How to Create a Magical Relationship Part 10

The old man replied, "Unfortunate, fortunate, horrible or not, I don't know. All I know is that my son's legs are broken."

A week or two later, the kingdom went to war against a foe with a much stronger army. All of the able-bodied young men were conscripted into the army, from which they would almost certainly not return . . .

And so the story goes. You can reinterpret any event in your life to fi t your current outlook or agenda. The truth is what happened has happened, and if you see it and let it be, then you 140 140 can get on with your life. "What?" you might say. "Don't I need to make myself remember and punish myself for wrongdoings so that I will never do them again?" No, you don't. If you see something you did or said in error and actually see it without judging yourself, then you have already learned your lesson. Punis.h.i.+ng yourself and feeling bad does not help. If you have truly seen the error of your ways, you never have to repeat it. can get on with your life. "What?" you might say. "Don't I need to make myself remember and punish myself for wrongdoings so that I will never do them again?" No, you don't. If you see something you did or said in error and actually see it without judging yourself, then you have already learned your lesson. Punis.h.i.+ng yourself and feeling bad does not help. If you have truly seen the error of your ways, you never have to repeat it.

T H E P OW E R O F S I N C E R E LY.

A P O L O G I Z I NG - A N D O F T RU LY AC C E P T I NG A N A P O L O G Y.

It doesn't matter how well you communicate, how sensitive you are, how in love and perfectly matched you are with your partner, sooner or later you will do something that blows it. When that happens, there is actually a magic wand that can dissolve the hurt and restore your relations.h.i.+p. As mentioned in the last chapter on s.e.x and intimacy, a sincere apology can mend a world of hurts. There are some tricks to having an apology work and also ways of ensuring that when you do say you're sorry, it will not infl ame the situation more.

If you apologize, really mean it. There is nothing more maddening than having someone say he or she is sorry just to placate you when the person really still thinks his or her actions were right. Here is an example. Try saying these words out loud and see which feels better: "I am sorry if if I hurt your feelings," or "I am sorry I hurt your feelings," or "I am sorry for for hurting your feelings." hurting your feelings."

At the same time, if your partner sincerely apologizes, you must be prepared to accept it. By the time he or she fi nally "admits" the wrongdoing, you may have a backlog of examples of how he or she did the same thing on other occasions. Rubbing a person's nose in it will only reignite the fi ght and certainly will not make it easy for your partner to apologize again in the future. If you are punished for being truthful, you are much less likely to be honest.

T h e A r t o f L i s t e n i n g 141.

It may be true, in a bigger sense, that what you do does not hurt, disturb, or upset your partner, but on a day-to-day level, there is plenty you can do that can have damaging effects. Saying you are sorry-and meaning it-only hurts your ego, but it can rebuild the bridge between you and another person. Then you can experience being in love long after the rose of the fi rst attraction blooms and fades.

M I TC H ' S S T O RY Let's go back now to our Monday night seminar, as told by Ariel, and continue the investigation into Instantaneous Transformation and creating magical relations.h.i.+ps.

Shya asked, "Who else has a question?"

A stocky fellow in the back raised his hand. "Well, I guess I do, if n.o.body else is going to talk."

"Go for it," Shya and I responded in unison.

"What's your name?" Shya asked leaning forward, and I sensed he already knew the answer.

"Mitch."

"Ahh, I thought it was you. Nice to meet you, Mitch. What can we do for you? What exactly would you like to talk about?"

Mitch had called us earlier in the week to ask what our groups involved. He wanted to know if we could help him with the diffi culty he was having in handling his divorce.

"Well, Shya, as I told you on the phone, I'm getting a divorce, and I am so angry about it. I'm not a violent guy or anything, but I have these fantasies of going over to where she works and fi nding her with some guy and picking him up and ripping his lungs out."

The room suddenly got tense. It's likely folks were thinking, Here is a guy with a real problem. I wonder how they're going to Here is a guy with a real problem. I wonder how they're going to handle it. handle it.

142.

"So, you're angry."

"Yeah!"

"The problem is, you think that your anger is caused by your wife, who is divorcing you. You're just angry; the breakup with your spouse is acting like a trigger. Let's see if I can give you an example to make it clearer. Do you know how a bullet works?"

"No, how?"

I could tell Mitch was mystifi ed by the way the conversation was going. He wasn't sure what a bullet had to do with his current problem.

"A bullet," Shya explained, "has a projectile in a casing that is backed by combustible material, gunpowder, and a primer.

When the trigger is pulled, the gun's fi ring pin hits the bullet; there is a chemical reaction that ignites the primer, and the gunpowder expands and forces the projectile out through the barrel. If you had a bullet in a casing minus the gunpowder or the primer, when you pulled the trigger, there would be no reaction. The gun is loaded only when the bullet has a charge.

