“It will become progressively clearer and clearer. I propose to make you discover, through different examples, that practically everything you live has as its origin what you believe.”
I was beginning to wonder what I’d walked into. I was a long way then from imagining that our conversation and the exchanges that would follow were going to turn my whole life upside down.
“Imagine,” he went on, “that you are convinced you are somebody uninteresting, who bores others when you speak.”
“I preferred the other game—”
“This will only last a couple minutes. Imagine it’s quite obvious to you: people are bored in your company. Really try to feel what it means to believe that. Are you doing it?”
“Yes. It’s awful.”
“Remain in that state, keep that in your mind, and now imagine you are having lunch with colleagues or friends. Describe the meal.”
“My colleagues are talking a lot. They are talking about their holidays, and I’m not saying very much.”
“Stay in that state, but now make an effort and tell them a story about something that happened during your holidays.”
“Give me a moment. I’m imagining the scene. All right: it doesn’t have much of an effect. They’re not really listening to me.”
“That’s natural. Being convinced you’re not interesting, you’re going to speak in a way that no one finds riveting.”
“Yes.”
“For example, since you are unconsciously afraid of boring your colleagues, you will perhaps, without realizing it, speak quickly, garble what you say, so as not to take too much of their time and bore them. As a result, you make no impact, and your story loses all interest. You feel this, and you tell yourself I’m terrible at telling stories. Consequently, you get worse and worse and, without fail, one of your colleagues will start speaking again and change the subject. At the end of the meal, everyone will have forgotten that you spoke.”
“That’s tough.”
“When we’re convinced of something, it becomes reality, our reality.”
I was quite disconcerted by his demonstration.
“Right, okay, but why would anyone be convinced of such a thing?”
“It is probably not your problem, but it is some people’s. Everyone believes things about themselves that are special to them. It was just an example.
“To stay with this case, imagine you are convinced of the opposite: you are sure of capturing people’s interest, of making an impact on them when you speak. When you start to speak at your lunch with colleagues, you are persuaded that your story will hit the mark. You’re going to make them laugh; you’ll surprise them or just captivate their attention. Carried along by this conviction, imagine how you speak. Anticipating the expected outcome, you give yourself time to lead up to the subject, to play with your voice. You allow yourself a few well-placed silences to increase the suspense. You know what? They’ll be drinking in every word.”
“Okay, I understand that what you think becomes reality, but I still have one question.”
“Yes?”
“How is it that we begin to believe things about ourselves, positive or negative?”
“Several explanations are possible. First of all, there is what other people say about us. If, for one reason or another, those people are credible in our eyes, then we may believe what they say about us.”
“Our parents, for example?”
“Generally it begins, of course, with our parents and the people who bring us up. A young child learns an enormous amount from his or her parents, and, at least up to a certain age, tends to accept everything they say. It’s engraved in the child. He or she assimilates it.”
“Do you have an example?”
“If parents are convinced their child is beautiful and intelligent, and repeat this constantly, then there is every chance that the child will see herself this way and become very self-confident. That being the case, there won’t just be positive effects. Perhaps the child will also be a little arrogant—”
“So it’s my parents’ fault if I have doubts about my appearance?”
“No, not necessarily. As you will see, there are a number of possible origins for what we believe about ourselves. And, as far as other people’s influence is concerned, there aren’t just the parents. For example, teachers also sometimes have a great influence.”
“That reminds me of something: I was really good in math at school until ninth grade, straight A’s. Then in tenth grade, I had a teacher who told us in every class that we were all useless. I remember she used to shout all the time, and you could see the veins in her neck swelling up as she bawled us out. I finished the year with straight F’s.”
“You probably believed what she was saying.”
“Perhaps. But, to be honest, not everyone in the class got straight F’s like me.”
“They were probably less sensitive than you to the teacher’s opinion.”
“I don’t know.”
“An experiment was carried out, in the seventies, by some scientists at an American university. They began by choosing a group of pupils of the same age with the same results in IQ tests: so these children had the same level of intelligence, according to the test. They then divided the group in two. They gave the first subgroup to a teacher who was told, ‘Do the same curriculum as usual, but, just to inform you, you should know that these children are more intelligent than average.’ The teacher to whom the second group was given was told, ‘Do the same curriculum as usual, but, just to inform you, you should know that these children are less intelligent than average.’ After a year’s worth of classes, the scientists had all the children retake the IQ test. Those in the first subgroup had an average IQ that was distinctly above that of the children in the second group.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It is indeed rather impressive.”
“It’s incredible! All you have to do is lead a teacher to believe his pupils are intelligent in order for him to make them intelligent; if he’s convinced they’re stupid, he makes them stupid?!”
“It’s a scientific experiment.”
“Even so, it’s sick to do experiments like that on children.”
“Indeed, it is questionable.”
“But, by the way, how is it possible? I mean, how can a teacher believing his pupils are idiots result in him making them idiots?”
“There are two possible explanations. First of all, when you talk to someone stupid, how do you express yourself?”
