Permission to Let Go of Bad Feelings

More often than not when people walk into my office, they are in some amount of emotional pain. There is perhaps, confusion, frustration, anger, grief, all simmering around inside them, with no good place to go.

There is no shortage of solutions for coping with bad feelings, of course. The spectrum runs from most destructive (addictions, self harm, violence) to constructive (though I don't really like this word...perhaps productive or progressive would be better?).

Constructive being things like prayer, writing, exercise, talk, talk, talk to an understanding ear. Give service, do a kindness, read a comforting book, meditate, make love. And more....

"Practicing the ability to bear discomfort" is often prescribed in 12 step rooms. Learning to tolerate feelings without acting on them. Learning to wait until they pass, while taking good care of ourselves. Getting relief without causing harm.

So of course in the therapy rooms dealing with bad feelings comes up all the time. Why do we deal the way we do? We look to our family history for clues. We look toward biology, early life experiences, character and belief systems. There are clues everywhere. We study; We talk; We take a look at what keeps us stuck, if we are stuck. So that we can get unstuck and have more serenity, happiness and love.

One of my walking buddies told me recently that she thinks that when she gets to Heaven, G-d will not ask her,

"Connie, Why didn't you worry more?"

or say "You did a lot things right, except you were not angry more often, or long enough. You did not hold enough grudges."

But, Connie tells me, she thinks some part of her likes her bad feelings. She has long since stopped drinking. She does not rage anymore at her husband and kids. She has done lots of soul searching and knows a lot about herself. She has done the work of therapy. But she still feels crappy a lot.

As we were talking, we were marveling at how one can give up all (or most) of one's vices, learn how to tolerate difficult feelings, know a lot about one's mother and father and life history and still feel so awful sometimes. We chalked some of it up to mood, hormones and life being life.

We chalked some more of it up to the possibility that perhaps she still gets something out of feeling awful, strange as that sounds. Maybe some feeling of familiarity, of closeness or likeness to her mother (who felt awful most of her life), maybe feeling awful seemed to add some spice to the day. We aren't sure exactly. It certainly does not seem like we would want to feel awful. But its possible.

So I asked Connie if it would help if I gave her permission to not feel awful. Of course, no matter how good we get at feeling our feelings, we can't always hurry them along so we can feel better. But sometimes we can.

It hit the right note when I asked this. A light quite note, but a good one, Connie told me. Yes, somehow she has always thought there was some nobility in holding on to bad feelings. As if she had to be loyal to them somehow. Maybe the idea that feeling them would protect her from things getting worse. Maybe that serenity was not something she was allowed to have, espeically if others in her life were angry, suffering or upset.

We walked on for a bit in silence. It was nice.

Rejection Confusion Part 1: Threats and What Women Really Want and the Wrong Way to Get It

Why do we humans threaten separation when what we really want is closeness?


I don't like to generalize, but I do get to observe a lot of patterns from where I sit, working with couples in pain. And I can tell you this: When feeling frustrated, angry and misunderstood, frightened or lonely, women can tend to threaten and complain rather than ask (for help) and explain (what they need). Its not that men don't threaten, but its the women who seem to somehow collectively, naturally, use threats and complaints to try to get what they need.


And it usually fails miserably. With devastating effects.


Example: Woman is at home all day with the baby. She is tired and worn out, and needs a break. Man comes home from work, also stressed out, long day too. He walks in and she is waiting for him. In her mind, she needs some love, some TLC, some appreciation for how demanding child care is, and household tasks. She wants him to mind read. She understandably needs what she needs.


He too needs some down time, he is thinking. He wants to check out that motorcycle ad on Craigslist again. He needs to stop thinking about his pissy boss. He wants to kiss the baby, grab a bite and go online. Later he wants sex. He feels kind of warm to his wife, but really wants his man cave time. He does not know she needs this love now. He would give it to her, actually, if he knew. Everyone knows they have to bend and give somewhat, but somehow that gets lost in the wrong words:

She says: "You're late."

He says: "My boss is at it again."

She says: "You could've called. You don't seem to think about us at all."

He says: "I am out making money to support us. What do you think I do all day, play cards?"

She says: "Do you think I'm eating bon bons here with my feet up?"

(okay, there are lots of versions of this, you know how it goes...and...on to threats....)

He says: "What do you want from me?"

She says: "Just forget it. I think we should separate."