Your wife's leaving you has acted as a trigger, but you're the one who was pre-charged. Please don't think that I'm insensitive to what you're going through. I have gone through a divorce myself, and the process was agonizing at times. What I am saying is that your anger isn't caused by anything. In other circ.u.mstances, such as driving down the road, when another motorist cuts you off in traffi c or doesn't signal a turn, you are likely to get angry, too. We don't recommend that you go searching for an upsetting situation so you can 'work through' a backlog of emotions, but if a relations.h.i.+p breaks up or a person who you care about dies and you're angry, hurt, or upset, those are the perfect opportunities to allow yourself to feel."

"I know it's not right. I've tried to stop thinking of her, and I can't. It stops only when I bury myself in my day, but then at night, thoughts of her are back again."

"I have a question," Shya said, "Are you angry right now, in this moment?"

T h e A r t o f L i s t e n i n g 143.

"Yeah!"

"Where is this anger located in your body?"

"It's kind of like a burning in my chest," he replied, as he placed his hand right over his breastbone and began rubbing it in a circular motion like he had heartburn.

"So, Mitch, about this burning sensation in your chest, if it had a color, what color would it be?"

"I don't think it has a color."

"But if it did did have a color, what color would it be?" have a color, what color would it be?"

"Orange, I guess."

I opened my mouth to say something, and Shya turned to look at me. "Are you thinking it's too soon?"

I shook my head no. I knew where Shya's questions were leading even if Mitch didn't, but I also knew one other thing: the outcome of this conversation would totally depend on whether or not Mitch truly wanted to let go of his "problem"

anger.

I was intimately familiar with the series of questions Shya was about to pose. He had posed them to me more than twenty years earlier on our third date.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning in late August, and New York City seemed to be resting up for the week ahead. It was the kind of morning where you could see all the way up and down the avenues. What a glorious day for a ride to Jones Beach on the back of Shya's blue motorcycle, a Yamaha 650 Special, "Old Blue." We had bundled our towels and sunscreen behind the seat and, thus prepared, headed out of town.

It felt like fl ying. We were both dressed in shorts and T-s.h.i.+rts, our heads protected by helmets and visors, and the morning sun felt good on my skin. What an excellent day to be alive! Even the traffi c lights seemed to be going our way.

Shortly after we breezed through the tunnel into Queens, we took an exit and made our way to a gas station. Pulling up to the pump, Shya stood Old Blue on the kickstand and opened the tank to fi ll it up.

144.

Deciding to stretch my legs, I began to step off the bike when I felt a sharp, searing pain. Jumping with a yelp, I looked down at my left calf. What I saw was a raw patch with a piece of melted skin hanging off. Unwittingly, I had placed my leg squarely against the hot m.u.f.fl er. I was dumbfounded. Deciding to stretch my legs, I began to step off the bike when I felt a sharp, searing pain. Jumping with a yelp, I looked down at my left calf. What I saw was a raw patch with a piece of melted skin hanging off. Unwittingly, I had placed my leg squarely against the hot m.u.f.fl er. I was dumbfounded.

Staring at my injury, I slowly stated the obvious. "I guess I burned my leg."

Just one glance told Shya the whole story and sent him into action.

"Ice!"

The station didn't have any, so he sprinted off in an attempt to locate some. But there wasn't even a corner store or local coffee shop open for business. Stuffi ng a fi ve in the hand of the attendant, we rushed to make our way to Jones Beach, which seemed the closest alternative for ice. The wind on the burn was wicked. The air that had only moments before seemed to spell freedom now brought fi re with its touch. The shock of the initial injury having worn off, I was now crying freely as I held Shya tightly around the middle and we sped to the beach.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I was beside myself with pain. Pulling up to the curb, Shya hopped off, and grabbing our things, he gave me a hand as I limped over to a nearby concession stand where surely they had ice and some cooling relief.

I stood shakily nearby, almost mute with pain, and Shya ran up to the nearest person behind the counter.

"Quick, I need some ice. My girlfriend has been badly burned!"

I turned to show her my leg, which by now looked white and red and raw, thoroughly seared and nauseating to look at.

Sometimes when I see a person with a particularly nasty-looking abrasion, I get a sensation that shoots into my stomach or groin as I imagine the pain. Had I been a casual observer, I am sure the sight of my leg would have brought a similar rush.

T h e A r t o f L i s t e n i n g 145.

In one fl uid movement, the manager scooped up a large cupful of ice and said, "Sorry about your leg. Be sure to come back if you need more."

Wrapping the cubes in a napkin, I hesitantly pressed the cold to my injury. The touch of the paper was agonizing, and I realized I was shaking. As the ice began to melt, dripping down my leg, I fi nally felt some numbing relief.

Eventually, Shya and I shared a plate of greasy french fries and ketchup, and I realized that I wasn't going to get to lay on my towel and sun myself that day. The idea of sand on my calf made me cringe. So we sat at a table, people watching, sipping a giant c.o.ke, and looking at the tantalizing ocean in the distance as we waited for the chill to take over and quiet the fi ery spot on my leg.

Finally, with the pain mostly under control, we decided to cut our losses and head for home. I refi lled my napkin with bits of ice for the ride back to the city, and we began to make our way to the parking lot and our trusty steed, Old Blue, which was stoically awaiting our return.

