by Matt Licata
Coming from a Place of True Compassion
As an example of this prima materia and approaching (“heating”) it in a curious, inquiring, and compassionate way, let us explore a common emotional experience many of us have and struggle with—that of disappointing another person, especially someone who means a lot to us or whom we look up to, depend upon, or with whom we are in conflict. Discomfort and anxiety about disappointing another can loom large in our relationships and can present itself as some challenging material with which to engage. In fact, many have come to organize much of their experience around this particular dynamic, doing whatever it takes never to allow this to happen, doing whatever they must to ensure they never let anyone down—and if it does happen, moving urgently to recover the status quo. If we are drawn, we can experiment with bringing curiosity and awareness to the feelings, beliefs, and vulnerabilities that constellate when we (inevitably) trigger disappointment in another, when we are unable to live up to their expectations, when we cannot see or hold them as they long to be seen and held, or when we fail to help or be there for them in the way they are asking. When we slowly start to invite these images, beliefs, feelings, and sensations into conscious awareness, we can meet them with deeper levels of seeing and compassion.
At times we face the decision, often in the moment, whether to set a boundary with another—when they are struggling, enraged, on the attack, or deeply depressed—or whether to meet them in the thick of it and help them to regulate the fire moving through them. This can be a difficult choice and requires a lot of experimentation as well as willingness to do it in a way not perceived as “right.” The invitation is to be as authentic, transparent, and kind as we can, recognizing that the most skillful and compassionate response might be not to engage but to take space, say no, assert our own needs, and act (even forcefully) in the moment to protect our own integrity. The reality is that at times we choose (as an adult, not as a child becoming a doormat in the avoidance of difficult feelings) to move toward others, to engage directly with them, and to help them soothe the difficulty they are experiencing. At other times the most authentic, skillful, and compassionate response is to say, “I love you. I hate that you’re suffering. And I cannot be there for you right now in the way you need.” No apology, no shaming ourselves, no self-attack, no self-judgment. Just a clear, adult decision in the moment. And then the willingness to feel whatever feelings come and not see them as evidence that we have failed or made the “wrong” decision.
Of course, part of us wants to be there 100 percent of the time, removing the pain, “being compassionate,” not avoiding intimacy, not shutting down, being a good partner, not being lost in our own self-absorption, being a kind person, being capable of handling all situations, and so forth. But the unconscious motivation behind this must be explored. Is our intention to be there for another coming from true compassion, or is it merely the reenactment of a little one scrambling for any possible tie to a fleeing or dysregulated attachment figure in an earlier time? Am I truly caring for the situation—for myself and the other—or simply replaying a historical pattern in which my only choice was to deny my own integrity and privilege the needs of another?
As is often the case with complex emotional situations, the answer to these questions is not black or white but a more nuanced (alchemical) grey in which part of our motivation is oriented in true compassion, in healthy and genuine care for the other, and in our skillful capacity in the moment to help them. Simultaneously, there might also be some remnants of the past alive and on the scene when we scramble to help as a way of regulating our own anxiety, pain of unworthiness, and fractured sense of self. In these situations, we are invited to honor the behaviors that come from healthy compassion and continue to cultivate and express them in ever more wise and skillful ways. We can challenge those less-than-healthy expressions, bring them out into the open with the light of kindness and awareness, and begin to tend to the underlying vulnerability needing extra attention. Rather than locating this material unconsciously in the other or the relational field itself, as an act of love we withdraw these projections, reown what is ours, and begin to infuse and heat it up with our own curiosity, care, and attunement.
A Template of Early Caretaking
I’d like to end this chapter on deflation, loss, and disappointment by discussing a common early environmental situation that often goes unacknowledged because it is relevant for a lot of us and is related to these themes in a way that might not be obvious upon first glance. Many are put in the position of emotionally taking care of an adult early in their lives, at a time when they themselves need more than anything to have their own inner experience mirrored back to them. Even if our early environment was not solely organized around this dynamic, aspects of this patterning are alive in many of us. As part of our inquiry, we might discover remnants of this constellation and how it is affecting the way we perceive and relate to ourselves and others. For those influenced by this organization, a template is formed that, until compassionately illuminated with clear seeing, orients our sense of self and how we navigate close, personal relationships.
In these early configurations, the child’s sense of self becomes tangled up in the other’s moods, anxiety, dissatisfaction, and sense of well-being. The job of the little one is shifted from unstructured play and discovery into attending to the unlived life of a caretaker, a task not designed for a young nervous system or for a tender little heart coming to know itself and the world. It is confusing to children, however, because they have no real choice in the matter. They are wired to do whatever it takes to generate even a modicum of affection, attunement, and love. If the way they come to know this connection and positive sense of self-worth is through tending to the emotional world of the other, it sets up a painful, contradictory, and unworkable dilemma. Not knowing of any other possibility, they assume this is just the way things are and have no recourse other than to comply. All the while, their little soul is crushed under the weight of a task they were never designed to assume.
