Standing on My Head - Hugh Prather

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are equally as “real” as the familiar me. We are always “being real” to some part of our being and, at that moment, not “being real” to other parts. In this sense we always act—always choose to act—out a particular side of us. There are no such states as “not in touch,” “disconnected,” or “incongruent.” Everyone is in touch with something. There is the state of being out of touch—out of touch with areas of the body, with nature, with other people, with less familiar aspects of our personalities. And there is the state of being stuck in what we are in touch with. Much of my life I have been aware of my thoughts and little else. And this is true of most of the people I know. They stay pretty much within one chamber of their being.

      When Buzz stayed with us I noticed that eighty percent of his conversation was about “Important People I Have Known or Read About.” I wonder if most people's conversation centers mainly on a single theme? Dave's appears to be “Interesting Facts About the World Around Us.” Beulah's is “Enlightening Experiences I Have Had.” Mine is “Insightful Ideas in Psychology.”

      No matter what we talk about, we are talking about ourselves.

      My attitude toward much of life is habitual. I have a fairly consistent telephone personality, a different but predictable party personality, and I make about the same kind of grocery store customer every time. I am in approximately the same mood each time I brush my teeth, run an errand, meet somebody, or heat a bowl of soup. I pick out what I am going to wear beginning with my shirt, seldom with my pants, and I shave starting with my chin. I never jump with joy in the shower or act silly while driving. I am mildly good humored when I wake up and never precipitously go to bed. All of these attitudes feel right and veering from them feels phony. I guess it could be said that I am being genuine, but genuinely what?

      I feel as if I am slowly dying when my life is in a rut, but my attitude toward ritual is more affirmative. I have a friend whose ritual is popcorn and beer. It begins every evening after his wife goes to bed. He fixes his popcorn to perfection and sits in front of the fireplace. Then his dog lies beside him and receives the first two bites. An elderly relative of mine has the morning ritual of eating breakfast and feeding birds from his large porch while telephoning his friends one by one. My ritual revolves around certain trivial things I do each night before I get into bed, and, for whatever reason, I enjoy going about my preparations in a familiar way.

      In order to break with a pattern of behavior, first we have to become aware of how we usually act. We have to see how we do it before we can undo it.

      At the time, I am not aware of how I shut down my attention or hold back my warmth. When reproached for my lack of feeling, I defend myself because my feelings have been hurt. Usually all that has happened is that someone, usually Gayle, has become more aware of my patterns than I have. This is the gift, not the curse, of a sound relationship.

      When going to sleep or waking up, I notice that certain areas of my body feel drowsy while others feel stimulated, and that if I want to sleep I can generally do so by fixing my attention on the drowsy parts. This same principle may also apply to attitudes. When checking to see how I feel about something, I automatically move my attention to the region of my solar plexus. But it appears that there are other aspects of my personality centered in quite different areas of my body. Tonight when I explored these I found that from my back I was strong and stolid, from my feet I felt athletic and slightly impatient, and from my hands I was cool, liquid, and glib. In my neck, eyes, and shoulders there were still other differences. The question, “How do I feel about this?” might be answered, “Feel from where?” In this way I could not deceive myself into believing that I have only one attitude to which I can be true.

      I think of the process of “being genuine” as the shuttling of my attention between a feeling and an appearance, between inside and acting out. But being honest or “real” does not mean that I am only allowed to shuttle between my behavior and my strongest emotion. My behavior can match whatever in me I wish it to match. “Being real” is simply being aware of what my actions do in fact match. To believe I must always behave in accordance with my strongest emotion is self-reduction.

      At any moment we are free to act from any dimly felt and long-neglected part of ourselves: to be a ham, to be strong, to flirt, to cry, to be totally silly, to dance, or simply to respond from that part of us that recognizes our connection with both the situation and the individuals at hand. If this feels phony because it has been so long since we have chosen to respond from something other than our usual repertoire, still it is not phony. It is part of us; we are doing it. And it is surprisingly liberating.

      Humor is a way of relating to people that I feel uncomfortable with. I am more familiar with what it takes to be serious. Seriously.

      I am admitting that I want something when I try to be funny. I don't require as much cooperation in order to be serious. Humor comes more easily when I am around people I don't feel I need anything from.

      When I try hard to be funny, I am small and gray, but when I am easy with myself, allow other people's fun to sparkle through me, and allow my own lightness to roll gently out, then good humor rhymes in all the sweet times around me.

      If I hold back any part of me I suppress that much energy and potential. The question I want to ask myself now is not what behavior is good or bad, but in what ways would I express myself with greater energy if I didn't hold back. I suspect that the qualities I consider ugly are simply ones in which I have not yet allowed my entire force, that if I would express these traits honestly, they might ripen into something full-flavored and whole.

      For months I have been fighting my nice-guy game, but today I consciously used it. Gayle and I were sneaking onto the St. John's College tennis courts when two professors drove up. I went over to them, said hello, commented on the wind, asked if they had watched yesterday's U.S. Open final match, and sought their advice on a particular brand of tennis ball. The result was that not only did Gayle and I get to play tennis but also that I felt stronger, more centered, than when I have slipped into this game out of fear. There was something honest about being consciously dishonest: I took responsibility for my actions.

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      How would I act if I didn't feel inept when Dave is being hilarious? How would I write if I could write like James Joyce? How would I greet Bob if I weren't reserved? How would I look at a woman if I did think I was sexy? How would I act if I could act any way I wanted? How would I be if I weren't tired or fat or scared or blocked or whatever it is I am always telling myself?

      This morning I let out the long-suppressed Dale Carnegie side of me when I ran into Jim. I had only met him once and really liked him. He lit up at my enthusiastic niceness and invited me to lunch—which is just what I had hoped he would do.

      What would I discover about the cottonwoods if when I walked to the mailbox I listened to them instead of looked at them? What would I find out about the rain if I didn't run inside? And is it possible that a sunrise would refresh me more than sleep?

      Tonight at dinner I tried picking up my glass with my left hand instead of my right and didn't feel quite so self-assured. It was a nice feeling. It would also be nice if I didn't analyze everything I did.

      Almost every small boy whom I have seen walking down the corridor at the airport runs his hands along the deliciously tiled wall.

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      There were seventy-five people in the lobby and only a seven-year-old girl was finding out what it felt like to sit on the marble

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