In my book I wrote of my son’s wedding. I called it “The Happiest Day of My Life” because not only was it a joyous day filled with love, family and friends but it was also a time when I was completely engaged. There was no background commentary running in my head (and these commentaries are usually negative, right?) and even the moments when I was irritated or anxious came and went with being held onto. It was, if you like, a day of mindfulness.
Three years later I have a granddaughter and one day a week my wife and I undertake child care duties. There is a bumper sticker which reads “My grandkids are great. I should have had them first!” which is both funny (unless it’s on the bumper of your parents’ car!) and true. In conversations with friends who have also become grandparents, I have found that the experience is pretty similar with all of us. Our grandkids are great and we love the time we spend with them.
It made me wonder why that is, and why we didn’t have it with our own kids – there are no bumper stickers which say “My kids are great. I’m glad I had them first.” I would suggest that when we were raising our own children, life got in the way. There was work and at the weekend there was all the stuff at home you couldn’t get done during the week – the big shop, mowing the lawn, ferrying the kids to dance classes and football games. And on top of all that, trying to maintain some kind of relationship with your partner. It’s hardly surprising that we turned around and the kids were grown and had flown the nest. If anything, it was a miracle that we all survived with our health and our sanity, let alone our marriage intact.
But sadly, this magical time with the new grandchild doesn’t last. As a baby, the love you give it is unconditional because you get nothing back. And as the baby grows into a toddler, you have control of pretty much everything – where you go, what they eat and when they sleep. One of the founding fathers of psychology, Alfred Adler, called this a “vertical relationship.” In fact, it is not really a relationship at all – it is a competitive, top down arrangement with the goal of self-elevation at the expense of everyone else. But as the child develops language, the nature of the relationship has to change.
Erich Fromm, the social psychologist and philosopher, says as the child develops his sense of separateness and individuality so that the physical presence of his mother isn’t enough anymore, and therefore the need to overcome that separateness in other ways arises.
Now, whether personality develops as a result of language, or language expresses personality, I don’t know. What I do know is that I am suddenly dealing with a little person with likes and dislikes which she makes very clear. I am no longer in complete control any more and there are distinct changes in the relationship – I’d be lying if I didn’t say it isn’t always so much fun anymore, and there are days when I can’t wait for her parents to come and take the little monster home. But equally there are days which I wish would never end, when we are completely absorbed in each other’s company, when every moment is a delight and every word exchanged is a treasure. We negotiate, we take note of each other’s feelings, there is give and take, I accept things that she wants to do and she recognises there are things that I need to do. Adler calls this a “horizontal relationship,” which is based on equality, minimising antagonism and competitiveness.
Friedensreich Hundertwasser, the Austrian artist and architect said something similar:
“The horizontal belongs to nature – the vertical may belong to man.”
As in life, so in Aikido. If all the power resides with one person, there is no relationship taking place. A throw that takes no account of the incoming energy can only be achieved through domination if the person making the throw is bigger and stronger. A throw that takes energy, redirects it and causes uke to fall over of their own accord is a throw that reflects a relationship between the thrower and the thrown, a shared experience. A relationship is a living thing in a constant state of flux. It flows back and forth, sometimes one is dominant, sometimes it is the other and sometimes it is balanced. If Aikido teaches one thing, it is that all things change – a thing that ceases to change is dead.
But of course, Aikido teaches more than one thing. It also teaches us how to adapt to change, which is to say, meeting change with change. You could say that this is the act of negotiation. After all, we talk about negotiating a dangerous bend when driving or negotiating a storm at sea – we are adapting to a change in conditions. Nevertheless, this isn’t true negotiation, a participation between equals, it is only a necessary response to a given situation. If I carry on driving in a straight line when I hit a bend, or a sailor doesn’t alter course or batten down the hatches when faced with a storm, the outcome could be disastrous. These are simply sensible responses to unalterable external conditions.
Negotiation is an interaction between two equals with a mutually beneficial outcome. We hear about negotiations going well between countries trying to de-escalate a conflict or unions and management bargaining over wages, but invariably at the conclusion of talks, both sides profess to be the winner. In a relationship between equals there can be no winners – or losers. We should both preserve our integrity and individuality, overcome that sense of separateness and isolation, but remain ourselves.
How is this possible? I will leave the last words to Erich Fromm:
In love the paradox occurs that two beings become one and yet remain two.