This weekend I’m working as a trainer for not-for-profit leaders studying organization development, and yesterday we studied the Myers-Briggs Typology Indicator. As part of our work on the topic, we all took the assessment ourselves. It measures four things: how we energize (or, how we recharge), how we receive and work with information, how we make decisions, and how we live.

If you’re not familiar with the MBTI, you’ll probably recognize pieces of it, such as the introvert/extravert dichotomy. If not, you should know it’s a soundly researched, effective tool that helps you understand yourself and your personality preferences, and apply that understanding in many practical ways. And it can even be a lot of fun!

But I struggled yesterday. The assessment came back and said (based on my own answers) that I am an ENTJ—extravert (yep) intuitive (oh yeah) thinking (WTF?!) judging (check). That means I recharge my batteries—I energize—by putting energy outward, by extraverting it; I receive information as an intuitive, which means I search for meaning, play with metaphors, and love to dream up creative solutions; I make decisions as a thinking type, relying more on logic and high principles to reach conclusions about things (as opposed to feelings and value systems); and finally, I live as a judging type, not a perceiving type, which means not that I’m judgmental, but rather that I prefer closure, being organized, following clear checklists, etc.

But wait! I really think I’m an F! That is, I have a lot of tension and uncertainty on that third measurement—thinking vs. feeling. I often make decisions based on my feelings, and my values. I’m often concerned about how everyone else in the room is doing, whether they’re being affirmed and supported. I connect with clients on a feeling level when we’re deciding where we’re going to go, whether it’s a choice about what to do with our session or where they’re headed in their work around a major decision in their life. But…I am also a thinking type. I frame things in a very T way: I’m an organized, logical writer, even when I’m writing creatively, and I come across to some of my colleagues as a T. (While the other half of my colleagues just stand there and say, dude, you’re totally an F. Come on!)

And this is where the MBTI instrument can help. When you find yourself in the middle on one of the measurements, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re in happy balance. It could easily mean that you’re conflicted, or that you still have a lot of development work to do around that dimension of your personality preference. When I read the ENFJ descriptions, I recognize myself…a lot. And that includes the part that describes how an ENFJ might behave if his feeling function hasn’t been fully nurtured or cultivated.

So…it was up to me to make the call. And here it is: I’m an ENFJ, world. Deal with it! And I know just where I need to go next in my self-development.

Update: this is also a good example of how the MBTI tells us not who we are, but what we prefer. We can do all of the functions it measures. Instead of saying “I’m an F,” it’s more accurate to say, “I slightly prefer F.” So I won’t duck my responsibility to do things I don’t prefer by saying, “Well, I’m an ENFJ, so I don’t do that!” As an ENFJ, I may not prefer to do it, but I certainly can put energy into my inner life (introvert), focus on details (sensing), let go and be spontaneous (perceiving), and, as I discussed above, develop both my feeling and thinking functions as I move in the world.

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Anybody interested in some theory? (It’s okay to say no!) But if you’re in the mood, read on.

I think there’s one thing I can confidently say all of my clients are struggling with—because it’s something all humans struggle with: moving between the polarities of ‘individuation’ and ‘participation.’* That sounds dull, I suppose. But here’s what I mean:

Individuation is your natural instinct to be an individual, to have a unique self. It’s a normal and healthy dimension of your humanity. Even if you are happily married for decades, you want individuation! You want to be able to say no—or creatively say yes—and you want to be able to know that you would be okay if the other person fell apart, or left you, or died. You might care for them and worry about them, grieve their loss, or be angry with them, but you would be able to take care of yourself, both literally and psychologically. If you’re fighting with your partner, or having sex with your partner, or going on vacation with your partner—in short, if you’re doing anything in your relationship—your ability to individuate is essential.

Participation is your natural instinct to be a part of a group, to gain identity by participating in a social dynamic. I am me (individuation) but I am also us. It’s been said that if the planet were destroyed and only one human being survived, she would still be a member of the species homo sapiens, but she would no longer be a human being, because there would be no social referent that would tell her (and others) who she is. To be human is to be social, to be one of many. It is frightening, though, to participate with others in this way. The main fear is (naturally) the loss of self. If I marry you, will I remain individuated? Will I remain me? But to be in a happy partnership or relationship, I have to take that leap.

