Tag Archives: Love

On My Mind

The Rain

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We had just finished clipping gear to our harnesses when the phone rang, and, without a word to each other, we knew. The call was predictable and short, as were the tears that followed. We packed away the gear and the rope and descended as quickly as we could.

We drove, and my thoughts were full of you. It’s been two and a half years and there you were, all over again.

At the house just over an hour, a long hour, later, we split up the tasks. Some drove to the hospital, some stayed home. I had never met the last person to arrive nor spent time alone with any of them, but that didn’t matter anymore, either.

There was some managing and organizing to do, but mostly we waited. We didn’t know what we were waiting for, so that was hard to explain. We made up excuses that grew increasingly unbelievable, and we were relieved when the waiting was over and the truth-telling began.

And then we waited, one eye vigilant, and the initial shock began to soften. Fatigue set in.

When I wasn’t doing something else, my thoughts went back to those last days with you.

A flurry of phone calls with those who couldn’t be there, who needed to be there, who made plans to come, who are probably there now as I write this. I tried to explain what no one else understands, which is how desperate, how lonely, how cruel it is for the body to be somewhere else when the heart and soul are where the body should be, wants to be, cannot be. The mind spins a thousand tales and the time crawls by. It takes effort to resist calling every half hour, every hour. At least everyone who is there knows what’s happening as it happens. The distance, no matter how far, is crushing, and there’s no comfort when it’s needed. Waiting becomes synonymous with existing, even when you don’t know what you’re waiting for. No one should have to grieve alone.

The questions of what comes next and what happens now and who is responsible for what, questions that have been avoided all this time, suddenly appear perfectly rationally, calmly voiced by people who are anything but calm and rational. It gives us something to do and somewhere to bury the fog, even for a moment.

There is a stark and sudden shift between laughter over old pictures, tears over memories, and the utter stoicism of plans that need to be made.

We got home late and stayed up late, finally sleeping fitfully, a sleep full of too many dreams.

I spent the day thinking of you and looked for moments to talk about you. I’m still thinking about you now and writing about you, too.

As we walked up to the crag, the sky grew dark and we found ourselves under a raincloud that hadn’t been in the forecast. We stood at the base and followed the lines of our routes in the guidebook, pleased that the sun had come out and a light wind had picked up; the rock would dry.

“That must have been the rain,” you said as we hurried back down towards the car. “And then he found his peace.”

The roads were completely dry. That must have been the rain.

Weimar, Germany – February 2024

On My Mind

On Cultural Differences

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I had a moment of insight recently while on the phone with my oldest friend. The conversation addressed a conflict between people who have known each other for a very long time, do not see similarly on many issues, and have found themselves unable to communicate with one another. As we talked, I thought about the communication challenges I’ve been navigating in an increasingly deep way. My partner and I come from different cultures that are steeped in different styles of communication, express ourselves most easily in different languages, and have different levels of proficiency in each other’s first language. As with anyone building a life together, it makes sense that we will have conflicts; considering our backgrounds, it also makes sense that areas of our conflicts will be due to cultural or linguistic differences. What has surprised me is how often this is the case, especially in situations where “cultural differences” seems the least likely culprit.

Could it also be the case that people who grew up in the same culture, were raised in a similar manner, and speak the same language can experience intercultural conflict?

I listened to one side of the story, thought back to what I’d previously heard from the other party involved, and realized I was hearing much the same from both sides. There was hurt, abandonment, lack of support, lack of understanding. There was frustration and anger, there was a desire to end the conflict, there was the helplessness of not knowing how to move forward, the sorrow of making decisions that were deemed necessary but also clearly hurtful.

Most significantly, I heard, “I’m sure they think they’re doing X but they’re actually doing Y. They just don’t understand.”

This brought me to the challenges I have experienced in intercultural communication. It is not uncommon that either my partner or I will do X and the other will interpret it as Y. And then when we try to talk about X or Y, it becomes clear that we’re not talking about the same thing because we didn’t experience or interpret the event in the same way. While this is likely often the case in relationships, I find that we often get into a discussion of language, tone, or expectation, all of which run far deeper than the event itself. In the end, it’s the deeper aspect we discuss, navigating through that how we want to be with one another.

