Why Madison?
Madison died ten years ago, and the manner of his death, although probably quite normal for a 14 year old cat still hurts to the point that I can't really think about some aspects of it--my mind tries to touch them and then dashes away from the pain of it. I suppose in time, it will become more bearable. But I didn't start writing about him because of his dying, or even because I miss him deeply, even though I have done so every day since losing him. I started writing about him on my way to another place, using our relationship as a sort of way into thinking about the ways we come to understand each other, and the myriad misunderstandings that can take place even among people who speak the same language and whose values are similar enough to be moderately certain of what the other means.
I didn't start with Maddie from any idea that inter-species communication is more difficult than intra-species communication: in my experience, difficulties of speech and language can be overcome by willingness and body language. And even sharing the same type of body and the same language is no guarantee whatsoever (in my experience) that communication, useful communication can necessarily take place: it absolutely depends on the will of the participants. And like any other sort of relationship dance, it takes two--if one opts out, the project dies aborning.
I have known people (not many, but a few), with whom useful or meaningful communication were impossible because they simply weren't willing.
I started with Maddie because of all the beings I've known, he had the day-to-day lived experience of me, and he was willing to meet me as not only someone who might meet his needs for food, but as someone to relate to. I think part of his willingness came from my own willingness to learn some of his rules and respect them even if I didn't always understand them, (like being petted twice but not three times) but also from my insistence that he observe and obey some of my rules (like not biting me when he didn't get his way). We had to have a framework in which to meet each other, and establishing our deal-breakers gave us lines along which we could work towards an ever more subtle conversation.
I am using this ten year history, a real love relationship, to think about my work, the way I meet clients in psychotherapy, and how we learn in time, through the recursive nature of conversation and repetitions of narrative from different angles, at and of different times, through our personal histories and idiosyncratic world views, to speak so the other understands. And to mirror back the delight one feels in being understood. This, I think, is an extremely rare occurrence in "everyday" life, and I believe it is at the core of healing.
Why Madison?
Madison died ten years ago, and the manner of his death, although probably quite normal for a 14 year old cat still hurts to the point that I can't really think about some aspects of it--my mind tries to touch them and then dashes away from the pain of it. I suppose in time, it will become more bearable. But I didn't start writing about him because of his dying, or even because I miss him deeply, even though I have done so every day since losing him. I started writing about him on my way to another place, using our relationship as a sort of way into thinking about the ways we come to understand each other, and the myriad misunderstandings that can take place even among people who speak the same language and whose values are similar enough to be moderately certain of what the other means.
I didn't start with Maddie from any idea that inter-species communication is more difficult than intra-species communication: in my experience, difficulties of speech and language can be overcome by willingness and body language. Besides, I have known people (not many, but a few), with whom useful or meaningful communication were impossible because they simply weren't willing.
I started with Maddie because of all the beings I've known, he had the day-to-day lived experience of me, and he was willing to meet me as not only someone who might meet his needs for food, but as someone to relate to. I think part of his willingness came from my own willingness to learn some of his rules and respect them even if I didn't always understand them, (like being petted twice but not three times) but also from my insistence that he observe and obey some of my rules (like not biting me when he didn't get his way). We had to have a framework in which to meet each other, and establishing our deal-breakers gave us lines along which we could work towards an ever more subtle conversation.
I am using this ten year history, a real love relationship, to think about my work, the way I meet clients in psychotherapy, and how we learn in time, through the recursive nature of conversation and repetitions of narrative from different angles, at and of different times, through our personal histories and idiosyncratic world views, to speak so the other understands. And to mirror back the delight one feels in being understood. This, I think, is an extremely rare occurrence in "everyday" life, and I believe it is at the core of healing.