Pity is a White woman you don’t know that well making a b-line for you at the grocery store to tell you how very sad she was to hear about the truly terrible thing that happened to you.
I am not sure why, but this article called to mind a particular way of distancing oneself from tragedy. Asking questions until you figure out how it wouldn't happen to you. I have had this happen to me after a bad patient outcome at work. I definitely did it when I found put about someone who had a bad pregnancy outcome while I was pregnant. It's so natural to want assurance the bad thing won't happen to you, but it doesn't exist and those questions are some of the biggest connection busters.
YES. I know exactly what you're talking about. I've experienced it myself, but also caught myself asking questions of someone that I realized were more about my own fears than genuine concern and understanding.
Yes! So much of this. Cancer diagnosis: “did they smoke?” Heart disease: “but didn’t they exercise?” Dementia: “they didn’t follow the right diet!” It’s one thing to learn from situations when there is something to be learned and another to reassure one’s self that “it won’t happen to me,” right there in front of a person affected.
Definitely and even if we aren't terrificly rude enough to say it to someone's face, it still damages us because we're armoring up to protect ourselves instead of connecting with others
“it is easier to avoid pity when you have lived some life” - once again you have looked into my soul. One of the positive things to come out of my kids’ mental health struggles is the release of believing we’d done everything “right” or we were going to avoid any problems. For years, I could pity others bec I thought I had it all figured out. While that does feel good in some respects, it’s also full of fear - fear that things won’t go right. When everything went to hell it was almost a relief. I could let go of the pretense. I have less judgment about others and less fear about my own life looking a certain way.
"When everything went to hell it was almost a relief." I know this so well, but have never put these words to it. The going to one kind of hell can take you out of the hell of uncertainty. Thanks for helping me feel just a little less alone in living with my own child's mental health struggle.
As I read your column, I remembered the following moment in my life; After my daughter committed suicide 5 years ago, I received many e-mails, notes, cards, visits. Virtually every written message began with “I’m so sorry to hear about Alison,,,,I had a [……..\ die and I thought I’d never recover….” Each person named a mother or father, a stillbirth, a child, a pet, a 95-year-old grandparent, a spouse.
After a few of these, I was so pissed I couldn’t see straight. And then in one silent rant, the thought came to me that each person desperately wanted to create “a communion of sorrow”. Each person wanted me to know I wasn’t alone. Each person wanted to connect to my own great loss. They could understand loss, whether it was a faithful pet or their mother. And they were each doing the best they could.
Death or great loss leave us speechless. We may say something, but we always know that words are useless. They are gibberish. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “He’s in a good place.” “You’ll heal with time.” All these phrases are absurdly inadequate because every grief is unique even as every one is universal. As you point out, we’ve all stumbled trying to express ourselves in the face of tragedy.
But the Communion of Sorrow is beneath the words, a community made of up everyone who has lost someone or something dear to them.
Understanding that, I got past my anger, and I hope it’s true for others.
"The communion of sorrow" is such a gorgeous idea and, yes, it is beyond and under and over words, isn't it?
We need ways of sharing one another's sorrow without comparing, don't we? It's natural to want to say "me too," but sometimes that actually feels violent. I know people often say things to me about how they've been wondering about their parent's forgetfulness and it feels pretty cruel to me. Your dad forgetting to buy the bananas is not the same as my dad forgetting his granddaughter's names. The contrast brings up that pain for me, rather than making me feel accompanied.
Have you ever heard of the Buddhist teaching around near enemies? I am reminded of it reading this. It is the notion that there are feelings or behaviors that masquerade as virtues but end up undermining those virtues by protecting the self at the expense of connection. Because of the nature of my work, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about the near enemies of integrity, but in the course of researching this teaching I came across this quote by Jack Kornfield which echoes your words:
"The near enemy of compassion is pity. Instead of feeling the openness of compassion, pity says, “Oh, that poor person. I feel sorry for people like that.” Pity sees them as different from ourselves. It sets up a separation between ourselves and others, a sense of distance and remoteness from the suffering of others that is affirming and gratifying to the self. Compassion, on the other hand, recognizes the suffering of another as a reflection of our own pain: “I understand this; I suffer the same way.” It is empathetic, a mutual connection with the pain and sorrow of life. Compassion is shared suffering."
