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A mother and her baby enter a room with two chairs and some blocks on the floor. The mother sits down and the baby plays. Or not. A stranger comes in and the mother leaves. The baby is left with the stranger, and then alone. (c)
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there are the facts, and then there’s the perception of the facts. ...
There’s the observable world, and the internal state of being.
There’s what happened to you, and how you feel about what happened to you, and the story you tell about it.
There’s information, and there’s excellent information. (c)
The concept of the untelling is the core part of this journey among the miriads of possible destinations for self.
Lots of discourse on Mary Ainsworth's research and life and the contemporary followers of the practice. Very-very basically: if the kid can expect that mom will be sensitive to his all needs: basic, emotional, you name it - then the kid will be calmer by the meric of expecting everything will be all right. And a secure form of attatchment will be created between the two. It's a lot more intricate than this but this seems to be the basis we all need.
In fact, the writer's coming through as mildly obsessed with Mary Ainsworth.
A very honest and very personal experience review. Incredible empathic depth, great writing and language. I felt the writer's feeling on all her searching.
Overall, this is a great love story of sorts:
Q: It’s a love story—of you learning to love yourself. (c)
The science of delight:
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Delight doesn’t follow any rules. (c)
So very Zen:
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My life as a Zen student had taught me many things—how to be utterly still, how to clean a bathroom like I was tidying God’s closet, and how to notice my mind as the source of my suffering—and my pleasure. (c)
Other:
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AT THE HEART of attachment theory is an evolution-based explanation for the sometimes unbearably up-close identification we feel with our children. All newborn mammals attach to their caregivers in order to be fed and kept safe from predators—to stay alive. For human infants, born incapable of everything but the most basic bodily functions, our early dependency on a loving caregiver is so total that parent and child must operate, in a sense, as a unit for many years. (c)
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Today, researchers believe that our pattern of attachment, entrenched enough by one year of age to be observed and classified, is more important to a person’s development than temperament, IQ, social class, and parenting style. (c)
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And though I had always felt broken, by studying attachment I’ve learned that we are all born with something utterly, totally, miraculously unbreakable, which is why my story of loneliness, of something being wrong, of the shame of feeling separate, has fallen apart.
This is the untelling. (c)
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I wanted to feel the contact of the train so badly that the bottoms of my feet tickled with the urge to jump. (c)
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“Mentalization” is a Victorian term for the “effort the mind makes.” Today, researchers define mentalization as “the ability to understand actions by other people and oneself in terms of thoughts, feelings, wishes, and desires…In essence, mentalizing is seeing ourselves from the outside and others from the inside.” This ability to mentalize comes directly out of the experience of being seen by—mirrored by—a sensitive other in infancy. We internalize that sensitive other’s gaze and reflect it back. Back and forth, back and forth—the ability to see ourselves in another, and another in ourselves, is the gift of a loving relationship.
When we mentalize, we are recognizing that we have a mind, and that we are more than just our thoughts and feelings. This helps us recognize that others are more than their thoughts and feelings, too, which leads to empathy and the ability to imagine another’s point of view. (c)
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Sitting at the table, withdrawn, my face set in a cold and punishing mask, I couldn’t see the small, really trying person sitting across from me anymore, the one I had dragged through the city streets to satisfy some dream I had. Azalea disappeared. She was over there. I, separate, was over here.
And then, for some mysterious reason, in that moment I was able to see—in the very moment of my separation—that I was so desperate to be close with Azalea, I was willing to climb through the morass of myself to do it. I shook off the distance and came to. Azalea—soft face, blue eyes lined with feathery lashes, her little jeans and yellow shirt with white trim, her ears, her small chest rising as she pulled air in and out—was just sitting there. She was looking at me, sadly, around at the room, then back at me again.
The instant I let go of myself, I was able to see Azalea in all her little-kid glory. In fact, we arrived on the scene simultaneously. The waitresses’ faces also softened, and the other diners looked a little more alive as they slurped their noodles. The place was filling up with spectacularly ordinary human beings. (c)