Omelletes & Do you want to talk about it?

by Amy

Do you want to talk about it?

"The owner of the bistro brought their breakfasts of omelettes, fresh fruit and a croissant each."

I’m the kind of person who asks that question. A lot. Sometimes I ask with actual words. Most often, though, people seem to tell me how they feel or what they're going through and I don’t really remember having asked. Or, if I did, I barely noticed doing so. Maybe it’s the white lab coat? Or the certainty that my phone is on at any and all times of day? Or maybe (most likely) I’m also the kind of person who will probably answer “yes” any time the question is (sincerely) posed to me. I talk through my issues. I listen to those of others. I enjoy it. I think it's part of who I am. 

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Ruth Zardo stared at each other.

It felt like a cage match. Only one would emerge alive. Not for the first time in Ruth’s company, Beauvoir felt an unpleasant retraction below his belt.

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded.

“I want to talk,” snapped Beauvoir.

“Can’t it wait, asshole?”

“No, it can’t, you lunatic.” He paused. “Do you like me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re anal, idiotic, cruel and perhaps slightly retarded.”

“And I think the same of you,” he said, relieved. It was as he thought, as he’d hoped.

“Well, glad we got that straight. Thank you for coming by, now, nighty night.” Ruth reached for the doorknob.

“Wait,” Beauvoir said, his hand out, almost touching her withered arm. “Wait,” he said again, almost in a whisper. And Ruth did.”

There’s more than one way to listen. There’s more than one way to empathize. There’s more than one kind of confessor. I probably wouldn’t make a good listener for Jean-Guy here. I don’t think I could be as ruthless as Ruth (Ruthless Ruth – haha! That might be a good nickname for her). Jean-Guy purposefully looked for someone who would listen, but wouldn’t care (although she does care). To him the idea of dealing with someone’s sympathy or pity was worse than being silent.

No one likes to be pitied.

“Ruth sat across from him, a pot of watery tea on the white pre-formed table, and one cup. Her thin arms were strapped across her chest, as though trying to keep her innards in. But not her heart, Beauvoir knew. That had escaped years before, like the duck. In time all things fled Ruth.He needed to talk to someone, but someone without a heart, without compassion. Someone who didn’t care.”

Empathy is not pity. But even the most empathetic listener is not the best listener for everyone. Even if the person does his or her best to not judge, what is said cannot be unsaid. It cannot be unknown.

“Lila, I know I’ve said this any number of times. But people do talk to me. About all sorts of things. Sometimes it helps. At least that’s what they tell me.
She said, “Then for the rest of their life you’re gonna think about it. Every time you look at them. Hear their name even.”“True.”“Well, I spose it would have to be true, wouldn’t it. The worse it was, the more you’d remember. Maybe I don’t want you looking at me that way.”“Fine,” he said. “Whatever you say.”“I don’t know how those people go on living in the same town with you.”“A few of them do leave the church. Maybe because they’ve told me more than they meant to. I’ve suspected that was part of it. In some cases.” (Lila – Marilynne Robinson)

Relationships change when “confessions” are made. I think the closer you hold your secrets, the harder it is to reveal them. The more comfortable you are with yourself, the easier it is to share. I think. I might be wrong. Remember Constance in A TRICK OF THE LIGHT? Remember how close she’d kept her secret? To the point where even the merest hint seemed like an enormous revelation? But then, it isn’t when we feel comfortable with ourselves that we feel the need to unburden, is it?

Sometimes it's easier to share with a stranger. Or, according to Beauvoir's logic, with someone who doesn't care. Maybe that's part of why professional therapists, healthcare workers, religious leaders, and people who respond to crisis end up being on the listening end of so many conversations. If a person isn't personally involved, then their judgement, their forgiveness, and the remainder of their lives (after the conversation takes place) doesn't matter as much to you.

"There is a saying that to understand is to forgive, but that is an error, so Papa used to say. You must forgive in order to understand. Until you forgive, you defend yourself against the possibility of understanding. [...] If you forgive, he would say, you may indeed still not understand, but you will be ready to understand, and that is the posture of grace." (Home - M. Robinson)

Reverend Amos, in Robinson’s book LILA, says “people do talk to me. About all sorts of things. Sometimes it helps.” I can say the same. People talk to me. It sometimes changes the dynamics of our relationship. Sometimes it means, like Beauvoir feared - like Lila feared - that I know their vulnerabilities and, from then on, I tend to shield them. Spare them.