“With super-simple words, very short sentences, and easily understandable ideas.”
“There you are. And if you talk like this to children whose brains need stimulating to develop, they will stagnate instead of evolving. That’s the first explanation. There’s another one, which is more harmful.”
“Yes?”
“If you have to deal with a child whom you believe to be stupid, everything about you permanently implies that he is stupid. Not just your vocabulary, as we said a moment ago, but also the way you speak, your facial expressions, your eyes. You’re slightly sorry for him or, on the contrary, slightly annoyed, and he notices this. He feels stupid in your presence. And if you’re somebody important to him, if your status, your age, and your role mean that you are credible in his eyes, then there is every chance that he will not challenge this feeling. So he will start to believe that he is stupid. You know the rest.”
“It’s frightening.”
“Indeed, it’s rather dreadful.”
I was very troubled by what I was learning. All these ideas remained as though hanging in the air. We stayed for a few moments without saying anything. A slight wind brought me the subtle scents of the tropical plants that grew freely near the campan. In the distance, a gecko was sounding its characteristic cry.
“There is something that surprises me.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to annoy you, but how do you have access to this sort of information—I mean scientif
ic experiments carried out in the United States?”
“You must allow me to leave certain things a mystery.”
I was not going to insist, but I would have liked to know. I found it really hard to imagine an Internet connection in the campan next door. I wasn’t even sure the village had a phone line. And, I absolutely could not imagine my healer connecting to scientific forums. I could more readily see him meditating for hours, in the lotus position, in the shade of mangroves.
“You said there were other origins for what we believe about ourselves?”
“Yes, there are the conclusions we draw without realizing it from certain of our life experiences.”
“I’d like examples.”
“Right, a slightly simplistic example to illustrate the point: imagine a baby whose parents react only very little to what he does. He cries? His parents don’t move. He shouts? Not a word. He laughs? No reaction. You can suppose that there will gradually develop in him the feeling that he has no impact on the world around him, that he can obtain nothing from others. He won’t consciously say it to himself, of course, especially at his age. It’s just a feeling, a sensation, something in which he is immersed. Now, to simplify the process in the extreme, particularly by supposing that he doesn’t have experiences going in the opposite direction, you can imagine that once he becomes an adult, he will become fatalistic, will never go toward others to get what he wants, will not try to change things. If one of his friends sees him at a dead end one day at work, for example, the friend will just have to accept this passivity. There will be no point in trying to convince him to react, to go and knock on doors, to take control of the situation, to contact people—nothing will work. What’s more, this friend will perhaps judge him harshly, and yet his attitude is simply the result of the profound conviction, buried deep inside him, that he has no effect on the world around him and can obtain nothing from other people. He won’t even be conscious of believing this. For him, that’s the way it is; that’s reality, his reality.”
“Reassure me: parents like that don’t exist, do they?”
“It was just an example. Besides, you can imagine the opposite: parents who are very reactive to their child’s slightest expression. If he cries, they come running; if he smiles, they are ecstatic. The child will no doubt develop the feeling that he has an impact on his surroundings, and, again cutting a long story short, you can suppose that as an adult he will become someone proactive, or else seductive, who will be convinced of the effect he has on others and will never hesitate to go toward them to get what he wants. But he won’t be conscious of what he believes, either. For him, it’s just obvious: he has an effect on people. That’s the way it is. He doesn’t know that a belief has become established in his mind as a result of what he experienced as a child.”
The young woman who had welcomed me glided into the campan and left tea and cakes, if that’s what you can call that sort of wet, sugary, and sticky paste that you have to eat with your fingers if you respect Balinese tradition. A Balinese proverb says that eating with knife and fork is like making love through an interpreter. You are meant to take the food in your hand, and then slide it into your mouth, pushing it in with your thumb. It takes a little getting used to; otherwise, you’ll end up like a baby without a bib.
“So, you begin to believe things about yourself on the basis of what others say to you or what you conclude unconsciously from certain lived experiences. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“And only during childhood?”
“No, let’s say it is especially during childhood that most of the beliefs we have about ourselves are formed, but you can also develop them later on, even as an adult. But, in that case, they will generally be the result of very strong emotional experiences.”
“For example?”
“Imagine that the first time you speak in public, you make an awful mess of it. You stammer and can’t find your words, your voice is stuck in your throat, and your mouth is dry, as if you’d spent three days without drink in the middle of the desert. In the hall, you can hear a pin drop. You can see that people feel sorry for you. Some have a slightly mocking smile. You would give all your savings, and even next year’s salary, to be somewhere else and not going through this. You are ashamed just to think back to it. In that case, it’s quite possible that you will begin to think you are not made for public speaking. In fact, you have just failed once, that day, in front of those people, talking on that subject. But your brain has generalized the experience by drawing a definitive conclusion from it.”
I had finished my cake, and my fingers were now very sticky. I was hesitating between sucking them and wiping them on the mat. Unable to decide, I left my fingers hovering in the air. I was probably developing the belief that I was not made to eat Balinese food.