So I wondered if maybe this was happening with my oldest friend. I wondered if maybe these people, whose lives had been so similar and interconnected, had moved far enough away from that beginning that their foundation was no longer a basis, no longer a fundament. And if this was the case, maybe their situation was similar to that of my partner and me, who come from different cultural backgrounds. A key factor is perhaps that ours is obvious (and therefore easily forgivable) and theirs is not.

This made me wonder about communication overall, whether much political screaming and social media furor is an example of multiple groups, different enough to be defined as their own culture, lambasting the other about what they think is the same thing, but missing the mark. If society is so fractured into its own subgroups, each with its own media and ethos, it’s reasonable to think that our realities and therefore ways of seeing the world have shifted, and that a “common culture” is not as common as it once was. And maybe this is hard to recognize. Perhaps we talk past each other when we have gone in directions different enough to no longer have a common base. We might expect such behaviour from distinctly different groups, but maybe it is harder to see as such when the groups, at least on the surface, are the same.

Perhaps the error is the assumption that all parties understand X and Y in the same way. We have expectations and assumptions of others and we don’t stop to consider that others’ expectations and assumptions might be different. For aspects of culture that we take for granted, it is unfathomable that anyone else might see a situation differently – simply because we only know what we know.

In the past few weeks, my psychology students have been learning about cultural dimensions in class, the universal facets by which national cultures can be characterized or defined. The point I emphasize with my students is that while the values that make up a culture differ wildly, there is not better or worse, desirable or undesirable. We might not consider that cultures have different perspectives on the importance of time or response to uncertainty, but they do. We are enculturated without realizing that to be the case; norms, values, and expectations are taught naturally and indirectly, and it is often only through looking at another culture, bemused by the differences that we notice, that we begin to learn about our own.

Having lived in and alongside multiple cultures, I have tried to let go of my own assumptions and expectations and put myself in different mindset when the occasion requires. If I’m the only one annoyed at a process, chances are it’s my problem and not the process. The process does what it is meant to do, though maybe differently than I have experienced in the past. It is much more comfortable, indeed after a significant amount of discomfort and uncertainty, to simply accept this to be the case rather than to lament other processes that fulfil the same functions. It can be very difficult to avoid value judgments at first, but it is much more pleasant to move within another culture having done so.

As I navigate a life that seems to be setting down roots, and as I find myself spending increasingly more time in what international school parlance calls “local culture”, I recognize more of where I come from, my ideas of norms, assumptions, and expectations shifting along the way. I get scared sometimes, scared of losing myself and what shaped me. There are certain aspects I cling to because it is very hard to navigate while adrift. Even those of us who wander have moments with both feet firmly planted on the ground.

When I think about the conflict my oldest friend described, I see cultural differences. I see people whose understandings of the world around them come from fundamentally different places, and there may be multiple reasons why that’s the case. I see people who do not see that they experience the world differently, but rather assume that their understandings are held in common. It could be that a conversation needs a moderator to tease these things out, to gently prod feelings about X and Y toward a discussion of what I think are much deeper origins.

The humility and vulnerability that it requires to engage in such a conversation cannot be understated, and the very real fear that one might experience under such circumstances is in itself an act of tremendous courage. We have relatively little practice stripping ourselves bare. We are made up of many, many layers and sometimes, to move forward, we need to find out what they are and why they formed. I believe that it is the soul that shines more brightly in the end; looking for the soul of another is what makes such a conversation possible. Getting to know another is an act of bravery because of what it requires of oneself.

And I believe it is never too late to begin again.

The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now. – Henry David Thoreau, Walden

On My Mind

Three Right Things

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Many, many years ago, the father of a dear friend told me, “You know, Becca, you need to make sure it’s the right person in the right place at the right time.” I don’t remember the context, but I remember being in the kitchen at the family’s home, one of those wonderful places that never seems to change, no matter how many years go by. I’ve forgotten everything else about that moment, but I’ve always held onto those words.

That’s what was in my mind when I received a call full of uncertainty and doubt. And after listening and affirming what I’d heard, that’s what informed my response. The voice on the other end remained doubtful and uncertain but sounded a little less torn, a little less fraught.

After hanging up, I thought about what I’d felt in my body while we talked; you’d told me what you were feeling in yours. The equanimity I had experienced and continued to experience assured me that I’d given the most honest answer I could, and I believe you heard that.

I hope your mind quieted and that you slept softly. To look around, consider whether the circumstances are right, and make a choice can be scary – and that’s how we know it’s important.