by Starhawk
Donald has a set of guidelines he uses to distinguish constructive criticism from simply shredding someone’s creative work. A constructive critique must be specific—not “I hate that chant,” but “The words and the rhythm are fighting each other.”
For criticism to be constructive, the intent must be to improve the work, resolve a conflict, or improve a situation: “I’m telling you what I don’t like about your chant because I want it to be moving and beautiful and because I believe you have the capability of making it so.”
The timing must also be right. Immediately after the ritual, when the priestesses are still in trance and exhausted, is not the moment to rip apart the drum trance.
Another helpful guideline put forth by the Bay Area Witchcamp teachers’ collective is that a critique must focus on something the person can actually change. As in “Have you thought about taking some voice lessons to help you learn how to project in a group?” rather than “Your personality is too mousy for a priestess.”
Finally, consider whether your criticism is best delivered privately or publicly. E-mail makes this consideration especially important, because it is very easy to press a button and deliver a critique to a whole list-serve.
A public confrontation almost inevitably will feel like an attack. When we are criticized in front of others, we lose face and feel humiliated. It’s the difference between quietly telling your friend, “Your fly is open,” and yelling loudly in a crowded room, “Hey, everybody, Joe’s fly is open!”
Sometimes public confrontations are necessary and effective, as in the story of the young girl in the movie theater. When a man sat down next to her in the dark and began masturbating, instead of quietly moving away as so many women would do, she stood up and yelled loudly, “Hey, everybody—this man sitting next to me is masturbating!” He jumped up and fled.
In most circumstances, however, constructive criticism is best delivered privately. You owe the person involved a chance to listen, respond, and change before making the issue public.
To be teachers or leaders that empower a group, we must be willing to give and receive feedback. More than that, we must invite feedback and respond in ways that make others feel comfortable offering constructive critique.
The more power and influence you have in a group, the more a thoughtless or heavy-handed critique can hurt. When I feel a need to criticize someone, I give long and careful thought to what I’m going to say. I ask myself, “What do I really want this person to change?” I might mentally run through the mirror exercise described earlier, asking, “What can I reflect back to this person in a positive way that will call forth the qualities I’d like to see?” If possible, instead of a criticism I offer a suggestion or challenge or a tool that can help open up a new direction or insight: “Just once this week, I challenge you to step into the center of the circle, do something that gets everyone’s attention, and enjoy it!” “Before you tend tonight, why don’t you take some time, ground, use your anchor, and go over the boundary work we did today so that you stay centered in your own self and don’t soak up other people’s energy.”
Offering and receiving criticism are not easy to do. Working with our anchor, becoming familiar with our own states of inflation and deflation, can help us learn to simply listen and to discern helpful feedback from attack.
Critique Practice
To listen actively is to make a commitment to really hear another person on all levels: content, emotion, process. For this exercise, work with a partner. Use your anchors, and call yourselves into your core state. One person speaks, offering some piece of real or imagined feedback. Their partner repeats back what was said, without commenting or disputing it, just reflecting. The speaker can correct the listener, if necessary, until both agree on what was said.
Reverse roles, and repeat the exercise.
Now consider and then discuss: Was the critique offered specific? Timely? Was the intent to improve the work? Did it focus on something you could actually change?
Did you get pulled into inflation or deflation? By what? Were you able to hold your anchor?
When we are anchored to our core state of being, we know that we are worthy and valuable people even when we make mistakes. We don’t have to be right; in fact, our students may learn as much or more from our mistakes, if as teachers we have the courage to acknowledge them, as they do from our moments of brilliance. At Witchcamp, we often discuss the previous night’s ritual over lunch. The most interesting rituals to critique are the problematic ones, where the students can question our judgment calls and ask why we made the choices we did. “Just when the energy was raising up, you jerked it around and made us do a spiral dance. Why?” “Well, the people close to the fire were raising energy, but everyone outside was cold, and no one would move back and let the rest of the group get it. So I started the spiral. But you’re right: the energy was jerky, and it never quite came back up, so it may have been the wrong choice.” Part of empowering our students is to let them see the gears and wheels, to let them understand the many choices involved in a ritual, to let them know not just what they experienced, but how the experience was created.
Criticism may be a gift, but it rarely feels like a gift. In fact, no matter how kindly it is meant, it often feels like an attack, or at least a blow to one’s self-esteem. Rose’s mother-in-law is not offering her a critique of her child rearing or helpful feedback on her nettle-gathering techniques. She is out to destroy Rose. A destructive attack is of a different quality than even the most blunt and ill-timed criticism. If we can learn to recognize an attack when it comes at us, we can also begin to recognize those times when we attack others.
Let us imagine that Rose’s mother-in-law was genuinely concerned when she saw Rose enter the graveyard and was eager to resolve the situation. Instead of leaping to conclusions, making accusations to third parties, and trying to whip up anger against Rose, she might have come to her privately and said, “I’m concerned. I saw you going into the graveyard. Maybe it’s none of my business, but my son’s welfare is important to me, and I’d like to know what you were doing. I realize that you can’t speak, but perhaps there is some way I can help you communicate.”
