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CHAPTER 5

Mental Strength

Hombu Dojo, Dayton, OH, 2002: “The mind is very responsive to what it perceives,” An-Shu told us. “In fact, that’s its job, to respond to and make sense of your perceptions.”

I remembered detailed studies we had done in the past on how the mind analyzes perceptions and experiences, creating an inner truth to interpret the world.

“One of the things your mind experiences is what comes out of your own mouth,” An-Shu continued. “Think about what you say. What worldview does it reinforce?”

“That reminds me of a child who says ‘I can’t’ and proves it true,” I commented.

“Yes,” said An-Shu, “and when that child turns into an adult, sometimes the story doesn’t change. The language may get more complex, but after all the tales of flat tires, dogs that ran away, and factory layoffs, it comes down to the same thing. By focusing on the problems of life, a grown adult can convince themselves of their own inability.”

“But there are real problems in life,” said another student in the group. “If I lose my job, there are real consequences that may interfere with my ability to do certain things.”

“Absolutely!” said the An-Shu. “That is so important to acknowledge. By changing our language, we are not denying cause and effect. We are not pretending that nothing is wrong or that we are unaffected by change. That would be stupid. But there is a difference in how you phrase it.”

He changed his voice into a whiny, apologetic character. “See, I lost my job at the factory, and now my ex-wife took all my money in the divorce, and I can’t find no work ‘cause my back is out…” Several of us smiled at the incongruity of this powerful man taking on the posture and voice of a person struggling with life. We definitely recognized the archetype.

He took on his normal posture and voice again. “Or how about this? I’m searching for work and building my health right now, so I need to delay any major expenditure until I establish my employment. Same core content, but radically different message.”

The contrast between the two characters he portrayed was shocking to me. Many times when encountering a person struggling with life, their condition seemed so objectively true. Their slumped posture and sad voice seemed like the only possibility for that person. I could imagine change over time, of course, but it seemed like it would take years. The An-Shu’s rapid shift between the two characters made it clear to me that there was nothing physically stopping a person from dropping their defeat in a single instant. They would still have their troubles and ailments, but the defeat could fall away with a mental shift.

Of course, I recognized that the mental shift would be profound, and that may take years if a person is not already a master of their mind.

“An-Shu,” I asked, “is there anything we can do to break through the habits of how we describe our lives?”

“There are several things you can do. The first is to become aware of what your habits are. How many of you would agree that you listen to what you would call unhappy or sad music?” Several hands went up. “Okay, so given that, how many of you like being sad?”

No one put their hand up, but there was a hesitation in the room.

“When I’m sad, I like listening to sad music,” said one person.

“Why do you think that is?” An-Shu Hayes asked.

“Well… it feels good to sort of indulge the feeling, I guess.”

“I think that’s true,” he replied, “and that’s why some people spend time reinforcing a feeling that they don’t really want.”

I thought about my own tendency to seek out music that reflected my feelings, and then indulge in amplifying those feelings. I recognized a sense of justification in the process. It felt good to validate, celebrate, and intensify whatever I was feeling. An-Shu’s comment raised the question of whether that was strategically intelligent.

An-Shu smiled as we thought it over, and then set us on an exercise to experience our own habitual stories.

Exercise Four – Noticing Your Story

Get a trusted training partner who will hear your story and reflect back what they heard. Explain the exercise to your partner before you begin.

Sit down a few feet apart, facing each other. You are going to tell a story about a difficulty you encountered in life. It’s best if it was disruptive but somewhat trivial, on the scale of a flat tire, a missed airplane connection, or an awkward job interview. The point is to find a story where you cared about the results, but it was not deeply traumatic.

You have approximately two minutes to tell the story. Do your best to find the level of detail that will take about two minutes to tell. Twenty seconds is too short. Ten minutes is too long.

Your partner is going to just sit and listen. They are not going to say anything. If possible, they are not even going to nod or agree in any way. They are simply going to devote their full, rapt attention to you for two minutes.

When your story is done, your partner is going to say, “This is what I thought I heard.” They then have two minutes to tell the story back to you, just the way they heard it.

Your job is to listen to them raptly for two minutes. Look for what they emphasize. What came across to them as the main points? What seemed important to them, from the way you told the story? Is that what you think really was important?

Remember that the point is not about the accuracy of their re-telling. The point is for you to use your training partner as a mirror, reflecting back to you what the world hears when you tell your story. You may be tempted to think that your training partner just “got it wrong,” but just for this exercise, entertain the possibility that something about your posture, voice, tone, or persona communicated the story that way.