Ultimately, as the drawing says above, flexibility is the thing. If I get stuck in individuation mode, then I’m the stereotypical “commitment-phobe” you see in sitcoms. I’m Chandler Bing. If I get stuck in participation mode, I am emotionally fused with the other and I lose myself. Sound familiar? And if I’m stuck someplace in the middle—not moving toward either polarity, and more importantly, just not moving—then I’m at best confused and at worst pretty depressed. I can’t relate to others, and I can’t be in a healthy relationship with myself.

Our work together can help you be more flexible in these natural, human functions.

*It was Paul Tillich who called these polarities “individuation” and “participation.” They’ve been called other things, such as “individuality” vs. “emotional connection” (David Schnarch), but I prefer Tillich’s terms.

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I’ve posted before on my love for mommybloggers. (Note: not all of them refer to themselves that way. It’s a favorite term of mine, but please don’t assume that they love it too.) And one of my favorites, Heather Armstrong, had a great post today. She was reflecting on the decision of Brigham Young University to kick a player off their basketball team for violating the behavioral code of the (private) school. The code is, as you can probably guess, very, very strict. Getting one’s girlfriend pregnant is most decidedly not okay with them.

I liked Armstrong’s balanced take on the issue—both her acknowledgement that as a private school, BYU can set up any code it wants to, and students shouldn’t be surprised if they are punished for violating a code they agreed to follow; and it’s a really tough consequence for this poor kid, who has plenty of crisis and chaos in his life without being humiliated by his alma mater. And all of this got me thinking again about the concept of code, as in, code of behavior.

What’s your code?

Lots of clients ask me if certain behaviors are okay. “Is it okay if I ask her to just deal with the fact that I like to drink?” “Is it okay if I don’t tell him I had an affair, as long as I put a stop to it?” “Is it okay to check his email without him knowing it?” “Is it okay to…” well, you get the idea.

And here’s something I often say in response: “what does your own code of behavior say about your question?” Or, “I don’t know. Is doing that consistent with your own honor code?” We all have codes of behavior, whether we’re conscious of them or not. My parents taught me tons of things—and most of the time, they didn’t know they were doing it—about how to behave, how to handle emotions, how much it’s right for me to demand from others, and so on. I also learned codes from peers, teachers, religious mentors, and many others. Sometimes I learn them positively: I observe (or benefit from) another person’s honorable behavior; other times I learn from somebody else’s mistakes. But I—and you, and everyone—we all have behavior codes that we follow…and don’t follow.

So if you’re wondering if something you want to do is “okay,” ask yourself, how does this line up with my code? What do I really think about my code? Does it need to change, or do I need to comply with it in this case? (Sometimes it’s the code—not the behavior you’re contemplating—that’s the problem. To take a couple of obvious examples, imagine a woman who learns the code that women should not complain when they’re being exploited or abused; or imagine a man who learns the code that men don’t have legitimate feelings and should just “suck it up.”)

What’s the right answer? I don’t know. But we can learn a lot by taking a good hard look at your code(s).

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Ahh, it’s March 1st. Such a lovely day. Every year I feel as if the month of February is the longest month of the year. Winter is still going in full force, it seems, and it’s been months now since we’ve really enjoyed nice weather. The light is returning, but it’s still dark during dinner, and not too light in the early mornings. And this year, there was a long cold spell at the end of February, delaying my spouse’s rose-pruning and keeping the garden dormant. Blurg.

But now it’s March 1st! In ancient Rome, so unloved were the first two months of the year that they didn’t really have names. March was thought to be the first month. Hence, “September” means “seventh month,” even though it’s the ninth on our calendar. “October” means “eighth month,” even though for us it is the tenth. Fifteen years ago, when I lived in Minneapolis (where February can be particularly cruel), a friend of mine with a doctorate in history told me this trivia about ancient Rome, and in a moment of idle speculation and late-winter whining, we thought up names for January and February. (Well, he did.) They are the months of “Malum” and “Odium,” in keeping with their awful natures.

