2013-05-19T18:33:05-04:00 Paula Ravets, Ph.D. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=paula-ravets-phd Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Paula Ravets, Ph.D. Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1074758 2011-11-03T17:51:26-04:00 2012-01-03T05:12:02-05:00

Paula Ravets, Ph.D. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paula-ravets-phd/
I just got off the phone with a dear friend who discovered that her husband of many years has been cheating on her. Sadly, this is not even the first time he has betrayed their relationship with an outside dalliance.

It is a common story that certainly goes both ways; women cheat too. Conservative statistics reveal that 60 percent of all men and 40 percent of all women have affairs.

So why am I calling all women and not addressing this call to action to all men?

Because I believe in us! I believe that women can and are changing the world. From raising children to running companies and leading governments, we are capable of cultivating positive change from the bottom up.

As the mother of two boys, I am profoundly aware that my sons' initial sensitivity to and respect for women begins with their relationship with me. They observe how I carry myself in the world. They see what their father (my husband of 23 years) and I strive for in our relationship. And they hear my feminist political bent (sometimes mild, sometimes not.)

When they (and their adolescent hormones) come home from school and talk about who's "hot" or "how sexy so and so" is, I try to balance that by teaching the importance of not "objectifying women." I hope some day they will call themselves feminists, too.

But beyond teaching our boys to be respectful and our girls to expect equality, we can and must be responsible for our own adult behavior.

In no way do I mean to make this topic of adultery just another "just say no" issue. I have sat with enough of my patients experiencing the grief of a destroyed trust to know that fixing this particular form of betrayal is anything but simple. There is no single reason why people engage in affairs: They are intoxicating, they alleviate boredom, they're a distraction from the painful parts of reality, and ... well, they can just seem easier than putting in the work required for a lasting, intimate relationship.

Despite these pushes and pulls, there is one force potentially even stronger: the quintessentially feminine quality of caring -- of simply caring for each other.

We do it all the time. We care for our families, we care for our friends, and we care for friends of our friends. It should not be much harder to expand that caring to people we don't know and may never know. Expand the caring to each other - to all other women we have never yet had the pleasure of meeting.

When my friend told me that she confronted the "other woman," it was because she needed the other woman to know she was real, and that her heart was now breaking. The story broke my heart too. She hoped the "other" unknown woman could care for her just enough to wake up and cut off her actions. My friend's brave vulnerable reaching gave me hope and a different way of thinking about this issue.

It's time to stop pointing the finger at men and waiting for change. This is not about the blame its about the fix. It's about knowing that women innately are caring, and that we can recognize our mutual humanity. That's where this healing must begin.

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Paula Ravets, Ph.D. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paula-ravets-phd/
This stick -- smooth from wear on the outside, yet solid and unbreakable -- was my only concrete reminder of the time I spent away from family, friends and the myriad details of day-to-day "stuff" -- instead focusing on my inner life.

The next Monday I was back into real life: carpooling for my son and his 6th grade friends. Somehow after the retreat the stick ended up remaining in my car so that my four wonderful passengers noted its presence.

"Hey what's up with the stick?" my son asked. Rather then go into a longwinded discourse ("It's a symbolic reminder to hold sacred one's mindful existence...") I fumffered a bit and replied "Er... um... it's a Talking Stick." There was quiet, then a chorus of "huh?"s in the car.

Now let me stop for a moment to confess that I love my carpooling mornings. I feel an inordinate sense of privilege when I get to drive these interesting, smart, funny and LOUD children to school a few times a week. My son in fact may be the loudest of the group. (Perhaps of any group.) It's early in the morning, everyone wants to talk and I really want to hear each of them. Did I mention IT CAN BE LOUD!!!! How is anyone that loud at 7:45 a.m.?

So I explained that if they wanted to (and they really did), we could play a game passing around the stick. Whoever held the stick got to talk while the others listened. As soon as a person finished talking, someone else could hold out their hand for the stick and have their turn talking, and so on.

