Empathy vs. Sympathy.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about empathy and sympathy lately, particularly their differences.  Let’s be trite and start with definitions, shall we?

                Empathy:

1: the imaginative projection of a subjective state into an object so that the object appears to be infused with it

2: the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner

            Sympathy:

1: an affinity, association, or relationship between persons or things wherein whatever affects one similarly affects the other

2: the act or capacity of entering into or sharing the feelings or interests of another

Ok, that’s a lot of words, so let me attempt to (perhaps over-) simplify.  To sympathize is to feel emotions alongside someone because of your relationship with them, and to empathize is to attempt to feel exactly what someone else is feeling in an effort to understand their point of view.

I’ve heard and read things lately suggesting that empathy is the greater value, and one that is lacking in modern society, but I believe this to be an inherently flawed thesis.  I think empathy is, at its core, a selfish and self-centered notion, and that sympathy is the greater virtue.

When someone feels any emotion, good or bad, it is a uniquely subjective experience.  The happiness felt at the birth of a child varies from one person to the next.  It is built on years of back-story and the events leading up to that joyous moment.  When a loved one dies, each person’s grief is different based on their relationship to that person and their own feelings towards their own mortality.  I would argue that emotions are just like snowflakes and fingerprints: no two are the same, and everyone’s are unique because of their complexity.

To claim empathy is to claim that you know exactly what someone else is going through and feeling, and thus can relate to them on a deeper level.  It is to project oneself into a given situation and, after seeking understanding of how one would react, claim to know what someone is going through.  I find this a selfish notion.  We can’t know the feeling of others; we can only know our own feelings and what others share with us.  Empathy results in the statement “I know what you’re going through.”

Sympathy, on the other hand, is essentially our own reaction to another person’s emotions.  Because of our relationship with them, we are happy when they are happy, and we hurt to see them hurt.  It is to feel “alongside”, rather than “through”.  The real miracle of sympathy comes when we hurt or rejoice with those we do not know or have a relationship with just because they are people, too.  Because we rejoice with our brothers and sisters when they are happy, and we hurt to see another in the grip of grief.  Sympathy says “I am here with you now” instead of “I was here once”.

Empathy is a goal you cannot and probably woudl not want to actually attain.  Your own feelings are more than enough most of the time (I know mine are).  But let others know that you care.  Sympathize.

Know your enemy.

Sun Tzu was a general in the military and a philosopher in the Zhou Dynasty of China, around 500 BC.  He most famous work is called "The Art of War", in which he outlines not just military tactics, but the thought processes and wisdom related to victory on the battlefield.  He is responsible for sayings like "All warfare is based on deception", and perhaps most famously the reductionary "To know one's enemy is to know one's self," or more simply, "Know your enemy."  One of the greatest enemies in our household has been given the overly-cute, but situationally frightening name The Sleepytime Saddies.

It's late, you're tired, and you lie down to sleep.  Without warning, sadness washes over you like a cliche about waves.  You're sad about everything, anything, life the universe, it doesn't matter; you are just sad.  Indescribably sad, and it's so hard to shake you think you'll never sleep or be happy again.  That's the Saddies, and they are terrible.

In CS Lewis' book That Hideous Strength, the member's of Ransom's group are visited by the Old Gods, and their attributes fill the room.  When Mercury arrives, they all dance with joy.  When Venus comes through, they are all in love, friendly, and caring to one another.  When Saturn descends, sorrow for the dying universe hits them.  They think about how we all age, we all die, they think about the heat-death of the universe, and feel like they may never be happy again.  Lewis knew.

JK Rowling (also a member of the "Two First Initials Great Authors Club") described the Dementors feeding on happiness, giving their victims visions of the worst moments of their lives, leaving them cold and afraid.  Rowling knows.

