I wrote article B in part to promote an Experience Hypnosis workshop I’m giving. My wife Elizabeth was quite scathing about it (because she says it was not suitable for my intended audience) and suggested rewrites. As a result of her suggestions, I produced article A. (Note that article B is the original article, but I want you to read the amended article first.) On the basis that nature may have construed things to make women always right (according to Nietzsche), I submitted article B for publication in the local paper. But, I’m curious to know, which do you find most interesting? The articles are little more than 400 words each, so please read them, and respond to the poll.
Article A
What is Hypnosis and How Can It Be Used Therapeutically?
I first began hypnotizing people when I was 11 years old – long before I knew how to use it.
The reason there are so many different attempts to explain hypnosis is that it is not really understood. This isn’t surprising, because it relates to the unconscious, which we can only have indirect knowledge about.
Hypnosis is a method that enables us to put aside the conscious mind to communicate directly with the unconscious. But what is the unconscious?
The distinction between being asleep (a non-conscious state) and being awake (a conscious state) is easy to understand and needs no explanation. But there is another non-conscious state that isn’t sleeping. In hypnosis we enter into such a non-conscious state, referred to as trance.
We experience elements of trance in everyday life too, when we are awake. The evidence that people are hypnotized include amnesia (forgetting something), analgesia (reduced pain), hallucination (seeing something that isn’t there), catalepsy (forgetting that my limb is frozen in an unusual position), and time distortion (time seemingly passing more slowly or quickly) are not unusual experiences in normal waking life. The unconscious is not something that only emerges when we are hypnotized; it’s there all the time. This makes it a difficult concept to grasp.
Without any understanding of what it is, hypnosis can look like magic, and this is how it is often presented in popular culture. It gives rise to myths about hypnosis: specifically, the notion that in hypnosis people can be made to do things against their will. In fact, any hypnotherapist will concede that it’s hard enough in hypnosis to get people to behave in the way they consciously desire.
It’s much easier to manipulate the conscious mind than the unconscious. The conscious mind is comparatively dull and simple. The unconscious is much, much more capable. You can’t make people do what they don’t want to do in hypnosis, so there’s nothing to fear about going into trance. When people appear to make a fool of themselves in stage hypnosis, they are happy and willing to do so.
Hypnosis is a way of communicating with the unconscious part of us. The unconscious won’t agree to anything that isn’t supportive of the person. But if we can find ways of working with the unconscious to benefit the whole person, hypnosis is a powerful therapeutic tool.
Article B
What is Hypnosis and How Can It Be Used Therapeutically?
The reason there are so many different and competing attempts to explain hypnosis is that it is not really understood. The reason it defies explanation is to do with the nature of consciousness, which is ineffable. In fact, consciousness is so ineffable that it’s not even possible to formulate the question that we’re trying to answer.
Despite the problem, but armed at least with a handle indicating why it defies description, I shall make an attempt to explain hypnosis.
The distinction between being asleep (a non-conscious state) and being awake (a conscious state) is easy to understand and needs no explanation. But there is another non-conscious state that isn’t sleeping. In hypnosis we enter into such a non-conscious state, referred to as trance.
Although impossible to describe, we have all experienced non-conscious awakeness. Up until the age of around eight, children are not conscious. From age eight consciousness begins to develop.
We experience elements of trance in everyday life too, when we are awake. The unconscious is not something that only emerges when we are hypnotized; it’s there all the time. You can see why it’s not easy to comprehend.
What are called ‘hypnotic phenomena’, which are indicators of hypnotic trance, all frequently occur in everyday life. Hypnotic phenomena, including amnesia, analgesia, hallucination, catalepsy and time distortion, are not unusual experiences in waking life. Elements of what I have been calling unconsciousness are present in (apparent) consciousness.
Human beings are the only species that have consciousness. All animals, I contend, are unconscious: that is, when awake, they are in a non-conscious state that isn’t sleep. This state is certainly baffling: it’s indescribable in terms of consciousness.
Animals have amazing unconscious abilities, and the unconscious abilities of human beings are far, far greater than the abilities of the conscious mind. Comparing the two is slightly ridiculous – like comparing the size of the solar system to the galaxy. If, through hypnosis, we were able to manipulate just some of these abilities, we would have a very powerful tool.
