I LOVE WRITING LETTERS but I never thought it’d be so complicated to explain why. I’ve been writing an essay on the subject for a few months now and the reason I know it’s a mystical act is because the more I try to name and explain why it’s so powerful, the more illusive it becomes—like looking at the sun—or god!
But I enjoy trying, and I suppose that’s the point—to attempt, in an essay, to explain why such a seemingly simple act has such a profound impact on the self and perhaps the other. We spend so much time in our minds--with such little time to practice imagining the experience of others—that when it comes time to reach out and connect, we tend to freeze.
These days, it takes a hefty heap of moral courage just to ask “how are you?” I attended an evening workshop at my library on the subject of difficult conversations this week—the facilitator had to remind us all in the room that the only mind we can change is our own. In the protocol she described—on how to navigate charged dynamics with others across differences--breathing, asking and listening are the stars of the show.
Not just breathing, but deep breathing—before, during and after any conversation that seems to touch the third rail. Not just asking, but asking from a place of genuine curiosity about the other’s experience—suspending the notion that your worldview is the only right or reasonable way to see it. Not just listening, but listening to learn versus win. Listening for—not just to—the other person’s lived experience. This is generous and difficult work—work that can sometimes break us with the heft of its weight—even when we come to it with the best of intentions.
We are living through the most fragmented times—but when I catch any of us speaking in such extremes about the current moment, I tend to catch myself wondering if other times and places didn’t also feel the currents catch and curdle beneath them as they lurched toward the future. It seems like all decades had their waves of horror and reprieve—the media’s refrain clanging against the everyday—tending gardens, snipping lawns, cleaning up dog poop, waving hi to a neighbor, without wondering who they may have voted for in the last election.
I loved learning about the moral courage method—anyone can try it any time and practice it over and over again, these are skills, not steps. Thanks is always central to the exchange, to give it and receive it, ideally. In high school, I trained as a peer mediator, resolving conflicts of all kinds in the cozy dean's office—the one in the back, for privacy. This work felt powerful, and meaningful, I thought at one point I'd get into diplomacy work or conflict resolution for the courts. I never did go in that direction but the early training I received in mediation has stuck with me all these years.
But I’ve also come to learn in these times that moral righteousness is not the flex that some folks think it is, at least according to their avatars. Courage is one thing—courage to care, courage to try—but righteousness is a narrowing of the viewfinder and I find that hard to handle, even from friends waving banners of peace and goodwill, even from those who claimed they cared.
I think I’m one of very few I know who still attempt to speak across differences. I still break bread with people who think and feel their way through the world in very different ways than me. Most times, I can make it through a meal without upset or offense.
But it’s not lost on me how so few folks I know are still trying to even consider other points of view—that they’ve learned to speak in soundbites about issues they think matter to them—and yet cannot talk beyond the headlines and the talking points issued by the ones scripting the agendas. This disappoints me, but I never say so in loud ways. I take notes, and learn to navigate where I feel safe.
All of this moral courage amounts to certain levels of acrobatic feats when it comes to talking across differences. If we can avoid it—the stress and rage that comes with it—we clearly will and already do, retreating into our comfort caves. But I love learning how folks have arrived at the views they hold, and this continues to motivate me—the possibility of connection and common ground.
Like potato preference—the facilitator kicked off our meeting with an ice-breaker question about how each of us prefers to eat a potato. Lovely question, low-stakes and full of surprising nuance in the answers as we went around the table. I fiercely defended french fries, others talked slow-roasted Greek, or mashed inside a samosa Indian style, etc. If only we could talk as joyfully about our differences in potato preference as we could about god or politics.
In all honesty, I love mashed potatoes as much as a french fry, and I truly adore a roasted sweet potato, too, enough to write about each of these as its own separate essay in odes.
Which brings me back to a letter, and why it’s so mystical and magical—that while you’re writing to the other, and keeping them in mind, you can also sit with your own preferences, and share to your heart’s content without worrying about the possibility of immediate misunderstanding or interruption. The person’s “there” in your mind but can’t interrupt or talk right away and you’re free to talk for a whole page if you want about your love of salty, crispy french fries. And hopefully, they’ll love to hear about it and write back and tell you about their love for mashed potatoes.
