Two folks with punk hair-do’s, face-to-face, playing patty-cake. Perhaps engaging in something a little racier! Two sultans high-fiving. Bug ‘blood’ on the windshield. The whole idea is that the picture be sufficiently vague as to allow one to project onto it (hence the naming of Rorschach’s famous ink blot series as a ‘projective test’); but sufficiently suggestive as to not simply elicit blank stares. Maybe as a meaningful pipeline into one’s psychological soul, this and other projective techniques left a bit to be desired – after all, are not the interpretations of one’s responses just as subject to the practitioner’s own projections? (Rather like looking into the mirror on the box of Pot o’ Gold chocolates as the woman’s image is reflected in the reflection. . . to infinity). But the concept of projection itself remains as a most useful awareness for one to ‘reflect’ upon.

My weekly source of inspiration seems to be narrowing – once again from Larkrise. Alf’s ballad, composed as a thank you to the community that has supported him, on the surface appears to be little more than a catchy tune about a wandering gypsy stealing the heart of a land owner’s daughter, with things ending badly for the latter as her wild thing moves on, leaving her with a collection of burned bridges and few prospects. The intention is innocent and well-meant; the meanings attached as varied and unanticipated as the individuals who hear it. An endorsement to risk breaking out of the mold of ‘service’; an invitation to breach boundaries and orchestrate (or try) the future of others; permission to challenge one’s parent; literal instructions in the niceties of catching a man. The tune becomes a template, a screen upon which one is able to project one’s current situation, to which to assign meaning, and in which to read direction and ‘truth’.

The trick of all this is to recognize the process as it happens. Freudian in its origin, projection is defined as a ‘defense mechanism’ – an (unconscious) strategy for dealing with emotions, experiences, etc. that are perhaps a bit too potent for the individual themselves to manage; more comfortably and less disturbingly dealt with at a ‘safe distance’ – perhaps happily assigned to someone else. The pitfall is in seeing this projected image as universally singular – the only ‘interpretation’ – and losing sight of its point of origin: ourselves. The person upon whom we project is generally only that – the screen.

The recognition process should be simple – and obvious. But what’s that expression: ‘simple, not easy’. In many cases, being the ‘projectee’ (i.e., the ‘screen’) is the simpler role. Oftentimes, in (heated or deep) conversation, one is left with the distinct impression that this exchange is just not making sense. That which is being ‘assigned’ to us simply ‘doesn’t fit’. Good chance we’ve just been projected upon. For the ‘projector’, the task can be a little more challenging, the ‘truth’ a little more elusive. A clue can be the goodness of fit between the intensity with which one finds oneself engaging in an exchange and the actual ‘facts’ of the case. OTT (over the top) is typically a good indicator of some measure of projection. Our old friend, attachment, accompanied by our other, by now familiar neighbour, ego, both (and for a change) may be helpful in identifying the projection process. Our ‘need’ to have our interpretation accepted, bought into by our ‘screen’ (often accompanied by little catch phrases as ‘don’t you see’) suggests this is more our issue than that of our ‘target’. Once we’ve become ‘suspicious’ of our intensity, motives, interpretations, a useful question to ask of oneself is ‘what’s being touched or triggered – in me?’ This is quite a different perspective than staying focused on the ‘screen’ and continuing to react to (real or imagined) elements we’re convinced we see in the ‘other’. In one sense, we’re reversing our vision – to that of self-examination and from that of fault-finding, etc. outside of self.

Mindfulness practice is able to provide tools both for ‘catching’ projection and for dealing with our awarenesses, once identified. Zindel Segal outlines a four-step sequence in aid of this process:

Awareness of present experience. “What’s the pull?” Once we’ve ‘reversed’ our vision, take a gentle awareness to the spot, thought, feeling, or place which predominates in our immediate attention. Gently shift the attention away from the stimulus (the ‘screen, as it were) . . . and back to self: “What am I feeling, experiencing; what’s arising in me?”

Notice how one is relating to that spot, thought, or feeling. Am I attaching to it? Becoming entrenched in it? Hanging on to it? OR are you avoiding it, judging it, resenting it?

Stop trying to make things different. Let it be. Notice and observe what is there. Practicing non-reaction, acceptance. A little visual trick at this point: Set a chair immediately in front of and facing you. On that chair, sit the person or issue that is triggering you and gently observe him / her / it. Develop a benign tolerance of its presence – without engaging. As with any strong feeling, we humans are programmed to maintain maximum intensity for a finite time – with that feeling’s strength diminishing gradually as we allow it to be in our presence.
Process: Bring a gentle attention to the spot, thought, or feeling. Breathing into it; and out from it. Accepting what is there (“It’s OK”). Inviting the experience (“Let me feel it”) – using breath in and breath out to ‘soften’ and ‘open to’ the spot, thought, or feeling.

Critical to this sequence is the recognition that we are, in fact projecting.

