minutes earlier. He'd not known how to react, and fell back on what he knew - using his size and weight to intimidate anyone who dared to challenge him.
This time, it wasn't going to work. Oh no, sir. Not this time.
The bruises on my forearm would later bear testament to his attempts to shift the offending palm, and to my reluctance to allow that to happen. Despite his bulk, it had stopped his forward momentum, and provided me with a good reference point to deal with any attack he might launch, or to launch one of my own, if doing so became necessary. In truth, those thoughts hadn't been at the forefront of my mind at that moment; a trained response to a threat had been activated.
Maybe his attempts to move the hand were a sign that he understood the danger. It was like the red dot which might alert you to the sniper aiming a high velocity rifle in your direction. He had the advantage in terms of height, weight and even reach, but he'd made the mistake of placing himself within range of my artillery.
"You wouldn't last a minute," he screamed at me - a reminder that his interest in watching boxing and cage fights had given him an unrealistic notion of how long a fight would generally last outside of a sporting arena. He'd been shouting for the past few minutes, which was in marked contrast to the calm, muted responses I'd been giving to his anger. Unfortunately for him, I saw quite clearly where his anger was coming from - it was coming from uncertainty.
Sure, there were points where I was tempted to let him bat my arm away and counter with a punch he wouldn't see, due to his preoccupation with moving the obstacle. If he'd thrown a punch of his own, it would have been quite easy to sense it coming, evade and push him backwards. He was unwise to allow me to gain contact.
"What ya gonna do? Throw your chopsticks at me?" I hadn't needed the reminder of my experience as a martial artist, but his lame attempt at ridicule reminded me that he also knew about it. As he backed away, a little confused and still very angry, he continued to insist things wouldn't have gone my way, had he forced me to fight. I couldn't disagree with that. The last thing I wanted was to fight, so if it had happened, it would already signify a loss of some sort for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I watched a video earlier today that, on the surface, seemed to have nothing to do with martial arts at all. From the comments on the video, no one had noticed something that I had seen. To be honest, it happens quite quickly.
At the 2:27 mark, the young woman in the middle has a panic reaction, and instinctively brings her hands up to guard her face. When her younger associate in the black and white jumper then tries to cling to her, when she's not looking in that direction, she seems to draw back her fist before connecting with a right cross. The young woman in the black and white jumper then falls to the floor. I had to watch it a few times, and then watch it in slow motion, to verify this.
As I follow this group, I actually know who they are. In this context, the fact that they are called Rocket Punch seems to be a tempting of fate. The member who seems to connect her right cross with another member's face is Juri Takahashi - the oldest and only Japanese member of this Korean group. In their latest release, which is being promoted in this video, is the line:
"I wanna hit the world with Rocket Punch." Quite.
In an interview, Juri was asked if she'd ever been involved in any sports. Her reply was that she'd spent a few years learning karate. She then demonstrated this with a perfectly executed high roundhouse. The interview was during a series called Heechul and Shindong's Internet Cafe, if you're interested in finding it.
I've got to admit to having something of a soft spot for Juri. She came to prominence as a member of a Japanese idol group called AKB48, and that was where I first got to know about her. Actually, following her career was how I got to know about Rocket Punch, as did many other fans. Along with two other members of the group, she came to the attention of the Korean audience mostly through her participation on the Produce 48 show (a joint Japanese-Korean venture).
All of that, and the story of how I got into Japanese and Korean pop music, is not the focus of this piece. Our focus is on Juri's martial arts experience. If I had the chance to interview her personally about it, I'd be more than happy, but there are a few reasons why that isn't going to happen, and one reason why it shouldn't happen - I know very little Japanese. I know about karate though, and in Juri's case, we're more than likely talking about Japanese karate, rather than Okinawan karate. I believe she hints at this during her brief interview - "I learned taekwondo... well, not taekwondo... the Japanese one." It's logical that she wouldn't know that the Korean word for karate is... karate.
What we'd call a left or right cross, in western boxing, is quite similar to the reverse punch in Japanese karate. How often is the reverse punch trained in karate? Ideally, often enough that it becomes instinctive - like a panic response, maybe.
