"Daddy!" Ailyn exclaimed over FaceTime. The kids finished their twelve days of camp and we could finally talk again!
Bursting with smiles and energy, she told me all about camp, her friends and favorite activities. She wanted an update on the house – what has changed, to get a tour of where things are and inquired after the cats. And we just smiled at each other too. It was great to be able to see her beautiful face and talk again.
Then Sennen, wrapped in a bathrobe for comfort after a long time of not having comfortable accommodation, called from his iPad and we did the same – only he was more interested in the house, changes and plans.
Naturally, they were both excited about new beds in their room, the TV I finally setup just last night and the way the blue doors changed the feel of things. They needed to know what changes were coming and what to expect next year – always calling it "our house". The house is definitely a shared project and passion now.
"This house has to be worth double what you paid for it, Daddy! It has a great view of the monastery, nice big bedrooms, it's right in the middle of everything and with these changes, it's going to be great! Maria made a mistake selling this house to you!" It was fun hearing that. After almost two weeks of camp and so much to share, I was surprised they even cared much about the house right now. Apparently, the house is now very real and important to them.
With kids, you never know what will become real, what will become priority.
It fit with my recent thoughts on how we show up for one another – what resources we give and what we're responsible to give or not give.
I showed up to the call expecting to talk solely about them and everything likely to bubble out of them. Besides the natural enjoyment of hearing all about their experiences, I consider it my job to be present and ready to support my kids. they may or may not care much about the things I do – or what's going on with me. They're children. Sure, love, care, respect and gratitude should flow both ways – but it's not their job to support and be there for me. The love and connection we share is more than enough reciprocation. When we happen to share an interest or they inquire about me, it's gravy.
But what of adults? We have all have limited capacities. We generally expect a lot from one another too. If we're smart, we develop support systems, the people we lean on when our bandwidth is narrow, when we're running out of fuel or find ourselves confused and disconnected. I've found it's important to have enough of these close relationships because – beyond the enjoyment and inherent value each person brings to my life – we aren't all able to be there for each other at any given time. If you want to be able to use a lifeline and phone a friend, it helps to have a rotation of people who can answer.
In part, that's because we know friendships have limits. Two friends are in it because they want to be, but they don't generally owe each other much. Friendships, of course come in many flavors and some of those do involve strong bonds and implicit contracts. I am fortunate enough to have one or two friends I know I can call and know they'll show up – literally or figuratively – and the same in reverse.
As an adult, we take on so many roles and make so many deals and contracts it can be hard to keep track of them all. Forget that not everyone even understands the agreements they make in the same way – there's tons of honest confusion and misunderstanding in the world. But even when we are all on the same page, we often get into arrangements that turn out to be unsustainable for any number of reasons including being poorly considered, falling short on resources, agreements that put is binds or run up agains each other, changed circumstances and just not wanting to do it anymore.
The Talmud recognizes this problem people get into – all the promises and agreements people simply can't and don't keep. It's nearly impossible for even the best intentioned and most integrous person to do everything he or she promises. That's why on Kol Nidre, the night before Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, we pray:
All vows we are likely to make, all oaths and pledges we are likely to take between this Yom Kippur and the next Yom Kippur, we publicly renounce. Let them all be relinquished and abandoned, null and void, neither firm nor established. Let our vows, pledges, and oaths be considered neither vows nor pledges nor oaths.
In other words, forgive us the inherently human failing of being unable to deliver in all our roles, relationships and agreements.
But what of the damage we do to one another when we don't hold true to our word and responsibilities? When should we be held responsible and when should we forgive? When is the moment for accountability and when compassion?
I think about this a lot. I hold a number of high-responsibility roles and I engage them with all the best intentions. Do I always perform on them to the greatest possible degree? Probably not. In any area of my life – work, temple leadership, parenting, friendship, family relationships, yoga, community member, citizen – I could probably find several ways to do it better. I could be more proactive – trying, experimenting, putting in fresh effort – in ways I just don't. Some days I tell myself that the time I spend on myself – laying on the sofa, writing, going to the beach, doing yoga – whatever it may be – is an investment in doing well at everything else. Sometimes that's probably true – but is it always? I might be able to squeeze 20 percent more out of myself and positively impact a chain of people in some way or another.
And what about when I fall short for good reasons? I'm sick, solving important problems for a constituency in my life, or I'm so mentally and emotionally drained that I simply don't have more to give at the moment? It doesn't matter the reason, there's probably someone I'm shortchanging. Sometimes I have to tell myself to buck up and get my shit together. Sometimes I have to resign myself to not performing as well as I could. Sometimes I have to disappoint someone – which is the worst. Then what about when I'm selfish or lazy? I could be more thoughtful, helpful, earnest, contributory and I simply don't in favor of something that suits me better – something I want. Or what about I just can't be bothered?
When do I deserve compassion and when should I be held accountable? I often hear the phrase, "you need to forgive yourself…" Sometimes that may be true, but I'm not sure we should always go around giving ourselves a pass. Some agreements and roles are sacred – like being a parent, a temple president, the CEO of my company and formerly a spouse. When we take those on – we have to step up, finding our internal resources even when we don't want to or don't think there's anything left. I can't crash my business, temple, life partnership or worst of all – my kids – and just "forgive myself".
As The Little Prince tells us, "I am responsible for my rose."
And my garden is full of important roses.
Adulthood is wonderful and hard because while there's all this agency, all the ability to make big choices, make a difference, impact others positively – there's all the weight, the ties, the heaviness that go with it. The Little Prince didn't offer a chapter on paying bills, keeping bosses and employees happy, triaging the problems of life and showing up as the person you need to be even when it's really hard. Then again, at the end of the story, the Little Prince kinda' commits suicide….
