Relationships
Split the difference
30/03/10 14:45
Let’s face it: life is rarely black and white. You meet someone, you like them, it all feels good, then they do something unexpected that makes you wonder what you ever saw in them.
You plan a purchase, pay, take the item home, try it out, but a few weeks later it just looks shabby.
Worst of all is when someone you hate does something unexpectedly nice, and you find yourself SOOO wanting to dismiss it as the exception that proves the rule.
What about YOU? Are you a good person, or a bad person?
If you bit the bullet and answered “both”, then you’re taking what’s called the ‘depressive position’. This is a way of looking at people that allows for contradictions, such as that they have good parts and bad parts, and if they do something hurtful this doesn’t mean THEY are a hurtful person. Or: You don’t need to keep doing good things in order to be a good person.
I like to think that this compassionate way of looking at things is called the ‘depressive position’ because it’s a bit sad to accept that in life things aren’t clear-cut: life always finds a way to be more complicated than you thought it was (*sigh*). Many Buddhist philosophies seem to reflect this way of looking at things. A Buddhist quote I once heard: “If your compassion doesn’t include yourself, it is incomplete.” This sits nicely with the other Buddhist-type observation that “life is pain and suffering”.
By comparison, if you find yourself using what a person does to judge who they are, then you’re engaging in something called ‘splitting’. This may be useful if you’re angry, and want to take a strong stance on something, or resist someone else’s pressure (“no, I won’t do that, it would be just wrong!”); however it may be problematic if you get bogged down in this way of looking at things. You may find yourself having to resort to magical thinking in order to cope with what’s happened. Splitting can also be problematic when it’s positive: think of the jeopardy cult members place themselves in when they choose to see their cult leaders as perfect, and incapable of harm (and everyone else as either evil or blind).
Basically, the safest position to take is... both. When things are generally ok and you feel like life’s on track, take a compassionate view of people, and don’t be fooled into thinking that what a person does in any given moment defines who they are. When things are tough, and you feel under pressure, take a strong position, and don’t be fooled into thinking that just because people are complex, doesn’t mean they can get away with doing hurtful things. Incidentally: this is also the safest attitude to take toward yourself: when others are happy, be compassionate toward yourself. When others are upset, try to be flexible. You can always switch back to a more self-interested position later if it doesn’t work out.
You plan a purchase, pay, take the item home, try it out, but a few weeks later it just looks shabby.
Worst of all is when someone you hate does something unexpectedly nice, and you find yourself SOOO wanting to dismiss it as the exception that proves the rule.
What about YOU? Are you a good person, or a bad person?
If you bit the bullet and answered “both”, then you’re taking what’s called the ‘depressive position’. This is a way of looking at people that allows for contradictions, such as that they have good parts and bad parts, and if they do something hurtful this doesn’t mean THEY are a hurtful person. Or: You don’t need to keep doing good things in order to be a good person.
I like to think that this compassionate way of looking at things is called the ‘depressive position’ because it’s a bit sad to accept that in life things aren’t clear-cut: life always finds a way to be more complicated than you thought it was (*sigh*). Many Buddhist philosophies seem to reflect this way of looking at things. A Buddhist quote I once heard: “If your compassion doesn’t include yourself, it is incomplete.” This sits nicely with the other Buddhist-type observation that “life is pain and suffering”.
By comparison, if you find yourself using what a person does to judge who they are, then you’re engaging in something called ‘splitting’. This may be useful if you’re angry, and want to take a strong stance on something, or resist someone else’s pressure (“no, I won’t do that, it would be just wrong!”); however it may be problematic if you get bogged down in this way of looking at things. You may find yourself having to resort to magical thinking in order to cope with what’s happened. Splitting can also be problematic when it’s positive: think of the jeopardy cult members place themselves in when they choose to see their cult leaders as perfect, and incapable of harm (and everyone else as either evil or blind).
Basically, the safest position to take is... both. When things are generally ok and you feel like life’s on track, take a compassionate view of people, and don’t be fooled into thinking that what a person does in any given moment defines who they are. When things are tough, and you feel under pressure, take a strong position, and don’t be fooled into thinking that just because people are complex, doesn’t mean they can get away with doing hurtful things. Incidentally: this is also the safest attitude to take toward yourself: when others are happy, be compassionate toward yourself. When others are upset, try to be flexible. You can always switch back to a more self-interested position later if it doesn’t work out.