OK, OK, so it was Mother’s Day last Sunday!

Growing up in Fort Erie, I and my little coterie of friends would walk the 1 ½ miles to high school (uphill both ways, generally into the teeth of a blinding snowstorm!). Our preferred route took us over a lengthy, vehicular bridge, spanning the several sets of rail tracks which found their Canadian terminus in our small border town. A walkway on one margin of the bridge was ‘protected’ from motorized traffic by a low barrier better suited to buffering pedestrians from the water splashed up by cars as they zipped past – than providing any real safety. Any weekday morning would see long ribbons of students streaming along over the Central Avenue Bridge at one speed: trudge. A common distraction for us was observing the progress of Sammy, the adolescent son of a local restaurateur, as he bobbed and wove past the other students in his attempts to escape his mother, quite possibly at that hour the only person on the bridge older than eighteen, and fixedly intent on ‘walking her son to school’. Loyalties being what were, misplaced and otherwise, we would part to allow Sammy free passage, then reform to block mother’s desperate and frustrated attempts to keep pace with son. The source of mother’s angst was two-fold (my own mother would later inform me): she had lost her elder son to a childhood illness; and two years earlier a student had been struck by a car on this bridge in his own attempts to jump the queue of students by hopping over the inside barrier onto the travelled portion of the bridge. She was going to keep Sammy safe – even if her efforts put him at greatly increased risk, as he struggled to distance himself from the embarrassment of mother’s ‘protection’.

Jungian analyst Robert Johnson, in his pithy little book He, provides a framework for understanding this anxious mother’s plight and purpose, explored through the story of Parsifal, in the Arthurian legend, as the young knight-to-be sets off from his humble beginnings to challenge the world – clad in mother’s homespun singlet concealed beneath his armour. Mother’s caution: ‘take off that sweater at your own peril; as it will magically protect you from harm’. And so the seeds of the prototypic and paradoxical struggle are sewn: as the child, to grow and develop our own identity requires that we defy our parent and shed the very source of our protection; as the mother (why do mom’s always get the rap?), concern and duty require that that ‘brown shirt’ be kept in place – or risk losing our child. And so it would seem young Sammy and his mother were merely acting out another version of the tale.

My memory for both of the above was twigged this week first by a Globe and Mail article, evidently anticipating Mother’s Day in a rather sinister way. Entitled Happy S’Mother’s Day, it reviewed a new memoir by Adam Chester (The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Altogether Insane Letters She Mailed to Him). Illustrated cartoonishly with a young man glancing over his shoulder only to see mom, portrayed as helicopter, fast approaching, the column describes the seminal event for Mr. Chester of mother bursting into his junior high school gym change room, full of other adolescent boys, with the pronouncement that Adam had forgotten his sweater (echoes of Johnson!) and that it was going to rain.

Perhaps a bit more substantial was an episode of a BBC favourite of ours, Larkrise to Candleford, examining a similar theme and detailing the unhappy albeit completely unintentional sequence that unfolds as we attempt to ‘protect’ those we care for and about from the slings and arrows of becoming fully individuated adults. (The ‘hat tip’ to Hamlet – and another very interesting mother-son relationship – flows from a viewing over the weekend of the Kenneth Branagh’s amazing and amazingly long film version of same.) The 19th Century drama explores the well-intentioned ‘keeping of secrets’, all in the name of ‘protecting’ a daughter, a sister, a Bishop, and a community from various ‘truths’ that, in the view of the respective protectors, the individual(s) would be better served being kept insulated from – in the dark, as it were. This laudable (albeit questionable) motive of course contains the protector’s own dark side of being overly attached to a particular outcome: be it a visiting Bishop’s not discovering the ‘pagan rituals’ that still continue in his parish, a spinster sister/business partner’s secret relationship or failing retail enterprise, an adult daughter’s attachment to a self-serving journalist, or proof of Darwinian theory in fossilized remains locked inside the partially carved stone of a baptismal font.

The theme is constant: in the making of decisions for and ‘in the best interests of’ others, predicated on our own attachments and fears of dire outcome, we first cross the individual’s boundaries and breech our own; and secondly, ‘protect’ them from experiences that form an essential part of individual growth and learning – at whatever age that may be occurring. A cornerstone of mindfulness practice is the cultivation of awareness of just where those ‘invisible fences’ reside; where my ‘property’ (my entitlement, in a very literal sense) ends and where your turf begins. Only with that awareness fully developed are we able to make intentional choices around our (well-intentioned) interventions. What’s that expression: ‘the road to some place or other (I can’t quite remember the name of the community) is paved with good intentions’.

Perhaps one of the most abiding gifts from my own mother was her relentless effort to stay out of my way and allow me to experience – despite her worst fears of the consequences of same. What she also told me (but not before I was well into adulthood and far removed from our little town – which was also bordered by the Niagara River) was that she herself had very nearly drowned in that river as a young woman; and to watch me disappear down the street with my friends, towels in hand, nearly every summer’s day to swim in that river was, at times almost more than she could bear. My other mindfulness mentor!

