Betsy Robinson's blog

In my memory, the house I grew up in had a monstrous quality. The details of that are unimportant to anybody but me, so suffice it to say it was not a place I thought about revisiting.

In the November/December issue of S&H, I wrote an article called “Our Common Language” where I explain the ingenious findings of Harvard marketing expert Gerald (Jerry) Zaltman, cofounder of a research firm called Olson Zaltman Associates. Olson Zaltman has discovered that all of us humans use seven major and four minor lenses to view and interpret every experience we have, every thought, every decision. Mostly this information is used by manufacturers to sell us stuff. But Jerry Zaltman is a sociologist, and my suspicion that he had a huge heart and an interest in the wellbeing of humanity proved to be true when I interviewed him about other applications for his work.

I hope you’ll read the article to learn about the specific lenses (which Jerry calls “Deep Metaphors”) and how to use them to get along better with yourself and others. My fantasy is that one of you has connections in government and will take the information and run. My prayer is that Jerry’s Deep Metaphor process will be used for conflict resolution between countries — and that one of you will be the catalyst for that.

But that’s fantasy.

Here’s what’s real. One of the main Deep Metaphors is “container” — that which holds, protects, traps, or keeps something out. One’s home is an iconic container. The house I grew up in was a container I dreamed about at least a few times a month, and usually I felt like an interloper.

Ever since Judie Fein wrote her article “Tapping the Power of Your Ancestors” in our July/August 2006 issue, I’ve felt a longing to connect to my past. I tried some of Judie’s suggestions, but they weren’t enough.

I live in New York City, a city of transplants. I have friends who have lived here as long as I have who are still referring to someplace else when they say they’re “going home,” and I’ve secretly envied them. Here is my home, I’ve told myself. I have no family in the place I grew up. In fact most of my family is dead or unavailable. So going home, for me, means climbing four flights of stairs to my cozy apartment.

But there’s this longing.

In his dream courses, Robert Moss says that if you constantly dream about someplace from your past, chances are you left part of yourself there.

This longing to go home got even more stirred up when I wrote “Our Common Language.” How could I heal my primary container — the home that I dream about? The home that I probably unknowingly project onto inappropriate targets? The home that I hadn’t seen for 40 years.

I gnashed my teeth and suddenly it came to me. Why not ask the people who live there — who’ve lived there since I moved out — if I could visit?

Last weekend was one of the most moving and transformative experiences I have ever had. I not only revisited the house — which I fell in love with! — but I met the people who inhabit it now, and I fell in love with them. We shared stories, many of which were eerily like a continuum of one story. And by the end of my visit I had a new “container.”

It’s funny. I can still think “house” and the old image pops up, but almost as quickly there’s the revised edition: a warm, not-so-big, light-filled, welcoming home.

Right now I’m researching an article about how we can change those things in ourselves that we consider “hard-wiring.” And I’m learning that what’s crucial is not “getting rid” of anything, but instead, reprogramming, reinstalling, revising.

I have reprogrammed, reinstalled, and revised my home. Welcome home, me! And I am happy to share this home with you.

At first look, this traffic light pole may not look elegant, eloquent, or excellent. But look closer. Somebody made a vine pattern that snakes around it. There is a trim that hugs the lower half. Its shapes are kind of sensual. Thought went into the elegant design of this pole. Similarly, the taped-on “Vote Here” sign is eloquently written in several languages so that everybody in my neighborhood can understand. It is excellently placed on a pole that points “one way” — to the voting site.

I do not believe elegance, eloquence, and excellence belong to any one type of person, or to the human species. I believe these qualities are those of our Creator. They predominate nature.

The three E’s are in the makeup of all that is. Sometimes they are obvious; sometimes obscured … until you take a closer look. There is elegance of movement, sound, thought, innocence. Eloquence, too, sometimes hides. I’ve seen it in the understanding smile of a hulking, grease-covered plumber in response to my gratitude for his work; his gap-toothed grin spoke as eloquently as a love poem. Many different kinds of people practice excellence: It’s in the precise cuts of a carpenter; the bricklayers painstakingly building a balanced wall; it was embodied in the heroic deeds of my city’s firefighters in the wake of 9/11.