There are a million reasons why women do this. Hormones, history, personality, biology. Too many bad feelings all at once. Abandonment, frustration, fear, self pity, disappointment, protest. Exhaustion. A stew of possible answers. Thinking that where there is love, there should be no need to ask for what you need and reward the giver. Thinking that we should not have to work so hard to choose the right words. Thinking that somehow a fight feels like some connection, some attention, some energy, even if its negative or hostile. Thinking that the thought of losing her will shake him into giving love. Or that the threat of seperation will inspire fear or establish power, or protect from hurt.

Sometimes, in these bad moments, we do think we should seperate if we hopeless that we cannot or will not be able to get what we need.

Often people think that they reach threats as a last resort. But I think its not always so. Threats seem to pop up impulsively, out of pain or frustration, but often times not nearly as a last resort. And not as a carefully thought out, well discussed (with a trusted, objective third party), and after having given the arch of pain some time to ebb just enough for some rational thought to be present. Threats are often the Id at work. We want relief. We want it now.

So it happens. The wrong words. Complaints and threats. Lots of times, out of pain or desperation, but still, they have a devastating, snowball and sometimes irrepreprable effect.

A male colleague of mine once told me that when his wife got really angry with him she would tell him that she wanted a divorce. He would always feel totally crushed and misunderstood by this, as well as attacked. He said it made him feel manipulated and abandoned and far too criticized and demeaned. He had some idea what she really wanted, but her complaints always gave him the idea that he could never quite satisfy or please her. He was frustrated and furious that she could not just tell him what would give her relief and pleasure. The threats squashed any positive feeling he had about his wife. He knew somehow, that she did not really want to divorce him, she just wanted to be understood, to work something out, to get him to give her something. He wished he could read her mind. In fact, sometimes he thought he could, but the effect of those threats, along with the criticism, seemed to chop off any positive feelings he could have, any logic even. And eventually any willingness to keep trying.


So after the last time she threatened divorce, he said fine. Lets divorce if that's what you want. And they did. He packed his bags that night and never came back. Not however, because either of them really wanted this, or because it was what was best for the kids, or for themselves even. There were, actually, plenty of good feelings between them too. They had helped each grow and make progress in life. She even begged him to change his mind after he left, and come back. But because he was so tired of being threatened, he attached himself to calling her out on her bluff. He stood his ground.

To this day, she blames him for it. She says she cannot believe that he actually left. She tells everyone that he left her. He shakes his head at this when he tells me about it. He tells me that she threatened divorce so often, that he could not go back. She did, he tells me, sound clear headed about it sometimes even. But when she tells her story, she says now, that she never really meant it. She really meant that she was hurting. That she wanted him to come closer. To understand her pain. To love her. To see how he hurt her sometimes. She was trying to get through to him, she says.

Crazy. It sounds crazy. And yet, I hear it all the time in my office. Why doesn't it go like this:

She says, "I am happy to see you! I know you've had a long day. I missed you. When can we spend some time together?"

He says, "Its nice to be home. My boss is a pain. You are sight for sore eyes. I need 10 minutes to cool off and then we can talk."


She says, "Great, thank you sweetheart."

And if she needs to say more:

"I am feeling so lonely. Can we hang out together more tonight? I always feel better when we do."


He says, "I did want to check out that motorcycle ad."

She says, "Can I check it out with you? Sounds fun."

This does not mean she has to agree to him getting a motorcycle, it means she can share his wish and dream with him! It means they can have time together. This does not mean she won't get to say how angry she is that he does not call during the day more. And this does not mean that all is peachy between them, but it means there is room to work. Room to really get what might be needed. To learn what might be needed. To have more instead of less. It means we do have to have other ways of saying how bad we feel without threatening, because after the divorce, its a lot harder to get anything, including peace of mind.

After the divorce, the blaming only gets worse. So does the anger for a while. Its a psychosis even, this rejection confusion. Who left? Who deprived who? And who's fault is it anyway? Everyone feels rejected, hurt and confused. And clear about one thing at least, that there is pain.

Of course, sometimes parting is necessary, pain and all. But I think there is much hope, as always, Tending to our words and sorting out what we really want and how to get it can bring us relief and good results, if we can hold on through the hurt and hold off on the threats.

Different Directions

A friend of mine called me from a road trip yesterday to tell me the following story:

She was visiting a friend in San Francisco, a long awaited for, saved up for and precisely planned vacation. She is single, on a tight budget and not used to traveling, but after dreaming about such a vaca for so long, and listening to her friend's nagging about coming west, she decided to challenge herself by just doing it. My friend declared victory over her fears of traveling alone and hopped on a plane and flew toward the Pacific.