The arguments about which martial art is better haven't stopped. If anything, the sport of mixed martial arts has come to prominence as comment streams on the internet have become increasingly polarised on the issue. What I've known for some time is that there is no better or worse martial art, but there is a better or worse martial art for you personally. What's more important is how you train, and how often you train.
The question should always be whether what you learn could become your panic reaction, if trained repeatedly. If it looks overly complicated, the answer is probably "no".
I was trained in Shotokan karate as a child, but for nowhere near as long as I had judo lessons. What I remembered was that judo worked, when I needed it to work, and I rarely used anything I had learned in a karate class. I'm hoping that I never have to use any of this stuff again, but maybe I misjudged karate. Maybe a lot of people have misjudged karate.
Actually, there's something that happened, twice, with two separate opponents. This is something that happened once in a fight where a self-professed martial arts expert was trying his luck against me outside a bar, and once on a mat in a Japanese jujitsu class. Both times, a high roundhouse was fired at me. Both times, I shifted back, just out of range. Both times, I came back into range just in time to kick my opponent in the behind, dropping them forward onto the floor. That was karate. That was my karate.
Wednesday, 28 August 2019
One model of empathy - possibly inaccurate or incomplete
A lot is said about empathy, but what is it really? We hear that it's an ability to see things as another person sees them, but that suggests a level of understanding which seems impossible. We have not lived one day of the other's life, and have no way of understanding how that lived experience may have brought them to hold the values, beliefs or attitudes they express through their speech and behaviour. We only see their speech and behaviour, and judge these through the values, beliefs and attitudes we have developed through our own lived experience.
It's like the surface of a lake on a sunny day. All we see is the reflection of the sky above. Our impression of the lake is how it appears to us, and we are unaware of what lies beneath the surface. Maybe we similarly look at others, hoping that in some way they will reflect aspects of ourselves. Empathy - experiencing things to some extent as another has experienced them - has to start from a curiosity about what's beneath the surface.
We may ask the questions. Do we, however, question with the intention of understanding? Do we question with the intention of adding our own thoughts, or dismissing those of another without ever truly understanding? It's one thing to reflect what has been said, to show that we have heard, but are we responding simply as an echo? We may have heard, but have we understood? Have their words added to or changed our knowledge of who they really are?
The way to greater empathy and understanding is in three little words, and the many ways in which to say them...
"Tell me more."
It's like the surface of a lake on a sunny day. All we see is the reflection of the sky above. Our impression of the lake is how it appears to us, and we are unaware of what lies beneath the surface. Maybe we similarly look at others, hoping that in some way they will reflect aspects of ourselves. Empathy - experiencing things to some extent as another has experienced them - has to start from a curiosity about what's beneath the surface.
We may ask the questions. Do we, however, question with the intention of understanding? Do we question with the intention of adding our own thoughts, or dismissing those of another without ever truly understanding? It's one thing to reflect what has been said, to show that we have heard, but are we responding simply as an echo? We may have heard, but have we understood? Have their words added to or changed our knowledge of who they really are?
The way to greater empathy and understanding is in three little words, and the many ways in which to say them...
"Tell me more."
Tuesday, 20 August 2019
The struggle
Most of this year has already gone. It's a year that started with me returning from a short stay in Manila. I love the Philippines, and one current inhabitants of the islands in particular, so it's not unusual for me to return to the UK carrying a strange mixture of gratitude for the time I spent on the other side of the world, and some sadness that it can't continue.
This time, I heard that some of the people with whom I'd spent time had experienced me as quiet, and had wondered if something had been wrong. My knowledge of the Tagalog language is unfortunately still limited, and they were concerned that I had felt excluded where they didn't speak in English. My thoughts on this were that I was a guest, and it would be wrong to expect anyone to make unreasonable adjustments due to my presence.
On the last full day of my visit, I met with a friend I'd known for a number of years. The woman I love pretty much carried the conversation, however. There hadn't been time to fully process it, but the description of me as quiet and withdrawn had shaken me. Unfortunately, the way this interaction with a friend went reinforced a feeling that was gaining strength.
