• Don’t keep your mouth shut

    If you don’t speak, it won’t go well for you.

    It’s a risk – saying it loud. The thought inside that just won’t go away, not matter how much you try to dismiss it.

    “Hey man. I know you’re telling me you’re committed to this new venture. But sorry, I just don’t think you are. Your words don’t ring true to me. I think you’re kidding yourself.”

    Because maybe you’re wrong.

    Maybe he’ll be pissed at you, and attack, verbally or emotionally.

    Maybe he’ll be really hurt and feel betrayed by you.

    Maybe you’ll feel rejected, and it will sting and you won’t know how to make it better.

    Maybe you’re totally off the mark, and you end up looking like an ass.

    It’s a risk.

    But it’s not like it’s not a risk to not say it.

    If you keep your mouth shut, the effects are not benign. If you don’t give voice to the unspoken words inside, they’ll start to eat away at you.

    Every time he talks about his new venture (that you don’t believe in), you won’t be able to participate. You won’t actually be with him. You’ll stay silent or politely say what you’re expected to. Or you’ll quietly judge him for lying to himself.

    And each time you turn down the chance to speak the truth, the trust you have in yourself is eroded a little more.

    That vital relationship between thought and action becomes a little more estranged. Your conviction becomes a little bit more flaccid.

    The truth is created through words

    The truth is formed by speaking, it’s created through words. We’re narrative creatures. We always tell ourselves a story about what’s happening – what the world is. We can’t not do this.

    There’s no such things as truth before language. Things just are. It is the split between the territory of existence, and our maps we make of that same existence, that creates simultaneously the possibility for truth and for its opposite.

    And so we live in two worlds.

    We live in the world of babbling streams, and rustling leaves. The world of fleshy touch and sweaty odours. The world of rock, brick and tower. We live in the territory.

    And we live in the world of the ideas of those things. The shape of the names. The interpretations of the notions. The grammar of thought. The hierarchy of abstractions. We live according to the map.

    And because we straddle these two worlds, we can contradict ourselves.

    I can say things that are untrue. I can give words to a world I do not actually live in. I can mistake the name for the thing itself. I can mistakenly believe that the thing is more authentic before I name it.

    It is a central function of life to mediate between this paradox.

    And thus the alignment between the map I hold and the territory I walk, can skew, and I will find that “the world doesn’t make sense”.

    The slide down into hell

    The truth is not simply what is provable or objective. It’s what we collectively believe. And so as he tells himself he’s committed, and you stay silent, it perpetuates his story.

    His truth becomes the dominant narrative.

    And you both start to believe it.

    You must have been wrong. Your sense was off. Because look, he keeps talking about how great his new venture is, and you keep not saying anything to contradict him.

    Each layer of apparent enthusiasm he utters further buries that thing you thought was true.

    And if you were wrong in this instance, then maybe all those other “inner feelings” you have are wrong too?

    In fact, maybe all that inner world you experience is wrong – all those things you believe, or love, or dream of one day creating – maybe all that is untrue too.

    The trip down this slippery slope is shorter, and more frequent that we like to believe.

    At the bottom of the slope is nihilism.

    Nihilism is a philosophical belief that nothing has any intrinsic meaning or underlying truth. Nihilism is not just a conceptual idea though, it’s a place. I’ve been there.

    In the pit of nihilism, it doesn’t matter what you do or don’t say. It makes no difference.

    Because there is no truth.

    There’s no deeper code. No deeper meaning. It’s all flat, empty, pointless. It doesn’t matter what you do. Because there is no point.

    The pit of nihilism has become a very popular residence in today’s world. A lot of people slid down into it, and don’t know how to get out.

    To get out you have to believe in a higher order. You have to believe in universal rules. Things that cannot be broken. Truths that cannot be deconstructed.

    You have to believe in Gods that cannot be killed.

    One of these I learned from watching Jordan Peterson’s (incredible) biblical lecture series. It goes like this…

    When you speak the truth, it is good.

