By Peter Block
Transformation occurs first in the mind. It is then triggered in an infinite number of ways. What each entails is a shift in narrative. A shift in the story we choose to live into. Each entails a movement away from our historical way of naming our being in the world. Then discovering and choosing new words that name the future we aspire to. It is the moment when we decide to choose a future distinct from the past.
What anchors each form of transformation is a brief way of speaking of the aspiration. A phrase or a sentence that captures something essential. It is a marker that is always available.
Some markers are for a city or a country:
One nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.
We, the people. . . .
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
These markers appear in history, they appear on statues and on buildings. There are also markers that each of us holds within.
My daughter, Jennifer, became attracted to tattoos. As they expanded over her body, I asked her what the tattoos meant to her. She said each one represented a transformation in her life. Together they were an art form that documented her path of what was occurring with her, what meant most to her, what she wanted to name and remember.
So it is with the phrases and sayings each of us was touched by and retains. They are tattoos of the mind rather than the skin, markers of transformation, not just improvement and steps forward. They are an art form in their own way, to capture the nuance of consciousness and meaning.
These tattoos come in the form of one-liners or short quotes. In sharing them we are reminded of who we are, who we aspire to be, and how we find our commonality. They are not just what I may post on my mirror, or screen or wall, but statements, in the sharing, that bring us together. When we make our shift in story public and visible we generously make known to others what becomes a piece of a communal transformation we are living into and, in the sharing, what reduces our isolation.
Here are two that I am unable to erase.
I am warning you that if you argue with me, I will take your side.
Peter Koestenbaum
This warning awakened me to the idea that certain conversations don’t take us anywhere. Opinions, points of view, evidence-based being are real, interesting but to argue about them becomes a contest, even if expressed with kindness and enjoyment. They are interesting but reinforce the illusion that being right is more important than being connected or surprised. Of course, we are interested in each other’s view of the world, but arguing, debating, persuading is very different from curiosity.
This tattoo––If you argue with me, I will take your side––affirms that certainty keeps us apart. I can strongly believe in something and can also recognize that this does not mean it is right. It is also liberating, in that I can express a point of view knowing that I do not have to defend it.
All transformation is linguistic.
Werner Erhardt
This statement was a shock to my system. It made a distinction between words that create a world and words that are just talk. I had believed that the stories I tell about myself, my history, this moment actually stand for something. I was missing the insight that they are fictions I have created, conclusions I have drawn, that were useful for a moment but keep me frozen from an alternative future. They express the idea that who I am can be explained by where I have been. As if my past is the cause of my present.
This tattoo is a symbol giving shape to the insight that healing occurs when we re-remember our past in a more forgiving way. This is the core function of all the ways we choose to shift our way of being.
We give still importance to people telling their story. It is useful for being seen and valued, but the third time we tell our story, and act as if it is true, it becomes an obstacle to living into a future of our own creation. When transformation is known to be a matter of language, claiming our freedom takes the form of naming an alternative story, chosen in this moment, independent of what is occurring in the world, or not burdened by a change being required from those around us.
A personal example: My historical story was that I am a loner. A gypsy. A permanent observer of life and the world around me. There came a moment in a workshop I was running in Cincinnati, where I lived. At that moment in the event, all in the room were asked “what courage is required of you now?”
Damon, a friend in our small group, looked at me––gypsy, facilitator of the session––and said, “Well, Peter, what courage is required of you now?” I chose to answer. “I am afraid of going public with all the ideas I easily express in communities other than my own. I am afraid my skin is too thin to live with the consequences of my actions.” At that moment, in answering that question, I chose to no longer hold onto the story of myself as a permanent outsider but take on the one where I am a participant and citizen of where I lived. This took years to take shape, but the transformation began with those words. A story reconstructed in a conversation.
Is the idea that all transformation is linguistic true? Perhaps not. But it is uncomfortably useful. It leads us into questions and conversations, that in the act of answering and engaging, we become agents in the world we inhabit. Which may be the point of it all.