With this concept of the unconscious, hypnosis is a bit more explicable. Hypnosis is a method of putting aside the conscious mind to get direct access to the unconscious.
Without such an understanding, hypnosis looks like magic and gives rise to myths about hypnosis: specifically, the notion that in hypnosis people can be made to do things against their will. In fact, the unconscious is much more dependable. When people make a fool of themselves in trance, they are happy and willing to do so.
Hypnosis is a way of communicating with this unconscious part of us. It won’t do anything that isn’t supportive of the person. But if we can find ways of working with the unconscious to the benefit of the whole person, hypnosis is a powerful therapeutic tool.
Emotional intelligence demands that we get in touch with emotions. But why is it so important?
Emotions are intimately associated with feelings, but are separate and different. Emotions are bound up with consciousness.
Feelings are physical. Feelings occur in the body; they are somatic. Feelings drive action. Without feelings, you wouldn’t do anything. Feelings motivate. Generally: good feelings move us towards something; bad feelings move us away from something. Feelings are the way the body communicates with you (you wouldn’t want to hear voices, would you?)
It’s possible to have a feeling but not know what the emotion is. I’ve got a feeling in my chest. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling. What is it? I consider what’s happened to me antecedent to this feeling, and make a mental deduction: I feel bad; X happened; X usually produces emotion B; so I have emotion B.
Mental reasoning is not the way to identify an emotion. But this is what people do.
Love, sadness, guilt, joy, shame, anger, and so on, are words that have meanings, or concepts. Concepts are mental entities; they belong in the realm of conscious mind. But the experience of love, sadness, guilt, and so on, is not the same as the mental concept.
An emotion is not an idea; but nor is it equivalent to the physical feeling. What then is it?
First: this is how to get in touch with your emotions. You have an awareness that you’re experiencing an emotion. Take your awareness to your body, specifically your abdomen and thorax. You’ll notice a physical feeling – perhaps a pulling, a heaviness, a tightness, or (in the abdomen) a churning. The somatic feeling is the physical manifestation of the emotion. (If you ‘feel’ the emotion in your back or limbs or head, this is a symptom of the emotion, but it’s not the manifestation of the emotion.)
Tune in to the physical feeling in your abdomen or thorax. Don’t go into your head and start thinking, but tune in to the physical feeling in your body. Be with the feeling. Now become aware of the emotion that is associated with that feeling.
This emotion is experienced through consciousness. Like a sixth sense, it is experienced through a particular type of awareness. It isn’t a mental concept; it isn’t the physical feeling; nor is it perceived through one of the five senses. Emotions are, however, a quality that permeates all experience. Without emotion there is no humanity, and nothing has meaning or value. Denying, disavowing or suppressing emotions creates pathology and illness and negates life.
Nelson Mandela achieved something unique: he was all things to all people. To the oppressed people under Apartheid he was a major figure in the struggle for liberation. For white South Africans he provided leadership which brought a peaceful transition to democracy, when many expected civil war. In the world outside South Africa he was a symbol of a fight for freedom that almost everyone could identify with. Though some people try to be possessive about him and claim him for one group or another, more than anyone else in our time, Mandela belongs to everyone, in South Africa and throughout the world.
From my viewpoint, what has placed Mandela in this unique position and makes him such a profound example for the rest of us was his adherence to principles. He held the principles on which he based his life as more important to him than his own life, which he not only claimed he was willing to sacrifice, but said so in a situation, his trial, where the claim itself could have cost him his life.
Politics is a game in which pragmatism, ideology and personal gain can easily overcome principles, and very often do. Mandela did not let his own personal interests corrupt the work of his principles. His role was to help bring about the liberation of South Africa in such a way that there was a possibility for all its citizens to fulfil their dreams. He achieved this, and then stepped down. But the work has only just begun. The vision of a non-racial democracy could hardly be further away than it is now.
Following his example, our duty to ourselves, as I see it, is to develop principles that express and articulate our own unique selves, and live according to them. By doing this, we can begin to repair the ruptured integrity of the country, and begin to build the non-racial democracy that was at the heart of the vision of those who struggled for liberation.