If we look carefully, we might see how this template lives and plays out in our lives as adults: in our fears around having or expressing needs; in fixation on whether we’ve disappointed someone and what it means about us as a person if we did; in the shakiness around allowing another to matter; in losing ourselves in fusion and codependence; and in being unable to assert our own needs, enact healthy boundaries, say no, or engage in appropriate conflict. We are caught in the terror of relationship, on the one hand, and in the painful longing for it, on the other; in the existential confusion around where we end and where the other begins; in the ancient conclusion that caring for another requires a deeply rooted disavowal of our own psyche, body, and heart.
To the degree this dynamic is alive within us, we come to see our own value through the changing emotional states of another, on guard at all times: “Have I disappointed them? Have I let them down? What can I do to make them feel better? Should I take more responsibility for the unfulfilled longing in their hearts? They are depressed, dissatisfied, hopeless, and in despair: Surely this is somehow traceable back to me, right? I’ve failed somehow, right? If I do not fix this situation, I will be discarded, abandoned, neglected, or abused. I just know it. I must act quickly.”
As a little one yearning for some degree of empathic connection, we’re willing to do just about anything to receive even a limited amount of attention, mirroring, and affection. We’ll open certain parts of ourselves and close others; pretend to feel a certain way and disavow what we’re actually experiencing; disown parts of ourselves and unnaturally cultivate others, all in the hopes of keeping the bond alive. We’ll do whatever it takes if there is even a glimmer of a hope of being seen, being met, being touched, being loved. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Even if you don’t tell me, I’ll try to figure it out. Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll figure out what you need and sacrifice myself on whatever altar necessary in order to fill the black hole within you. E
ven if it creates deep wounding and pain for me, don’t worry. I’m here.”
To allow in the reality of what happened for many of us as young children in this way is not easy. It can be quite painful and even traumatic, but it is a profound act of self-care to begin to untangle the web. Illuminating and reorganizing the tentacles of this template can go a long way in healing chronic feelings of shame and unworthiness. We begin to differentiate our worth as a person from the moods, suffering, struggle, and unlived life of another. To do this, we must withdraw the projection of our own worth from the other and relocate it inside ourselves, which is no easy task. It requires that we turn back toward all parts of ourselves and associated feelings from which we previously split off to maintain the tie with the caretaker—to allow these emotions and aspects of our personalities a safe haven to return to, where we can warm them, listen to them, hold them, and welcome them back home, slowly and safely at a pace that is provocative but not overwhelming.
Through this process of disentangling, we might come to truly know the difference between caring for another from a place of true compassion and reenacting earlier pathways of self-abandonment. Although it might seem obvious, this discernment requires deepening awareness and practice, especially in the subtler forms of re-creating this self-abandonment in real time. Helping, caring for, and being there for another are noble acts, especially when undertaken without enactment of earlier, less healthy relational configurations. Learning to recognize and act from true compassion, toward ourselves and others, is a great gift we can offer this world. To do this, we must train ourselves to work with activated emotional states when they arise; to turn back toward ourselves; and to provide the empathy, compassion, and holding that for many was not available in earlier times.
In ways we might never have expected, even the most difficult experiences of loss, deflation, and disappointment carry a certain intelligence and soul if we can tend to them in a new way. We discover the creativity in the cycle of death and rebirth not by abandoning the “death” aspect of the spiral too quickly but by honoring the full spectrum. By training ourselves to validate, honor, and learn from the inevitable inner and outer transitions we face, we provide sanctuary for new light to emerge and new vision to enter our lives. Because so many of our difficult thoughts and feelings arise from the experience of loss, by learning to navigate these times of transition and change with more curiosity, awareness, and kindness, we can use even these challenging experiences to help come closer to and befriend ourselves in those moments we truly need ourselves more than ever.
5
Shifting Our Center of Gravity
Approaching the Idea of “Integration” with Fresh Vision
In this chapter, we’ll take a reimagined look at the concept of “integration” and what it might mean in an embodied and personal way, and how our “center of gravity” can begin to shift as our inquiry unfolds. We’ll go through a meditation on integration that will invite us into an exploration of multiple layers of our experience, with the intention of including the full range of our humanness in our practice. We’ll explore the image of the alchemical separatio (separation) and its critical role in transformation and healing, along with the importance of this process to the larger aim of befriending ourselves in difficult times. Although “separation” is often spoken of pejoratively in contemporary spirituality, where we find an emphasis on unity and oneness, we are invited to also embrace the separate and the multiple as dignified aspects of psyche, as authentic and important dimensions and expressions of our human experience, with an integral approach to spiritual and psychological growth.