What about the others?
Recently, someone I know in an important leadership role had a bit of a fit about a cluster of small things. It's in his character to do this and he does its periodically. He's in an important, high-pressure job with a young family and lots of social and familial obligations. Undoubtedly, he's going to feel the toll of all of this periodically. How could he not? But the ways in which he acts out are incongruent with the leadership role he plays. Do I tell him that while he may have valid reasons for being frustrated, he just can't display it the way he does? The role comes first? Or do I accommodate his behavior – because I can and it would be kind in a sense – even though it may invite the behavior to continue? If I would want someone to offer compassion and accommodation for me in a hard time, shouldn't I give it if it's within my capacity? Or do I express empathy, but point out that you can't make a mess at work? Which might be the more valuable lesson – although at the cost of some important piece of humanity?
I know someone else also in a key leadership role whose self-image and actual behaviors diverge greatly. His values on paper – and in certain instances – and what he lives out when stressed, pressured or in turmoil – are shockingly different. As a result, he has trouble sustaining personal relationships and more important to my relationship with him, he has trouble keeping employees and business relationships. Where do I accept and work with his shortcomings and where do I hold him accountable – knowing he'll never really change, but maybe can learn some behavioral modifications? How much strife and frustration do all parties involved have to endure in the process? How much holding someone accountable is really worthwhile?
When I was younger, I would have much clearer answers to all of this. The world appeared more black and white – and in some ways that's nice because the fresh idealism of youth helps propel the world. The wisdom of maturity keeps it from breaking.
I recently read a story where the author discussed how a favorite teacher impacted him. The teacher explained that it's like we are all living in a cave. When you're young, you have a match and you can see a little bit of that cave and you think the radius of what you can see is everything that exists – that's the world. As you get older, you build more of a flame and maybe a fire and you can light a torch – and you begin to notice the cave is actually much more vast than how it appeared when you were younger and had only a small light. As a result, you begin to realize just how small you are and how little you actually knew, but you have the opportunity to become curious and explore more. If you want, with your torch, you can go further and learn far more than you could before, but with far less certainty that you really know anything at all.
Then there's what to do about Emily. Forgiving her is hard. I desperately want to. My therapist frequently tells me I'm trying to rush to the end of the coping process because I understand it. Nothing would make me happier than to not have to go through all the feelings that seem required to get to a new status quo. If I intellectually understand the stages of grief, can't I just skip to the end? Apparently it's one of those annoying online HR trainings where you have to let it play on your computer for 20 minutes before you can answer the questions and pass – rather than just challenge the test anytime you feel prepared.
One area where I struggle is that I really meant our marriage vows. I meant them and lived them everyday. I would never have gotten divorced of my own accord. I believe the challenge is to learn to grow together and that beyond a few really terrible things (abuse, certain forms of betrayal, being a scary sociopath, being secretly being married to multiple people….) people can decide to make it work. Love means showing up for one another, which is really more a set of acts and gestures than it is a feeling. Love is devotion and devotion is a practice. Love is the time we waste on our roses. Love is reaching inside for resources when we don't necessarily feel like it, in order to be there for someone else. Marriage is a commitment to that kind of love. Not the love of roses and fun surprises (not that those aren't important), but the love of taking a burden off your partner's plate and the love of sitting by the hospital bedside.
The mature path of forgiveness says the way I tie things up in a bow is to acknowledge that maybe I'm better off if Emily doesn't have that to give. That in the end, maybe Emily made commitments she just couldn't keep – maybe she didn't even really understand what they were. Maybe the path to my own peace is to declare it Kol Nidre and understand that humans have this particular problem of biting off more than we can chew. Maybe it's time to allow all oaths and pledges to be relinquished and abandoned, null and void, neither firm nor established. Not as a favor to her, but for me.
Then my graceful higher-self gets knocked aside by a voice that asks, "but what about the kids and what she did to our family?"
So I guess I'm not quite there yet.
In The Happiness Hypothesis, Jonathan Haidt posits revenge has a beneficial and important part of human socialization. Revenge is a form of sanctioning bad behavior. Human relationships – especially communities – are build on what Haidt calls "tit-for-tat" behavior patterns. One person gives, causing the other to reciprocate and back and forth until mutual benefit is established and bonds of trust are created. Violating those bonds – by keeping more than you give, sneaking, stealing, or just withdrawing from the social contract of reciprocation can trigger revenge. Breaking the order of reciprocal benefit causes both a personal and communal loss. As a species, we reward each other for contributing and sanction each other for breaking the trust and mutual/collective benefit of reciprocation.
My guess is this plays into the strong emotions often associated with divorce. There's an implicit trust violated, unfairness felt, a deal broken. We're wired not to easily let go of this. If every night were Kol Nidre, the world simply wouldn't work. We have a judiciary to hold us accountable for our personal and social contracts. We make decisions based on each other's promises and our beliefs that we will all uphold our roles and ends of the bargain. So many of my life choices over the past 13+ years were based on being part of a marital and family unit. I would have made some very different decisions otherwise and now I have to figure out a way to make what I have work for me.
Maybe as it does, I'll find that objecting voice quiets down and allows my higher-self to take the wheel.
For now, I'll let things sit. I'll work to find the line between compassion and accountability for the people in my life. I'll try to show up for people and maintain the integrity of the contracts we all make. I'll strive to find self-forgiveness without using it as a get-out-of-fail-free card. I'll remember both Kol Nidre and revenge exist for a reason. And I'll waste all the time I can on my roses.