An-Shu brought us back from the exercise as we mulled over what our partner reflected to us. “Once you get good at this exercise with a partner, you can do both halves of the exercise yourself, recognizing your own story even as it comes out of you. You can do this out in your life, at work or with your family, and no one will even know that you’re doing it. That’s a powerful form of practice toward creating the correct story in your mind. What did you notice in this exercise?”

I wanted to object to what I heard reflected back to me. “There were some things my partner reflected that were not really how I felt. I mean, I did say them, but they didn’t match the real me.”

“So why do you think you said them?”

It was an obvious question, but it made me stop. “I think… I didn’t want to seem arrogant in the story.”

“Okay, good. So we don’t know your story, but what you’re telling me is that because you were concerned with how you might be perceived, you changed the story. You made the story be something that did not reflect your deeper truth. And in the changed version of the story, instead of arrogant, what were you?”

“Afraid,” I replied.

“But you really weren’t afraid when it happened?”

“I should have been afraid, but I really wasn’t. I was just sort of concerned and annoyed. But I thought it would sound arrogant to say that I wasn’t afraid.”

I fell silent, and the air in the room seemed to thicken as the point of the exercise started to dawn on me. An-Shu let a few moments pass and then gave it words. “So, you created and told a story of fear in yourself. You even told yourself that you should have been afraid. How do you think that is likely to influence your mind in the future?”

I felt sick. I did not answer, taking it as a rhetorical question. After all the times in my life I had indignantly cast off other people’s opinions of me, I was horrified to see that I was unconsciously sabotaging my own inner strength. I could see that I had been creating fear in my life because I felt like I should be afraid. The silence went on too long, and I realized that he was still waiting for some answer.

“It almost seems like I believe in my feelings so strongly that I don’t really notice them as habits,” I said.

“That’s exactly right. Feelings seem to happen to us, caused by outside forces, but in fact, we’ve set ourselves up by the way we tell our story as we go along. So, is it possible to take charge of that process? To notice our habitual story and start telling the story we want to experience?”

I sure hoped it was possible. “So, we have to make the unconscious conscious?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s part of it. And we have to practice retelling the story our way.”

“Isn’t that just ‘wearing rose-colored glasses’ and pretending everything is good?” I pressed. Although I liked the idea of optimism, being realistic and authentic was important to me.

“Profoundly different,” he asserted with a touch of fierceness. “We are not ignoring difficulty when we retell the story. We are not hiding from the challenge of life, or pretending that we are somehow above cause and effect. We are telling a story of bravely engaging the challenge of life.”

Exercise Five – Retelling Your Story

You can try this out, building off of Exercise Four.

As before, you and your training partner will sit a few feet apart. You will tell your story in two minutes, but this time your task is to make the story as heroic and epic as possible without changing any material details. Tell the story where your motivation is as positive as possible, and the setbacks are legendary challenges that you engage with heroic zeal.

Explain the exercise to your partner before you begin, so that you and they know that you will be speaking in unusually heroic terms. This will help alleviate any embarrassment or tendency to downplay your own power. Just for this exercise, it is your job to paint yourself as powerfully as possible.

As before, your partner will then mirror back to you what they heard in two minutes. They will not make fun of you—they will celebrate and reflect your heroic version of the story.

As an example, if the original story went…

“So there I was, trying to get through the morning commute, and I heard this noise. I realized I had a flat tire. It sucked. I had to pull over in traffic, in the rain, and trudge around trying to find the tools in the back. I got all dirty and sweaty trying to change the tire, got to work 30 minutes late, and the first thing my co-workers noticed was how bad I looked.”

The upgraded story goes…

“So there I was, battling for position in a sea of steel and anger, when disaster struck. One of the tires lost pressure, and the car was dragged to the side. I knew I had mere moments to avert even greater damage, so I swiftly checked my mirrors, assessed the situation, and found my opening. Guiding the car deftly to the shoulder, I secured the vehicle and leapt into the stormy weather. I acquired the tools I would need, concealed in the trunk, and positioned myself for optimum leverage. The task was Herculean, but the car was lifted and the backup tire installed safely. Once I was back in the driver’s seat, I checked the time and realized I could still make it to the staff meeting. I roared off in my repaired vehicle, and arrived at the office to the concern and wonder of my co-workers as they noted the battle wear on my clothes.”

Notice how you feel after re-telling the story in heroic fashion. How does that change your feelings about such a story coming up again in the future? How does that change your feelings about who you are?