But I enjoy trying, and I suppose that’s the point—to attempt, in an essay, to explain why such a seemingly simple act has such a profound impact on the self and perhaps the other. We spend so much time in our minds--with such little time to practice imagining the experience of others—that when it comes time to reach out and connect, we tend to freeze.
These days, it takes a hefty heap of moral courage just to ask “how are you?” I attended an evening workshop at my library on the subject of difficult conversations this week—the facilitator had to remind us all in the room that the only mind we can change is our own. In the protocol she described—on how to navigate charged dynamics with others across differences--breathing, asking and listening are the stars of the show.
Not just breathing, but deep breathing—before, during and after any conversation that seems to touch the third rail. Not just asking, but asking from a place of genuine curiosity about the other’s experience—suspending the notion that your worldview is the only right or reasonable way to see it. Not just listening, but listening to learn versus win. Listening for—not just to—the other person’s lived experience. This is generous and difficult work—work that can sometimes break us with the heft of its weight—even when we come to it with the best of intentions.
We are living through the most fragmented times—but when I catch any of us speaking in such extremes about the current moment, I tend to catch myself wondering if other times and places didn’t also feel the currents catch and curdle beneath them as they lurched toward the future. It seems like all decades had their waves of horror and reprieve—the media’s refrain clanging against the everyday—tending gardens, snipping lawns, cleaning up dog poop, waving hi to a neighbor, without wondering who they may have voted for in the last election.
I loved learning about the moral courage method—anyone can try it any time and practice it over and over again, these are skills, not steps. Thanks is always central to the exchange, to give it and receive it, ideally. In high school, I trained as a peer mediator, resolving conflicts of all kinds in the cozy dean's office—the one in the back, for privacy. This work felt powerful, and meaningful, I thought at one point I'd get into diplomacy work or conflict resolution for the courts. I never did go in that direction but the early training I received in mediation has stuck with me all these years.
But I’ve also come to learn in these times that moral righteousness is not the flex that some folks think it is, at least according to their avatars. Courage is one thing—courage to care, courage to try—but righteousness is a narrowing of the viewfinder and I find that hard to handle, even from friends waving banners of peace and goodwill, even from those who claimed they cared.
I think I’m one of very few I know who still attempt to speak across differences. I still break bread with people who think and feel their way through the world in very different ways than me. Most times, I can make it through a meal without upset or offense.
But it’s not lost on me how so few folks I know are still trying to even consider other points of view—that they’ve learned to speak in soundbites about issues they think matter to them—and yet cannot talk beyond the headlines and the talking points issued by the ones scripting the agendas. This disappoints me, but I never say so in loud ways. I take notes, and learn to navigate where I feel safe.
All of this moral courage amounts to certain levels of acrobatic feats when it comes to talking across differences. If we can avoid it—the stress and rage that comes with it—we clearly will and already do, retreating into our comfort caves. But I love learning how folks have arrived at the views they hold, and this continues to motivate me—the possibility of connection and common ground.
Like potato preference—the facilitator kicked off our meeting with an ice-breaker question about how each of us prefers to eat a potato. Lovely question, low-stakes and full of surprising nuance in the answers as we went around the table. I fiercely defended french fries, others talked slow-roasted Greek, or mashed inside a samosa Indian style, etc. If only we could talk as joyfully about our differences in potato preference as we could about god or politics.
In all honesty, I love mashed potatoes as much as a french fry, and I truly adore a roasted sweet potato, too, enough to write about each of these as its own separate essay in odes.
Which brings me back to a letter, and why it’s so mystical and magical—that while you’re writing to the other, and keeping them in mind, you can also sit with your own preferences, and share to your heart’s content without worrying about the possibility of immediate misunderstanding or interruption. The person’s “there” in your mind but can’t interrupt or talk right away and you’re free to talk for a whole page if you want about your love of salty, crispy french fries. And hopefully, they’ll love to hear about it and write back and tell you about their love for mashed potatoes.