Thinking about this undermining, separative tendency of near enemies, the ways in which they function to protect the self and prevent expansion and growth has been helpful. And humbling.
I'm just fucking sorry you're experiencing all of this, Courtney. But also grateful that you are finding it in yourself to share it with us.
Holy shit! I feel like my unconscious plagarized Jack Kornfield! Thank you for sharing this, Asha. It is EXACTLY what I was trying to write my way into.
If you're curious, here's a piece I wrote about near enemies awhile back. There's a particularly good link in there to an essay by Sanjna Singh about how near enemies undermine our social movements that's, I think, right up your alley:
THIS is what i came here to say! Pity as the near enemy of compassion -- as the thing that when we are feeling it actually prevents us from access to the genuine emotion of compassion
I was so hoping your father would not have this dimension to his dementia. I know it can feel terrifying all around, and it can make caretakers feel completely powerless to help.
I know even people one knows well often avoid proximity to families undergoing this sort of crisis, because they are afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. I would encourage those who avoid for such a reason to look online for Things Not to Say.
One thing I have felt about people's words in relation to my life as a caretaker of a couple of loved ones with profound disabilities is that they do not understand that I would not for a moment trade my life for theirs. So I will toss out a couple of things that are Don'ts in my book. Don't, as an onlooker, ask lots and lots of detailed, repetitive questions for details to help you understand the ailing person's condition as if the suffering person is a fascinating alien. It only drains the caretaker.
Second don't: Don't talk about what a charmed life you have. This is not about you. The caretaker is not thinking she or he would rather have your life. The caretaker is not looking at you with envy. The caretaker is drawing on all her resources to play HER hand., not thinking about your hand.
I am sending love to your mother as well. I always think at such times about my father as he took care of my mother, and my heart aches for all of you.
In case this could be uplifting in the moment, I am engaged in the unique experience of doing night birth watch for a pregnant gorilla, first time mother. I am on duty one night a week until the birth.
WOWOW! This is very uplifting to me. Thank you for sharing. Can we put this on the list? If you are talking to an overwhelmed caretaker, don't forget to tell them about the pregnant gorilla and the night watch.
I love your don'ts. We should build a whole list as the Examined Family readership.
Courtney, as I post here, you must have my email address. If you could send me yours, I could send you updates on the gorilla watch. I cannot post anything publicly.
"I hope I catch myself even subconsciously separating myself from hardship that scares me or seems unimaginable and, instead, move towards it—loamy and humble and outside the terms of my own ego."
Solidarity, sister. There's nothing worse than being pity-bombed in the middle of tragedy, when you are up to your neck in overwhelming, suffocating reality, only to be viewed as someone "other."
Thank you for this beautiful piece and for all the ways you are sharing your heart a s you walk with your dad in this season. My dad also has dementia, and we are moving through this strange time as best we can. It is a gift to remember that even the hardest experiences can bring us together and awaken us to beauty. Thank you for all the ways you remind us to keep our hearts open.
This is a poignant reminder to keep moving closer to each other, to pursue the contact burns of each other's pain. I think that has something to do with the meaning of life, and yet I find myself avoiding it again and again, out of fear. Sending loads of love, Courtney.
I live in this community. Again, your writing transcends new levels. I've had this happen. Some you thought would be rocks are pitiers, and some you never knew become angels. The true ones just sit with you, or let you sleep. They bring calm. Your writing is elite, but some days you just continue to raise the bar. thank you for this.
This is so powerful, Courtney. I’m reminded of Brené Brown’s writing on pity, citing Jack Kornfield: “Pity is the near enemy of compassion.” Pity separates us from others’ suffering and maintains privilege and separation; compassion draws us nearer and says “I am with you, I see you here.” Thank you for this offering in the midst of the thistle.
I am not sure why, but this article called to mind a particular way of distancing oneself from tragedy. Asking questions until you figure out how it wouldn't happen to you. I have had this happen to me after a bad patient outcome at work. I definitely did it when I found put about someone who had a bad pregnancy outcome while I was pregnant. It's so natural to want assurance the bad thing won't happen to you, but it doesn't exist and those questions are some of the biggest connection busters.
YES. I know exactly what you're talking about. I've experienced it myself, but also caught myself asking questions of someone that I realized were more about my own fears than genuine concern and understanding.