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Ctrl-Alt-Delete
22/02/10 14:42
If you use a PC, you’ll probably be familiar with the ‘Control-Alt-Delete’ key combination. If your computer freezes or becomes somehow stuck, pressing these three keys all at once on the keyboard will allow you to reset the computer; it will shut down, then restart, returning to its original state, as if nothing bad had happened, just like magic. The only problem is, if you didn’t save your work in permanent memory, that work will be forgotten, along with the glitch that got the computer stuck in the first place.
Control, Alt, Delete. If only relationships were so simple. Jerry Seinfeld jokes in one of his stand-up comedy routines about needing a set director in some of his conversations - someone in a flak jacket who can march into the middle of the interaction, yell “cut!!” and get the two people to “start that scene again.” Meanwhile, you may have someone you know who really does try to re-write history, by exploding or shutting down a conversation, then ringing you up days later, and acting as if the altercation never took place. In relationships, this editing of reality may also come after a period of ‘silent treatment’.
In his mighty psychoanalytic tome, ‘The Primitive Edge of Experience’, Thomas Ogden recounts a patient who “often would laugh and say that he was only kidding after having said something extremely cruel to his wife. Having said, ‘you know I was only kidding,’ he felt that he had undone the damage by magically changing the assault into something humorous (just by re-naming it). When his wife refused to participate in this magical rewriting of history, the patient would escalate his efforts at joviality and begin to treat her with contempt, accusing her of being a baby for not being able to ‘take it.’”
Magical thinking is in this case a defence that we might use to avoid feeling guilty about having hurt someone; or we may simply feel the need to re-write history because we forget the role of repair in relationships. It is inevitable that sooner or later in a relationship, one person is going to upset the other. So many problems in relationships occur when the couple is unable to repair this hurt. Typically, effective repair in relationships involves use of the word “sorry” - but repair can take many shapes and sizes.
Try it yourself: next time you feel like hitting the ‘delete’ button in an interaction, try repairing (start by saying ‘sorry’, even if you don’t feel sorry), and see whether the situation can be recovered after all. That way, you won’t have to lose all the good work you’ve done up to that point. Who knows, you might even get a “sorry” back from the other person!
Control, Alt, Delete. If only relationships were so simple. Jerry Seinfeld jokes in one of his stand-up comedy routines about needing a set director in some of his conversations - someone in a flak jacket who can march into the middle of the interaction, yell “cut!!” and get the two people to “start that scene again.” Meanwhile, you may have someone you know who really does try to re-write history, by exploding or shutting down a conversation, then ringing you up days later, and acting as if the altercation never took place. In relationships, this editing of reality may also come after a period of ‘silent treatment’.
In his mighty psychoanalytic tome, ‘The Primitive Edge of Experience’, Thomas Ogden recounts a patient who “often would laugh and say that he was only kidding after having said something extremely cruel to his wife. Having said, ‘you know I was only kidding,’ he felt that he had undone the damage by magically changing the assault into something humorous (just by re-naming it). When his wife refused to participate in this magical rewriting of history, the patient would escalate his efforts at joviality and begin to treat her with contempt, accusing her of being a baby for not being able to ‘take it.’”
Magical thinking is in this case a defence that we might use to avoid feeling guilty about having hurt someone; or we may simply feel the need to re-write history because we forget the role of repair in relationships. It is inevitable that sooner or later in a relationship, one person is going to upset the other. So many problems in relationships occur when the couple is unable to repair this hurt. Typically, effective repair in relationships involves use of the word “sorry” - but repair can take many shapes and sizes.
Try it yourself: next time you feel like hitting the ‘delete’ button in an interaction, try repairing (start by saying ‘sorry’, even if you don’t feel sorry), and see whether the situation can be recovered after all. That way, you won’t have to lose all the good work you’ve done up to that point. Who knows, you might even get a “sorry” back from the other person!
Push me, pull you
01/07/09 14:58
“exclusive!”
“three’s a crowd...”
“she’s the odd one out”.
“us and them.”
“no boundaries.”
“children should be seen but not heard”.
“you crossed the line”.
“there’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’.”
“are you in our out?”
“you’re either with us or against us.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“members only.”
What do these expressions have in common? They all relate to oedipal dynamics in relationships. These dynamics are what can make interacting with people so exhausting at times; perhaps this is partly what prompted Sartre to comment “hell is other people”. So much of the angst of interacting with others springs from questions of who’s in and who’s out. Sales pitches such as “exclusive!” “don’t miss out” appeal to the fear we all have of being ‘on the outer’, left to survive alone while the herd moves on without us.