Kinesiology, or energy kinesiology as it is properly called (to distinguish it from the study of the mechanics of body movement), was created by Dr George Goodheart, a chiropractor, in the early 1960s. Since then, largely through the vision and work of Dr John Thie, who created Touch for Health so anyone can learn to heal with kinesiology without any specialist medical training, kinesiology has spread all over the world.
Many branches of kinesiology have developed, with very different methodologies, because the basic tools of kinesiology are so flexible and adaptable. All the different energy kinesiology schools have two elements in common: (1) muscle testing; and (2) traditional Chinese medicine. For this very brief introduction to kinesiology I shall focus on the first of these.
Muscle testing is an incredibly versatile and powerful tool. It isn’t a therapy in itself, but rather a method that allows information to be communicated by the body. This is comparable with ideo-motor responses in hypnosis, where finger signals (for example) communicate yes and no unconscious responses, and the pendulum, which communicates unconscious yes and no responses by exaggerating barely perceptible unconscious shoulder or arm movements.
Kinesiologists usually prefer to identify unstressed and stressed responses (rather than yes and no responses), but the principle is similar. Put simply: the body’s response to a stimulus is tested by applying gentle pressure to a contracted muscle. If the muscle doesn’t hold in place (‘unlocks’), the body is indicating that the stimulus causes the body stress. If the muscle holds (‘locks’), the body is indicating that the stimulus is not stressful.
Not only can the muscle test show when a stimulus causes stress but, when the body is under stress, it can show whether a stimulus counters the stress. So muscle tests reveal stressors and also remedies.
The stimulus or remedy could be a food or substance. Many people who have heard of kinesiology think of it as a way of determining whether foods, remedies or supplements are helpful or not, or whether a person has a sensitivity to a food or substance. But the stimulus can be ‘psychological’: the thought of an activity, circumstance, memory, person and so on can create a stressed or unstressed response in the body, indicated by a muscle test.
For example, if you think of a past experience which still troubles you, or a person who upsets you, or a situation that taxes you, your body will indicate the stress through an unlocking muscle response. Muscle tests can also indicate an activity, remedy or other solution that counters the stress.
The art of muscle testing takes time to master but is easy to learn and will enhance any healing method. It can identify particular stresses and the best methods to heal them. This makes muscle testing a very powerful tool indeed.
A few years ago I participated in a group relations conference in England, called Being Meaning Engaging, hosted by the Grubb Institute.
The ‘task’ was to work with the rest of the group to construct an imaginary institution. In the words of the programme, the purpose of the conference was ‘To develop a spirit of enquiry into the lived experience of organizational life in order to promote creativity, innovation and transformation in our interconnected world.’ Sounds strange? Yes. But participants – including me – nevertheless engaged very enthusiastically – and revealingly.
The next few paragraphs, which I rediscovered today, I wrote soon after the conference, in my attempt to understand what had occurred.
The roles participants take may be consciously assumed (as the conference explicitly encouraged); or they may be (as happened very often) partially projected on to participants by others in the system.
When a participant assumes a role that is coherent, consistent and intelligible, it is difficult for others to project roles on to him or her. There is little space to do so because the person does not provide a target conducive to others’ projections. However, such participants may use their role to serve or sabotage the purpose of the organization.
On the other hand, participants who are quiet, unassertive or inconsistent (because not working to purpose) in their behaviour are more likely to provide a welcome and sticky target for others’ projections; in other words, for the unwanted and denied stuff of fellow participants. This unwanted and denied stuff, projected on to others, can easily congeal into roles that serve those others.
Participants who are subject to others’ projections, unless they are very clear about what’s their stuff and what’s others’ stuff, will conflate theirs and others’ stuff and may well (though confused, resistant and ambivalent) take on the roles proffered by others.
This must be true in life outside of the learning experiment of the group relations conference too.
If your life is not purposeful, you can easily be co-opted to serve the purposes of others.
Roles only exist in some framework or other, such as work, family, social organization. We all exist and have, or are given, roles in such frameworks. But if you have not determined your own purpose in these roles, again, you can easily be co-opted by the purposes of others.