Divisions based on valuing one form of expression of the three E’s over another, or claiming one type of person has dominion over these attributes and others don’t, or demeaning the attributes themselves on the assumption that they’re effete, less real, out-of-touch with the masses, well, that’s just silly. Everybody has the three E’s, and these divisions are an illusion and counterproductive.

I am committing to seeing elegance, eloquence, and excellence in everything and everyone. And this week, it has not been hard. Tuesday night John McCain embodied the 3 E’s in his concession speech; Barack Obama in his acceptance.

But even more important than noticing the three E’s in these two men is seeing them in our outgoing administration or in people we judge harshly. It’s there — in a gesture of love for an ornery dog, in a look of defeat or resignation or loss.

Just imagine the healing when all of us can see — and reflect — the three E’s in one another. Imagine a world where, no matter what our education, our job, or the conditions of our lives, we all know we are elegant, eloquent, excellent ... and good.

Reaching a fork in the path, a mother pushing her son’s green scooter through the woods asked her boy, “Which way do you want to go?”

“Whichever way’s darkest,” replied the boy, happily.

That boy is going to have a very interesting life, I thought.

It’s the Saturday before tomorrow’s New York City Marathon, and the Central Park woods were full of people this morning. In fact, it’s such a bright and sunny party kind of day that finding a dark path isn’t easy. But this boy knew what he wanted. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a researcher of some kind. Or an explorer. Depending on his nature, he could experience the darkness as exciting, difficult, or devastating. He seemed so happy about his statement, that I suspect he’ll be okay.

I’ve been reading a little book this week that has changed my life. It has something to do with the stories we live, and because of that, I’m going to control my enthusiasm and not tell you the book’s title, who wrote it, where I found it, or what I hope to do with it.

Depending on your nature, you could see this as mean and withholding, or you could rub your hands together in eager anticipation of a great story to come — in the magazine.

I don’t want to be mean; I just don’t want to blow the power of this story by giving it away too soon.

What I will tell you is that this book has made me hear things differently. It made me hear the mother’s question and her little boy’s response as a mission statement for his life.

I am understanding the importance of mission statements in a way I never have before because of this little book.

If you’ve read a few of my earlier blogs, it’s probably no surprise to you that I’m supporting Barack Obama. What the hey — it’s nearly Tuesday so there is no plot point in trying to hide that anymore.

Informed by my new way of hearing mission statements, I was quite intrigued by both Obama’s and John McCain’s answers to the same question from newsman Charlie Gibson in the past couple of weeks. “Finish this sentence,” said Gibson, “On November 5th I will be so happy not to have to . . . “

Obama responded that he’ll be happy not to have to pack.

McCain said, “Ask for money,” and he went on to explain that he can ask people for support, for work, for dedication, for most anything but money, and he cringed as he said it; it’s a cringe I’ve done most of my life in regard to the same thing.

Asking for money has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. Not asking for money kept me  invisible for most of my adult work life. I specialized in doing grueling tasks for the lowest pay possible. I referred to myself as a mole who traveled in the dark, underground; I worked night shifts and weekends alone. For about three decades, I was even proud of my ability to do horrible jobs really well and accrue a lot of them so that I survived debt-free, supporting my artistic endeavors — my real work.

Like that little boy, I always chose the darkest path, and I don’t regret it. You learn so much on dark paths; you have adventures nobody else even sees. But it also is very lonely and sometimes cold.

After many years , I found that I longed for company and the warmth of the sun. Metaphorically this became a longing for a good and fair living wage.

In one job negotiation, demanding more money became an initiation of epic proportion in the story of my life. It was one of the hardest — and ultimately most rewarding — things I have ever done. I not only asked for money, but I was completely willing to throw my life off a cliff if I didn’t get it. I demanded entrance to the sunny path.

Our country is in crisis. We are on a dark and lonely path. Whoever our leader is should be willing to demand we come into the light — metaphorically, he must be comfortable asking us for money — be it through literal taxes or work in kind.

I think my inability to ask for money was fear-based. Money is merely a symbol — for love, power, sustenance. I’ve always believed that one’s relationship to money is synonymous with one’s relationship with those things. My relationship was one of denying that I needed any of those things. Now I admit my need. What a relief.

If a leader is in denial about admitting need and taking steps to fulfill it, we are all in trouble.