Politicians on both sides of the ditch are able to powerfully and subtly harness fear or excitement when talking in terms of ‘us and them’. Think of George Bush’s “You are either with us, or you’re with the Terrorists”. Think of Barack Obama’s “together we can”. By invoking ideas of unity or division, of belonging and ostracism, our deepest fears can be either threatened or reassured.
Essential to the idea of inclusion/exclusion is the boundary itself: by talking about ‘us and them’, we implicitly create a boundary between the two - where the boundary is defined by the ways that ‘they’ and ‘us’ are different. Is it a division based on skin colour? Gender? Sexual orientation? Political allegiance? Religion? Species? Age? Our brains are predisposed to seek these groupings out and position ourselves so that we are not excluded. This need for inclusion harks back to the very beginnings of our lives, when we needed to remain with the family in order to survive. These old fears of abandonment, whatever form they may take in adulthood, form the basis for so much of how we see others and ourselves, and more specifically, how we position ourselves with or against others in relationships. We may align ourselves with others who we feel a connection to, not only by seeking out more of their company, but also by thinking more favourably about them. We derive soothing satisfaction by noticing all the ways in which we are the same. We like them, we are like them, and thus can we like ourselves.
Conversely, we may distance ourselves from another who we dislike, not only by avoiding them, but also by angrily reflecting on all the ways we are SO unlike them. We hate them, we are not like them, and thus can we like ourselves. The problem, and the truth, is that we are all very alike in many ways, and we are also all quite different from one another. So we can never realistically be satisfied in the knowledge that we are utterly unlike that bad person, or completely identical to that good person. This is the dilemma explored in so much literature over the years: Romeo and Juliet, the lovers from warring tribes; Les Miserables, the story of prisoner 24601 who masquerades successfully as a pillar of the community; or Pride and Prejudice, the story of how elitism almost prevented two lovers from seeing each other for who they were. ‘Us vs Them’ has also been the basis of so much political intrigue over the years: The Cold War and the War on Terror are two examples that spring to mind, where ‘us and them’ perceptions have fuelled political careers, wrought death and destruction, and made a lot of people very scared of each other. To quote Pink Floyd: “It can’t be helped, for there’s a lot of it about.”
A Nervous Rex
25/05/09 21:12
Here’s why Freud thought the Greek tragedy of Oedipus Rex was a useful thing to base nearly all Psychology on: Everything that made life difficult for Oedipus, is also what makes life difficult for you and I. First, Oedipus was abandoned by his parents. This deprived him of the ability to get to know them as people. The struggle to see our parents as everyday, mortal humans, when they are a source of such joy and pain, is something that all of us, whether we are ‘well-adjusted’ or not, struggle to achieve through and beyond childhood.
When he got older, Oedipus went into battle with his father, and killed him. This part of the tale reflects the damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t problem we face when we come into some sort of conflict with our parents: if we let them win, we ourselves are annihilated; yet if we defeat them, then we are orphaned. What was Oedipus supposed to do?
As if this wasn’t bad enough for the Oedmeister, he was then invited to marry the queen of the defeated army, who just happened to be his mother, unbeknownst to him. He did so, and when he later discovered who she was, she killed herself, and he tore out his eyes. We could think of what he did as a way to restore the blindness or blissful ignorance about his parents that had been there throughout Oedipus’ life. But again, here is one of life’s great dilemmas painfully represented: What do we do with ‘taboo’ feelings (such as feeling attracted to another person’s partner)? It is a normal biological response for one person to be attracted to another from time to time, but what do we do if that person is off limits? Do we pretend the feelings aren’t there (go blind, like old Oedipus)? That may not work because then we may not notice if the feelings get stronger, or not notice how we are acting on them in an indirect way (we may not notice or admit to ourselves that we are flirting, for example). If, on the other hand, we embrace the feelings, we then increase the risk of acting on them directly, thus harming ourselves and the other person by crossing an uncrossable boundary (such as is crossed when one family member has sexual contact with another). The dilemmas aroused by these Oedipal issues do not have final solutions; they are a part of life. The trick is to understand them, and to live your life in such a way as to make room for them to be dealt with throughout life. The only way to ensure that these issues do not become toxic is to continually talk about them, with yourself and with others - to make sure you are not blind, like Oedipus was. That way, the ghost of poor old Oedipus might have a chance to rest in peace.