    Creating divine order

    It may not feel good. The receiver of your truthful speech may not like it. You may not garner the results you were hoping for.

    The receiver may be a lover, a friend, a client. It may be you. It may be “the world”. Regardless of who it is, when you speak it, and when it is indeed true, then your act is good.

    It has furthered the human project. The naming of the nameless. The existential intimacy that comes from bringing the map and the territory a little closer together. Participating in a moment that is a little more filled with the light of consciousness.

    But “good” in the highest sense may not equate to “good” in the immediate sense.

    You might damage a friendship. You might traumatise your lover. You might lose a client. You might antagonize the world. You might reveal to yourself a contradiction that you’ve protected yourself from for decades.

    It’s a risk.

    But never forget. It’s not a risk to not speak.

    It’s risk either way.

    One leads down the slippery slope into the pit of nihilism, meaninglessness and misery.

    The other leads through the gauntlet of the world into the higher orders of consciousness and integration.

    You must choose constantly.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • Because the moment that you agree to something, when in truth you don’t want it, you betray something.

    You betray yourself.

    “Yes sweetie, I’ll come to that party.”

    Except I don’t want to go.

    I would be absolutely clear about this fact if I actually looked inside and felt myself. I don’t do this. Because I know it’s really important to her. I know everyone there expects me to attend. I don’t want to seem rude. I don’t want to let anyone down.

    So I say yes.

    It doesn’t go well.

    People ask afterwards “is he ok? He didn’t seem himself.”

    Yes, he’s well. He just betrayed himself a little.

    The truth of your desire is felt

    Some tell us that desire is the root of suffering, and that if we give up our wanting, we will become enlightened. Or that wanting is selfish and greedy, and good people give to others and do what’s expected.

    Others tell us to follow our bliss, to do whatever we want, that this way we will create heaven on earth. They say we deserve our hearts desire, and we shouldn’t let anyone get in our way.

    Neither of these forms of wanting are what I am referring to. Because I think neither of them are true.

    The truth of your desire – of what you really want – is not a momentary whim. It’s not the child’s desire to have that toy now! It’s not the kind of want that needs to be met – the grasping that the Buddhists rightly tell us leads to suffering.

    It’s not even something you really get to choose.

    The truth of your desire is felt. It’s already in there, in your body-mind, before your social filters get hold of it and pass it through the appropriateness test. It’s whole, real. It’s given to you, a feeling of organic attraction that simply has you want to move closer.

    The feeling of desire could be simple and calm. It could be mountainous and overwhelming. It could be big enough that it includes all kinds of smaller things that you don’t want. What makes it true, is that you feel it. It’s not an idea, or a logical conclusion, or a fearful aversion, it’s real, and true.

    So when you’re asked to commit to something, and you don’t feel this truth of desire, why would you agree?

    There’s conflict either way

    Arnold Mindell said:

    “When you are true to the world, you come into conflict with yourself, and when you are true to yourself, you come into conflict with the world.”

    I choose conflict with the world. Every time.

    Or at least I should – when I remember that it’s a choice, and I remember that my own truth is true, and I can feel that pillar of strength that seems to wind all the way down into the earth, and all the way up to God.

    When I remember all that then I’ll choose conflict with the world.

    It’s backing myself and what I want, or its backing everyone else, and agreeing to what they want. It’s conflict either way. Pick your poison.

    The truth is there, if you know how to look

    It’s in your whole body. The whole feeling of yourself, from the highest capacities of your mind, through the vulnerabilities of your heart, into the simple knowing of your gut.

    “Yeah, that sounds interesting.”

    “Sure, ok.”

    “Well, yeah, that would probably be good.”

    All of these mean no.

    The truth of your desire is conspicuous. It’s a resounding and unmistakable signal. It doesn’t have any flimsiness to it. It emerges from inside, rooted, simple, true.

    Yes.

    When you feel it, you know it. It’s as if a bell is struck, and the note makes your entire being resonate with the truth of it.