She based herself at her old college roommate's sunny apartment near the bay, where she could smell the sea air and watch the fog lift around mid morning. She let herself ramble around, jump on cable cars, buy Ghiradelli chocolate and walk across the Golden Gate Bridge.

On the day she called me, she was driving up highway 1 along the coast feeling like she had just discovered a new moon. She was elated. Not, however, just because she was flying up the coast line like the road runner watching miles and miles of ocean and then stopping every now and then to just sit on an occasional rock and stare out at the sea til her eyes hurt, but because of this:

She had intended to head south first thing that morning from San Francisco, out of the city toward 101 South, to meet up with a scheduled tour at the Hearst Castle. She had always wanted to check this place out, and the tour was to be the grand finale to her week of fun. She got up early, situated herself in her red Ford Taurus rental car and headed out.

She drove out of the neighborhood, through the city streets just as the city was waking up and stretching out after a long night's sleep. Unlike New York, San Francisco sleeps. She headed through Golden Gate Park, amazed at the foggy mist all over the trees, distracted by all the white washed buildings, low lying and calm. A mindful city, she was thinking. She drove happily over the Golden Gate Bridge, through the tunnel into the jagged hills of Sausilto, looking back at the thick fog over the city behind her in her rear view mirror. Gorgeous. So different, so far away from her rushed life, her boyfriend troubles. The constant chattering of her own mind, the reviewing her failures. Her frustrations and shortcomings had conceded to the vastness of the San Francisco bay and its loveliness. Even her loneliness had lifted out here. Her extra 20 pounds didn't seem so awful, just something to deal with maybe, some day. By some miracle, the food was not calling her the way it usually did. Even if there is no such thing as a geographic cure for her eating disorder, she told me, she did feel like she was on some kind of temporary leave of agony from all her struggles.

As she was driving, she was watching the signs for Tiburon, San Rafael, Novoto. The scraggly cliffs gave way to rolling hills, she noted the occasional cow and a fogless blue sky bright with early morning California sunshine. Petaluma, Sonoma, Santa Rosa. Hmm. She kept driving. Its the age of GPS, but she did not have one. She had her map, her guide book and her printed google directions. She was almost sorry she had her cell phone. An electronics protest rumbled somewhere inside her and it felt good.

About an hour and a half into the drive, like the sun coming up, she tells me, a slow and growing smile started across her face. The signs that said 101, telling her she was on the right highway, were also trying to tell her something else. She was going north. Very north. Delightfully, steadily and definitely 70 miles in the wrong direction.

With a head scratch, she pulled off at the next exit to grab a coke and a muffin at a pretty little gas station somewhere off the highway. The kid behind the counter said "How you doing today?" To which she replied, "Well, I just drove 70 miles in the wrong direction" To which he smiled lightly, shrugged and said, "Well, guess you can just turn around now and go the other way then." To which she said, feeling just as light, "Yep."

So this was the victory she was calling to tell me about, some 12 hours later. That she missed the tour at the Hearst Castle, that she had driven 70 miles out of her way, that the one thing she had really wanted to do, she did not get to do. But she felt better than she could ever remember. That those 70 miles up through Marin County would stay with her forever, so would that boy behind the counter with his smile and his shrug. It did not get filtered through her usual screen of self attack, sarcasm or despair. Although she had long been working on allowing herself all of her feelings, even, especially, the negative ones, the uncomfortable ones, the outright painful ones, knowing they pass, knowing they too are allowed to live and she can survive them....she did not experience them that morning. No pangs of regret, or anger. No frustration, stupidity, or self name calling. None of the old sneering at the idiot behind the counter or the one in the mirror.

Just immediate, radical acceptance, and then the idea that yes, really, she could just turn around and go the other way.

Dancing in the Kitchen ~ Gardening in the Living Room

"Happiness is a form of courage" ~ Holbrooke Jackson

Somehow with the approach of spring, I feel hope coming on. For those who suffer from seasonal affective disorder, or who walk under the cloak of depression, frustration, or the simmering of anxiety and unrest, spring usually ushers in some relief. Of course its not here just yet, but almost. Sometimes just knowing that something good, something new, something different is on the way, can bring a lift.