I wrote last time about our "8 to 8" rule, and what a lifesaver it has been.  Being able to call out The Saddies for what they are has also been a huge help.  Just being able to say "This isn't real; this is just the pressure of the day collapsing in.  This is just The Saddies," helps prevent an all-out meltdown for either of us.  More importantly, navigating these storms can help you figure out what is weighing on you that you may not have known about, what is troubling you.  Unburdening yourself is one of the best ways to fight the Saddies, and just an all around good idea. 

So know your enemy, know yourself, and keep fighting the good fight against them.  When Saturn descends, he rarely stays long.  Dementors are sent packing by the happy thought of a Patronus, and the Saddies are driven out by talking, by hugs, and by ice cream.  Go easy on the latter, trust me.

The night time is almost never the right time.

Yes.  I know.  I've been busy.  Moving on...

KB and I have been married for almost nine (9) years now, and ever since a little bundle of joy walked into our lives, we've had a decision-making agreement that has really helped us staunch the flow of bad ideas.  We call it the "8 to 8 Rule".

Way back when, in 2004, Meg walked in through our back door, and into our lives.  She was wormy, mangy, and fairly insistent.  We lived in a small house and already had Clancey, our border collie.  Meg was a fairly destructive puppy, as puppies are wont to be, and so we had to make the decision and the choice to keep her.  She was especially barky at night (again, par for the course), and we often threatened (each other?) that the next day she was going to be taken to the Humane Society.  We decided one night, in a moment of clarity, that making decisions when tired or aggravated was probably not the best of ideas, thus implementing the rule that decisions of a large scale could not be made between the hours of 8:00 PM and 8:00 AM.  I dare say that rule kept Meg in dog biscuits, since during the daylight hours she was (and still is) a remarkably well behaved dog.  It served us well for keeping a rational head with Meg, and it has served us well in the days since.  As the night seeps in and we struggle to stay awake, I think we have a propensity to make bad choices; putting in a safeguard in place has really saved us some grief.  "8 to 8" is also a bulwark against an unseen enemy that KB and I have dubbed "The Sleepytime Saddies".

It's late, you're tired, you're about to fall asleep.  There's a knock at the door of your emotions.  Who's there?  The weight of the world, that's who.  Bam.  The world.  Every ounce of cosmic sadness is now on you, and damn if it isn't heavy. That's the Sleepytime Saddies.  Think you can make good decisions where they are going through your closet?  Heck no.  They are busy looking through cards people sent you years ago that you haven't thrown away, and you're trying to decide on vacation plans.  Don't do it.  That attempt at a decision will lead to an argument, and then to a fight.  Just.  Wait.  Until.  Tomorrow.

Just wait until tomorrow; everything will still be here.

Show your work.

Here's the first section or two of a story I'm writing.  It's called "The Queen", and I own all the copyrights, I think.  That's something people say, right?  Please enjoy.

The Queen

The fact that Becky is the assistant manager at the second largest restaurant in town is overshadowed by the fact that it is a Dairy Queen.  Her tenure there has been marred by altercations with customers, rudeness, and an overall lack of hygiene.  It is obvious to most that her attendance, rather than her attentiveness, is the driving force in her promotion from cashier.  Some might not consider six months a long engagement in any other industry; in Food Service it is, in fact, an eternity.

The angry customer’s bony finger jabs at Becky like a rapier.  Her dissatisfaction with her Steak Fingers, while obvious, seems misplaced to most patrons of The Queen.  They all silently agree that Becky cannot be held to account for the quality of a product that comes to them frozen, has the nutritional content of greasy cardboard, and is certainly not made of any naturally occurring substance.

“These fingers are disgusting!”  The final two syllables of her shout fall into oblivion so that the “g” rattles off the metallic napkin dispensers.  Her pronunciation of the word “fangers” causes Becky to smile and giggle.

“Listen here, missy.  I am never coming back here, I am writing a letter to your manager, and I will tell all my friends about this.”

