by Leif Stringer
Imagine an eleven-year old's bedroom so messy that the floor can't be seen, furniture is scattered about, and the clean clothes are indistinct from the dirty ones. As a dad who strongly enjoys things organized, minimized, and clean, the opportunity to navigate our differences with my son is ever-present.
My mind is most functional when my environment is in a particular arrangement. I'm not easy to live with. Then again, neither is he. He feels most happy when he doesn't have to think about details that are insignificant to him, which in turn allows him to focus on playing creatively.
The old battle involved me nagging and criticizing him for days and eventually ended at a forced cleanup. Each week - the transition from a clean home to a disaster area, from pleased to aggravated, from connected to separate - became a predictably stressful merry-go-round for us.
What was going on and where were the exit ramps from our pattern? I knew we could do better. As the adult, I have more resources than my son, so I began by getting empathy from a friend for the frustration and fear I was feeling, and to help me empathize with my son’s perspective as well.
What I discovered was that he was fighting to have choice and ease, and that my own needs went beyond cleanliness and order. Rather, when I saw his bedroom in shambles, I was struggling to trust that I was adequately preparing him with a strong work ethic. When I reflected on more of his past behaviors, I could see that his work ethic was in fact very strong when it was for things he enjoyed. He is driven to accuracy and follow through when the outcome matters to him -- whether it’s setting up an obstacle course in the backyard, a fort in his room, or a surprise breakfast for me on my birthday.
With my renewed awareness, I was able to let go of my attachment. To my surprise, I was truly willing to forego his room looking a particular way and instead decided to enjoy the quality of our relationship that would come from reduced weekly battles. I was confident that we would both be served by him having a genuine choice and ownership of his bedroom.
We sat down together to intentionally discuss our cycle. We talked about how it felt currently and the costs we each paid. I let him know the reasons that I had been fighting with him, and expressed my regret. And then I announced it plainly, “you can do whatever you’d like with your room from now on.”
“I can?!!” he exclaimed with questioning disbelief, delight, and eventual squeals of relief. “Yes, you can,” I smiled.
Our culture appears to say that giving is done to put someone in our debt. I give to you so that I trust you’ll be there for me when I need you. Yet Marshall Rosenberg said the purpose of Nonviolent Communication is to connect in a way whereby we enjoy giving to others, not to get anything back other than the inherent joy it gives us, and that we instinctively know this but are educated to forget. I experienced this first-hand when my son, upon experiencing his needs as mattering equally, immediately replied with, “but your needs matter too Dad, so how about you simply remind me and I’ll straighten up? Sometimes, when the mess in my room begins to pile up, I just want to give up, and I could use a little encouragement to clean.”
“Your needs matter too.” These words continued to dance in my mind. A potent moment of palpable interdependence.
Since then, I’ve wondered about the kind of joyful giving that emerges when we experience another as truly valuing our needs. What kind of mutual, joyfully alive giving might be possible in our world if we all experienced our needs as mattering to one another? Where might we love to contribute to each other, love to build each other up, not to put anyone in our debt, but because it’s truly what makes life worth living?