So with the most serious respect to the emotional pain I often write about, I think that its well worth it to write also about joy, because even in the midst of deep pain, spontaneous, light hearted, easy going freedom, even if its fleeting, even if its only in a moment, can have great power and meaning. Even if you are wrapped up in a difficult relationship, confusing situation or heart bending problem. Even if you need the pain, or can't imagine it letting up. Because moments add up. Because we can have more than one feeling at once. Because anxiety does not protect us from harm. Keeping joy at a distance doesn't either. Sometimes, in the midst of emotional pain, we can find pockets of freedom.

Here's what I am talking about: A friend of mine who is going through a particularly difficult divorce told me that she was sitting in the kitchen of her neighbor's house recently when the neighbor's child and a friend came skipping in. "Mommy! the little girl says, "you have to hear this song! It rocks!" And with that, the kid puts on the radio, and she and the friend start swinging and dancing and gyrating all around the kitchen. My friend, who was in no mood to move, much less dance, sighs deeply to herself against a wave of self pity and annoyance. And then, to make matters worse, all the sudden the neighbor mom is up dancing too. And the final blow, they grab my friend and before she could get herself out of it, the four of them are holding hands and twirling and bopping around on the ivory ceramic tiles. My friend told me that there were dishes in the sink, papers on the counters and a pot of macaroni on the stove. And here they were, swirling around and bumping into each other, laughing and giggling and woo-hoo-ing in the kitchen.

For a whole and glorious five minutes, my friend forgot she was miserable. She forgot she was terrified. She forgot that she hated herself, that she hated her soon to be ex and she forgot that she had trouble getting up that morning. And she danced around the kitchen. And she told me that she knows that this neighbor mom dances around the kitchen a lot. That her kids expect it. That the dishes can wait and dinner can get interrupted and everyone can join in. That more often than not, there is joy in that kitchen. And for a moment, there was joy in her body. She was free. And it carried her the rest of the day and spilled over into the next.

It did not change her situation, but somehow, it was okay just for what it was, a little lift, a moment of hope and a taste of freedom. It gave her a new idea, one that had not quite taken hold yet, or clarified itself, but like Spring, it was coming. She could feel it.

People who are in pain tell me often that they need something to look forward to. That having pleasure, anticipating pleasure, and then remember pleasure all add up to less suffering. Like air in dry lungs. It helps. And it can be simple. Off the wall even.

One of my friends loves to garden. We start seeds indoors together every year. This year her basement flooded so she moved up the garden table and grow lights to the living room, dirt and all. All those little tomato and pepper seedlings sprouting spring green all over the table mean hope and joy and more to come.

I'm not talking about making lemonade out of lemons. I am talking about being open to letting some fresh air into heavy hearts, letting go just a little of old ideas that don't work and finding things to look forward to. I think we can do this. We can sort through the painful stuff, the puzzling stuff, in the recent and distant past, if we need to. We can be angry and frustrated and hurt and we can still dance in the kitchen and garden in the living room. These too have a place.

Employing Love: for Better or for Worse

"At the top of the bridge, with the stars shining above the harbor, I look to the north and wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man and woman. Behind me the city of Charleston simmers in the cold elixirs of its own incalculable beauty and before me my wife and children are waiting for me to arrive home. " ~ Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides

My friend Fran likes to tell me that there are only three stories in the world, but that they can be told over and over and over again, a million different ways. Her words ring true in my ears every day when I unlock my office door and sit down in my therapist's chair to hear the stories of the people who come to sit on the couch and talk. I hear the pain, the hope, the conflict, the frustration. I hear about excitement and desire and so much more. A million stories.

Over the years, I have heard many love stories. I have heard stories of loving more then one person, of loyalty, fear, infidelity. Of longing, of having to choose between two loves, or two lovers. I hear about extra marital sex, with all kinds of motives, as a message to one's spouse, an act of desperation, frustration, impulse. I hear about broken love, broken trust, marriages that somehow break down, or break apart.

I hear about the good stuff too. Raising children, building lives together, companionship, good sex, company, back rubs at dawn.

These days when we turn on the news someone, somewhere is cheating on their spouse, has fallen in love, then out again, or cannot say no their own natural desires, lusts or hungers. How it all plays out is what we study here in the therapy rooms. That, and why one's own unique version of the story unfolds as it does. How this effects selves, spouses, and children, integrity, mood and fulfillment.