While sharing with a stranger, or a professional, or a neutral party can be cathartic, there is a special kind of redemption and pardon to be had when you feel like you are heard, seen, understood, and loved by someone who cares. Someone who has their own version of events, but is still willing to put themselves in your shoes and try to understand your side of the story. That is the magic of empathy. Empathy is willing to understand someone else's "truth", even when it doesn't match their own.

"I told him almost everything, and when I was done he said, 'You are a good man.' Imagine that."(Home - M. Robinson)

I recently had a conversation with someone who listened. I had been very sick (with dengue fever of all things) and the feeling of helplessness and exhaustion had left me emotionally drained. I mentioned that I was feeling empty, with little to offer and, because I felt so tired, I was made aware of how many people made emotional demands on my time. In a moment of utter exhaustion I complained about being so needed.

A couple of weeks later I felt better. I was back to wanting to know what made people tick and feeling rewarded when I knew I’d made a positive impact – no matter how small – on someone else’s life. Nevertheless, my previous words cannot be retracted. While being heard had been priceless, it had also made the listener aware of the fact that there are in fact more emotional demands in my life than perhaps he had previously realized. It made the listener aware, even as I was, that people call me, all the time, with their problems, their pain, their doubts, their expectations, their needs. It made the listener wish to shield me. Spare me.

A few days ago this same listener was sick and felt wary of calling me and asking for help. He didn’t want to add to the burden. Since the person in question was my dad, it was easy to be the one to call and to laugh when he said he didn’t want to be any trouble. I told him we’re past that. I appreciate him having been willing and able to listen when I was feeling drained. The fact that he cared and understood was part of the turning point in refilling my emotional reservoir. I was ready to give back again. He could get over being protective. He’s my dad, though. I don’t think it’s possible for a parent to stop feeling protective. I’m a parent myself. I know it’s impossible. We could share, though. I could help him carry his pain just as he’d helped me carry mine. I was back to being me.

[On a side note, can you tell I have incredible parents?]

“Gamache took a deep breath and looked down at the table, his lips tight.Émile paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”Armand Gamache looked up. “I can’t. Not yet. But thank you.”“When you’re ready.” Émile smiled, took a sip of strong, aromatic coffee, and picked up Renaud’s diary again.”

I love how Émile responded here. He was respectful of Gamache’s need for time. He was available. He didn’t push. As a true friend, he knew that it was more important to be there and to be willing to listen. Sometimes it is enough to know you are loved and cherished and that you have people who care enough to listen should you need or want to share. Just as important, it’s invaluable to know that you’ll be respected if you choose silence.

No one likes to be pitied.

We all want to be seen, though.

No one likes to be judged.

We all want to be understood.

No one likes to be exposed.

We all want to be loved.

Beauvoir chose someone he believed didn’t care – and wouldn’t tell. He felt could trust her with his vulnerability because she wouldn’t pity him. He didn’t believe she had a heart, so there was no heart to bleed when she listened to his pain. Also, he didn’t care enough about her for her judgement to matter. Or so he thought.

 “I never even thought of telling anybody what was on my mind all those years. Not Doll, not any of ‘em. I don’t even think I knew people did that.” (Lila – Marilynne Robinson)

I’m pretty sure most of us can empathize with Beauvoir at least a little bit. Baring your soul (while sober and aware) can be scary. So many people – like Beauvoir, like Olivier –are so afraid of being ridiculed, misunderstood, or judged for who they think others might see, that they choose not to let people see or hear or know.

“She hated to remember how swept up in it all she had been, how ridiculous she would have seemed to anyone who knew what she’d been thinking. That’s one good thing about the way life is, that no one can know you if you don’t let them.” (Lila – Marilynne Robinson)

But is it? A good thing?