Within days of my return to the UK, there was a dance event I would usually attend each month. I drove there, walked in, looked at the people who were present, and decided to make the journey back home instead.
Through an interest in Japanese pop music that I'm not going to explain here, I came to watch an episode of a related show that featured a young woman called Kaoru Goto (後藤郁). The show was focused on her, and her relationship with the other members of a band in which she was a member. As the show opened, the host worked his way to finding humour, in various ways, in the difficulties the other members in the band were having in their interactions with Kaorun (her nickname, which I'll use for the sake of brevity).
The focus of the show shifted to a segment where members would talk to Kaorun, and the conversation would be timed. At the point where the host felt the conversation had become awkward, Kaorun would automatically be judged to be the cause, and he would push a button which fired a cold jet of carbon dioxide at her face. In those interactions, I saw that her personality was eerily similar to my own. There was a point where the show became difficult to watch because, to some extent, it was like someone had held up a mirror to how I relate to others, and how they see me.
Something I heard many years ago, but which has strangely been said a few times this year, is that conversations with me tend to become philosophical in nature. Maybe it isn't intended as criticism, or maybe it is. Here, it's easy to see an internal conflict. If a fundamental part of our nature makes it difficult for others to identify with, and communicate with us, is it something we should change?
This inner conflict is common to us all, to a greater or lesser extent. Do we present an edited version of ourselves, even to those closest to us? Do we learn to accept our inherent nature, and hope to find others who are able to accept it too? Maybe there has to be a balance between the two, but where is the balance to be struck? All I can really say is that, right now, this feels like a lonely place to be.
Interestingly, in the show I was watching, and in other episodes of the same show, there was a suggestion that Kaorun often said things which others found difficult to understand. Actually, her willingness to talk was a surprise for me. This gap in understanding is one of the main reasons I don't talk so much. That's a learned behaviour. Where I do interact with others, I can appear slow to respond, as internal thought processes are translated into the kind of language I hear around me, or withheld. I suppose I admire her for not changing.
As an aside, the makers of another show, centred on another girl group, made an episode centred around Tsumugi Hayasaka (早坂つむぎ). Tsucchan appears to be the INTJ type, rather than an INFJ as Kaorun seems to be. Both have now "graduated" from their respective groups to pursue other interests. Knowing what I know about these personality types, if my life had been different and I had somehow become a TV producer in Japan, a series of programmes featuring these two would be something I'd try to make happen. If you were to set them a challenge or series of challenges where they'd have to work together, the results would be interesting.
This time, I heard that some of the people with whom I'd spent time had experienced me as quiet, and had wondered if something had been wrong. My knowledge of the Tagalog language is unfortunately still limited, and they were concerned that I had felt excluded where they didn't speak in English. My thoughts on this were that I was a guest, and it would be wrong to expect anyone to make unreasonable adjustments due to my presence.
On the last full day of my visit, I met with a friend I'd known for a number of years. The woman I love pretty much carried the conversation, however. There hadn't been time to fully process it, but the description of me as quiet and withdrawn had shaken me. Unfortunately, the way this interaction with a friend went reinforced a feeling that was gaining strength.
Within days of my return to the UK, there was a dance event I would usually attend each month. I drove there, walked in, looked at the people who were present, and decided to make the journey back home instead.
Through an interest in Japanese pop music that I'm not going to explain here, I came to watch an episode of a related show that featured a young woman called Kaoru Goto (後藤郁). The show was focused on her, and her relationship with the other members of a band in which she was a member. As the show opened, the host worked his way to finding humour, in various ways, in the difficulties the other members in the band were having in their interactions with Kaorun (her nickname, which I'll use for the sake of brevity).
The focus of the show shifted to a segment where members would talk to Kaorun, and the conversation would be timed. At the point where the host felt the conversation had become awkward, Kaorun would automatically be judged to be the cause, and he would push a button which fired a cold jet of carbon dioxide at her face. In those interactions, I saw that her personality was eerily similar to my own. There was a point where the show became difficult to watch because, to some extent, it was like someone had held up a mirror to how I relate to others, and how they see me.