When we hold to our opinions with aggression, no matter how valid our cause, we are simply adding more aggression to the planet – and violence and pain increase. (Pima Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart).

Robert Bly, the American poet, in his Little Book on the Human Shadow presents a compelling image of the impact of the opinions of others on our growth from child through adolescent, to adult. He describes the child as a globe of energy, fully him/herself, freely expressing what he/she feels and experiences. As the child grows and is exposed to commentary from parent, teacher, acquaintance, and other conventional custodians of what passes for morality and correctness (“It’s not nice to try to kill your brother”), Bly maintains that we ‘stuff’ those publically disapproved of parts of ourselves into the ‘long bag we drag behind us’ (his rather vivid description of our shadow side). By adulthood this ‘bag’ has come to contain most of what we have truly felt in our more ‘natural’ period as a child, is now largely inaccessible to us (without considerable reflection and introspection), and leaves only a ‘a thin slice of that globe’ from which to consciously operate. More concerning, that which remains has come to reflect little more than the aggregation, the collection of opinions of others as we become progressively ‘socialized’. We essentially lose track of our truth; have, in the words of a friend, ‘wandered from our path’; and perhaps worse, don’t know it. That collection of opinion has begun to feel like our own.

This has been a challenging week for my globe. Perhaps channeling my father’s private sector mentality (not to mention, his Protestant work ethic), I am instinctively triggered by ‘spin’ – whatever its source. With an election staring us in the face, it’s difficult to avoid the rhetoric (unless, of course one is attending to royal weddings or consolidations of sports’ seasons). These two polarities, private enterprise and public ‘party line’, collided early week for me in a conversation with a representative from the latter (me representing the former). Our practice had just come off a highly satisfying year reflecting what I had viewed as a ‘happy marriage’ between publically funded services in our practice and private sector supplements that had seen one of our major programs arrive at year-end within budget. I was somewhat surprised when the commentary appeared to veer away from things like being lauded for efficiency, value for dollars, volume of service provided into the muddy world of ‘liability’. What ‘truth’ is this’, I mused. But then I squinted, and saw that I was speaking to a very thin slice indeed. This was not a truth at all – but a carefully cultivated ‘opinion’ that likely flowed freely from a collective political unconscious. And I felt compassion (eventually, after I cooled off) for this little lamb that had lost her way – and in the bargain, contact with what she likely once believed.

Bly extends his treatise with thoughts on what lengths are needed for ‘socialized adults’ to go to access aspects of our essential truths. Again the poet, he notes that we often find it necessary to retain the services of ‘hired guns’ – artists, poets, authors, filmmakers – to express that for which we can no longer ourselves find the words. He laments this state of affairs; and challenges each of us to become our own ‘poet’, to reflect on the contents of ‘our bag’, and once again become conversant with our core truths, our core values – versus those we have adopted. He maintains that art, theatre, film, literature have ever been the repositories of our truths; and that there is genuine value in personally reclaiming that which we have ‘contracted out’.

Inveterate addicts of BBC entertainment we were presented a lovely little restatement of Bly’s contention (about the role of art in truth) in an early episode of Upstairs Downstairs – determined to plow through all 60+ hours of the original before getting into the ‘sequel’. Lady Bellamy is having her portrait painted and engages the artist in conversation around the likely ‘finished product’. He confesses that he doesn’t know if she will ‘like’ the result, that it will mirror her own experience of herself – it can only be an expression of how he sees her, his ‘truth’. She is at once intrigued by the possibility of multiple ‘truths’ – and anxious that she will not ‘come out’ as she expected. Her husband struggles even more with the prospects of a ‘libertarian’ being entrusted with representing something as personal as a family ‘image’, fearing that it will not conform to the narrow standards of the day and may convey something of his family other than the carefully constructed ‘spin’ associated with London society. As indeed it does, ultimately hung adjacent in a gallery to the artist’s impression of maids from this same house (in rather ‘revealing’ circumstances). The ‘truth’ of the scenario ebbs and flows, evolving through outrage, indignation, shame, political and social opportunism, tolerance – all to the end of ‘each seeing what each needs to see’, their personal and unique truths.

Back to Pima Chödrön for the moment. She makes a compelling argument that our opinions are as much expressions of our history, our ego, our thoughts. She notes that, with a mindful approach to opinion, we are able to suspend the compulsion to vet what we think we believe through all manner of filters, accept them as momentary (and evolving) postures that, in the next moment will, if allowed, morph into something else. To predicate our actions on opinion, as if they were somehow absolute truths, is folly.

And a few final lines from the bard himself on the importance of trusting one’s core self, core feelings, resisting the urge to ‘bend or alter’ one’s ‘opinion’ as the (transient) situation seems to demand.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
(Sonnet 116, Shakespeare)