Bruce was the name of my first counseling client. His hands were rough from manual labor, and as I introduced myself, the strength of his grip conveyed the authority of a man accustomed to being in charge. The thought immediately entered unbidden into my mind: “This is not going to go well.” If there was one stereotype in whose presence I felt utterly inadequate and impotent, it was the “dominant man.” At that moment Bruce embodied to me an intimidating father, the bullies at school, and a gender norm that felt oppressive. So I survived the way I always had: I ceded power; I became small and unthreatening. I apologized to Bruce for my nerves and even let him know that he was my first-ever client. Unfortunately, he perceived that I was not someone who could help him, and he walked out after fifteen minutes. Looking back now, I don’t blame him.
We all “see through a glass dimly,” that is, we form images about reality that are not wholly true. If we are looking for an easy target to blame, we must look no further than social media and advertising. A simple Google search of “the problem with social media” renders among its top headings, “social media distorts reality.” The images that people choose to display on these platforms are heavily curated and often filtered. It is easy to identify the problems with social media as something external to ourselves. It is more difficult, however, to reflect on the nuanced way that all of us form images that distort reality. I did not see Bruce rightly or accurately. What I did see, or rather perceived, was a collage made up of many painful experiences in my past.
We all make internal models of our experience. Much like maps that represent terrain, our minds form representations that help us plan, predict, and navigate our worlds. An inner model or image, for example, will come to mind when we hear the words bully, comedian, criminal, and so on. These images are based on a conglomerate of historical experiences, and they give us a sense of what we might expect in the future. These internal models are not problematic. It is just that they are models and not reality. They provide us a starting point for what we might encounter, but they are not the real terrain, the real person.
Bruce rightly walked out of my session because of something that I did, or rather did not do: I did not see him, I was not present to him. I glanced quickly at his outward appearance and demeanor and attached to that image all sorts of assumptions and preconceptions. I was not aware, in the moment, that this is what I was doing; it was not so much a conscious decision as a reflexive reaction. My muscles tensed, my stomach turned, and my breath became shallow. My mind concluded that I knew this type of man and that I was not safe in his presence. This felt sense of danger was not randomly connected to Bruce’s appearance. My mind was, in fact, making real connections between his self-presentation and the characteristics of certain people in my past. These real similarities added credence to the image about him that was forming in my mind’s eye. The fact that my mind formed an inner model based on similar experiences, again was not problematic; the problem was that I concluded that Bruce was the same as that model. I identified him so completely with my past experiences that I was not able to see anything new. I was not able to really see the person in front of me with any genuine openness or curiosity.
What did I miss in my interaction with Bruce? David Benner, a psychologist and spiritual guide would call it “presence.” He writes this:
Presence is the awakening that calls us to an engagement with some aspect of the present moment…It demands that we notice, and, in so doing, the distance between whatever we notice and us is suddenly reduced. We feel connected. Sometimes this might feel like more connection than is comfortable, but no longer are we on the outside looking at life through a thick glass. Suddenly, we have passed through that which distanced us, and we are inside and a part of life. We are involved. We are participants, not simply spectators.[1]
According to Benner, what I missed is profound. Being present to people in the here and now allows us to participate in a living exchange; it is to move from watching something static and lifeless to partaking meaningfully in the dynamism of life.
Participation gives us the sense of encountering something, or rather someone, who speaks back. This living participation is an exchange where we allow our images, our perceptions, to be reshaped, re-formed. This can feel profoundly risky because it acknowledges that the other person remains, to a certain extent, unknown and unknowable to us. It is risky because real people have the power to surprise us. As Anne Morrow Lindberg writes, “We usually select the known, seldom the strange. We tend not to choose the unknown which might be a shock or a disappointment or simply a little difficult to cope with. And yet it is the unknown with all its disappointments and surprises that is the most enriching.”[2] As Lindberg so eloquently points out, there is a reason that we sometimes prefer our images over reality. These images, unlike reality, give us the sense that we can perfectly know and predict outcomes; they give us the illusion of certainty. And given the many painful experiences in our past, it is unsurprising that we often choose this illusion over the danger of participation.
Many of us have grounds for caution. We have reason to close ourselves off rather than to be present, to retreat rather than to participate. There is a logic and even wisdom in avoiding what seem like risky encounters. But there is an aspect to fear and how we respond in these moments that tends to expose us to further hurt, rather than healing. For example, in identifying Bruce completely with my internal model for a “dominant man”, I acted with certainty that he was dangerous and that I was impotent. So I set in motion a pattern of interaction that mimicked past experiences. I, as it were, held up the white flag of surrender and announced that I was small, inexperienced, and not a threat to his power. He reacted in kind, dismissing me as insignificant. Remaining genuinely open is risky, but there is something tremendously healing about the present moment. If I had been able to really notice and attend to Bruce, I might have encountered layers to his own identity, his own story. I might have encountered someone who spoke back, a living person with the capacity to surprise and confound. If I had been able to be present, I would not have seen only a “dominant man,” but rather someone worthy of compassion, even a person with whom I could relate.
Presence then is a precious gift, and one worth guarding. There is a relationship between the kind of presence that Benner describes and the nature of attention that we bring to bear on others. A certain manner of attention can open the door to presence, and another can preclude it. I have already alluded to certain qualities that are important if we want to truly attend to the person in front of us. First, presence requires attention that is centered on the present moment. We must notice the particularity of who is in front of us right now, not simply our preconceived notions. Second, presence requires a form of attention that acknowledges a participatory relationship with a living person. This means that one is genuinely open to the other and willing to be surprised. Third, presence requires courage. Truly painful experiences in our past can obscure our vision and make genuine openness feel tremendously risky.
There is another aspect to the nature of our attention that can either make space for or hinder presence. This is the extent to which our attention is either unhurried and uncluttered or frenetic and scattered. Presence requires a manner of attention that is slow. Imagine the difference between forming a snapshot image of the surface of the ocean and exploring its depths. The snapshot happens in an instant, but if we want to see and encounter what is under the surface we must slow down. Presence is akin to sinking into the depths of the water and encountering the life that exists within – the life that we cannot see at first glance. And this takes time! How often do we look on the surface of things and quickly move on? How many images are we daily bombarded with? How busy and cluttered are our lives? The real presence of being with someone over time takes slowing down both our external and internal worlds. As we slow down and pay attention to the person in front of us, it is like we sink below the surface where our images recede and the life within emerges.
Images can never capture the intricacy and depth of persons. Internal models, while necessary and helpful, are not equal to reality. It is difficult to recognize the ways that our own perceptions are distorted. It is difficult because these distortions are automatic and often deeply rooted in fear. We indeed “see through a glass dimly.’ I was not given another chance to meet Bruce, but I have since sat long enough in counseling with many Bruce-like men to encounter what is real and living in them. When I have the courage to look beyond the image that I have perceived, to be present in a way that is genuinely open, the life that I encounter is breathtakingly beautiful and much less frightening!
Mark Walters is a registered clinical counselor who, in his clinical practice and studies, focuses on the integration of psychology, neurobiology, and spirituality. As a member of the order of the Sons of the Holy Cross, he is grounded in the contemplative tradition and devoted to ecclesiastical communion. In his role as a psychotherapist at Langley Youth and Family Services in Langley, BC, Mark works extensively, in collaboration with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, with individuals who are identified as high risk for criminal behavior.
[1] Benner, David G. Presence and Encounter: The Sacramental Possibilities of Everyday Life. Grand Rapids, Michigan: Brazos Press, 2014, p. 2
[2] Lindbergh, Anne M. Gift from the Sea. New York: Pantheon Books, 1983.