Yes! So much of this. Cancer diagnosis: “did they smoke?” Heart disease: “but didn’t they exercise?” Dementia: “they didn’t follow the right diet!” It’s one thing to learn from situations when there is something to be learned and another to reassure one’s self that “it won’t happen to me,” right there in front of a person affected.
Definitely and even if we aren't terrificly rude enough to say it to someone's face, it still damages us because we're armoring up to protect ourselves instead of connecting with others
Yes, that’s true too.
“it is easier to avoid pity when you have lived some life” - once again you have looked into my soul. One of the positive things to come out of my kids’ mental health struggles is the release of believing we’d done everything “right” or we were going to avoid any problems. For years, I could pity others bec I thought I had it all figured out. While that does feel good in some respects, it’s also full of fear - fear that things won’t go right. When everything went to hell it was almost a relief. I could let go of the pretense. I have less judgment about others and less fear about my own life looking a certain way.
I wish I didn't relate to this as much as I do, Lisa! Thank you for describing it so well.
"When everything went to hell it was almost a relief." I know this so well, but have never put these words to it. The going to one kind of hell can take you out of the hell of uncertainty. Thanks for helping me feel just a little less alone in living with my own child's mental health struggle.
Courtney response
As I read your column, I remembered the following moment in my life; After my daughter committed suicide 5 years ago, I received many e-mails, notes, cards, visits. Virtually every written message began with “I’m so sorry to hear about Alison,,,,I had a [……..\ die and I thought I’d never recover….” Each person named a mother or father, a stillbirth, a child, a pet, a 95-year-old grandparent, a spouse.
After a few of these, I was so pissed I couldn’t see straight. And then in one silent rant, the thought came to me that each person desperately wanted to create “a communion of sorrow”. Each person wanted me to know I wasn’t alone. Each person wanted to connect to my own great loss. They could understand loss, whether it was a faithful pet or their mother. And they were each doing the best they could.
Death or great loss leave us speechless. We may say something, but we always know that words are useless. They are gibberish. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “He’s in a good place.” “You’ll heal with time.” All these phrases are absurdly inadequate because every grief is unique even as every one is universal. As you point out, we’ve all stumbled trying to express ourselves in the face of tragedy.
But the Communion of Sorrow is beneath the words, a community made of up everyone who has lost someone or something dear to them.
Understanding that, I got past my anger, and I hope it’s true for others.
"The communion of sorrow" is such a gorgeous idea and, yes, it is beyond and under and over words, isn't it?
We need ways of sharing one another's sorrow without comparing, don't we? It's natural to want to say "me too," but sometimes that actually feels violent. I know people often say things to me about how they've been wondering about their parent's forgetfulness and it feels pretty cruel to me. Your dad forgetting to buy the bananas is not the same as my dad forgetting his granddaughter's names. The contrast brings up that pain for me, rather than making me feel accompanied.
This is such a generous way of understanding our fumbling.
Have you ever heard of the Buddhist teaching around near enemies? I am reminded of it reading this. It is the notion that there are feelings or behaviors that masquerade as virtues but end up undermining those virtues by protecting the self at the expense of connection. Because of the nature of my work, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about the near enemies of integrity, but in the course of researching this teaching I came across this quote by Jack Kornfield which echoes your words:
"The near enemy of compassion is pity. Instead of feeling the openness of compassion, pity says, “Oh, that poor person. I feel sorry for people like that.” Pity sees them as different from ourselves. It sets up a separation between ourselves and others, a sense of distance and remoteness from the suffering of others that is affirming and gratifying to the self. Compassion, on the other hand, recognizes the suffering of another as a reflection of our own pain: “I understand this; I suffer the same way.” It is empathetic, a mutual connection with the pain and sorrow of life. Compassion is shared suffering."
Thinking about this undermining, separative tendency of near enemies, the ways in which they function to protect the self and prevent expansion and growth has been helpful. And humbling.
I'm just fucking sorry you're experiencing all of this, Courtney. But also grateful that you are finding it in yourself to share it with us.
Holy shit! I feel like my unconscious plagarized Jack Kornfield! Thank you for sharing this, Asha. It is EXACTLY what I was trying to write my way into.
