The table is everything

Nearly two years ago now, my therapist and I were exploring the world of difficult conversations and confrontations particularly in the context of professional relationships.

Although I didn’t think of myself as being someone who avoids difficult conversations, I had to admit that when I had some degree of responsibility or ongoing involvement in a situation, I would either avoid them like the plague, or become in turns aggressive or defensive, and sometimes both! I knew these were not productive behaviours but I didn’t seem able to interrupt the reaction long enough to change them. The damage was piling up. I was overwhelmed.

She told me this:

In every interaction with other people there is an imaginary table before you. When someone raises an issue, makes a demand, identifies a problem, offers you something, imagine this as an item they place on the table. Imagine the same for the things you raise, request, offer, or identify with others.

Someone may think they are passing responsibility for the issue to you but, like it or not, they have to place it on the table before you pick it up. If you don’t know the table is there, the tendency is for you to catch it to stop it from falling. But the table is there. Let things come to rest there a while and consider your choices: whether or not to pick them up, whether to examine them some more before deciding, whether to consider alternatives. There is always a choice.

It’s taken me a while to realise the value of the table. But it is everything! At first I thought it was just a way of temporarily stalling the inevitable. I realise I’ve been conditioned to see differences of opinion or perspective as battle-grounds. I was on a continuum of conflict – either fleeing for my life, digging in, or pressing the charge. The table transforms any encounter from a battle to a buffet. Now, rather than fighting an opponent for who has to take away the responsibility, you are conversing with a dinner companion, getting to pick from the items on the table, what you’re hungry for and what will be good for you, always acknowledging that some of the stuff you bring with you, you will be taking home again.

I’ve started mentally saying to myself: “there is a table” when I become aware of a potentially difficult conversation, or when one takes a turn for the difficult. I still forget about the table in these situations as many times as I remember it but the result, when I do remember, has been surprising to me.

It’s not the positive outcome of such encounters that surprises me. Sometimes the outcome is not a success in terms of what is agreed between parties. There are times when we leave the table with a problem still to solve. The surprising difference is in my attitude to the other parties. I have more space for empathy because they’re people offering a choice, not forcing a reaction. I have more space for finding a solution, finding the right words to communicate an idea, finding peace in my choices. I am free from the continuum of conflict for a time.

The table is everything!

Relational displacement

 Relational displacement

I sailed across the sea.

A fool,

Who clung to hope that

There might be a welcome

At the other end.

The smiling embrace of a friend, perhaps.

I dreamt a homecoming.

Not one which nailed down 

Time and space,

Or one, which 

Blood or earth defined,

But something like a sense 

That, while tomorrow here

Might next be there,

That's where we'd be - 

You and me. 

Constant motion; constant still.

I cast away with this in mind

And lived adrift 

For so long that the dream,

Playing over waves,

Made me sick.

I now no longer know.

Is this a trick?

I look down.

Somehow I came to be standing on the shore.

It doesn't seem so solid any more.

There you are!

Shall we begin?

But in your diary it seems

There's no space, no time

To fit me in.  

Next week maybe, you say, 

As you wave and walk away.

Mary Goodman 28/6/2013

A tribute to Uncle Willie Gray

Every Sunday, the wider family in Kilmaurs gathers after church at Arran View. I’m about 7 years old. Our family are staying with my grandparents and my friends, Shona and Douglas, have come with us. The adults are having aperitifs (sherry or whisky) in the living room, and we children will be having Curries’ Red Kola.  

There is just one significant problem: On the sideboard is ranged an assortment of glasses, some tall; some wide; some with indents; some smooth, and there is not enough of the same sort for all us. The choice of glass could influence the share of Kola each child receives. We line up at the table. The tension is palpable. Who will get the lion’s share of Kola and who will be short-changed? We eye the glasses, and then each other, with a mix of longing, suspicion and rivalry. 

Uncle Willie, my Gran’s brother, steps up to the sideboard, and assumes responsibility for the Great Decanting of the 1983 Cuvée Rouge. Douglas, emboldened by the presence of an adult, kicks off proceedings by stating his preference for the tall glass.  

Silent outrage emanates from Shona and me. Katie is only little but she senses the height of the stakes and pushes to the front.

“Oh?” responds my Great Uncle. “Is that so? Very well.” He begins to pour, slowly, steadily, and deliberately.  

“But that will mean he gets the most!”, Shona blurts out what we’re all thinking. I’m mindful my parents are in earshot, but secretly glad that someone has pointed out what is clearly a terrible injustice.  

“Aha!”, Uncle Willie exclaims, “That’s what you’d THINK, wouldn’t you! But look …” 

He finishes pouring the Kola into the tall glass destined for Douglas and then, with a flourish, pours its contents into a shorter, wider glass. He stops and steps back from the glasses to allow each and every one of us, including Katie, to observe the results. We stand in a solemn semi-circle in front of the glasses, looking for a hole in his argument, but finding none.  

“Now!”, He continues, “We’ll use this glass as the measure and fill the others equally”.

Douglas, suddenly seeing the possibility of the balance being tipped against him despite his initially strong position, retorts, “But you didn’t fill my glass up to the top! How will you know the others are getting the same?”

We all see the point of this and squawk our agreement that the whole transaction might still not be as fair as Uncle Willie is pointing out. Katie is not sure what exact point has been made but she points at a random glass insistently, and makes loud noises along with the rest of us, being keenly aware that she has yet to taste this magical ruby liquid, which is just now the subject of such contention. 

Uncle Willie silences us all with a raised index finger. We are transfixed. He sweeps deftly out of the room and returns after a few minutes with a wooden ruler. Not one of us have moved a millimetre from the spot he left us. Something momentous is happening, we are aware. Our impatience for Kola melts in anticipation.  

The ruler is brandished like a fine blade, and placed against the tall glass. Our eyes collectively widen further at this. Uncle Willie then proceeds to pour the Kola back into the tall glass from the short, fat one. He stoops down until he is at eye level with the surface of the liquid. Without taking his eyes for a second off the glass, its contents, and the benchmark his arm reaches out and a hand is placed on Douglas’ shoulder, drawing him towards the glass.  

“What number is there next to the top of the Kola?”, he enquires. 

Douglas peers at the ruler. “Four”, he offers. “But the juice is higher than the four”.

“How many marks more?”, Uncle Wille asks, urgently. 

Douglas again approaches the ruler and his lips move as he counts the marks on the ruler: “Six.”

“Right!”, Uncle Willie declares decisively.  

He then pours the liquid in the glass out. “We’ll start fresh so everyone gets the fizz.”

The ruler is applied to the side of the tall glass. Liquid is poured in to the four inches and six mark, with deep concentration and great precision. The same liquid is carefully poured into a plastic glass and passed to Katie, who receives the glass reverently, as if it were the Blood of Christ.  

The same process is then followed to furnish Shona and me with a glass each of Curries Red Kola. Each of us in turn receive the glass with awe.  

Finally Douglas, who chose the tall glass, sees it filled to the exact same level as was poured at the start. Uncle Willie turns to him, his bright blue eyes shining with the reflected joy and wonder he sees in our little faces, and bestows the prize upon its claimant.  

Satisfied that justice has been done, and amazed at the miracle witnessed, we each drink the most delicious Kola that has ever been tasted.

Me, Uncle Willie, Katie, Stuart

Gran and Aunt Marion

Many years after.