There are as many answers as there are stories sometimes, I think. Though I know that damage that gets done when someone goes outside of a relationship often seems irreparable. I have seen healing. I have seen lots of interesting and creative solutions. The stats on infidelity are high and fascinating almost, if it were not so painful. We watch public figures over and over again get caught, repent, explain, or sometimes, stand up to their decisions. Often the commentary centers around the morality, religiosity, the measuring stick of black or white, right or wrong, or sometimes, now, the addictive nature of desire.

In here though, in my office, we take the deeper path. We look at emotional communication, currency and callings, not just behavior. We look at motivations, conscious and unconscious. We give a nod to normal physiology. There really isn't any other way. We study what the story is, and how it developed, what the end could be, might be, is desired to be. We tend to all the anger and hurt, of course, and all the fall out, but we study with grace rather than with punishment, even though frustration can run high. Nobody seems to want excuses, I hear that a lot too. Or shirking responsibility for actions taken or feelings felt. But we seem to expect love to be both a reason and ruler. I wonder if we are expecting too much from one feeling. Love seems to get employed for many uses, as does desire and frustration. All powerful emotions, and difficult to reign in at their most potent.

I have yet to hear a story that did not make sense. Not when I've heard it from beginning to end. I have yet to see punishment win out in the end, over rebuilding. It does take time, though. There is no way to put a rush order on emotional healing. But there are ways to live more peacefully with what is possible and what is not.

Toxic Levels of Self Hate ... especially for my eating disorder readers

Once upon a time (okay, I cannot think of a better opener), a person was walking down a street in the rain. The world was sweet and wet and dripping with possibilities. Minding her own business, gazing around at big trees, lush and hovering, barely aware of the sharp chill in the air, she walked without much thought. Her breath could be seen at each exhale.

Walking with intention, but not necessarily with direction on the smooth sidewalk, the person happened to look across the street and notice, there in the gutter, almost parallel to the curb, a rush of rainwater pouring and pooling around her, a child, small and shivering, curled up, fetal, breathing heavily in the damp air, wide eyes, focusing on nothing.

Our person looks, startled for a moment, and then, decidedly, walks over to the small child and stares down and without much thought swings a heavy, boot laden foot back and then forth, kicking the child hard in the stomach. And then turns and walks on.

This is how we treat ourselves sometimes. We do not walk over to the child, crouch down, offer a hand up, offer help, or shelter or sit down even, next to this child and keep her company in her pain. We kick. And we kick hard.

In my office I hear a lot about toxic levels of self hate. I hear it more from my eating disorder clients than most, though. I hear all about how perfectionism is the key to order, to stress relief, to feeling well, potent, effective and in control. I hear about how mistakes are not allowed, how angry people must be right, how what others say, think and feel about us must be what is true. I hear about how yelling around us results in yelling inside us and how instead of screaming we cut and starve, stuff and vomit. We kick ourselves hard, and without much thought.

There are, I think, a thousand possible causes of eating disorders. And there are a thousand cures. There is no one explanation, and no one path to recovery. We can rage at culture, analyze family dynamics, hang our hopes on genetic markers. Each story is uniquely crafted by biology, experience, environment and development. But this much I know to be true, each person that I have ever worked with who has an eating disorder suffers from toxic levels of self hate. Sometimes its obvious, and sometimes its swimming around like a shark just below the surface.

Somehow we think that if we just kick hard enough, we will not have to feel or face the pain. We will not have to sit down in the rain and listen to the small child inside us. We will not have to help her focus, help her up, help her cross the street.

It works two ways, this kicking. I will kick that child because it is better to kick her than to kick who I am really angry with. Or I will kick that child because she must be the cause of all this pain. If I kick her, she will get up and get moving. Or she will forget that she is lying there wet and stuck. Either way, she gets kicked. Over and over and over again.

What does it take to stop kicking the child? To put down the scissors, the food? To feed that child instead of starve her? To soothe her instead of slice at her? We must, at the very least, be willing to learn what that hate is all about. And we must try to imagine what life would be like without it.

That's a start, I think, for anyone who is still kicking.

