Extending empathy

I went to a talk on empathy a few days ago. It was about the determinants of empathy and the things that result in it’s erosion or loss. It began with an image of a Cold Water Immersion experiment at Dachau and I should have realised, at that point, that my expectations of an uplifting ‘empathy will change the world session’ were wildly off key.

So I learnt a lot about how empathy is made up of cognitive and affective elements, and the groups of people who, scientifically, lack empathy. About how your early experiences, unsurprisingly, impact your ability to relate. About how hormones, genes and situation are just some of the things that inform where you sit on the empathy spectrum, and about how experiencing empathy is neurologically mapped and far less consistent than I imagined.

Any questions that I might have had about a lack of empathy were answered; those around why it’s so important and how we nurture empathy were not. And, whilst the association between a lack of empathy and cruelty were clear; I’m not quite sure that we arrived at a good understanding of exactly why empathy is so positive. This was probably outside the scope of the talk but it has got me thinking about why I jump at the word empathy, why I seize and cling onto it, and why it has felt, in the past few months, increasingly significant.

After the presentation, a member of the audience asked whether, as a society, we implicitly value a lack of empathy. Whether the qualities of ruthlessness and decisiveness so often seen in positions of power are rewarded more than the softer qualities of empathy.

The question surprised me, although it shouldn’t have. In my little corner of the world, empathy is celebrated. Loudly. It is neither woolly nor weak but is, instead, intrinsic to how we build strong relationships and how, as individuals and then as a society, we grow. It is challenging because it forces us to question our behaviour; and the flexibility it promises derives, not from indecision or fickleness, but an ability to move position and perspective. It matters to me because it has been so important in bridging the gap between myself and the world, and because it offers a way, I think, towards acceptance and out of loneliness that has the potential to change lives.

And so I have been trying to work out how to hold onto my conviction in the value empathy and also the idea that there are times where empathy can’t be the focus – and how, should this be the case, we navigate this precarious line. To see how empathy works on a macro, as well as a micro scale; or whether the personal nature of the feeling makes it impossible to translate. Whether an empathetic movement must, therefore, work like a ripple – or whether there are things that, on a larger scale, we are able to do? I kind of think there are – in terms of education and reducing barriers and sharing experience – but I wonder if this will reach far enough?

Hold. On.

I thought I’d lost a bit of myself yesterday. 

I felt the rip, sharp and unexpected, and then a nausea as my centre of gravity was thrown off course. 

At first,  it felt as though the tear was irreparable; and, as the ground shifted, I had that chilling sense that comes from recognising how fundamentally we are alone –

And. 

Then. 

As I shot my arms out to try and re-gain my balance, I discovered that there were hands waiting to hold me steady for a while and I realised that even though we are alone, really, we do not have to do it on our own. 

And so, for a while, I held on. Hold. On. And, whilst I inspected the damage – because there is no point in papering over these experiences – I clung onto the people who were keeping me standing and were waiting, although I had nearly forgotten, to help me back up should I fall –

I did not fall.

I listened, instead, as they stood in for my voice which was wavering and my self belief, which had taken a bit of a hit. I shared, and in the act of sharing, discovered that, whilst we experience things separately, the experience is often not ours alone -

And I realised how incredibly awesome and humbling friendships are. How we come together to hold each other up. How when we wobble, hands shoot out to keep us steady and, should we feel as though we are crumbling, friends help to piece us together again.

Music is the thing that -

“Music is the thing that keeps pulling us back into the world”

I saw this quote on Twitter yesterday.

Apparently it was from a green-eyed man cradling an old harmonica. It made me pause for a moment in recognition –

Yes. Music is many things but it is also that.

I was trying, as I fell asleep, to work out how it was that it pulls you back. Whether the pulling back is something to do with how your feet tap when a good song is playing, or how music can get under your skin and make you want to dance. Whether it is the associations that you make around a piece of music which bind you into the world. Whether it is something to do with the lyrics and the yanking back works like the fizz of connection: an empathy that reminds you that you’re not alone; a moment of recognition –

Those words speak to me.

And sometimes the words aren’t necessary because the same is true of the rhythm or tune.