    You may not like the truth. It may be inconvenient. It may grate against your sense of moral obligation, or appropriateness. It may mean you have great conflict with those around you.

    Maybe the consequences of acknowledging your truth feel too costly, and so it seems easier to lie to yourself, and acquiesce.

    No sweetie. Don’t do it.

    Don’t agree when you know it’s not what you want.

    Because if you do you’ll only sabotage it anyway. You’ll ensure you have a miserable time, or everyone else has a miserable time. Or you’ll regret it afterwards.

    Or worse, you won’t notice any of these things, and you’ll go through life gradually betraying yourself piece by little piece, until you don’t even know who you really are any longer.

    No.

    Don’t do anything you don’t want to.

    This way, you’ll spend your entire life doing only things you do want. And who doesn’t want that?

    Ewan Townhead

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  • Speak the truth.

    What moves you. What perplexes you. What pisses you off.

    Whatever comes out. The more you say it, the more wants to come.

    Keep speaking, even if it’s just for you, to untangle the mess in your head, scribbled in a notebook and kept on a shelf.

    And then. More often than you’d prefer.

    Share it.

    Publish it.

    Give it to as many people as you can.

    Some will like what you say, and ask you to say something else, something more. Then you have one more listener. And one more person who might be touched by your words.

    Don’t do it to get attention – because you’re lonely and want people to look at you.

    Speak because you have something that you must say. That you want to say.

    Because speaking what is inside, changes what is outside. And then inside in return.

    And that’s what we’re here for.

    Ewan Townhead

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  • I was reading Brené Brown again the other morning as I was eating scrambled eggs with avocado.

    Brené (I don’t actually know her so as to be on a first name basis, but like to pretend I do) was talking about barriers to vulnerability.

    She was talking about masks. The masks we wear.

    The things that we put on, so that we look like the personality we think we need to be. So people like us. So we don’t rock the boat. So we fit in. So we’re not alone.

    I’m an expert, and you should listen to me

    I was trying to write something on marketing. And it wasn’t really working. I noticed an unpleasant feeling. It was familiar.

    I’d always assumed it was the effect of not finding my flow. I can’t write, so I feel contracted,

    But I realized it wasn’t. I realized it was the cause. I wasn’t in flow, because I wasn’t writing. A mask was.

    So, I put the mask centre stage and let it write. This is what it said.

    “I’m an expert. And you’re not. Listen to me, because I know. Be quiet and you may actually learn something.”

    And it’s said in this slightly bored voiced, like really you should know better, but since you don’t, I’ll grace you with my superior wisdom. Though I’m making it clear it’s begrudging. But not clear enough that you could comment on it.

    I’ve christened him Bartholomew Snooty III.

    I remember being on a personal development course years ago. The leaders had offered me a free place because I’d started an audacious business that professed to be a hub for the kind of work they were teaching.

    I thought I was better than them.

    I’d silently critique their teaching from the back of the room.

    And I ended up pissing some people off. Because I wasn’t committed, and I dropped out, and broke some promises I made. And even though I felt ashamed underneath, I covered it by looking down my nose at them, and dismissing their quaint complaints.

    And that’s how he works. He covers my insecurity with indifferent arrogance.

    Meanwhile, I’m still lonely.

    Oh! Look how vulnerable I am!

    I have another one. It’s the “I’m vulnerable” mask.

    The one where I pretend to be vulnerable. Because it’s a deep value of mine (the vulnerability not the pretending). And I think I need to be like that all the time.

    “I did this thing. It was really vulnerable. But look at me, I’m so brave to be sharing it like this with you. How good am I?”

    I remember a couple of years ago. I was having a fight with my girlfriend, and my best friend Joel was there too. And I got really upset, and started crying uncontrollably.

    Joel didn’t buy it.

    He said he understood I was upset, but it seemed like I was making a show of it.

    I froze.

    “This is a matrix moment Ewan.” He said.

    And he was right.

    It felt so real. And I was hurt, but even more, I was trying to get seen.

    And maybe that’s why I do it more often.

