By Your Scars

There’s a classic story about a father teaching his son a lesson about anger and the permanent damage we can do with our words. It’s called “The Fence”. You probably know it but in case you don’t, here it is:

There was boy who had a bad temper, struggling to control his hurtful words and actions. 

His father gave the boy a bag of nails and told him every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into their wood fence. 

The first day, the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, 

he discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence. 

As he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. 

Finally the day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. 

His dad now had him remove one nail for each day that he controlled his temper. 

It took months, one by one, removing a nail for each day but finally all of the nails were gone.  

The father took his son by the hand, led him to the fence and said, "You have done well. But look at the holes in the fence. They fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar, just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. 

It won't matter how many time you say "I'm sorry", the wound is still there.

-Anonymous 

 

This story of course has a great lesson about the long term impact we can have when we are reckless with our words and actions. Even if we feel bad, apologize, and are forgiven, some scars will always remain. 

But this story also provides a metaphor with the damaged fence representing a damaged person. And while we should definitely be careful with one another, the scars we bear become who we are. They are our stories and what makes us unique. We don't see each other as polished pieces of wood, each alike and flawless. We fit together with our friends, chosen family, and partners by the way they see and tend to our scars.  The way they make space for our heartaches, hold our pain, and look straight in the eye of our adversity and don't look away. 

I know you have your scars. 

I know the places it hurts. 

I don't wish those parts of you away. 

I know you by your scars. 

Things that are true

One of my career highlights is writing a book on conflict with a good friend of mine. We have spent years diving into the research and human behavior involved in conflict. And despite the, what we think are excellent strategies for engaging in and resolving conflict, we still find ourselves in the midst of emotion-fueled confusion with other humans at times. How can we be so good at this yet still stumble our way through it? For starters, we are all human. We are social beings with complex thoughts and feelings and we are all uniquely different which inherently means we will sometimes disagree. 

Last week at work, I found myself in a fairly tense conversation with someone who works in the grounds department responsible for the property my building is on. We both made several attempts to explain our perspective but they simply didn't align. I finally threw my hands up and calmly said, "we are both saying things that are true." I was simply asking for a truce. What you're saying is right. And what I'm saying is right too. We just hadn't yet discovered the overlap of those truths where the mystery of the situation existed. 

My colleagues who overheard the discussion have brought up my peace offering statement multiple times, "We are both saying things that are true." It was such a powerful pause to allow us to see we are not against each other, we simply haven't figured out how to make space for both truths. And I've started to think about where this conundrum exists in other parts of my life or the broader society. 

You can love your country and want better for it. 

You can believe science and still be confused by it. 

You can support our leaders and still be frustrated by their decisions. 

Masks can be uncomfortable and keep people safe and healthy. 

School can be essential but also risky. 

You can be faithful to your religion and let someone else live by theirs.

You can speak your truth and respect the truth of others. 

The remarkable outcome of speaking these truths together, at the same time, and making room for both (or many) is that the emotional intensity of defending your perspective falls away. When there isn’t a risk of not being seen, it’s easier to pause and see the perspectives you were previously overlooking. In any situation there is not just one but many things that are true. 

Thank you for your childhood

One of my very favorite books from my youth is "The Giver" by Lois Lowry. It provokes considerable thought about social structure, rights, and identity. I'm always struck by how much this book causes me to cling to my free will and expression of emotions but also conjures the surfacing of a guilty craving for simplicity that has a price tag we can't match.

The society in this book functions under a very specific set of principles - precision of language, daily dream sharing, pills to suppress "stirrings", and adherence to the rules of the life assignment given at the ceremony of the Elevens. At this ceremony, as the youth transition into their lifelong work, they are told "thank you for your childhood". It is both a genuine acknowledgment of their youth but also a shift into greater contributions to society.

In both The Giver and real life, we often view adulthood as being more than childhood and measure children on a scale of achieving "adultness" (for more on this, I recommend Emily Plank's Discovering the Culture of Childhood). But what if that's not quite right? What if childhood is more and adulthood is simply the unfortunate letting go of the gifts of childhood that we justify with productivity, money, and adult responsibilities?

Children bring endless amounts of joy to our lives with their playfulness, their easy sense of humor, and the delight they find in the simplest moments. They aren't as bound to schedules, time, and responsibilities. The are free from judgement and anger-fueled grudges. They are guided by biological cues, close relationships, curiosity, and simply what feels good.

What if childhood isn't merely to prepare us for adulthood? What if our youngest years are the peak of our lives?

I was thinking about this a lot today as I was watching my sons play. My oldest spent over three hours playing in the snow. Periodically coming in to ask for dinosaurs, and spray bottles with colored water, and helicopters, and the list goes on. He never asked what time it was and never got tired or cold. His play isn't unlike most children, but it is certainly unlike the way I structure my day - tasks, timelines, guilt over procrastination, and so forth. And I started to think of all the things my sons' childhood bring to my life for which I'm extremely grateful.

To my young sons, thank you for filling my life with laughter, for asking me questions that make me learn something new everyday, for your energy that drives me to try and keep up, for the late night wake-ups that remind me of the deep connection we share and how fleeting and precious these moments can be. Thank you for prioritizing play over cleanliness, for sharing your made up stories so I can be a brief guest in your imaginary world, and for making me pause and give notice to things I'd otherwise overlook. Thank you for being unapologetically you, for sharing your perspective with the world, and for making each moment better just by being you.

I know, without question, my life is better because of their presence in my life. The daily reminder that childhood is important, valid, and precious as it's own phase of life, not simply in preparation for the next one. And by embracing their "childness" without comparison to "adultness" my life is richer, more magical, and for a short time, I'm brought back to my own precious childhood.

My dear sons, a million thanks. Thank you for these gifts. Thank you for your childhood.