Yours, mine, ours
02/04/09 12:05
One third, one third, one third. In any relationship (and I mean, any) there are two (or more) people who differ in at least some small ways. In my threadbare experience this is probably the most fundamental challenge of the human condition: how do we, who are all so different and unique, nevertheless relate to one another? Many people resolve this struggle in an ‘either/or’ way, by being themselves only when alone, and being accommodating to others when in an interaction, thus hiding their ‘true’ self from others.
When trying to find harmony in a relationship, there is a useful rule-of-thumb to use: yours, mine, ours, a third a third a third. In other words, the two of you should be devoting a third of your time/energy towards what you think is important (even if the other person doesn’t), a third towards what the other person thinks is important (even if you don’t), and a third towards things that are important primarily for the relationship (even if both of you wouldn’t do it if alone).
For example, a married couple might sit together and watch a game of football (based on what he thinks is important), then go and visit friends for dinner (based on what she thinks is important), and the next morning lie in bed and talk about the week ahead (even though both individuals have other things they’d rather be doing). A mother and toddler might spend 45 mins. playing together with the child’s tea set (what the child wants to do), then the child will have a sleep before lunch while the mother reads a book (what the mother wants to do), then after lunch the mother and child attend a local play-group (even though the child is still interested in the tea-set and the mother’s not very keen on one of the other mothers at playgroup).
As you may have deduced, the demarcation between ‘yours’, ‘mine’ and ‘ours’ is not always obvious. In new relationships, for example, everything feels like ‘ours’ (you and I don’t matter; all that matters is that we’re together). Further, the idea of ‘ours’ as opposed to ‘yours’ or ‘mine’ can be difficult to see unless you realize that the relationship is a ‘thing’, separate and additional to each of the two individuals in it. The relationship has a life of its own, and needs and interests of its own. If a metaphor would help, you can think of the relationship as a car that the two of you are travelling in. A lot of the time, you can simply use the relationship for your own ends, but it would soon stop working if you never refilled the tank, got it serviced, kept it fairly clean, etc. So sometimes you are driving the car (yours), sometimes I am driving the car (mine), and sometimes the car is being maintained (ours).
In a therapy relationship, this principle also holds, although by necessity there is less time/energy spent on the therapist, and more on you. Sometimes you will be talking about something that upset you during the week (yours), sometimes we will be reflecting on how the therapy process is going (ours), and at some point you will need to pay the fee (mine).
So this rule of thumb may be useful to you if you have one or more relationships, be they friendships, love affairs, workplace interactions, or altercations in the street. It’s worth remembering that there are always three parts to a relationship: you, me, and us.
When trying to find harmony in a relationship, there is a useful rule-of-thumb to use: yours, mine, ours, a third a third a third. In other words, the two of you should be devoting a third of your time/energy towards what you think is important (even if the other person doesn’t), a third towards what the other person thinks is important (even if you don’t), and a third towards things that are important primarily for the relationship (even if both of you wouldn’t do it if alone).
For example, a married couple might sit together and watch a game of football (based on what he thinks is important), then go and visit friends for dinner (based on what she thinks is important), and the next morning lie in bed and talk about the week ahead (even though both individuals have other things they’d rather be doing). A mother and toddler might spend 45 mins. playing together with the child’s tea set (what the child wants to do), then the child will have a sleep before lunch while the mother reads a book (what the mother wants to do), then after lunch the mother and child attend a local play-group (even though the child is still interested in the tea-set and the mother’s not very keen on one of the other mothers at playgroup).
As you may have deduced, the demarcation between ‘yours’, ‘mine’ and ‘ours’ is not always obvious. In new relationships, for example, everything feels like ‘ours’ (you and I don’t matter; all that matters is that we’re together). Further, the idea of ‘ours’ as opposed to ‘yours’ or ‘mine’ can be difficult to see unless you realize that the relationship is a ‘thing’, separate and additional to each of the two individuals in it. The relationship has a life of its own, and needs and interests of its own. If a metaphor would help, you can think of the relationship as a car that the two of you are travelling in. A lot of the time, you can simply use the relationship for your own ends, but it would soon stop working if you never refilled the tank, got it serviced, kept it fairly clean, etc. So sometimes you are driving the car (yours), sometimes I am driving the car (mine), and sometimes the car is being maintained (ours).
In a therapy relationship, this principle also holds, although by necessity there is less time/energy spent on the therapist, and more on you. Sometimes you will be talking about something that upset you during the week (yours), sometimes we will be reflecting on how the therapy process is going (ours), and at some point you will need to pay the fee (mine).