As soon as you allow yourself to be co-opted for the purposes of others, you lose who you are. You become less yourself and more a ghost behaving according to others’ wishes and projections. You lose direction and sense of self. You become confused, resentful, unfulfilled. The world becomes an alien place and you become an alien in it.
The answer is consciously to determine and assume your role – one that is coherent, consistent and intelligible – in the various frameworks (or ‘discourses’, to use Michel Foucault’s term) in which you live, move and have your being. This may involve some self-discipline, courage and effort. But if you do this, you won’t be a sticky target for others’ projections; or, worse, a ball for others to kick around. You won’t become resentful and confused because you’re working to others’ agendas rather than your own.
Instead, you will be taking ownership of and responsibility for your life – giving yourself the chance of gaining the peace and satisfaction that comes from fulfilling your potential.
Our daughter Charlotte was born entirely naturally at Warwick Hospital on 8 May at 19:20. She weighed 7 lb 5½ oz.
We had thought all through that she was a boy. My wife Elizabeth suffered particularly from sickness in the early part of her pregnancy, and she was so enormous – well, so I thought – by the end, that I thought the baby had to be large and a boy (not very scientific reasoning, I concede). There was an additional reason: E secretly wanted a girl and didn’t want to dare hope; I think I felt the same (I have two grown-up sons). By believing the child was a boy we guarded against disappointment. Charlotte was called Nate for many months.
Abigail (3 and ¾ at time of writing) still insists her name is Charlotte Nate Livingstone. She thought she would have a ‘baby sister’ and described it as such throughout the pregnancy, despite our attempts to correct her description to ‘baby sister/brother’. She sometimes would give this description, but overwhelmingly it was decidedly ‘baby sister’. A midwife, who E saw two or three times during her pregnancy and stormed in the morning after Charlotte was born, told E that she knew it was a girl ‘from listening to the heartbeat’.
We had never intended to have a second child. Actually, we hadn’t determined to have a first one – although Abigail existed as an imaginary child for several years before her conception. There was even a child’s chair we called ‘Abigail’s chair’ which predated her by quite a few years. I used to prepare E’s body to have ‘zero or one’ child (to ensure her hips didn’t continue to develop, as it certainly had done after marriage with an unconscious expectation); but I don’t think we entertained the idea of two.
But the idea for a second child emerged and E was pregnant within three months of stopping trying not to get pregnant (which is the same time frame of her previous two pregnancies – the second resulting in Abigail; the first resulting in miscarriage).
E conceived while we were in Croatia. We knew within days that she was pregnant, and her body began changing shape in preparation almost immediately. As a result we thought that she might have become pregnant a month earlier, and this influenced (without real rational consideration, but reinforced by our perception of E’s colossal size) our conviction that baby would come earlier than the due date of 8 May.
As we began to prepare for new baby, rereading Marie Mongan’s Hypnobirthing, and reading Janet Balaskas’ Water Birth Book (the latter academic because there would be no time for that) practising breathing, doing trances, the relationship between E and me was challenged, as issues arose that had been dormant for a while and hadn’t been addressed because of excuses such as preoccupation with work.
Of course we wanted another natural birth – as Charlotte’s sister Abigail’s birth had been. Natural birth meant no drugs, no gas, no stitches, no vitamins; no unnecessary measuring of E’s cervical dilation. Monitoring baby’s heartbeat was acceptable. And there would be no pain. At least, Elizabeth says that pain is a wholly inaccurate word to describe the intense physical sensations of labour, which are ‘too purposeful’ to be described as pain.
E was clear that the agenda of the new baby was this: to make sure that old stuff was properly resolved before its birth – not only between baby’s parents (E and me) but also between parent and other members of the extended family. There would be much less opportunity to do any of this after new baby arrived, and we needed to resolve some old stuff to help our relationship; and, with the news of E’s father’s illness, coming soon after the death of my father, there was a timeframe. We responded positively to these demands. Charlotte, we learned, means free. Charlotte’s agenda was to make us free of past encumbrances.