Something I heard many years ago, but which has strangely been said a few times this year, is that conversations with me tend to become philosophical in nature. Maybe it isn't intended as criticism, or maybe it is. Here, it's easy to see an internal conflict. If a fundamental part of our nature makes it difficult for others to identify with, and communicate with us, is it something we should change?
This inner conflict is common to us all, to a greater or lesser extent. Do we present an edited version of ourselves, even to those closest to us? Do we learn to accept our inherent nature, and hope to find others who are able to accept it too? Maybe there has to be a balance between the two, but where is the balance to be struck? All I can really say is that, right now, this feels like a lonely place to be.
Interestingly, in the show I was watching, and in other episodes of the same show, there was a suggestion that Kaorun often said things which others found difficult to understand. Actually, her willingness to talk was a surprise for me. This gap in understanding is one of the main reasons I don't talk so much. That's a learned behaviour. Where I do interact with others, I can appear slow to respond, as internal thought processes are translated into the kind of language I hear around me, or withheld. I suppose I admire her for not changing.
As an aside, the makers of another show, centred on another girl group, made an episode centred around Tsumugi Hayasaka (早坂つむぎ). Tsucchan appears to be the INTJ type, rather than an INFJ as Kaorun seems to be. Both have now "graduated" from their respective groups to pursue other interests. Knowing what I know about these personality types, if my life had been different and I had somehow become a TV producer in Japan, a series of programmes featuring these two would be something I'd try to make happen. If you were to set them a challenge or series of challenges where they'd have to work together, the results would be interesting.
Sunday, 5 May 2019
It will all come to pass
Strange anniversary yesterday. It was two years to the day since they buried my sister. A lot of things came to the surface in the time following her death and, in my mind, the emphasis fell on her being my half-sister, from a different father. Yeah, a lot of things came to the surface, and led me to the decision that I would no longer have contact with my family.
I didn't go to her funeral. A problem already existed that threatened to turn the occasion into a farce, had I been present. It was then suggested that my absence was a great shame, because I would have provided some emotional support to my family. In truth, a confrontation with members of my family, some months earlier, had provided me with a moment in which I'd realised that our relationship had not been based on any measure of respect, on either side. The full implications of that had become apparent during my sessions with a counsellor, which had been a required part of my course of study at the time.
I decided to go dancing last night. I'd made a promise to a friend, who didn't turn up. The bar poured my drink into a dirty glass, and I complained about it, only realising when I got back to my table that I had handed them a ten pound note, and they had given me change for a five. It was too late to bring the mistake to their attention. Leaving early, so they'd get no more of my money, became the preferred option. Dehydration wasn't an option.
Before going out, I'd known that I was going to simply watch the dance class, rather than take part. A woman who'd tried to coerce me into sleeping with her, and had spent the time since harassing me and telling anyone who'd listen that I'd messed with her feelings, deliberately placed herself in my line of sight. Internally, I laughed at her childish behaviour. Sitting at a table across the room were people who had welcomed her with open arms to the Salsa class I once attended regularly, and had turned a blind eye to her attempts to eject me from that class and the wider dance scene.
Sometimes I question my commitment to not refusing a dance. I knew that, strangely oblivious to my contempt for them, those ladies who'd enabled the bully would ask me to dance. Leaving early became more set in my mind as the only option.
The few dances I had after the class had ended reminded me that feelings are temporary. The smile on my face was genuine, despite everything. Maybe that's the lesson that was learned. Everything is temporary. My half-sister's presence was temporary. My connection with my family was temporary. Friendships, also, are temporary. It's in our nature, however, to shrink back in terror in the face of impermanence - to pine for what once was and become anxious about what will be. We hold on to the things we should let go, and maybe all too easily let go of the things to which we should hold on.
Really, the only thing we have at this moment is the present.
I didn't go to her funeral. A problem already existed that threatened to turn the occasion into a farce, had I been present. It was then suggested that my absence was a great shame, because I would have provided some emotional support to my family. In truth, a confrontation with members of my family, some months earlier, had provided me with a moment in which I'd realised that our relationship had not been based on any measure of respect, on either side. The full implications of that had become apparent during my sessions with a counsellor, which had been a required part of my course of study at the time.
