Myth and Meaning

THE WISDOM BORN OF PAIN

"Wisdom is oft times nearer when we stoop than when we soar." - William Wadsworth

From time to time, Kevin reminds me that when he first met me at the age of 15, in an attempt to engage me in conversation, he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew older. I informed him that my goal was to become wise. He was dumbfounded. "Who was this person and who on earth had as a life long dream to become wise?" he wondered. I did. I still do, and I'm certain that it's been the "wisdom born of pain" that has carried me the farthest in my pursuit of this goal.

The presence of pain saves lives. When my mother was a child, she was playing too close to an open flame. It wasn't until she felt the first stab of pain that she realized that her dress was on fire and cried for help. Had her body failed to register this sensation, she would have quickly become a human torch. Pain tells us when we're in trouble, and hopefully, will keep getting our attention until we do what we need to do to save ourselves.

I'm good at suffering. I think I do it more blatantly than many people I know. I was reading a story to my daughter one morning about a dog named Murphy who died. I began to cry and continued to weep while I read the rest of the book. My daughter thinks I'm strange. It isn't the first time I've burst into tears while reading or watching a movie with her. I was a wreck when she and I saw "The Land Before Time" together. The suffering of others, even some cartoon characters, has always touched me deeply. I remember a blind man who sat outside of Shaws grocery store playing an accordion for donations. Shoppers walked by seemingly oblivious to him. My encounters with this man always left me shaken and profoundly sad. Seventeen years ago, while I was living in California, a white horse came running full speed ahead up to a fence by which I was standing. It startled me and I jumped back. The owner struck the horse in the face. I was enraged by his cruelty, and I cried in sympathy for the horse for days afterwards. I have often wondered how I managed to survive as a psychotherapist with such an acute sensitivity to pain. And then again, perhaps it is this sensitivity that contributed more to my success than any skill I acquired during my years of training.

"I feel her pain and my own pain comes into me, and my own pain grows large and I grasp this pain with my hands, and I open my mouth to this pain, I taste it, I know, and I know why she goes on." Susan Griffin

I was trained to remain as objective as possible in my work with clients. Crying in their presence was definitely not considered to be of therapeutic value. For years I would watch people in terrible agony and not shed a tear. My throat would ache and my neck and chest muscles would tighten though. An ancient Chinese belief is that the neck mediates between the thinking mind and the feeling heart. Consequently, when there is difficulty with the neck area, this can often be linked to some kind of withholding or repression of emotional pain. During my early years as a therapist, I constantly had a stiff neck. Eventually, I said to hell with the cool and objective facade I had been taught to project. From time to time (though rarely), I began to permit my own tears to join those of my clients. I don't regret a single moment that I've wept with a client. Maybe it's a rationalization, but I believe that in showing my own pain, I help to validate the feelings of another. My tears are saying, "Yes, it's hard. You're right to cry. It hurts so much that I cry too." As I allowed myself to express my feelings more fully to my clients, the aching in my neck eased significantly.

While discussing compassion in her book, "Living With Chronic Illness", Cheri Register points out that the prefix "com" in Latin means "with". When we experience compassion for another, we feel "with" them and may thus according to Register, "transform a private and often lonely experience into one that is shared." I, personally, would rather be joined in my pain than be silently observed.

I remember being in a group in which a very reserved and private man began to weep. Later, he shared that he was extremely embarrassed by exposing his weakness to us. Joe Melnick, a warm and wonderful therapist who practices in Portland, Maine, turned to him and said, "I hate to cry alone. I always try to do it with someone, and preferably in groups."

I hate suffering, especially my own. I recognize that this may seem like a contradiction to what I have previously maintained regarding the value of suffering, but nevertheless, it's all true for me. I would banish all heartache from the earth if I could. But I can't. No one can. There will always be suffering. And while it can transform, it can also destroy. As a therapist, I've witnessed the destruction that suffering can yield more often than I care to remember. I have also watched strength and wisdom slowly evolve and emerge from the depths of despair. Those times I wish to never forget. Sometimes, the metamorphosis from tragedy to triumph is profound. Other times, discomfort may simply lead to a new insight. The smallest insights, however, can sometimes have a very large effect. One simple example of how this can occur may be found in Regina's story.