    Don’t see me

    Don’t look at me. Because if I show you the real me, you’ll reject me. Like you did when I was innocent, and didn’t know about masks.

    I never fitted in at school. Maybe none of us do.

    I had the wrong shoes. And no Nintendo. And brown bread sandwiches with cucumber and vegetarian pate.

    I stood out, like a weird thumb. And the other kids, with their Nike trainers wouldn’t let me join in.

    So I started fashioning some masks. So I wasn’t so lonely.

    Maybe you did too.

    And none of us realized that we were all wearing masks, and participating in an invented stage play. All secretly wanting to fit in.

    And I’m still doing it.

    “Like me! I’m really good at writing! Can I play with you?”

    I wrote that on facebook the other day. That I still felt like I was 5-years old trying to get people to be my friend.

    And lots of people said they would be my friend.

    And it was lovely. But it didn’t really change anything.

    The naked truth

    Because it’s not about winning friends. It’s about saying what I have to say. The real one, who nakedly says the things that he can’t help but care about.

    And it would be really shitty if that meant no-one likes me anymore. But even that I’d endure. If that was what my art demanded.

    Walt Whitman was like that. Most people hated what he wrote. And he didn’t get huge thanks or success. And then he died. And then everyone realized how brilliant he was, and how beautiful his writing was. And how revolutionary.

    I hope that doesn’t happen to me. That would suck.

    But I’m realizing how it’s really not about getting friends. That little 5 year old has lost his chance.

    It’s about speaking the truth.

    I can feel the masks start to melt. And as more of the naked truth starts to reverberate around my world, I realize I’m no longer in control of the plot.

    So I cross my fingers, and hope it all has a happy ending.

    And I’m stacking all my chips on this. The belief that if I keep speaking what wants to be spoken, then something will happen. And that ending will be the happiest one.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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  • I remember years ago, being in a room with a spiritual teacher. A friend and I had organized a workshop with him. He was a very wise man.

    Towards the end of our evening, a guy put up his hand to ask a question.

    “Terry, I wake up every morning, and I don’t really want to be alive. There’s so much pain. I was an alcoholic for many years, and I’ve been sober for many now. But I’m just so unhappy. I don’t know why I’m here. What do I do?”

    It was one of those questions that makes the room go deathly silent, as everyone reels from the depth they’ve just been plunged into.

    Terry paused a long time. And then he said.

    “I don’t know. I don’t have any advice for you. I don’t know what the answer is. But I will offer you a prayer.”

    And he did. And something entered the room as he did. I can still feel the shivers now.

    The question was too big to answer. And so he honoured it by opening his heart, and blessing this man, and his suffering, and all of us who are suffering, and don’t know what to do about it.

    And I’m glad he did. And I’ll never forget that moment.

    We’re taught to know the answers

    Because intelligent people know the answer. Successful people know the answer. Popular people know the answer.

    And if you confess that you don’t know, then it must mean that no one likes you. Or you’re a failure. Or dumb.

    And who wants to be dumb and alone?

    So we fake it.

    I fake it.

    It might be a small fake. Just brushing over the cracks lightly, and hope no-one noticed.

    “You know, like in that amazing film, ‘The Cross and the Armadillo’, you know the one I’m talking about right?”

    “Uh. Yeah of course.”

    Except you don’t.

    Or maybe it’s a big fake. Pretending to be this whole other person. The one you think you need to be to get the things you think you want. And it’s been happening for years.

    And at the bottom of it all, it just hurts.

    It hurts to fake it, because it robs us of the natural nutrition that we get from being real.

    But to be real we have to be vulnerable.

    “I don’t know.”

    And the more there is on the line, the less our pride wants us to confess to it.

    You’re the coach, you should know

    You’re expected to know the answer Ewan.

    You’re supposed to guide them through this with surety and confidence. You’re the coach.

    You’re expected to get them results, no matter who they are or what they do.

    So what’s the answer Ewan? Your client is in front of you, and they’re scared and stuck. They need your help. What are you going to do?

    I don’t know.