“When you come back tomorrow, we will discover together other beliefs which are stopping you from being happy,” he said to me kindly.
“I didn’t know I was coming back tomorrow.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that your problems are limited to your doubts about your physical appearance? You certainly have other, much more serious problems, and we will tackle them together.”
“You’re harsh.”
“It’s not by telling people what they want to hear that you help them change,” he replied with a smile.
“You know, I thought you were a healer, that you only concerned yourself with illnesses and pains.”
“In the West, you are used to separating the body and the mind. Here, we think the two are closely linked and form a coherent whole. Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to talk more about this.”
“Just one final question. I am more comfortable if these things are clear, even if it embarrasses me to talk about them: how much will I owe you for your help, for the time you give me?”
He looked at me closely, then said, “I know your profession leads you, too, to transmit things to others. It’s enough for me if you undertake not to keep what you discover to yourself.”
“You have my word.”
As I left, I nonetheless slipped a bill into the little box on the shelf.
“It’s for your work on my toes.”
5
THE ROAD TO Ubud is particularly beautiful. I hadn’t noticed this on the journey there, preoccupied as I was by the worry of finding my way. Twisting and twining in places it goes through little fields edged with wild banana trees and crossed here and there by a stream. This hilly region in the center of the island is subject to the constant alternation of sun and rain, a warm rain that intensifies the smells of nature. The climate favors the explosion of lush tropical vegetation.
Around a corner, I saw three Balinese men at the edge of a field, a few yards from the road. They must have been between 20 and 30, slender, and … entirely naked. I was most surprised by their unexpected appearance. I was not aware of an absence of modesty in Balinese culture. Had they just been for a swim after a day of laboring in the fields? They were walking peacefully side by side. Our eyes met as I arrived next to them. I didn’t manage to interpret the strange looks they gave me. Were they embarrassed to encounter me on this lonely road? Had they noticed my surprise at their nakedness?
The road continued and, as Ubud drew near, went through small villages. The houses betrayed a certain poverty, and yet the streets were always well cared for, clean, and full of flowers. On the ground before each door were offerings of flowers and food placed on interwoven pieces of banana leaves. These offerings were renewed regularly throughout the day.
The Balinese live in the sacred. Their religion does not depend on codified rites at fixed times or certain days of the week. No, they are in direct contact with the gods. They seem imbued with their faith, permanently inhabited by it. Always calm, gentle, and smiling, they are no doubt, along with the Mauritians, the nicest people on Earth. You get the impression that nothing can upset these even-tempered people. They greet everything that comes their way wit
h the same serenity.
Without fail, Bali makes visitors think of paradise, and yet they would no doubt be surprised to learn that the word paradise does not exist in Balinese. It is the natural element of the Balinese, who no more have a word to refer to it than fish have one to refer to the water that surrounds them.
I was thinking back to my meeting with the healer, and I still felt under the spell of our conversation. The man had a special aura. I was excited by what he had revealed to me, even if what he said had sometimes been disconcerting. I had never imagined that I would one day find myself on the other side of the world, listening to an old Balinese sage’s commentary on Nicole Kidman’s breasts and bottom.
At the exit from Ubud, I forked off to the east to go back home. The day had been rich in emotions, and I felt the need to be on my own for a while to allow all I had discovered to settle in me. It would take me more than an hour to reach the little fishing village on the east coast where I had rented a bungalow on the edge of a remote, pretty beach of gray sand. Fortunately, the tourists preferred the expanses of white sand in the south of the island, so it was rare to come across them on “my” beach. Only a Dutch couple had taken up residence in a slightly isolated spot. They were not unpleasant, and I seldom met them. My bungalow belonged to a family who lived farther inland. I had rented it for a month at a rate very acceptable to me, very profitable for them: I like situations where everyone is a winner. The beach remained deserted in the morning; some village children would come to play in the afternoon. The only other comings and goings were those of the fishermen, whom I sometimes heard setting out to sea in their pirogues at five in the morning. I had gone with them once, even though, since I don’t speak Balinese, it had been difficult to make them understand and therefore to get their agreement.
It remained one of my happiest memories of Bali. We had set out before dawn, and I had not felt too confident in the unstable pirogue. It sat at water level, and I could see virtually nothing in the black of the moonless night. But the fishermen knew their craft, and that day I experienced what confidence was—blind confidence, as it happened. The lapping of the water and the cool breeze brushing my face were almost the only elements that my roused senses could pick up. Three-quarters of an hour later, I saw the sun slowly appear on the horizon, like a floodlight lighting a scene at ground level, all at once bringing into existence the grandiose scenery. It was immense, magical. I discovered at the same time the enormity of the sea, the gigantic scale of the sky, and the minuteness of the pirogue, which seemed to be floating by magic on a bottomless abyss, like a match dropped on the ocean. I also discovered the smiles of the fishermen and suddenly felt happy without knowing why.
The Man Who Wanted to Be Happy Page 2