It has been a month of music for me which might be why the quote struck me so powerfully. There has been jazz, and live music, and songs that have taken my breath away. I have had a soundtrack running permanently in the background, punctuating every element of my day: something cheerful for my walk to the bus stop in the morning; mellow rock or some old classics to work to; a strong beat on my way home if I’m going out; a soulful voice to send me to sleep at night. This is not, I guess, particularly unusual but it is, for me, a significant shift. I think I lived for a long time without music. I think I cut it out because I remember being scared of those dark chords that captured emotions I did not want to be feeling, and the sense of alienation that came from listening to things that jarred with where I was. I remember, also, years of getting lost in music which adds an interesting twist to the harmonica man’s quote.

Maybe it just means that it can be the escape and the connection?

Or that the experience of playing music is different to that of listening to it?

I don’t know. Ever since I heard a neuroscientist describe how music is processed in both the left and right side of the brain, I have been fascinated – and awed – by how powerful music is. The science added another dimension to something I had only previously felt. Maybe it is, amongst other things, also this: that we take the world and make sense of it through music; and take what we learn or experience through music back into the world. . Or maybe it is more ethereal than that and music can also be the doorway between the wider human experience and ourselves.

A few things I’d like to share….

I am staring out of my bedroom window waiting for the inspiration to hit me.

I am sure that I must have had a few interesting thoughts this week; but at the moment, they are just out of sight.

I am gazing, instead, at the triangle of roof gardens and back-walls that are hidden behind the terraces of South West London and always make me smile. There is something intimate and collective about the convergence of houses that shrinks a City which often feels far too big. I guess this happens to lots of things when they become familiar, rather than unknown.

If I could string words into a sentence, I’d share my week here. I’d write it into my memory so that the magic is not taken for granted, nor lost; and because sharing is another thing that brings the world closer together, I am beginning to understand.

I’d tell you about the urban circus that I saw last wednesday. About the artists who flung themselves into the air and then caught each other as they rolled. About the man, framed in firelight, who spun and danced in a giant hula hoop, and moved so powerfully and lyrically that it made me want to cry. About the strong beats and sharp movements, infused with a passion and danger that electrified – and united – the audience, and took my breath away.

I’d tell you, too, about my baby nephew. About how I visit my sister sometimes before work and hold him, while he’s still morning fresh and bouncy. About the fact that I can feel him fighting back now, as he grows stronger; and how he rubs his face on my jacket because he hasn’t quite learnt what to do about an itch.

It is, like the circus was, amazing to watch, though in a very different way.

If I wasn’t scared of mixing big and small, I’d keep writing and tell you about a guy that I’ve met and how I have been humming under my breath and waking up with a smile. I’d write about the tree outside my window at work that formed small sharp buds a few weeks ago and is now in full flower. I’d describe how humbling the London marathon was to watch; and  how intense it felt to also watch the stories that went past. I’d write about walking up Lavender Hill last night as the sun set over London and how beautiful it was to look north over the sloping terraced roofs –

And I do not write about these things that colour my life.

I shy away from the personal and aim for a conclusion. I take for granted the everyday and the things that don’t automatically fall under “miracle”. I am a little scared of the repercussions of sharing -

Yet it is this sharing, I am beginning to realise, that both shrinks – and expands – our worlds.

Raindrops

This is my daydreaming song.

I wanted to include it here because it seems to fit, so exactly, with where my head is at the moment.

It makes me smile that I am still surprised to hear others articulate my feelings. We are all, I think, learning similar lessons, and often multiple times. Experience. Reflect. Learn. Forget. Experience. Reflect. Learn –

This is the process I am going through anyway, although the reflection sometimes comes before the experience and some lessons do not need to be reinforced.

There is a warm buzz from hearing thoughts that were hazy and unformed to me being sung. It is, I guess, one of the ways we share things that we feel alone. Every now and then a few words or a couple of stanzas come along that capture a moment, or illuminate a thought, or reflect a feeling –

The strength of resonance is quite awesome.

I am borrowing these lines from this song –

“you don’t know but that’s okay”

And

“Around each corner, there’s a chance, people searching glance to glance”

The second is, for me, about the magic and the vulnerability of connecting with others. The first captures an uncertainty that I am finding strangely beautiful at the moment.

Comments and conversations

My new blog emails me when I get a comment.

I know it’s nothing special, but it’s made me aware of my reaction.

There is a split second, before I read it, when the vulnerability of writing is acute –

And then the fear dissipates in the shift to dialogue.