So this rule of thumb may be useful to you if you have one or more relationships, be they friendships, love affairs, workplace interactions, or altercations in the street. It’s worth remembering that there are always three parts to a relationship: you, me, and us.
It takes two to tango.
08/08/08 18:29
When Jo and Sam first met, they had little in common. Sam, being a generation older than Jo, seemed to know all about life, while Jo felt there was still so much to learn. They soon discovered a shared passion: dancing. At every opportunity, Jo could be seen dancing "like no-one is watching", as the saying goes, while Sam was an avid Tango dancer. Watching Sam Tango, Jo felt that no other dance could offer such perfection, such subtlety. Jo was in love. Sam sensed Jo's awe and longing, and graciously offered to teach Jo how to Tango. Of course, the burgeoning relationship offered rewards to both of them, in the beginning. Jo's beauty and lust for life made Sam feel new excitement about the dance, while Sam came to be Jo's 'rock', opening new possibilities for mastery of a world-renowned dance form. Mutual friends were happy for them both, and soon held Sam and Jo out as a model dance couple - "they've got this great connection... some people are just made for each other." For Jo, dancing with Sam was like a dream; the safe hands, the sure feet, the feeling of security all brought Jo the confidence to go beyond the free-form flailing that had come before. Meanwhile, Sam found that Jo breathed new life into the tango, and with that new life came new joy. Both Sam and Jo felt immense happiness about their partnership, and each came to look forward to dancing happily ever after.
There were the occasional and inevitable conflicts, and early on the rocky moments were dealth with quickly and without lasting resentment. Both Sam and Jo knew that all good relationships have their rough edges. Sometimes Sam would get frustrated with Jo's impulsiveness, undermining the discipline that good Tango requires. At times, Jo found Sam's rigid adherence to the rules infuriating. But Sam knew that Tango is a timeless dance and, with patience, Jo could become a truly perfect Tango dancer.
As time went by, Jo became more and more aware of the limitations of the timeless dance. True, there were opportunities for the free expression Jo was used to, and increasingly longed for, but even when these openings came, Jo felt eclipsed by Sam. Sam was disquieted by Jo's growing restlessness, and tried to help. Sam demonstrated the moves with increasing insistence, and tried to revel in the opportunities for creative expression when they came.
Eventually, Jo and Sam reached a crisis. Much as Jo loved the Tango, it had come to represent a way of dancing that offered no freedom. Jo felt unable to breathe, unable to move without restriction. In secret, Jo began to indulge in the flailing style of dancing that used to be so much fun, but it had a sense of urgent furtiveness that hadn't been there before. To Jo, the Tango felt more and more like a prison dance, but the alternative felt like no dance at all. Sam sensed Jo's unhappiness, but could only look to the time-honoured form and function of the Tango for solutions. Sam sought to reassure Jo, talking of the awe and perfection that Jo had witnessed in the early days... perfection that was still within their grasp. Jo saw the logic of Sam's reassurance, but was torn. There was just no more room for Jo to be Jo any more. Beautiful as the Tango is, it had come to feel lifeless for Jo. To Sam's despair, Jo drifted away.
Sam continued to dance the Tango, but it had lost the wild joy that Jo had brought. Sam found new dance partners, many of whom had more discipline than Jo, more precise adherence to the form, but Sam found that somehow this precision still had an emptiness to it. Sam's new-found refinement brought the accolades of friends and admirers, but for Sam, the dance had lost its vitality.
Dead languages, dead relationships
30/07/08 18:28
Latin is sometimes referred to as a 'dead' language (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Language_death). This refers to the fact that Latin is not really spoken by anyone as their first language, and there are no large communities that routinely communicate in Latin. The result is that latin words retain the same meaning over time, and no new words are created. By comparison, English is routinely spoken and new words are being created all the time (is there a latin word for 'blog'?). In English, existing words also change their meaning (how gay are you feeling today?). To get a feel for how alive and dynamic the English language is, try reading Chaucer, and see how the form and function of English words is different to today. in 200 years' time, Latin will still be Latin, while English will look and sound noticeably different to how it does today.
The idea of a 'dead' language is also useful as a way of understanding how relationships can become stale or otherwise difficult. Relationships need to be 'alive', flexible, able to incorporate new ideas and 'grammar', new styles of interacting. 'Alive' relationships continually change to reflect the living, changing beings that inhabit ('speak') them. Established terms may be re-written; old, irrelevant or unhelpful terms may be discarded, while new terms may emerge to reflect new circumstances. If the relationship does not change, then it becomes progressively more difficult for the people in it to interact effectively or in a satisfactory way. When this happens, one or both people in the relationship may become frustrated or dis-engaged. How do I bring my new ideas to the relationship if it doesn't make room for them?