As we deepen in our capacity to befriend all parts of ourselves—including the most triggering thoughts, feelings, and sensations—we might notice our center of gravity beginning to shift. It’s not so much that the limiting beliefs, disturbing emotions, and habitual ways of perceiving have stopped or even lessened, necessarily, but that they come and go in the context of a much larger space. As I’ve mentioned, it is common to conclude that the presence of difficult experience is clear evidence that we are stunted in our growth, doing it wrong, lost, neurotic, or horribly unawakened. Upon investigation, however, we might discover that the mere appearance of this material is not problematic or the primary cause of our struggle. Rather, our relationship with the material and disconnection with the space in which it is arising and unfolding is the issue. In alchemical language, there is always a container (vas hermeticum) in which the thoughts, feelings, emotions, memories, and images appear and dissolve. The invitation, from this perspective, is not to get rid of unwanted material but to heat it up in the vessel and allow it to be transmuted into its essence. The fire that produces this heat comes from our curiosity, interest, care, and love, for the manifestations of psyche, for the truth, and by way of our aspiration to no longer abandon ourselves.
In this new environment, where we start to notice this shift, we find ourselves in close, intimate contact with the emotional world, with thoughts and feelings we have historically repressed, acted out, or become flooded by. But now we are not so close that we fuse or fall into them, where we drown and become completely caught in our experience. In exploring the alchemical middle territory of which I spoke earlier, we no longer need the feelings to go away but want to know them more fully, to infuse them with curiosity, warmth, and presence. More than anything, we are drawn to call off the war—to step off the battlefield, for there are no more enemies left. We are no longer willing to turn away from our feeling and sensitivity, to attack our own vulnerability, to bail out of our bodies, or to meet the inner world with violence and aggression. Even if we do not like what appears, we begin to sense that it, too, has a place in the larger inner ecology of what we are, somehow intelligently arising here as part of our work and our art.
The sense of unworthiness, the panic in the belly, the avalanche-like rage, the deeply embedded conviction that there is something wrong with us can appear. The feeling of shame, the ruminations of despair, the constriction in the throat, the loneliness in the heart—saturated with intelligence and information, soaked with some sort of sacred knowledge that yearns to be integrated—might appear. Underneath the thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations, we might come to discover a raw, tender, shaky core. It’s so alive there, a womb of creativity, but not quite knowable in the ordinary sense. To mine this hidden gold, we have to continue to discover new ways of befriending our experience, to set aside old ideas about what it means to have an emotion, to think more creatively, and to imagine in new ways.
Reimagining the Idea of Integration
We hear a lot about “integration” and how essential it is on the path of awakening, healing, and psychological transformation, but the word is often thrown around without any clear sense of what we’re referring to. What would it actually look and feel like to “integrate” an aspect of our experience, a difficult feeling or emotion, our personality—to “be” an integrated person? We have an image or idea of what the word points to that helps us to speak about it, but as with so many of these concepts, we must take the time to unpack what we mean and revision these ideas to keep them relevant and alive.
The way I tend to use the word is not with regard to some final end state in which we “integrate” our personality or our shadow but, more pragmatically, means we weave together the various layers and dimensions of our lived experience—thoughts, feelings, sensations, impulses, and images. In the field of interpersonal neurobiology, for example, this idea is expressed as linking together differentiated elements in a system, said to foster neural, psychic, and relational health.1 Analogously, in a way we might not expect from such an ancient and diverse tradition, the alchemists remind us that we cannot unite that which has not first been separated.2 Therefore, the process of separation (separatio) is essential, in which the material is differentiated (broken down into its component parts) so that it is approachable, workable, and available for the various alchemical operations.
The alchemical process is parallel to inner work, in which we must differentiate abstract and generalized conditions such as anxiety, depression, sadness, rage, jealousy, and so forth into specific and particularized, separated parts so that we are able to work directly with the individualized components of our lived experience. For example, it is difficult, if not impossible, to work effectively, imaginatively, and creatively with a generalized abstraction such as “depression,” a concept that appears differently for each of us across the layers of experience in the form of specific core beliefs, memories, images, moods, emotional tones, felt senses, and behavioral impulses. From this perspective, there is no one thing called “depression” but a unique assemblage of lived, embodied experience we must differentiate to tend to this painful condition in a skillful and compassionate way.
This process of differentiation, by way of the alchemical separatio and our own mindful awareness, is equally critical to that of linkage, or the alchemical coagulatio, in which the material moves back into unity from a separated state to one of togetherness. Although the experience of “oneness” is often privileged in the realms of spirituality, I would like to invite you to consider the possibility that the experience of multiplicity is just as holy, as valid, and as “spiritual.” In a more poetic way, God itself has no bias toward unity or multiplicity, oneness or differentiation, but rather expresses itself through each of these perspectives to disclose one of its qualities or fragrances. We need not take sides but only enter into communion with each of these energies from perspectives of curiosity, interest, passion, and warmth. Interestingly, the subtitle to Jung’s alchemical opus Mysterium Coniunctionis is “An inquiry into the separation and synthesis of psychic opposites in alchemy,” reflecting the importance of both processes in the journey of transformation, healing, and individuation.3