(Maybe I shouldn’t tell the world about these somewhat dorky pastimes in my history as a nerd/geek. Ah well. I could do worse.)

So, for me, March 1st is a lot like September 1st—it’s a “little” New Year’s Day, a time in the calendar when, for the hundredth time, I can start fresh, and look forward to at least six months of mostly decent weather, lengthening days, and sweet warmth. It’s a “today is the first day of the rest of your life” kind of day. What will you do today, this New Year’s day, to live life more fully, more joyfully?

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Long ago in college (half my lifetime ago!?!) one of my philosophy professors told the class that one of his colleagues in the philosophy department used to be (horrors) a psychology professor. “But then he decided he needed to get serious,” said our not-very-modest philosophy prof. “He decided he really needed to explore the deeper questions behind what today we call ‘psychology.’” His disrespect for the field of psychology was palpable. He almost used air-quotes when he said the word. And…I remember enjoying this, to be honest. (I was a fairly obnoxious little kid at the time, I confess.)

And now, all these years later, I find myself following the same path as my old professor’s colleague. I’m taking a graduate course in medieval history, and I’m finding myself exploring some of the deeper questions behind what I do for a living. And here’s something I’ve recently been thinking about: most of the time, when we’re working on improving our relationships, we fail to think about formal causality.

Huh?

Formal causality (as you can see in the link above) is a term from the philosophical tradition begun by Aristotle and continued in the Middle Ages by Thomas Aquinas, and others. Simply put, it means this: some of the strongest influences on us, and on our relationships, are formative influences. For example, a parent leads by example, provides a consistent routine for her child, engages positively with her child every day, and in many and various ways demonstrates to the child what it means to be human, and that the child is deeply loved. And she does all of these things because, on a deep level—a level that is often beyond her immediate conscious awareness—she wants to do this. She wants to form her child in this way. Forming her child in this way may even be a fundamental dimension of her own identity. And so, day by day, year by year, her child is formed into an adult…into an adult of a certain quality. If Mom is conscious of this deeper level, you’ll see it expressed in her journal, or in the baby books that asked her to write down her deepest wishes for her child.

And here’s how it works in romantic/partnered/marriage relationships. If I want to have a happy long-term relationship with someone, it helps to do little things, little everyday things, that when added together form a relationship. Turn toward your partner. Apologize. Learn a new way to clear the air. Practice non-defensive listening. These are all good things, and they’re good examples of the kind of things I offer when I client says, “I need tools for my relationship!” But formal causality takes us to a deeper level, the level that gives rise to all of these tools, all of these little behaviors.

If I want—on a deep level—to have a happy long-term relationship, that means I’ll be taking the long view…or it means that I see relationships not as something I passively receive, but as something I actively participate in, a long-term developmental process…a long-term process of formation. In other words, I know in my gut that there will be times when I won’t feel love for my partner, times when I will make big mistakes in the relationship, times when one or both of us will be unskillful…and that not only should I not simply try to anxiously avoid these times, but I should embrace them as opportunities for developing the relationship, and improving myself. If my deepest intentions, assumptions, and beliefs are oriented toward a happy, long-term relationship, then they will—over the course of time—form that same relationship.

And so, finally (this is overly long, I know!), here’s what all this means for our counseling together. Often enough we’ll work on tools, techniques, and methods that help a relationship repair itself and improve. But I’ll also be asking formal-causality questions such as, what do you believe ‘marriage‘ is? And, given what you think ‘marriage’ is, have you ever really been married?? Or, what have you always hoped for when you dreamt about being with someone? Or, what do you think two people in a normal relationship are going to have to deal with as they live together? And a follow-up to that one: What’s normal??

Our exploration of these deeper questions will likely reveal a lot of information for you, and light a pathway toward change in your life, and in your relationship.