Change is the only constant, as the saying goes. This is as true for relationships (and languages) as it is for people. Sometimes relationships become 'frozen' because people in it are afraid that bringing new things into the relationship will somehow undermine it. People complain when new 'Americanisms' enter Australian parlance ("turn out the light" is apparently now replacing "turn off the light", for example). Don Watson, Paul Keating's speechwriter, even wrote a book titled "Death Sentence" about the importance of keeping our language alive and untainted by 'weasel words'. In a similar way, you might fear that if you allow new behaviour or new ideas into a relationship, it may be the 'death' of the relationship. A new job, a new friend, a new pursuit (do you know any golf widows?) or a new toy can strike fear in one or both people that the relationship will be eclipsed or changed beyond recognition. In fact, the opposite is the case. There will always be new things entering the relationship, and to remain alive, the relationship must adapt and change to accomodate them. If the relationship is kept rigid, static, and inflexible, it is in danger of becoming as obsolete as, say, the slide rule, or the horse and carriage, or Latin. These are sometimes still used for the novelty value, but, overall, life has moved on - as it should.
The joy of "no"
17/04/08 17:42
Scenario: a young child sits playing with some toys. Her mother walks into the room, and says "come on, it's time to go and pick up your brother". She looks up, and with the smallest hint of a smile, says "no."
Now what? In every toddler's life, there comes a moment when they discover that they exist independently of others. It dawns on them that they have feelings, needs, wants, and ideas, that are uniquely their own, and not anyone else's. This creates both a crisis and an opportunity.
The crisis: Because they are unique, then there will necessarily be times when they are the only one who feels how they feel, thinks what they think, or wants what they want. This is a crisis because it has the potential to be a very isolating experience: what if no-one understands how I feel, or wants what I want? If I'm the only one who wants it, can I still have it? How can I co-exist with others who are not the same as me?
The opportunity: It feels good to be me. My uniqueness is proof-positive that I exist. To mis-quote Descartes: 'I am unique, therefore I am.'
The toddler who simply, but triumphantly, says "no" to his mother, just for the sheer rebellion of it, is experiencing a joy that many people these days deprive themselves of. Many people are unsuccessful in their attempts to change for the simple reason that they couldn't work out how to safely say "no". The fear of "no" is that it will be met with guilt, shame, or rejection. The joy of "no" is the joy that comes from feeling safe to be yourself, be different to others, but not have to pay a penalty for it.
So the next time you meet a non-compliant child, or a teen 'rebel', be grateful. Just think how boring the world would be if we were all the same! Of course, you may read this and decide that you disagree with what is written here. What joy!
In deepest empathy...
12/02/08 17:40
Today, the prime minister apologized to "the indigenous peoples of this land". The apology, which can be read in full at ABC online, was resisted for a long time, because it was felt that we shouldn't, or can't, apologize for something that someone else did. As was justifiably said, the people who took children from their families genuinely believed they were doing the right thing. Meanwhile, it was argued, we current generations know better, and it would be wrong for us to say sorry when we weren't the ones who did the harm.
So, what would be the point of saying sorry for something that someone else did? What sense is there in walking up to a stranger who has just tripped over in front of you, and saying 'sorry about that'? The answer to this may lie in the distinction between sympathy and empathy.
Sympathy is defined by Dictionary.com as "harmony of or agreement in feeling, as between persons or on the part of one person with respect to another." Meanwhile, empathy is described as "the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another." For the recipient, it is the difference between between solidarity and understanding. You may express sympathy for the wife of a friend who has died. This means you feel sad too; her sadness and your sadness are "similar", but not the same, since each of you has lost something slightly different. Sympathetically, you may say to her: "I'm devastated. I can't imagine what you are going through." Empathy makes different, and perhaps far deeper demands on you, because it requires you to place yourself in someone else's shoes, and discover for yourself what their bunions really feel like. Empathetically, then, you might say "I can sense how hard it is for you."
Pondering the difference between sympathy and empathy, I began to wonder if this explains why it might be worth saying 'sorry' to the stolen generation. It doesn't really matter if it wasn't our fault, if we are trying to empathise (not just sympathise) with this group of people. Once we start to empathise with them, we realize that being told "sorry" simply helps because it feels right.