There was only one problem with this plan. By the time we got to the bike, the pain in my leg had fl ared up again tenfold, and each stride had become agonizing as the calf muscle fl exed and bunched under the wound. It felt as if the skin was drying and cracking, and the throbbing-which had mostly been held at bay by the icy compresses-began to pound in earnest.

I sat down on the curb by the bike, pressed the compress to my leg, laid my head on my knees, and began to cry. I could tell my shoulders were heaving with my sobs, but I couldn't control them any more than the meager amount of ice I had left in the napkin could control the intense throbbing. Just the idea of wind rus.h.i.+ng across the open sore on the way home was enough to cause my sobs to deepen.

Shya sat beside me and took my free hand in his. Gently, his voice sounded in my ear, "Ariel, let's look at the pain together."

146.

"No! Don't touch it!" I cried, hunching protectively over my leg.

"Ariel," he continued quietly. "I don't want to touch it. Let's just examine the pain. Okay?"

Hesitantly, I raised my head. I looked into his intense hazel eyes and slowly nodded as the tears streamed down my face.

"Trust me," he said.

As I gazed into his eyes, I had no doubt that I could trust this man. There was a calm in him, a steadiness that seemed to translate itself to me. It calmed some of the hysteria of my sobs into sniffl es and hiccups, but the tears still slid silently down my cheeks. Although I wished I could crawl out of my skin and leave it behind, the pain in my leg was still real and agonizing, and no amount of wis.h.i.+ng it were different seemed to change the situation.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded and so we began.

I didn't know at the time that we were going to perform magic. All I knew was that we were going to look at the pain, whatever that meant.

"Okay, Ariel. Close your eyes and look at the pain with your mind's eye. If the pain in your calf had a color, what color would it be?"

That was easy. "Fiery red."

"Fine. Now, if it could hold water, how much water would it hold?"

I pictured in a fl ash the swimming pool from my alma mater, Mt. Hood Community College, so I told Shya it would hold as much water as "an Olympic-sized swimming pool."

"Okay," he said. "If it had a shape, what shape would it be?"

"Flat, kind of oval with rough and b.u.mpy razor-sharp edges sticking out."

"Good, Ariel. You are doing just fi ne. Take a look at the pain now, and on a scale of zero to ten, ten being excruciating and zero being no pain, what number does the pain in your leg have now?"

T h e A r t o f L i s t e n i n g 147.

"Twenty-three!"

I knew the number I gave him was off the scale, but I didn't care. My leg hurt, and it hurt darn bad.

"All right. And if it had a color right now, Ariel, what color would it be?"

As I looked the color had changed. It was now an orangey red with fl aring spots of the more intense color, so that is what I reported. As the process continued, Shya kept directing me to look at the shape and color and number and volume of water the spot on my leg held now and now and now. Each moment became a separate jewel in time. Not to be gotten away from or ignored-nor to be compared to the moment preceding it. They became individual facets to be investigated and described.

An amazing thing happened. The color changed through yellows to blues and greens and fi nally turned white. The volume of water shrank to a gallon, quart, cup, and eventually teaspoons and then drops. Even as the shape shrank to be the size of the head of a pin, so did the numbers I a.s.signed to the pain's intensity recede to two and then one.

We had done it! We had looked the pain of the situation squarely in the eye, and it had dissolved, disappeared . . . transformed. I felt a profound sense of relief. It wasn't just a parlor trick either. Gingerly I got up and walked a bit. The pain had somehow been lifted even more than when it had been chilled by two giant soft drink cups full of ice. And the sensation didn't even fl are up on the ride home, even with the wind wrapping itself around my leg.

Sitting in our evening group some twenty years later, I knew as I looked at Mitch that the pain surrounding his divorce, the burn in his heart, seared every bit as much and was every bit as raw as my leg had been. What remained to be seen was if he was willing to let the anger heal.

"Mitch, would it be okay if the anger cleared up?"

"Yeah, Shya, it would feel so good. I have lived with little else for months now."

148.

Shya continued to ask a series of questions similar to the ones he had asked me in the parking lot of Jones Beach that day, and as Mitch's colors lightened and the numbers came down in intensity, his face became visibly lighter as well. Shya continued to ask a series of questions similar to the ones he had asked me in the parking lot of Jones Beach that day, and as Mitch's colors lightened and the numbers came down in intensity, his face became visibly lighter as well.

Finally, Shya asked one last time, "And if it had a number right now, Mitch, what number would it be?"

Mitch opened his mouth to report a number when suddenly he got a surprised look on his face and looked down at his chest. It reminded me of one of those people you see on TV who looks down to see that the magician has removed their s.h.i.+rt even though they didn't feel it go and have no idea how he did it.

"It's gone!"

There were a few moments of silence at that point. But quickly Mitch's mind stepped in with the next obvious question, "What if it comes back later?"

"Mitch, Mitch, Mitch," Shya said with compa.s.sion. "Here you are going off into the future again. Do you feel angry right now?"