An attacker doesn’t usually bother to ask. Like the mother-in-law’s accusations of evildoing, an attack is not based on specifics or on evidence, but on unproved assumptions. An attacker often involves third parties or speaks of anonymous others: “I don’t feel this way myself, but other people have told me…” A complaint made publicly that has not first been made privately is an attack. One of the laws of mediation says, “The more people involved, the less likely an issue is to be resolved.” A person who wants to resolve a conflict goes first to the person involved, presents the complaint, and gives her or him a chance to rectify the situation. An attacker, instead, wants an audience. She or he may try to draw the group into being a court of judgment; list-serves are especially prone to being used in this way.
An attack may also masquerade as concern: “You look tired” may be a genuine expression of caring, especially if it is followed by “So why don’t you sit down and let me do the dishes?” Still, “tired” is a judgment, and a negative one. Nobody really likes to be told they look tired. When it is followed by “Maybe you should cut back and get off this committee,” we might suspect a manipulation.
Attacks are often not made directly. Instead of confronting the person involved, the attacker may start a gossip campaign or organize a faction.
Rose meets her attackers with silence. Instead of defending herself, she focuses on her great work of healing, which will be her ultimate vindication. Sometimes silence is our most effective weapon.
“There was one woman on the council who was my political opponent and who was really vitriolic,” Melusine says. “It was vitally important that I keep silent, that I not even look horrified or hurt, because the TV cameras are on me. I have to look quietly and curiously interested, as if I’m taking it all in and considering it, but i
n fact I’m just letting it bounce back. Another man was writing vicious editorials and saying that I was a Witch. (I’m not ‘out’ in my community.) There, too, I knew that if I kept silent he was just going to turn people against himself. But after I was elected, hah-hah, I took out a big anonymous ad that said, ‘From the bottom of my broomstick to the top of my pointy little hat, thank you, Tom, for the free publicity.’ I didn’t sign my name, but everybody knew.”
Matthew Fox, the former Dominican priest who for many stormy years has been the voice of the creation-centered, life-affirming stream within Christianity, likes to quote Abraham Heschel as saying simply, “I never respond to negative criticism.” “Of course,” he admits, “sometimes you do have to respond because they’re nipping at your heels, but as a general rule, it works.”
Rose has no choice but to remain silent. We, however, do have a choice, and sometimes silence is not our best defense. There are danger signals we can learn to recognize that tell us when the time to respond has come. When our health or energy level becomes compromised, when we start to suffer from depression or lose our sense of joy and enthusiasm for the work, we need to find a way to end the attack. When we are being treated in unacceptable ways or when we would lose respect for ourself as a person, we cannot remain silent.
And while we sometimes must ourselves respond to attack with silence, as good allies we may be able to speak up for our friends when they cannot. Rose is isolated: no one in the castle knows her true story. But we do not have to leave each other in isolation.
A good ally doesn’t necessarily just leap blindly into the fray when someone is being criticized or attacked. Instead, a wise ally might ask, “What can I do to create a space where an effective dialogue can happen?” We are good allies when we simply refuse to listen to malicious gossip or when we ask that rumors be checked out before they are spread. Good allies might set the ground rules for a meeting or an on-line conversation or offer to mediate a dispute. And good allies also see and name the “ism” brothers when they manifest themselves in subtle ways: “Malefica, I can hear how much you dislike Rose. I just want you to look at the possibility that there may be some issues of social class operating here. Is it really what she’s done, or where she comes from—a cave in the wilderness—that’s bothering you?”
The most painful attacks are not those that come from our political opponents or evil mothers-in-law. Those we expect and can deal with. The attacks that hurt most deeply are those that come from within our communities, from the people we love and trust. And generally those attackers are not truly malevolent. They don’t mean to destroy us; they are simply responding from their own old behavior patterns. And sometimes even the most furious, ill-timed attack can carry within it a grain of truth that is a gift, if only we can clarify what it is.
We honor ourselves and care for our community by not letting ourselves get thrown into inflation or deflation. If we can instead stay anchored to our core state of being, we can respond with interest and curiosity, practicing a sort of energetic judo that uses the opponent’s own momentum to transform attack into constructive critique. Instead of defending our position, we can ask questions, soliciting the specifics that make criticism helpful.
“I’m curious, Malefica. What exactly is it about nettle crushing that disturbs you?”
“What could I do to help you feel more comfortable with all these nettles in the castle?”
“Malefica, I’m hearing through the grapevine that you’re worried about my midnight trips to the graveyard. If that’s true, I’d love to talk to you directly about it and hear what you have to say firsthand, because I value your opinion.”