    But you should know! Oh man, you’ve got yourself into a sticky spot here haven’t you? You told them you could help them, and now they really need your help, and what do you have to say?

    I don’t know.

    Oh dude. You’re fucked. This is so far from being ok. Better fake it. And fast. Otherwise this whole house of cards is going to come crashing down. What’s the answer?

    I don’t know.

    Sometimes I wish I said it more often

    During an interview earlier this year, a woman asked me how my coaching was different to other business coaches out there.

    I was about to deliver some kind of elevator pitch. Because I thought it was a good question. And I thought a good coach would have a good answer to it. And I wanted to be seen as a good coach.

    But for some reason I paused long enough to find something more true.

    “I don’t know.”

    Because I didn’t really know how other business coaches worked.

    And sometimes I wish I said that more often.

    Because when I realize I don’t know, and also realize that my unawareness is real, and not an error, it opens up this huge space for my curiosity to flow into.

    Authentic ignorance.

    Saying “I don’t know”, because I truly don’t, even though the rules in my head say I should.

    Saying “I don’t know” because it’s infinitely more true than pretending I do.

    Saying “I don’t know” because it gives me a blank page to paint a new consciousness onto.

    Smash the statue and the pedestal

    Don’t hide your ignorance.

    No need to pretend you’re more than you are.

    Every time you try and fit in, you negate the way you stand out.

    You just keep propping up the crumbling statue of some fake guy, which you glued together from ideas of how you’re supposed to be, and what you’re supposed to know.

    It’s not real.

    Smash the statue. And smash the pedestal you’ve been trying to pretend you’re standing on.

    You are so wonderfully ignorant of how fucking beautiful you really are.

    Though that’s not a mistake.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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  • I finally said it.

    “I don’t want you to coach me any more. I don’t want your advice. I’m done with it. I’m going to do it my way from now on. You don’t get to tell me how I should do it any more.”

    When it did come, I kind of blurted it out, the pressure had been building for two years.

    Our business partnership was over.

    We both got vulnerable. I was able to soften my rebelliousness. He was able to let go of his need for control. It opened us into a closeness that was only possible now we were separating.

    I had spoken my truth. And a new chapter of my life begun.

    Truth speaking, what is it?

    It’s a horribly clichéd term for something powerfully beautiful.

    It’s saying what’s true in your heart. It’s saying something that feels risky. It’s saying something and not knowing what’s going to happen next.

    It’s saying something that disrupts normality.

    I remember those powerful moments when I spoke something I’d been reluctant to share. I’d been trying to avert the nightmare in my head by not saying it. I remember the sense of deep relaxation as the final echo of my words vanished into the moment just passed.

    It’s out.

    It’s not mine to leash any longer.

    God will take it from here.

    It’s a practice

    It’s a spiritual practice – discovering yourself through sharing your vulnerable experience.

    It’s a business practice – revealing who you are to those you can serve.

    It’s a powerful practice – one that can revolutionize your life and work.

    It’s also a practice that, like any practice, can be misunderstood.

    What we believe to be ‘our truth’ is not always true. What we believe to be authentic, is not always authentic.

    Here are four key distinctions that will help you avoid the traps of speaking your truth.

    1. Opening or Closing

    My friend Lisa first taught me this – will your share open or close people?

    The trap is thinking you can share whatever you want in service of authenticity.

    Will this open their heart, expand their mind or show them something more of what is possible? Will this expand their state, have them feel more, desire more, experience more?

    Or will this contract them, shrink them, close them? Will it trigger a state of anxiety, or defensiveness? Will they walk away from your share feeling less of the world, and less of themselves?

    Yes. It’s your truth. But are you conscious of the impact it will have on people you care about?

    You’re in the midst of a bout of existential depression and anxiety. Everything seems pointless, you seem pointless, your work looks completely meaningless. In a moment of lonely desperation, you tweet it to all your followers and clients.

    “What’s the point? Life is a joke. Don’t want to do any of this shit anymore. Thinking I’ll close down my business.”