I am beginning to realise that the connections which come from writing are one of the main reasons that I blog. This is a change from when I started, and the emphasis was on telling my story or writing my feelings into sense. There are two interactions, now, that keep me writing: the first happens in exchanging thoughts for words; and the second in watching where the conversation goes. What I was mistaking for the finished thought, is only the starting point –

This has been a revelation, though it might have been obvious to everyone else.

Sometimes there is the click of identification; at other times, an opinion stops me in my tracks; often, the act of sharing generates a special kind of warmth.  I am struck by the power of this connection because it has been so painfully under-valued in the past. When the defences are high or the fear of criticism, paralysing, there is less space for opening yourself to what other people think.  As I get a little more courageous and stop turning everything inwards, then I am discovering that sharing – and exchanging – and challenging ideas is one of the most exciting experiences we have.

And so, suddenly, I have discovered a hungry curiosity. An appetite for hearing different stories and exploring new ideas and being challenged in what I think. I can see it in how I feel about blogging and commenting; but also in how I am gradually venturing out into the world.

I have always been a little bit scared of people but as I keep forging connections and finding points of identification – or being challenged by the differences – this is starting to change. There is a little intake as you put a bit of yourself out in the world, but it’s amazing to discover where each new “hello” will go

Nothing and Everything

I would like to write a post in sounds or actions because it has felt, over the past few weeks, like I am unable to speak. Words, which I have always believed to be fundamental to connection, have felt elusive and inadequate; and the sense of what I am trying to say, just out of reach. The sentences form – and then when I open my mouth or touch finger to keypad, I find that the order of words has suddenly gone. At other times, I know exactly what I want to say, but there are a hundred reasons why I can’t.

And so I have sat, staring at a blank screen, desperate to write my thoughts into sense. Have been on the edge of speaking– and then yanked myself back before casting the lifeline. Have strung words into order, and then edited out the meaning until they don’t say what I really want. It has felt, horribly, as though I have been gagged.

Earlier today I sent a very special friend a message. It said nothing and everything. I sent it knowing that I was lost for words, but also that I was desperate to reach out.

This is what I learnt –

• That sometimes you have to start at the outside of the conversation  - hello, I’m here, I want to start speaking – and talk inwards until you reach what you are trying to say.
• That it is the dialogue, sometimes, that helps extract the meaning; and that words are different in interaction than they are on their own.
• That you can borrow words when you are struggling; and that sometimes, other people can say it better than you can.
• That it helps to say that you do not have the words, rather then to sit back and let the silence grow.
• That sometimes it does not matter what you say because the connection can be founded in words that have already been said.
• That wanting to speak is normal because telling our stories is one of the most important things that we do.
• That it is probably the connection I am seeking and the words, whilst important, are a vehicle rather than an end goal.

Inspiring Women

I forgot it was International Women’s Day today. Everyone was talking about pancakes yesterday and I am terrible with dates.

It has been fascinating to watch the mentions flying across Twitter. Articles highlighting women who have changed the world. Talks from inspirational and passionate women who are leading society in new directions. Analyses of women’s changing role. Examples of where there’s still inequality in the world. I have felt inspired, curious, proud. The pride is interesting as I have not always felt this way.

This morning, my friend tweeted a question that read something like: “what do you think is cool about being a girl?”. It has been rumbling around my head all day. I would have replied clothes, had I not felt a little ashamed that, after all the feminist activity, I went straight to the outside. Then I wanted to mention kindness and compassion, but I didn’t want to infer that these qualities were absent in men. Motherhood was the next thing, but that went back to role.

Hmmm.

I have been thinking about the women I particularly admire and the list has been surprising. I thought that I’d come up with at least a few politicians or women who’d made their mark in history, but my names fall into two clear lists. Those who share a brutal honesty; and those who are closer to home.

Those who bare their soul…

My list of awe-inspiring women was full of writers. Emily Dickinson. Charlotte Bronte. Virginia Woolf. Jean Rhys. Maggie O’Farrell. I was trying to work out what exactly it was about these authors that so impressed me, and I think it is something like this. They say the things that I can’t say. They put into words, whether as poetry, fiction or prose, feelings that I can’t express and might not even have otherwise recognised. This exposure has not only opened the doors for what women can write and the consequent conversations, but it has also provided a thread that, for me, runs through the wider female experience and helps me to identify with women then and today.

