Tread Softly

I hate confrontation, even comprehending the necessity of it. There is a difference between a healthy argument and fighting, in the tones taken, the stances, the body language, the raising of voices, the use of ad hominem. My stomach churns contemplating this sort of debate. But there are times for actively fighting for your beliefs.

I recently finished Iron John, by Robert Bly, and he constructs an elaborate analogy of masculinity based off an ancient fable or folk story. In the story, at the beginning, a Wild Man is freed by the prince, a man hairy and primal. This is the opening step in the path of masculinity, according to Robert Bly: freeing the wild man within from the parental clutches. With this sort of confrontation, a wall is erected, an enmity, and I feel like the serpent biting the woman’s heel, with which she crushes my head.

I like competition, and enjoy the concept of debate and argument within healthy bounds. I just cringe whenever considering fighting those I cherish. And if I must, I don’t even want to win such a fight, not at the expense of those I love dearly.

Today, I knew such a debate was coming, a time where I must plant my feet and lose no ground. Even though the confrontation would not take place until evening, I considered it all day. I ate no breakfast, only a couple of crackers for lunch, and nothing for dinner. I’m still not hungry. Even now, the debate over and a reasonable agreement reached, my adrenaline beats in my blood like a bass, thrumming and humming with a particular distaste – my body is in fight and flight mode.

I’ve comforted myself with lines of poetry, and selections from Bly’s book on masculinity, though the analogy falters regarding my confrontation, the who and the what. But these lines of Yeats have always meant much to me in situations similar:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.       

(William Butler Yeats - Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven)

It’s the idea that I’m asking for little, but have no desire to budge on the particulars. I’m enjoying Robert Bly’s poetry more and more as late:

It is not our job to remain whole.

We came to lose our leaves

Like the trees, and be born again,

Drawing up from the great roots.

(Robert Bly)

I don’t want to fight; I’d rather love.