    Is it true? Maybe.

    Have you opened them? Probably not.

    You probably freaked them out, and compromised your business and work.

    Are you conscious of the hearts of those you speak to? Can you feel them? Can you tune into where they are, how they are? Will this serve them? Will this open them or close them?

    Are you conscious of even making that judgement call?

    Truth speaking is not saying whatever the hell you want to whoever the hell you want, and expecting everything to turn out authentically.

    It’s a conscious act. You’re conscious of your heart, and their heart, and the connection between you, as you open your mouth, and say what’s there.

    2. Covert Neediness

    You say it like you’re just ‘speaking your experience’, all the while you’re actually hoping for people to meet the needs you haven’t actually confessed to having.

    Maybe you need them to commiserate with you and tell you they love you.

    Maybe you need them to congratulate you and tell you how amazing you are.

    Maybe you need some advice.

    You’re secretly hoping they’ll meet your needs, but you haven’t admitted it to yourself, or them, and it ends up giving your share this weird, creepy or disingenuous feel.

    It’s like those weird incomplete facebook posts.

    “Wow. It’s amazing. I never thought this would happen.”

    And then hopefully someone takes the bait asks what happened, and you get to have that need for attention and confirmation met.

    Except it feels covert, and unowned. And weird. Because it is.

    If you need something, own it.

    I saw a beautiful facebook post from someone recently. She’s a very successful coach and trainer. She was having a really hard time, really struggling. She shared what was going on, very honestly and vulnerably, and asked people to express some love toward her.

    Hundreds responded.

    3. Opinion dressed as truth

    “You didn’t do what you said you would. That’s why your business is not growing like you want. I feel like you’re unprofessional, and it’s never going to change. You should get a job instead. I know this might feel hurtful, but it’s just my truth.”

    No it’s not. It’s your opinion.

    Opinions are powerful, when you share them truthfully, which means sharing them as opinions.

    “You didn’t do what you said you would. I’m deeply questioning whether you actually want to grow this business of yours.”

    Too often, we throw out our assessments and analyses inside this box of ‘our truth’ which actually just squeezes truth out of the connection.

    When I offer my opinion as truth, I leave no room for your truth.

    “I hear you. I do really want this business. But I think I’m following a strategy that just doesn’t fit with my deeper vision. And I’ve felt ashamed about that.”

    Opinions are not true. But they are true opinions.

    4. Vulnerability not vomit

    Brene Brown says vulnerability without boundaries is not vulnerability.

    I agree. I think its vomit.

    It’s throwing up your unprocessed thoughts, feelings and stuff all over other people, without context or consciousness, and expecting them to sort the chunks of importance from the chaff of confusion.

    It’s unpleasant to receive.

    Sometimes our relationship to reality can get messy. And we don’t know how to make sense of it, or connect with it. Sometimes it feels good to splurge. It helps. My woman does it regularly. It helps her get it out of her system, and feel herself again.

    But don’t confuse vomiting for vulnerable truth.

    You’re on the phone with a client. They just asked you how you are.

    “Oh man. I’m feeling kind of funky this morning. I was up late last night. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was rocking out on pot, porn and pistachios. I just don’t know how to kick these addictions, you know? Psshhht. To be honest, I’d rather not be doing this call now. I feel pretty shitty. But hey ho, here we are. How are you?”

    What you say may be true, but it’s not appropriate.

    Vomit is not vulnerability.

    Vulnerability is conscious. Vulnerability is choosing to share something you’d rather not, while maintaining conscious connection with the person or people you’re sharing with.

    Vomit is not even really noticing who’s in front of you, and just throwing up your undigested material all over their awkwardness.

    Your truth is real

    Rilke said…

    “Near here is a land they call life,
    You’ll know when you arrive by how real it is.”

    Truth is like life. It’s so real that those who hear it are moved by it, opened by it, enlarged by it.

    Are you being real? Or are you hiding behind ‘the truth’?

    Your heart always knows.

     

    Ewan Townhead

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