Two or three days before Charlotte’s arrival E felt a few contractions, and I called my son Alex and asked him to be on standby in case we needed him to stay that night. But he wasn’t required. E’s coz Chantal, who was going to be Abi’s carer during the birthing time of her sibling, had travelled to SA to visit her ill mother; and Sophie, who was next in line for the task, had just gone to Germany for work. So we had to make a number of provisional arrangements, with various permutations, according to different puerperal projections.
Charlotte arrived on her ‘due’ date, which, we fancied, suggested that her personality will be characterized by cooperation and helpfulness – not entirely like her sister, who arrived 14 days ‘late’, the final day before the medical authorities would start to get very agitated – typical of Abi to go to the limit of what she can get away with.
Over the previous week or two we had got everything together that we thought would be required in the hospital, including swimming trunks for me, should E want me in the pool with her. For some reason this whole idea greatly amused Elizabeth. In fact, she went into silent hysterics reading this part of the draft of this text. She must have a very different picture to the one in my imagination. We also packed all the homoeopathic stuff – some of which had been given her by Sophie.
I don’t work with homoeopathic remedies, and all the tubes of capsules and instructions looked daunting to me. So I had a look at the instructions and thought I’d do a practice run by identifying the need for a particular remedy in the book, then finding it in the box of remedies. Well, the remedy I identified, which was caulopphyllum, I couldn’t find in the box. Elizabeth, I said, this isn’t working. I can’t even find the first remedy I’m looking for! She had a look. She couldn’t find it either, but she found two of a different remedy, which explained the missing remedy and why there were no empty spaces in the box. Fortunately, E had another collection of homoeopathic remedies, and replaced the surplus remedy with the missing one.
The morning of 8 May E had a ‘show’ and became overwhelmed with excitement – the same as she’d felt before Abi was born – and knew this would be the day. The arrangements were made for Abi – and I drove her to a halfway rendezvous with Jan at 5:30 pm, who would look after her that night and take her to kindi the next day. All being well, I’d pick her up from kindi on Monday afternoon. That all went according to plan – and it was actually the ideal plan, so Charlotte had chosen her birth day well. (It occurs to me that when a child is celebrating being one year old, it’s actually it’s second birthday, not first.)
As I set out to meet Jan, around 4:45 pm, E’s contractions – or surges, as hypnobirthing prefers to call them – started; but I didn’t know this until I got back home at 6 pm.
At 6:30 pm I called the hospital to let them know that contractions were about three-and-a-half minutes apart and that we would be coming in later, and that E would like access to a birthing pool. We were expecting some opposition to using a birthing pool, suspecting lethargy from the staff. Cousin Tamsin’s doula had to insist that Tamsin would do nothing until they filled the birthing pool – a tactic that worked for her. The resource of firmness can be helpful when dealing with birthing staff.
In fact, the contractions were very variable in their timing, and many were already within three minutes –when E stood up or walked around the surges were less than three minutes apart.
At 7:45 pm I was suggesting to E that we should go to the hospital round about now. She was saying, ‘Are you sure this is it?’ Which was obviously a ridiculous question. And, ‘Maybe they were stronger last time’ (when labouring with Abi); ‘I could hardly walk then when we went to hospital.’ Then she realized: ‘Actually, I can hardly walk now.’
Of course, we wanted to put off going to the hospital as long as possible (this was great advice from E’s GP); but we were also aware second births are usually much swifter than first births. E said 8:15 would be a good time to go. I was thinking we should rather go straightaway, and said ‘If you want to have the baby at home that’s fine with me.’ This galvanized Elizabeth into action.
But by the time we’d got the last few things together and called the hospital to say we were on our way, it was 8:10. As E waited in the car for me to go back inside and fetch something, she had a bearing down contraction, indicating the final stage of labour. She didn’t tell me about this. But when I got into the car to drive to hospital I could see that E did not have long to go.
I forgot where we were going, or forgot where the hospital was, and took an inadvisable detour. But there wasn’t much traffic and we reached the hospital quite soon. All the temporary parking spaces were taken, so we had to park properly and walk further. This wasn’t easy. E was having contractions as we walked, and had to pause to lean against a wall during a surge. Later I was sure she was hanging on to her waters during this walk.