“Again, ma’am, I am sorry for the quality of your Steak Finger Basket.  I’d be happy to comp you another meal,” Becky replies in an uncharacteristically calm manner.

“I don’t want your food.  A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be workin’ here anyway.  You must feel like a Grade ‘A’ loser!”

Becky hisses a perfunctory “Yes, ma’am” through clenched teeth.  The string of verbiage that follows is much more indicative of her usual demeanor.

“Becky, we have talked about your attitude way too often for someone only been here six months ”

Mr. Harding, the corpulent and balding manager, sits behind his comically small desk, peering at Becky over a substantial nose that supports drug store reading glasses.

“She was rude, and there’s nothing I can do about the stupid chicken fingers-“

“Steak fingers.”

“-steak fangers anyway.  So rather than afford her the courtesy that a normal human deserves, I gave her what she deserved.”

Exasperated, Harding continued.  “Becky do you really think that anyone, no matter how awful, deserves to be called a…what was it again?”

“A back-fat toting inbred harpy.”

“Good Lord, girl.  You read too much.”  Another deep sigh, one that spoke volumes of not only Harding’s job, but his life, his home, and the unyielding, nagging thought that if only he’d caught that touchdown pass back in high school…

“I guess you should just fire me.”

Hobbies.

Back when our wedding bliss was in its infancy, KB...let us use the word "suggested here, that I needed a hobby or two. It was when we had cable TV and I, perhaps, watched more than my fair share. I tried the classic "Why can't watching TV be considered a hobby?" trick. That was a lonely night on the couch. I've played guitar for years, so she added the tag "new" to her suggestion, and I debated until I lost. I did not see the point in developing a new hobby just for the sake of having one. I figured it should be something I enjoyed, was somewhat passionate about, and could partake in at any time.

It took six years, but I may have found a new hobby. I have always enjoyed quality short fiction. I think it is a classic art form that America has always supported. I mean, O. Henry (a Texan, I might add) even got a candy bar named for him. A really tasty one at that. The only other person I can think of with that distinction is, of course, Francis J. Whatchamacallit, inventor of the toilet paper holder. Look it up.

Some dear friends gave me journals this past spring for ideas to blog about (it should be noted that this was after a scolding for not updating with enough regularity). I must confess to not having used them yet, but I was inspired to start keeping a running word document on my work computer with ideas. Many of those were just thoughts ("Nay, profundities" - T.K.), and few were sentences that sounded good. Some were comments I had made that I thought especially witty (ok, so there’s only one of those). I realized that I could form story around some of these.

KB and I have tossed about ideas for books or stories before. I have made up a few stories to tell at bedtime. We've had many good conversations on the art of storytelling and writing. Once I finally put these puzzle pieces together, I started writing, and it has been quite a joy. I have no delusion that I will become some widely published author. Heck, I may only have one or two stories in my head at al, but the process has been enjoyable so far.  Michael Chabon has stated that he writes about 5,000 words per day.  I'm shooting for 100, and maybe half of them good.
 
We're taking a trip back to Austin this weekend, and I am itching to get at those journals. I imagine they will be filled quicker than I realize

Removed.

It is an odd sensation to know that you have multiple places to live, and yet feel homeless.  It feels like an after-school special in which the homeless guy on the corner turns out to be a millionaire with several homes, but in this case, it's a couple of rentals.  Also, when you're solidly middle-class, eccentric just comes off as "crazy", so...I try and tamp down the urge to make tin foil hats, I suppose.  (It occurs to me that this entire paragraph is become quite eccentric.  Rather than delete it, I will let it stand as a testament to my eccentricity gaining self-awareness.  Like Skynet)

KB and I are in Houston for the summer, and we have a fairly humble set-up at an apartment between our two work locations.  It's still a weird feeling to see her (almost) every day, but in an extraordinarily good way.  We both agree that it barely seems real; the routine of the past school year set in easily, and disrupting that has very much left us disoriented.  Pair the move and its challenges with a trip to Beaumont last weekend (the first time we've spent an entire weekend there in eight years of marriage, I think), and we don't quite know where we're living.  So we have more than one home, but still feel a little homeless.