If you're curious, here's a piece I wrote about near enemies awhile back. There's a particularly good link in there to an essay by Sanjna Singh about how near enemies undermine our social movements that's, I think, right up your alley:
https://ashasanaker.substack.com/p/sht-to-help-you-show-up-december
Oh yay, can't wait to read and I will share in my Sunday 5 with the paid subscribers.
THIS is what i came here to say! Pity as the near enemy of compassion -- as the thing that when we are feeling it actually prevents us from access to the genuine emotion of compassion
I was so hoping your father would not have this dimension to his dementia. I know it can feel terrifying all around, and it can make caretakers feel completely powerless to help.
I know even people one knows well often avoid proximity to families undergoing this sort of crisis, because they are afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. I would encourage those who avoid for such a reason to look online for Things Not to Say.
One thing I have felt about people's words in relation to my life as a caretaker of a couple of loved ones with profound disabilities is that they do not understand that I would not for a moment trade my life for theirs. So I will toss out a couple of things that are Don'ts in my book. Don't, as an onlooker, ask lots and lots of detailed, repetitive questions for details to help you understand the ailing person's condition as if the suffering person is a fascinating alien. It only drains the caretaker.
Second don't: Don't talk about what a charmed life you have. This is not about you. The caretaker is not thinking she or he would rather have your life. The caretaker is not looking at you with envy. The caretaker is drawing on all her resources to play HER hand., not thinking about your hand.
I am sending love to your mother as well. I always think at such times about my father as he took care of my mother, and my heart aches for all of you.
In case this could be uplifting in the moment, I am engaged in the unique experience of doing night birth watch for a pregnant gorilla, first time mother. I am on duty one night a week until the birth.
WOWOW! This is very uplifting to me. Thank you for sharing. Can we put this on the list? If you are talking to an overwhelmed caretaker, don't forget to tell them about the pregnant gorilla and the night watch.
I love your don'ts. We should build a whole list as the Examined Family readership.
Courtney, as I post here, you must have my email address. If you could send me yours, I could send you updates on the gorilla watch. I cannot post anything publicly.
Oh my goodness, COURTNEY!
"I hope I catch myself even subconsciously separating myself from hardship that scares me or seems unimaginable and, instead, move towards it—loamy and humble and outside the terms of my own ego."
That's all. Wow.
What a powerful essay, thank you. The notion or experience of pity as a disconnected cousin of compassion is a helpful way in to self-reflection.
So good, possibly best yet. Thankbyou for explaining while feeling.
Thank you Jane! High praise from you.
Solidarity, sister. There's nothing worse than being pity-bombed in the middle of tragedy, when you are up to your neck in overwhelming, suffocating reality, only to be viewed as someone "other."
Thank you for this beautiful piece and for all the ways you are sharing your heart a s you walk with your dad in this season. My dad also has dementia, and we are moving through this strange time as best we can. It is a gift to remember that even the hardest experiences can bring us together and awaken us to beauty. Thank you for all the ways you remind us to keep our hearts open.
Sending solidarity, Yael.
Thank you for this thoughtful piece. Pity has always bothered me and I’ve never known exactly why. This helps me sort it out.
This is a poignant reminder to keep moving closer to each other, to pursue the contact burns of each other's pain. I think that has something to do with the meaning of life, and yet I find myself avoiding it again and again, out of fear. Sending loads of love, Courtney.
If we're grading on a curve, which we probably should, you seem WAY better than most at this, Shannan.
I know it's important so I practice, but it does not come naturally or easily to me.
The thistle image - dry sharp beautiful - I painted it for that reason and all the reasons you shared in your essay.
I live in this community. Again, your writing transcends new levels. I've had this happen. Some you thought would be rocks are pitiers, and some you never knew become angels. The true ones just sit with you, or let you sleep. They bring calm. Your writing is elite, but some days you just continue to raise the bar. thank you for this.
Thank you so much.
This is so powerful, Courtney. I’m reminded of Brené Brown’s writing on pity, citing Jack Kornfield: “Pity is the near enemy of compassion.” Pity separates us from others’ suffering and maintains privilege and separation; compassion draws us nearer and says “I am with you, I see you here.” Thank you for this offering in the midst of the thistle.
Yes, Asha shared that above, too! Great minds!
No dearie, high praise TO you. But thankbyou for the thought.