We pressed the buzzer at the entrance to the hospital, announced our arrival and the doors were opened. We took the lift up to the first floor, were allowed through more locked doors, and walked the corridors to the delivery suite. It was 9:45 pm.
We were escorted to a delivery room. E asked for the toilet, and just as she entered her waters broke. This was a new experience for E, since with Abi the waters didn’t break, and we rejected the early suggestion to do this artificially; and when I asked for this to be done (an hour later, regrettably, than I should have done), Abi emerged moments later.
The midwife who had brought us into the room asked where E’s pregnancy papers were. Oh, no. I didn’t have them. I thought I’d left them at home. Don’t worry, said this midwife. But a different midwife who entered the room moments later, and who would take charge of the delivery, took a contrary view. These papers were of utmost importance, apparently. E said they were in the car, and I was directed to fetch them.
I hurried out – and was told later that the midwives had tried to rush after me because with E’s next contraction they thought baby was on its way. But I got back with the papers – which no one had time to read. Even the birth plan wasn’t found until after Charlotte’s birth – but the midwife was interested in its contents and did check with me. I told her no episiotomy, no vitamin K, as much quiet as possible and I think I added that we wanted no entreaties to push.
When I got back from the car with the papers they hadn’t managed to get E on to the bed, but I encouraged her crawl on to the bed. Once on the bed, on hands and knees, the front of the bed was raised to give a greater elevation to the top of E’s body, allowing the assistance of gravity. This was E’s favoured position for the birth of Abi and she had envisaged it to be her favoured position for this birth.
E’s surges were accompanied by screams – which were so long that I feared her lungs would be entirely depleted. The midwife seemed even more concerned than I was on this account and gently but urgently added her entreaty to mine that E take a breath. This was certainly a sound I hadn’t heard before. With Abi the sound had been deep groans rather than long screams.
I asked the midwife to make sure that the bright light that was at that moment directed to the birthing zone was moved away, at least before baby emerged. She respectfully did so. One midwife was still trying to find our birth plan (which wasn’t found until some time after Charlotte’s birth).
Meconium was evident in the amniotic fluid, with the risk of serious complications if baby breathed it into her lungs, and this gave great concern to the midwives. They wanted to know if it was okay to invite some specialist medical team to be present. I said they could be on standby, but I didn’t want them in the room. E overruled this, and said it was okay behind the curtain. Later, actually when Elizabeth read a draft of this blog, I learned that E had thought the midwives were referring to a machine, not people, which is why she had said it was okay for it to go behind the curtain. Fortunately, there wasn’t time for anyone to get there.
I assumed the meconium came from the stress of E not allowing her waters to break until she was in the delivery room.
E counted six or seven contractions from entry into the hospital before the emergence of baby’s head. Midwife reported the emergence of baby’s head to me. I can’t see because I’m close to E’s face, encouraging her to relax and breathe. And I reported this to E. I suspect she already knew. I told midwife I’d like to take the baby when it comes. With the next contraction baby’s whole body emerged. It was 9:20 pm, 35 minutes after we arrived in the delivery suite.
I held baby as it emerged, but it wasn’t easy for me to pass baby to E because the cord was quite short. E had to change position in order for me to pass baby underneath her. Baby was so soft that though I could feel her weight I couldn’t actually feel her skin – exactly the sensation I had when Abigail was born.
I passed her to Elizabeth. Elizabeth noticed she was a girl – I was so busy trying to pass her safely to E without dropping her that I hadn’t seen. We were both delighted – and surprised. Abigail had been right. E put her straight to the breast – after loosening some clothing – but baby wasn’t ready to drink for a few minutes.
But she did cry. Actually, she came out screaming – sounding rather like her mother a few minutes earlier. The screaming was very good because it demonstrated that baby’s lungs were fine – midwives were concerned because of the presence of meconium. Well done, Charlotte, keeping the medical staff at bay by letting them know your lungs are working fine. (Abigail hadn’t cried when she was born.)
When the midwife offered me a hospital towel I impatiently asked her to get one of our towels from the bag – but later discovered that the hospital towel wasn’t too old or coarse. We didn’t clean baby immediately because the crusty layer helps protect baby’s vulnerable skin from the air which she is newly exposed to, but just wrapped her in the towel to keep her warm.
