Another Point of View - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Another Point of View

A road too seldom traveled -
because too few will dare -
where dogma is unraveled
by vista seen from there;
it's where our vision changes
so eyes can see anew
from high atop the ranges,
another point of view.

We need not climb a mountain
to come to such a place -
a drink from wisdom's fountain
can grant sufficient grace
to exercise some kindness
and empathy extend -
from both of these cure blindness
with better set of lens.

The lenses worn by others
are tried on by the brave.
They transform men to brothers;
relationships they save.
Miraculous the powers
exhibited by few
who, from compassion's towers,
see another point of view.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Oct 19, 2018

In our Toastmasters group, we sometimes participate in a speaking exercise called "Point/Counterpoint". A subject is chosen at random, and one member of the group stands up and presents one point of view on the topic, then the other speaker addresses the group with a contrary opinion. Imaginations are often stretched; the second speaker might actually be in full agreement with what was previously said, but spontaneous debate is the objective, and a second point of view must be offered. It's always interesting to watch the second speaker quickly come up with a (preferably) logical opposing argument.

Respectful debate is an art that's on the decline. Polarization is the new norm - everyone seems to be absolutely convinced that their approach to any given situation is the most correct, and their opinion is the only one that matters.

In younger days, many of us were encouraged to attempt to walk in the other guy's shoes. I always had trouble with this adage - how could I be expected to actually navigate the world in the same way as someone who had completely different experiences than I did? Logically, I knew that the "shoes" would never fit, and that my movement in the ill-fitting footwear would automatically make my journey even more difficult than that of the person who owned the shoes in question. None of us can navigate through new terrain in shoes that don't fit.

I like the concept of viewing the scenery through a different lens better. Remember being a child and trying on your friend's new glasses? The scenery around you suddenly distorted in bizarre ways, and it was hard to grasp the notion that those same glasses that made the world look crazy to you actually helped your friend see the world the same way your 20/20 vision allowed you to see it.

It can be hard to remember that our figurative "eyes" all see the world slightly differently. We might not ever be able to step into the "shoes" of another, but if we try to be empathetic, we can catch glimpses of the problems that others have to overcome.

A young man I know was always extremely bright, but "different" - awkward, overly stimulated by his own thoughts, and exhausted by the noise, confusion, and expectation to be socially "on" that high school placed on him. Knowing that he was brilliant, his parents fully expected him to go on to university. In Grade Twelve he told them that wasn't his plan - and for a time they were confused. The father was quite devastated - how could a boy who loved to learn be so adamant about not pursuing higher education? One day, in the course of picking up his son early from school, he walked through the same crowded and noisy halls that his son traversed daily. Suddenly he was granted a gift; for a brief moment he saw those halls through his son's eyes - and finally understood why his son felt as he did.

We seldom catch those "aha!" glimpses of what life can be like for those around us. In the case I just mentioned, the father truly wanted to understand why his son felt as he did. That was the precursor to the miracle of that moment of other-sighted-ness. Most of us, caught up in our own way of thinking, are far less invested in understanding the workings of the hearts and brains of our fellowmen. We can't relate to individuals who've been shaped by experiences so vastly different from our own, and often we simply don't care enough about them to try.

At other times, we've experienced things just similar enough to feel empathy. Our experience might pale beside greater trauma suffered, but it can provide us with a point of reference. Someone who was mugged on the street, and suffered a few minor injuries, can't equate their ordeal with that of the person who was raped, or had an attempt made on their life. However, they can remember that moment of fear when a stranger approached and lashed out at them. They can remember how they felt insecure about walking alone for a long time afterward. This enables them to reach out to the victim and say, "I think I might be able to imagine what that was like for you. I know how it feels to be afraid."

Sometimes we can't really empathize at all. We've simply never had an experience that compares in any way to what the other person has gone through. Their lives and experiences have shaped them very differently. They are clearly "other". Can we manage to care about "them"?

We may not ever desire to see a point of view that is in such direct opposition to our own, but we can still demonstrate kindness. We can attempt enough self-mastery to engage in civilized debate. We can admit - to ourselves and them - that we can't see through their lens. We can offer a hand to steer them when their vision falters, rather than push them into the path of that oncoming freight train that they can't see. Isn't that what we hope they would do for us?

What happens when our own vision is clouded, when our lenses are smudged with arrogance, anger, or bigotry? Are we happy to keep stumbling over obstacles that we'd avoid with clearer lenses? Do we deny how much we can't see to keep our pride intact? What do we do when tears fog our lenses? Do we take them off and give them a rub, or do we refuse the arm of the person willing to steer us for a while, and trip ourselves up while we wallow in unnecessary misery?

We are stubborn. Sometimes we want to pass on our filthy, clouded lenses to others, all the while insisting that they'll afford clearer vision. Other times we're offered corrective eye wear that we refuse to put on.

In my mid-forties, I suddenly required reading glasses. I spent months in denial - what were they thinking, suddenly making my crossword puzzle print so small? I mean, really - who could see that? As it turns out, almost everyone could except me! Oddly, while my physical self was protesting glasses, my mental and emotional selves were beginning to open themselves up to improved vision. My heart was becoming more open to the plights of others, and my mind was suddenly ready to entertain other points of view. My new glasses ushered in a whole new era of sighted-ness for me.

I won't tell you that I'm always open to seeing life from another person's perspective - there are still times when I'm as stubborn as my pre-glasses self. I know what point I want to make, and I don't want to hear the opposing argument - let alone play devil's advocate and imagine the arguments against my point of view.