Connectivity with other women goes back to the women who are part of my life today.

Closer to home.

I have not always viewed other women as friends. I have had a tendency to project my insecurities into relationships, or to find myself in contexts where competition is rife. I have been guarded. Jealous. Distrustful. Intimidated. Threatened. Bitchy.

Over the past few years, I have been shown that this is not the only way. The other women that inspire me are the friends that have taught me generosity and compassion and acceptance. Women who lead by example. Those who break boundaries to do the things that are important to them. Women who care passionately and selflessly and proactively, and are not afraid to admit to caring.

There are lots of these women in my life today. Friends, mentors, people whose blogs and tweets reach out to people. Women who have opened up to me and enabled me to do the same. Those whose generosity has fundamentally shifted my perception of female friendships. Women who make a big impact on other people every single day –

And so, if you ask me why it’s so cool to be a girl and I am brave enough to give an honest answer, it is for these reasons. It is because women are complex and complicated and compassionate. Because we are sometimes our own worst enemies and, yet, when push comes to shove, fiercely protective. Because we care and feel passionately. Because we are brave in sharing. Because we are as vulnerable as we are courageous. And because we get to wear great clothes.

Another year older….

It was my birthday last weekend.

Another year older. A few more grey hairs.

My feet are still sore because we danced ’til the early hours. Twice. In fact, I have danced more in the past six months than in all the preceding years put together, and this is what my 30th year taught me about life – once you’ve dipped your toe in, it’s hard not to jump.

And when you do….

I was looking back at a post that I wrote on my birthday last year. I was trying, then, to look forward; but it was a struggle when the regret was heavy and kept yanking me back. This has shifted. The last year has been so full of first times and unexpected discoveries; of ups, downs and surprises; that I am giddy for life, both excited and curious about what will come next. Now that I’ve seen how quickly things can change and just how much there is to explore, there are a million things that I want to try and I’m firmly focused on what’s ahead.

I am yet to go to my first football match, or drink a pint of beer, or watch the sun rise over the Thames, or wobble around Hyde Park on a Boris bike. There are far flung and round-the-corner places that I haven’t visited; routes I haven’t walked; experiences just waiting to happen; people that I am yet to meet -

Because this is the other thing that I learnt last year: when you’re open to the world, it both expands and shrinks.

This year has been magically full of people. Old friends, new friends, people that have passed through and those that have stayed. Kindred spirits, guardian angels, teachers. People that have unexpectedly stretched out a hand and those that have caught me when I jumped -

It is easier to be courageous when you’re feeling connected.

It is also easier to keep looking forward when you get a glimpse of just how much there is to explore.

The “be your own best friend” philosophy.

I am not done with the Brené Brown video yet. I thought I was after the vulnerability stuff clicked together my connection thinking; but I might have missed a crucial bit out –

The because I’m worth it bit.

I was reminded of this yesterday when a wise man suggested that I started being my own best friend.

Now there’s a thought. Wouldn’t life look very different if I wasn’t continually tripping myself up.

This is what Brown says -

“There was only one variable that separated the people who have a strong sense of love and belonging, and the people who really struggle for it and that was, the people who have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they’re worthy of love and belonging. That’s it. They believe they’re worthy.”

And later this:

“..the compassion to be kind to themselves first and then to others because, as it turns out, we can’t practice compassion with other people if we can’t treat ourselves kindly.”

I’m not sure it’s this absolute but the compassion is wobbly, I think, if we’re not solid at the base. It is far easier to be empathetic and open if we’re practising that with ourselves; and far easier to reach out if we’re not hiding, which is the other condition that self-judgement and non-acceptance creates.

And so I have decided, for a while, to pad out this “be your own best friend” philosophy; or, at least, to stop shooting myself so painfully down. To start, again, with the basics; and see if by sorting out how I treat myself, it changes how I get on with the world. The temptation has always been to undertake this activity back to front. To assume that if the focus is on how I treat others, I’ll get to myself in the end –

Maybe.

But maybe I’ll have a little more energy to do this if I’m not fighting a running commentary, nor neglecting the simple signs of respect that I would pay to someone else. Smile, be nice, have a hug, be honest, accept the full person, don’t always point out where they’re wrong, be curious, forgive…That kind of thing.

It’s hugely important to connect with others; but it’s also hugely important to connect with someone who isn’t going anywhere: yourself.