A few minutes later she was ready to feed. I could tell because her lip was curling in search of the breast.
Once the cord stopped pulsing I agreed to the cutting of the cord. Midwife offered the clamp to me, but I was not interested in doing this task, and the midwife did it.
I said that we wanted the placenta to be delivered naturally. The midwife seemed impatient and tugged at the cord once or twice. I was sure that this was counterproductive and holding up the delivery of the placenta. I probably should have been more firm, but I did suggest this wasn’t helpful. After 40 minutes, with continued concern from the midwife about the placenta, I looked at the homeopathic remedies. Elizabeth needed caulopphyllum – the remedy to help the delivery of the placenta when the mother was trembling. This was exactly the remedy that hadn’t been in the original box and we’d had to replace from another source! Within five minutes of taking this remedy the placenta emerged. The midwife was impressed and asked for the name of the remedy.
We both held her, and put her down, and picked her up again. We were very happy, pleased and proud. I was proud of Elizabeth having another completely natural delivery – even if the timing was a bit of a close shave!
Baby was perfectly content. In appearance her body was very different from Abigail’s. Abi had surprised us because when she put her arms up they reached way beyond her head – which wasn’t normal, we thought. Abi had exceptionally long limbs and fingers. But when Charlotte put up her arms they hardly reached above her head – which is more normal for babies.
After a feed, we allowed the midwife to weigh her. Charlotte cried then, but the midwife was respectful and careful.
One hour old
There was no hurry to move us on and get us out of the room, as there had been when Abi was born. The midwives were quite content with us staying where we were. They even suggested E had a bath – an offer she gladly accepted.
The midwives left us alone for some time. Using considerable amounts of paper towel I cleared up the blood on the floor that E had shed en route to the bathroom. Then I went to the car to retrieve my camera, and took photos.
By 11 pm E was bathed, Charlotte had a nappy and was dressed, and we were ready to go.
The midwives gave no opposition to our leaving – we had declined the paediatrician examination, since Abigail had been assaulted by the hospital paediatrician after her birth – but all the paperwork had to be completed, and this took quite a while.
We left the hospital about 1 am. Charlotte was carefully shielded from all the bright lights as we walked back to the car, and in the car itself as we drove home extremely carefully.
When we got home E was craving camomile tea – which we later discovered was a key remedy preventing Charlotte from developing colic. For several hours we were far too excited to get ready for bed.
Compassion is an emotion or an attitude that seems to be universally advocated as something we should have for those who are less fortunate than ourselves.
Thefreedictionary.com defines compassion as
a feeling of distress and pity for the suffering or misfortune of another, often including the desire to alleviate it
Compassion often leads to action – such as charity giving or other good works to alleviate suffering. Compassion and charity seem intimately connected with each other.
But doesn’t the concept of compassion carry a connotation of superiority; isn’t there an element of patronizing? Indeed, we wouldn’t want to be among the group subject to others’ compassion, would we?
If we are distressed, hurt, subject to prejudice or oppression, I’m not sure that we particularly want others to feel distress for our suffering; we certainly don’t want pity. I suspect the distress is less for us than the fear of becoming like us; or even guilt that they are not like us. And from where I am, I don’t see my position as less fortunate, and rather resent the suggestion.
I’d like to compare compassion with the concept of empathy. In the field of emotional intelligence empathy is regarded as an essential capacity, but it doesn’t really have the same moral weight as compassion.
Empathy is defined by the same dictionary as
the power of understanding and imaginatively entering into another person’s feelings
If we are in a difficult situation what do we want? We want understanding and solidarity, don’t we? We want people on our side, not looking down on us. We don’t want charity, given the choice; we want help to change our circumstances and the means to take our life back into our own hands.
Rather than compassion, empathy provides greater resources for those who need help. Compassion maintains the status quo; empathy challenges it.
Compassion seems to me the ideal attitude to hold towards those who, because of their own insecurities, jealousy, projections, or constitutional advantages, want to put us down and misuse and abuse us. And I wouldn’t want, necessarily, to say that those are the same people that harbour compassion towards us.