Gwydion reminds us that what may seem like an attack may actually be an expression of passion. He describes “that point where we become so impassioned about something, so idealistic, that we move into that ‘us versus them’ dichotomy, approaching or entering into self-righteousness and piousness. We become immovable in our position and stuck in this mode. We become unwilling to compromise, unwilling to back down, unable—perhaps even unwilling—to be compassionate, and blind to the impact of our actions. The energy of it looks like ‘Get out of my way, or either my horse will trample you or I’ll knock you down with my sword/club.’”
Wand Meditation
In sacred space, stand up and position yourselves so that you can move freely. Think of something that you truly and deeply care about, an issue that you feel passionate about. Imagine that passion as a wand, and hold it out in front of you. What does it feel like? Look like? Is it light or heavy? What energy does it take to hold it before you?
A juggler once taught me that to balance a stick on its end, you simply have to keep moving to stay under it as it tips and shifts. Imagine trying to balance your wand in that way. Let yourselves move through the space, feeling in your bodies the effort it takes to stay balanced with your passion. Is there anywhere in your life that your passion is pulling you and running you around like this? Have you ever bumped into the walls, or knocked people over, with your passion? Has it ever become a club to beat people with? Has it ever become a flaming torch and started a fire?
Slow down, and breathe deeply. Remember your grounding and your anchor to your core worth. Is there a way to dance with your passion instead of being run around by it? Is there a way to carry it so that its fire can also warm you and fuel your energies?
Slowly let your wand transform. What form does your passion take, and how can you carry it? How can you recognize the energetic state when passion runs you? What feels different when you can hold and cherish your passion in balance? Thank your wand, and bring yourself back into ordinary consciousness.
Alone, write about this exercise in your journal. In a group, you might share something about your passion and where it has led you. End by blessing each person’s passions. Open the circle.
Passion/Compassion Meditation
In sacred space, sit with a mirror. Consider the person you feel is attacking you. What if you believed their anger and energy stemmed from passion? Can you understand that passion? Look into the mirror. Can you feel that passion yourself?
What might shift in your interactions with this person if you could acknowledge their passion? Allow a space to open within you where the possibility of change can exist.
End by bathing in the love of the Goddess or one of your allies. Open the circle.
No group is pleasant to be in when people are attacking each other. A group can extinguish that behavior by not participating in it, by refusing to engage in malicious gossip, by having clear expectations for how critique is to be done and holding to them, by refusing to be used as an audience for personal conflict or as a court of judgment.
Madrone, who both teaches and organizes Witchcamps, likes to begin camp with a short statement about leadership. “There are people here in positions of leadership,” she tells the group. “But what I want to do is invite you all to take leadership. That means taking responsibility for yourself, for everyone at camp having a good time, including yourself, and thinking well of each other. We all come from wounded places, and they manifest in different ways. It’s important to give each other the space to be supportive and kind.”
To think well of each other means not to make assumptions about other people’s motives, not to listen to backbiting or negative gossip or third-party complaints. It means consciously holding the well-being of the community in mind before you speak or act, and choosing to treat each other with compassion and loving-kindness.
Clear, strong personal and group boundaries are also part of our protection against projections and attack. As the old woman tells us in the trance of the Crone’s Three Gifts, our boundaries are both an edge that protects us and a sensory organ that lets us know when we are encountering other people’s edges. To have good boundaries is to be able to acknowledge the limits of your power and responsibility, to respect other people’s privacy, to know what is yours and what is not yours.
When we
step into a position of leadership, our boundaries become crucial. We are entrusted with other people’s vulnerabilities, and we must be able to practice silence, to keep their confidences within the circle. Our words can wound if we use them thoughtlessly or carelessly. We must know when to intervene and when to use restraint.
Other people’s projections can easily throw us into inflation or deflation unless we have a clear sense of our own limits. “May I talk to you for five minutes?” a woman asks me. She is depressed, unhappy with her life, and she knows that if she can just speak with me, I’ll help her. I am amazed at her faith in my power, which must be nearly miraculous if it can, in five minutes, cure a depression that ten years of therapy have failed to help. I wish that I could help her, but I know that five minutes or five hours of my time are no miracle cure. All I can do is be present with her for a bit and listen with compassion. If I get pulled into inflation, if I lose my boundaries and decide that yes, I can work miracles, not only will I not help her; I may prevent her from continuing to seek and find true help.
Projections can become extreme. On one trip to Ireland, the religious commentator on the national radio station actually went on the air and warned that my visit would “unleash a flood of black magic and terrorism.” I had always assumed that Ireland was doing just fine in the terrorism department without any help from me, but I was rather charmed to think that, with just one speech in Dublin, I could undo centuries of Christianity and negate every priest in the country. I found that a long uphill walk in the rain was necessary to restore my sense of proportion.
Boundary Exercise
In pairs, take some time to discuss how people get through your boundaries. Is it with criticism? Neediness? Bossiness? Judgment?
Partner A, reflect on your tools for protecting your boundaries. Anchor to your core state of being.
Now, partner B, mount an assault on your partner’s boundaries, using the techniques she’s admitted get through.
Switch roles, and repeat the exercise. How hard was it to hold your anchor? What have you learned about how better to guard your boundaries?