The Art of Listening (Tell an Old Story; Tell a New One)

"I'm not asking for your advice, I'm asking for your support."~ Anonymous

"If you help me, I will not come to you again." ~ Anonymous

Recently, two different people in my life said the above to me. They came to tell me a story, their story, of hurt and pain, of frustration and fear, and they wanted me to listen. They did not want me to respond, except of course, for the occasional nod or knowing empathic wince. They did not want any advice, ideas, feedback, suggestions, interpretations, analysis or direction. They did not even want to get out of the bad feelings really. They just wanted to talk. They wanted to tell their story. And they did not want to know or study anything about their story. Not where it originates from in their history. Not whether their story is really their story, or really their mother's or father's story. They did not want to know what their own part in the story was, or is, or how the things they've done to help themselves survive all these years may now be helping to stifle growth and progress. They did not want my help. Clearly. They just wanted my good ears.

I am a very cooperative sort. Usually. And of course, in my office I am used to doing a lot of listening. I do listen with more than my ears when I am working, of course. I listen with my gut, my inventory of training, and of course my heart. I listen to words. I listen to cadence. I listen to my own body. I will never forget one session, many years back, when a client was telling me a story from her childhood and suddenly my feet were very very cold. I remember wondering about it, and then asking her if there was something frightening, show stopping almost, (cold feet), about her story. What poured forth was another story then. A story about being harmed and helpless, terrified and being hesitant even, to bring the memories into the therapy room, all these years later, as an adult.

It is not always easy to listen, to just listen, or to listen well. Listeners experience all kinds of feelings. Especially if we are listening to someone we love. Or hate. Or are very angry with, afraid of, or dependant on. We are not accustomed to listening for someones fears, or for their beliefs. We are not necessarily accustomed to listening for our reactions to what we are hearing.

Of course their are the basics of good listening. Focused, intentional non verbals, eye contact, head nodding, or shaking, or tilting. Wincing, leaning forward, smiling. And the verbals: repetition of things the speaker has said (parroting: "I am upset" "You are upset"), encouragers: "hmm," "really," "yes, " "oh," "wow." (and more of course.) Benign questions, too, help people talk, and listeners listen. "What time did that happen?" "Who else was there?" "What were your thoughts?" Open ended, gentle, curious and light.

For couples, especially, it is challenging to listen to each other. To listen without wanting to help, or solve, or comment. Or refute, rebuff, remind. Ditto for parents and teens. How is it that we can stay quiet and tolerate all of our own feelings as they are bubbling up inside us?

Not everyone gives me the instructions that my two friends did. And sometimes, someone who wants to talk also really does want help. Suggestions may be okay, welcome even. As are new ideas, or comfort. Though I tend to check first, if they are wanted, before I venture out. With interpretations too, because they can be hurtful, of course, and we are not always ready to hear bits of truth about ourselves, even if it would benefit us, or our relationships. And besides, who is to say that the listener is correct, or is not filtering his or her thoughts through their own lenses of pain, or filtering things through their own story. Either way, its not easy to learn about ourselves, especially if part of our story is self attack, self loathing, or hopelessness.

How well, even, do we listen to ourselves? A friend of mine once told me that she likes to lay down sometimes, on her own couch, and just talk out loud. She asked if I thought she was a kook. Not only didn't I think so, but some schools of thought actually encourage this for healing. Talk to Gd, or to yourself, or, as one person once told me, to me, her therapist, even when I am not really there. Somehow, she felt better, just telling her story as many times as she needed to tell it.

Truth is, at some point, good listening is helpful all on its own, with no brilliant responses needed. We can start to tell new stories about ourselves once we have told the old ones well enough and to good ears. We can rewrite at least some of our old scripts and create better feelings and easier times. It is not always easy to tolerate someones pain, or what may sometimes seem to be their irrational fear or anger. Its harder still if we feel blamed, or responsible, or charged to fix things. And even more difficult if we have heard the same story too many times, for too many years, without any progress.

We may not always want to give our support, and certainly not our agreement or acceptance, if what we are hearing does not make sense or seems harmful, but much of the time, if we can manage to say little and save our story for someone else's good ears, we may doing the best service of all. Good listening is a precious gift. It conveys understanding and company, acceptance, serenity and hope. It echos of sweet mothering, of being held, tended to and acknowledged. It has the power to heal and to change lives. Its hard to accept when someone wants to, or needs to hold on to their story, or does not want to study it, or try to alter it. But all things in good time. All things at the right time. And in the meantime, if we can offer up some calm in someones storm, we may be surprised at the results. Listening benefits the listener as well. By listening well to others we can learn to listen well to and understand ourselves better, to go easier, practice grace, and pick up clues about our own stories. We can learn to tell new ones, to create new hope, resiliency and potential. And this, I confess, I find to be wonderful.