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Well, I just have to admit it—I fell flat on my face the other night. Literally. I was walking the dogs at the end of the evening, and something went wrong (for the third time!) with our younger dog Hoku’s leash, and in a flash of confusion and commotion, he was gone. There I was, walking Stella on my left, holding a dog-less leash on my right. I broke into a run. “Hoku! Hoku!!” I yelled into the night. But he was gone.

And then I tripped on a buckled sidewalk and went down, head first. Broken glasses, scraped nose, scraped knee, cut leg. And poor Stella suffered a little scrape under her lower lip.

Face plant.

Frantic, in a blind panic, I kept searching for Hoku, walking breathless through north Ballard for what turned into two or more hours, calling his name in vain. Finally, in tears, I gave up and headed back to the house. And there he was, standing up, healthy and whole, in our front yard. I rushed toward him and pulled us all inside to safety. My sense of relief is hard to put into words.

After a few days of reflection, it’s hard to know what to say about this experience. On the surface, it was just a bad night. It doesn’t offer a lot of wisdom or insight about me or my life. It certainly reinforces my faith in the natural wisdom of canine companions and their uncanny ability to know what’s most important, how best to behave in a crisis. Of the three of us—me, Stella, and Hoku—I was definitely the least functional, the least adaptive to the unique and terrible challenge of that night.

But I’ll offer this reflection: it was a reminder to me of my frailty. I am not always powerful. I do not always know what to do, or how to do it. I am vulnerable to terrible loss, and also the particularly human dysfunction that can follow a (perceived) loss. I still shudder to think how I would feel if Hoku had never reappeared that night. How would I have dealt with the grief, and the guilt? I still don’t know.

I work day by day with human beings who struggle and strive to be the best they can be in their lives. They work hard to confront their inner demons, wrestle valiantly with their emotions, and build lasting, healthy relationships. And I do the same myself. But there are days—and nights—when I am reminded that as strong as I am, and no matter how many skills I have, I can find myself in a terrible situation in which I am, to put it mildly, helpless.

After we were all safe and sound, I brought Hoku up onto the bed and put my arm around him. He didn’t know why—he was fine, after all! But I needed the comfort of his living presence after a harrowing night. For a little while, he was stronger than me. He was more secure. And that’s okay. Dogs don’t share the existential anxiety and emotional complexity of humans, bless them. We all lived to see another day, and my little wounds are healing. I am glad that night is over, and I can also honestly say that I appreciate the hard lesson it taught me (once again): there is a limit to my strength, a border around my power. I am vulnerable.

And that is just one part of the wonder of my abundant life.

Hoku ala Papageno, our good little dog who found his way home.

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Sometimes I think people come to counseling in one of two ways: either to ask “What should I do??” questions, or “What’s it all mean?” questions. In the normal course of a session, we’ll handle both kinds of questions. But I want to let you know that I prefer the “What’s it all mean?” questions. I sometimes call them “campfire questions,” because they’re the kind of questions you’d ask yourself when hanging out around a campfire late at night. It’s dark, the fire is bright and hot and crackling, and people start reflecting. They start to muse about their lives.

I prefer these questions because they make you more active, more in control of your whole process, whether it’s a process of recovery, discovery, growth, or all of the above. “What should I do about my partner?” is a fair question. But a better one is, “What does it mean that my partner’s behavior gets the best of me?”

“How should I handle my partner’s drinking problem?” is a fair question. But a better one is, “What relationship do I have with alcohol, and what will I do for myself—on behalf of myself—when my partner is drinking…and why is it that I will do these things for myself? Why do I want what I want?”

I’m happy to troubleshoot some of your “what should I do?” questions, particularly if you’re in a critical situation. But if possible I’d like to steer you toward the campfire. Come sit by me. Let’s look at the fire, take in a few moments of silence, and start asking ourselves the deeper questions. What does it mean? Why do I do that? Where do I want to go from here?

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As I’ve said in previous posts, I like New Year’s resolutions. They’re a chance to take stock of your life, assess where you’ve been, and plan where you’d like to go. And this got me thinking about resolutions—you know, the kind you’ll see in civic affairs, such as this resolution (which I chose at random) by Seattle’s mayor in 2006. Notice the language: “whereas… whereas… whereas…” I wonder if our New Year’s resolutions would last longer—would be more relevant—if we loaded them up with a few “whereas” statements.