While it is great to be back in Houston for a multitude of reasons, one of the weirder experiences has been driving past our old house.  We lived in the Heights for seven plus years, so there are a lot of very happy memories there.  In the last ten months, our former landlord has neither rented out our old place, nor put any care into it, so it's looking very run down.  Seeing it in such a terrible state was a sad moment for us.  Maybe we felt some sense of culpability (we were the only thing standing between that house and nature taking it back), maybe a sense of loss (we kind of just abandoned the place), but part of me thinks it's a glimpse into the future.

KB is in seminary, and in 2014 she will be an Episcopal priest.  It will be our lot in life to be moving on a somewhat regular basis.  It is rare that someone takes a position and then stays more than ten years, so we will be saying goodbye to people and homes more frequently than most.  This past year is the first big move of many more to come, and coping with that is all part of this process.

I'm comforted in a big way by the fact that we have tremendous friends (seriously, some of the best anyone could have) that will be anywhere we need them to be at a moment's notice.  We are lucky to have such anchors in our life; a cadre of friends and family that we can truly depend on is one of the greatest gifts in life. 

Requiem.

Consider the title of this post your only warning.  Besides this one.

Clancey, our border collie, died almost a week ago during our move from Austin to Houston (KB is a chaplain in Houston this summer, so this is only temporary).  Rather than give details of his passing and health, besides assurances that he did not suffer and that we stayed with him the whole time, I want to tell you about my friend Clancey.

I met Clancey on my first date with KB.  I was later told that he did not always take to larger guys, but he and I were instantly friends.  KB had him since he was a puppy, and when I met him he was a very spunky teenager.

Clancey loved people in general, and was always kind.  I think part of that was viewing everyone as sheep that needed herding and tender loving care (with the occasional nip at the heel).  He was friendly towards everyone, especially kids.  He seemed to know when someone was upset, and would sit next to anyone crying to clean up tears.  When toddlers or other little folk were around, he would simply lie down and wait for them to pet him, mostly so he could lick their (hopefully bare) toes.

Clancey was smart.  You could always tell that there was a spark of understanding.  One of my favorite memories is from a rainy day in our house in Houston.  The mud outside prompted me to leave a towel by the back door to muddy paws and feed Clancey inside to minimize that mud.  As I poured food in his bowl, he immediately knocked it over.  I looked at him exasperatedly and said "You better clean that up!".  He looked at me, grabbed the towel in his teeth, and dragged it over the food on the floor in order to cover it up.  How could I do anything but laugh in amazement and hug hm?

Clancey was fast.  So fast.  At the dog park, he would run after a thrown ball with a speed that was awe-inspiring.  On a bad day, he led the pack.  On a good day, he could outstrip all but the greyhounds, a black and white streak dashing for a ball in a moment of unbridled joy.  Once he got to the ball, he never seemed to mind if another dog took it, because...

Clancey was, above all, desirous of pleasing the people he loved (which was pretty much everyone).  Whether it was by sitting and staying, coming when called, playing, caring, or cuddling, Clancey wanted the people in his life to be happy, and the best way he could do that was by doing what they wanted.  He was the epitome of utter selflessness.

I know that many of the qualities I attribute to Clancey can be written off as anthropomorphization, or projecting qualities I find noble onto a blank slate, or even part of grappling with my own mortality.  Those things may well be true, but I also know that he was an example of living a life in perfect communion with how one is Created.  He was perfectly himself, if that makes any sense.  There's a trite saying (probably on a bumper sticker) that goes something like "I hope I can be the person my dog thinks I am."  I would much rather be the person my dog was; someone who loves unconditionally and fiercely, and who seeks to make the people around them happy.

Clancey was a good boy, and I miss him terribly.