To my happy surprise this was the most delightful car ride ever. The content of the talk was not altered -- it was still silly, it was still profound at times, there were still fake-fart noises being proffered -- but it was clear that each of my young passengers felt listened to in a very different way, and each liked practicing listening to the others.

American Indian children, from the age of three on, are taught using the "talking stick" to practice the art of listening and respecting another's viewpoint. This is not to say that they may not disagree, but rather that they are bound by their personal honor to allow everyone their Sacred Point of View.

Since that first "Big Stick" experience in my car, I have heard from other parents that they also liked the talking stick idea and would like to try the ritual in their cars. I'm glad to have their support and not just be the school's designated weird, hippie, meditating, shrink-mom.

But I don't think you have to be an American Indian, a psychologist or a carpool driver to know how important it is to cultivate the skill of listening. We'd all be a little more pleasant to live with (and drive with) if our thoughts could be heard and our words respected.

This morning when we got into the car, one of the kids asked for the stick, but it had vanished. I searched in vain but only came up with a tiny ceramic pomegranate filled with sweet juice that a friend had brought me from her trip to the Ukraine. (Don't ask! Some things find their way into my car and never make it out again.) Anyway, the kids ended up passing around a ceramic pomegranate. I think I might actually like the pomegranate better since it's less sharp and thus less likely to end up in someone's eye. The point is - you can use whatever you have as long as it's imbued with the powers of "the stick." It's a concrete reminder to be mindful in relationships, to pay attention and care about one another.

Eventually, the stick disappears. Even the pomegranate disappears, and what remains is a smooth, sweet residue and a well-practiced knowledge of how to communicate. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.922252 2011-08-09T13:06:01-04:00 2011-10-09T05:12:01-04:00

Paula Ravets, Ph.D. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paula-ravets-phd/
The looking -- and seeing -- is key. And when I do it right I feel great. Not just because I don't get scolded, but because someone is there on the other side of the glass looking back at me. In this moment of being mutually engaged, everything feels possible.

But I have noticed that as a parent, I can often miss the magic moments of being engaged. Parenting involves so much planning, anticipation and knowing; we have to know how to treat a skinned knee, a high fever, a broken heart. And we have to know how to do everything at once; we're rewarded for being multi-taskers and applauded for our juggling skills.

The catch, however, is that we as parents run the risk of becoming disengaged and automatic. Remember when you first learned to drive and it was so new and exciting? But now as a busy adult, how many times have you gotten home only to wonder how the heck you got there? Oh you know you drove, you just don't remember doing it. When we know how to do something and do it long enough, we may become proficient, but the doing can become routine rather then filled with wonder.

When I was a new parent and my son was still a toddler, we used to spend a lot of time sitting at a tiny table covered with hand-painted butterflies. We were truly engaged in whatever moment arose between us. That was special time that I took for granted until my husband got a taste of it for the first time. I remember coming home from work and my husband racing to tell me, "You'll never believe what happened today. We were sitting at the little table, and --"

I said, "I know -- did he do that thing where he just looks at you?"

"Yeah," my husband said, enthralled. "What is that?"

What it was was a child being engaged. Nothing fancy. He wanted nothing more than to look, see, (clink) and be before moving on to whatever came next. Maybe that's why they call it a pregnant pause -- because in that moment anything can be born.

Our boys are now 15 and 10 and I find too often that I can get lost in thought and lose the beautiful pause. I'm convinced now that knowing is the main culprit behind loss of meaningful connection. While it makes sense to know what homework needs to be completed and how many days have passed since the last shower was taken (these are boys -- remember) it doesn't benefit us to try to know it all. On the days that I've insisted on being "listened to" instead of "listening to" my kids, I miss out on loving my job as a parent and just feel like I've been driving for a long time; I don't know how I got there.

Just as my friends remind me when toasting not to rush through just because I know how it goes, let's all remember to pause and find each other's eyes. Clink. Let's toast each new birth born of these moments.

Here's looking at you, kids. ]]>