I decided to go dancing last night. I'd made a promise to a friend, who didn't turn up. The bar poured my drink into a dirty glass, and I complained about it, only realising when I got back to my table that I had handed them a ten pound note, and they had given me change for a five. It was too late to bring the mistake to their attention. Leaving early, so they'd get no more of my money, became the preferred option. Dehydration wasn't an option.
Before going out, I'd known that I was going to simply watch the dance class, rather than take part. A woman who'd tried to coerce me into sleeping with her, and had spent the time since harassing me and telling anyone who'd listen that I'd messed with her feelings, deliberately placed herself in my line of sight. Internally, I laughed at her childish behaviour. Sitting at a table across the room were people who had welcomed her with open arms to the Salsa class I once attended regularly, and had turned a blind eye to her attempts to eject me from that class and the wider dance scene.
Sometimes I question my commitment to not refusing a dance. I knew that, strangely oblivious to my contempt for them, those ladies who'd enabled the bully would ask me to dance. Leaving early became more set in my mind as the only option.
The few dances I had after the class had ended reminded me that feelings are temporary. The smile on my face was genuine, despite everything. Maybe that's the lesson that was learned. Everything is temporary. My half-sister's presence was temporary. My connection with my family was temporary. Friendships, also, are temporary. It's in our nature, however, to shrink back in terror in the face of impermanence - to pine for what once was and become anxious about what will be. We hold on to the things we should let go, and maybe all too easily let go of the things to which we should hold on.
Really, the only thing we have at this moment is the present.
Monday, 18 February 2019
Changes
It's Jeet Kune Do tonight. Even thought I had the courage to start taking part in Salsa classes again last week, and even started attending Yoga, I'll probably make every excuse I can come up with for not going to JKD. It seems strange, because martial arts have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember - well, since I was seven years old anyway. So, what has changed? The answer to that question seems to be that I have.
The break from formal martial arts practice (in a class) was far longer than the break I had from my work. Even in my work though, I struggled after taking that break, and found that I had to adjust my way of working to account for no longer being quite the same.
In Salsa too, there's the sense of now being a very different dancer - not just in the way I dance but in the person who's present on the dance floor. Sometimes I wish I was still that awkward guy who was learning to dance, but said little and was really only there for the lessons. By slow degrees, I was pulled into the social aspects of the hobby, and there are friends in the dance scene who I wouldn't change for anything, but interacting with others is also at the root of many of the difficulties I'm now having with Salsa.
It would be all too easy to hide away from the world at the moment, becoming increasingly isolated and, to be honest, feeling a lot worse for it. What I'm currently reading about the effects of trauma, however, is that taking such action would be detrimental to my recovery. Another drawback of becoming isolated would be the negative impact on my health of the tendency to become more sedentary when alone.
I keep telling myself that it's just an hour of my time. Something else is going on though. There's a reluctance to spend time with other people, and the difficulty is in understanding why that should be. Maybe there's a vague feeling that I have to come to terms with how I've changed and am still changing, before feeling fit for the company of others.
The break from formal martial arts practice (in a class) was far longer than the break I had from my work. Even in my work though, I struggled after taking that break, and found that I had to adjust my way of working to account for no longer being quite the same.
In Salsa too, there's the sense of now being a very different dancer - not just in the way I dance but in the person who's present on the dance floor. Sometimes I wish I was still that awkward guy who was learning to dance, but said little and was really only there for the lessons. By slow degrees, I was pulled into the social aspects of the hobby, and there are friends in the dance scene who I wouldn't change for anything, but interacting with others is also at the root of many of the difficulties I'm now having with Salsa.
It would be all too easy to hide away from the world at the moment, becoming increasingly isolated and, to be honest, feeling a lot worse for it. What I'm currently reading about the effects of trauma, however, is that taking such action would be detrimental to my recovery. Another drawback of becoming isolated would be the negative impact on my health of the tendency to become more sedentary when alone.
I keep telling myself that it's just an hour of my time. Something else is going on though. There's a reluctance to spend time with other people, and the difficulty is in understanding why that should be. Maybe there's a vague feeling that I have to come to terms with how I've changed and am still changing, before feeling fit for the company of others.
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