‘Don’t call me good!’ declared the mouse. ‘I’m the scariest creature in this wood.’ The mouse is replying to the Gruffalo (characters in the well-known children’s book), who would like to eat him for lunch.
Do you want people to think you’re nice? Do you want others to like you? This is a very common desire – and the source of social anxiety. If we want to be approved of we will be cautious about saying what we believe and what we want, in case others don’t agree or don’t like it. But this puts us at the mercy of others in social situations: of their beliefs, desires, choices.
But why would you want to be considered nice? I think it’s quite insulting to be described as nice. What does it actually mean? That you’re acquiescent? That you’ll do what other people want you to do? That you agree with everyone about everything? That you won’t disagree with what everyone else thinks or wants? That you pay regard to yourself last?
Are these good qualities? Is it nice to have no ideas of your own? Is it nice not to have the courage to stand up for what you believe in? Is it nice to not express your opinions? It might be nice for people who don’t care for your opinions or are only interested in themselves. But it’s not nice for those who want to know what you’re all about. And it’s certainly not nice for you.
Rather than be nice and rather than being liked, wouldn’t you rather that people respect you and think highly of you? Wouldn’t you prefer to express your beliefs and viewpoints, voice your desires and preferences, and express yourself freely?
How do you do that? Well, start with intention, and your body will help you to get there. Decide how you’d like to be, even if others don’t like it. Be very clear about what you want. Know that whatever your social status, level of education, economic circumstances, you’re as important as anyone else in the world and have as much right to live, breathe and occupy space as anyone else.
Keep in mind the perspective of the predator: don’t let them think you’re nice, in case they want to eat you for lunch.
The dominance of American computer software has had two linguistic consequences that have been interesting to me on this side of the Atlantic.
(1) The general acceptance of ‘UK’ to describe where we reside
Until recently, we would have said that we live in England (for example) or Britain, but we wouldn’t normally refer to our residence as being in the UK. (Britain comprises England, Wales & Scotland; the United Kingdom includes the province of Northern Ireland.)
But online we have to click on where we come from, and the choice for us is only ever ‘UK’. As a result, this has become the most convenient label to describe where we are.
Maybe it’s become okay now to include Northern Ireland in the description because, with relative peace in the region, British people no longer feel so confused and embarrassed about the British presence and history there. The problems caused by the division of Ireland are far from resolved, however.
(2) The decline in the use of z endings in British English
In the UK (there we are, it’s so natural now), where Apple computers are far less common that in the US, we pretty much all use Microsoft Word. The Word spell check gives an option for UK English as distinct from US English. For many years, up to very recently, if you chose UK English the spell check would identify words with z endings (in words such as realize, categorize) as misspelt.
This – and I believe Microsoft Word is directly responsible – has led to the widespread misconception (often maintained with some emotional force) that z endings are American English and that UK English uses only s endings (realise, categorise), and t0 the general adoption among the British public of s endings. In fact most major English dictionaries, including Oxford, Collins and Longman (which uses the Merriam-Webster database), prefer z endings.
This decline is highly regrettable to me. It’s time it was reversed!
By the way, in a previous incarnation I worked as a copy-editor for the publisher Basil Blackwell, and I was there in 1987 when the reference department changed the spelling of its encyclopaedias from, well, that spelling, to encyclopedias – an American spelling which is now common in UK English. The change of spelling came about after this new spelling appeared on the book cover of the newly printed encyclopaedia as it returned, misspelled, from the printers.
My wife Elizabeth tells me that many years ago her American boyfriend had told her that America deliberately set out to distance itself from England by changing elements of its grammar and spelling. For example, in UK English ce endings are used for nouns and se endings for verbs, but in American English this is reversed. For example, in UK English I have a coaching practice and have been practising NLP; in American English you have a coaching practise and have been practicing NLP.
In its adolescence the United States wanted to distance itself from England by establishing differences. Now that Britain has significantly less influence, the situation is reversed: Britain wants to retain the appearance of cultural autonomy by distancing itself from the US – which in part explains the emotional investment in s endings.
Language is such an important aspect of cultural identity – even though culture itself is losing its boundaries.
Jonathan Livingstone Relationships Therapy & Coaching 