Here’s what I mean. Maybe you’ve resolved to lose weight, or get your finances in order, or be more honest and courageous in your relationship (I really like that third one!). If so, why is that, exactly? Do you really want to get your finances in order? Do you really want to be in better shape? Maybe so, but if you think carefully about it—if you come up with a couple of “whereas” statements—you’ll probably enjoy more success with your resolution. Here’s an example:

“Whereas, I feel better and sleep better when my checkbook is balanced and I’m living within my means;

Whereas, I want to enjoy a comfortable retirement with plenty of savings to finance my way of life;

Whereas, I want to dedicate certain funds to worthy causes; and

Whereas, I want to be an equal contributor with my partner in the ongoing financial support of our household;

Be it resolved, that I will end each month in the black and set aside $xx per month for savings this year.”

I know, it sounds stilted…maybe even a little silly. But if you’re going to the trouble of making New Year’s resolutions, it really helps to think very carefully about your priorities, your values, and your goals. So give it a try: write out a few “whereas” statements to give your resolutions the attention they (and you) deserve!

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Happy December 24! (I’m not assuming you celebrate Christmas.) I fear I may be disappointing you all by doing a “greatest hits” post—I never like it when sitcoms do it!—but my office is closed today and I can’t do another extended original post just now. (I’m back next week.) Also, not to toot my own horn, but I have some pretty good posts from previous holiday seasons. So…here goes—

Here’s my primer on New Year’s resolutions. Bottom line: I like them, and they should be about what you want, not what you should be doing.

Here are my reflections on a familiar Christmas story that reminds us to stop future-tripping (and past-tripping) and live squarely in the here and now.

Feeling down? Here’s a quick take on the complicated emotions most people have during the holidays.

Be well, be safe, and be filled with community and peace during this season!

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Many of my clients assume that I’m always doing just fine. I suspect that a small number of clients need me to always be just fine. I’m a therapist, right? So I should have all the self-soothing skills, communication skills, insights, and creative solutions I need to live a fully happy, stress-free life. I also suspect that many therapists encourage this belief. Letting people know you experience ups and downs might be bad for business!

But I think it’s worse for business to lie to clients (and prospective clients) in this way. And I don’t want to go off on a tangent, but it reminds me of what a lot of Hollywood interviews sound like. Barbara Walters asks the superstar about her life, and we hear that all of the bad times are in the past, today is great, and the future is bright. Hooey.

So here goes: I’ve had a rough two months. I’ve been feeling a little down, a little strung out. The main reason is that I had to leave my spiritual community and join a new one, in a new leadership role. There’s been excitement and fun in this transition, but I didn’t anticipate how much grief I would feel as I did this. I didn’t just leave my spiritual community, which was itself a loss…I also left an old role I played in that community, the role of layperson. I’m now in a much more public, circumscribed, and complicated role. I’m not used to it. I haven’t settled down yet.

And whether it’s all of that, or something else, I’ve had a hard time with the Seattle weather this year. I missed the Thanksgiving snow, which is good in only one way: I didn’t have to drive in it. (I was with family in Arizona.) But I’m a little kid about snow—a little Minnesotan kid—and I love to take our dogs out in the winter wonderland. I love to be socked in. But I missed it, and now that the holidays are fully here, it’s just rainy, dark, and windy. So…I feel a little down.

And yes, Barbara Walters, I’ll be just fine. I’m looking forward to 2011, for lots of reasons. I love Christmas and New Year’s. There’s always an upside. But I also know that there are times in every human life when you walk around the world feeling melancholy. I don’t want anything to take that feeling away from me—no pills, no sparkling therapy insights!!—because it’s a natural response to a time of transition.

And I also want to bring this experience with me when I meet with clients. I won’t mention it, most likely, and I’ll continually be focused on them. It’s their session, not mine! But I think it helps to have a therapist who’s acquainted with these feelings. Together, we’ll keep moving into the increasing light and warmth of spring.

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