I might squint and strain my eyes and insist that the print has shrunk rather than put on my specs. Life can be like those times when I head out to dine, having forgotten that I need those reading glasses at all. I know I have all kinds of options, but realize I can't quite manage even the large-print menu in dim light. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my mother or a friend will hand me their glasses, and while the prescriptions vary enough that my vision isn't perfected, I can at least see well enough to order a meal. The need for guess work on my part is eliminated by a brief glimpse through another lens.

Maybe that's all it takes - an admission that our ignorance has blinded us, and our glasses got left at home - followed by the generous offer of a fellow diner:

"Can't see? Here - try my glasses!"

Dance to Your Own Drumbeat - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg

Drums

This drummer beats for me - and me alone -
and I dance to rhythm all my own.
I'll move in time with music 'til it's gone;
don't know all the steps, but I'll catch on.
You hear another tune; have your own groove,
and can't tell me how I ought to move.
I'll march with fervor, or I'll tread with grace -
when drum changes tempo, I'll keep pace.
If I am out of step, you'll never know.
Your drummer does a diff'rent beat bestow.

Sharon Flood Kasenberg, October 10, 2018

What was meant to be a temporary re-arrangement of furniture in our front sunroom inspired this post. Steve - the furnace guy - was coming in early the next morning to re-route some venting in the attic and our son's bedroom, and because said son is a night owl, this entailed a different spot for him to sleep for a night. Knowing that he'd bunked a night or two in the sunroom, I went in there to pull out the futon he'd be sleeping on, only to find that the drum was in the way.

The drum in question used to belong to my mother-in-law. When she moved into a nursing home several years ago, my sons claimed it. Nobody here plays the drums, but it's one of those things that we just can't seem to part with. For me, it symbolized something - I just wasn't sure what until I moved it yesterday. Looking for a spot to stick it for 24 hours, I plopped it down in the corner of our front entryway. I walked past it several times, and decided it looked at home in that spot. In fact, I decided it could make an important statement about our family.

"I'm going to leave it here" I told my husband. "I'll put a sign over it that says, 'Dance to your own beat' or 'Follow your own drum'..."

"I like it!" he responded.

So there it sits - sans sign - for now. Having it in our entryway is symbolic. We are a family that values individuality. My husband, my sons and myself all see the world differently. We are four shades of ideology. We have four different views on religion; four different views on politics. We keep different hours and enjoy different pastimes.We have varied opinions on fashion, on budgeting, on art, on music...Name a subject and the chances are good that the four of us will each have our unique take on it. We are individuals.

Amazingly, we don't spend all of our time together arguing. Why bother? As parents, we just wanted to raise decent kids - not little clones of either of us. My sons always got along well, in spite of the fact that they had different temperaments, personalities and interests. We love each other, but what makes us a happy family is that we genuinely like each other.

I won't tell you we've never had heated discussions, or that we always respect each others opinions, but we accept this as fact - we're allowed to see things differently. It's good to be unique.

I love my husband's ability to keep a civil tongue and an even temper. I love how my older son has a very dry wit and can remember bizarre facts on a million topics. I love watching my younger son in action - when he explains AI theory I understand little - but I love how passionate he is about his interests. I love that all three of them keep talking to me, whether I know what they mean or not!

I appreciate that my husband cares about my opinions. Many of our conversations begin with the words, "what do you think about..." It matters that we still ask these questions, even though we know there's a good chance that our points of view won't be completely aligned.

We're tolerant of each other's foibles. As I've said before, I do not excel at multi-tasking. (As an example, on Tuesday I opened the microwave to find the peas I meant to serve at Thanksgiving dinner.) My husband and kids know this about me. They understand that I'm incapable of real conversation while I'm preparing a meal, and they know that disorder in the kitchen makes me crazy enough to drop a bad word or two. I know this was an annoyance to my younger son when he'd invite friends from church over, but - bless him - rather than chastising me for my nasty mouth, he'd stoically come into the kitchen and offer assistance. His brother would do the same when kitchen counters got heaped with tins and ingredients during my annual Christmas baking binges - just step in and help re-create order from chaos.

We don't always agree, but we "get" each other.

Yes - we roll our eyes sometimes, but we do it as we bite our tongues. None of us is perfect, but as a family, this much diplomacy we've mastered:

- We don't always have to waste our time trying to sway each others' opinions.
- We don't have to agree with each other to enjoy each other.
- We don't have to like the same things.
- We respect each other's strengths and try to compensate for each other's weaknesses.
- Criticism should always be gentle.
- A whole lot of things we might want to say are better left unsaid.

At the risk of sounding trite, love really is the answer. As I've contemplated the drum that now sits in my front entrance, I've decided that we're perhaps not just marching to a different beat, but perhaps all hearing different drummers. Some are pounding bongos, some are beating snare drums. Some are tapping away on steel drums. At times the desire to share the rhythms we choose to hear is almost overwhelming. We each hear through our custom headphones, and most of us (secretly, at least) believe our music is best. We are social creatures who want to share what we love, and we often invite others to join us in our dance - forgetting that they already have choreographed moves of their own. Sometimes an inner critic wants to tell them what they're doing is wrong; to us their tempo seems off, or their movements don't seem fluid. Love is knowing how to hush that impulse.

Love is a clumsy dance that transcends all the genres. It is ballet's elite twirling their way through a mosh pit of ravers. Love is embracing the concept of not just hearing different beats, but knowing there are different drums and drummers. It's accepting that every drum has its merits, and every drummer has her or his own style. Every beat has its place.

Love is an open invitation:

Come as the individual you are, and dance to your unique drum beat.