While it can be scary to be exposed, I wonder how much scarier it is to hold it all inside. Those who don’t share tend to have an exaggerated view of the importance of their secrets and revelations. Like Olivier. Like Constance. Those who try to project an infallible, strong, tough exterior are frequently covering a sensitive, hurt core. Like Beauvoir.

 “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sometimes the answer will be no.

Sometimes I’ll be faced with people whose pain is so raw that they cannot bear to put it into words. Like Gamache. I can learn from Émile. I can be present. I can share meals and time and space. I can enable engagement with distractions – coping mechanisms – like the research of a long gone battle. I can be available to listen and even remind them, occasionally, that I am aware of their pain and willing to help. I can learn to not push.

Sometimes I’ll be faced with the Lilas and Beauvoirs of the world: those who are afraid to share because they are afraid to shift the balance of the relationship. They both (if you haven’t read Lila, maybe you should) learn that while trust should not be given lightly, when it is given to the right person it can be a deliverance.

“That was loneliness. When you’re scalded, touch hurts, it makes no difference if it’s kindly meant. Now he could comfort her with a look. And what would she do without him. What would she do.” (Lila – Marilynne Robinson)

For those of us who easily find ourselves in the role of confidant, an important lesson to learn is to know when to retreat. Not every listener, therapist, counselor, advisor is for everyone. Being available is not the same as forcing someone to confide in you. If someone is not ready to talk or prefers not to share their secrets with you (even if you love them and feel like they should trust you), then back off.

In a way, Lila was right. When she tells Reverend Amos (her husband), “Maybe I don’t want you looking at me that way,” she has a point. When Beauvoir chose someone he believed wouldn’t care, he was protecting himself from a look he didn’t think he could bear. He was shielding himself from the pain of being judged, or pitied, or misunderstood by someone who mattered. He was also choosing someone he thought was heartless enough not to feel his pain. When I unburdened myself to my father, I forgot to take into account that he might then change his attitude towards me and adjust his behavior. When Gamache began his informal therapy sessions with Myrna, he didn’t expect her to chastise him (discretely, but still) real-time when he became overprotective of Beauvoir.

I read a study years ago that illustrated this relationship shift. I’m glad this isn’t an academic paper because I cannot remember where I read it and thankfully won’t have to look it up. It was a paper on children with chronic pain and terminal disease. The authors talked about how children, noticing the worry and angst in parents, caregivers, and health professionals, would report less pain than they truly felt. In order to spare those around them, most children would pretend they didn’t know they had a terminal illness (although they did know, but they perceived it wasn’t something their caregivers wanted to dwell on). Most children would answer, “Better”, when asked how they were feeling. Why? Because they realized those around them were happier when they pretended to feel less sick. They, too, understood Lila and "maybe I don't want you looking at me that way."

There is a burden there. The burden of pretense. The burden of strength. The burden of keeping your afflictions to yourself. The children couldn’t bear to see those they loved in pain. They learned to mask their own pain in order to spare those they loved and cared for. They created a fiction of improvement in order to shield their family and doctors from the despair of impotence. They carried their pain within them to avoid being pitied.

In love there is room for vulnerability. There should be. When Annie tells her father her fears, she knows she is no less lion because she is scared. As my son has learned (and repeats every chance he gets), courage is not the absence of fear. It is the willingness to face fear. When Peter bares his soul to Clara he is closer to her than at any time before. When Olivier peels off all his layers he rediscovers himself. When people feel like they are accepted and understood despite their fears and their pain, they feel safe and loved. 

It is important to note that those who fear vulnerability aren’t wrong to do so. In the wrong hands, a soul’s secrets can become a weapon. Francoeur knew that well. He simulated empathy. He had a gift for listening. He used it with cruelty. He understood. He judged. He twisted truths and reinterpreted and gave new meaning. He manipulated fears and feelings and expectations. He used nightmares against those who had first dreamt them. He made a travesty out of intimacy.

When the video of the raid was leaked, the agents involved were exposed to the world, to strangers, to judgement. Too much was shown to too many people. It was like those nightmares where you show up to school in your underwear.

There is safety – or should be - in the sanctity of a confessional, the ethical privacy of a therapeutic relationship, the trustworthiness of friendship and love.

I hope you have people you can trust. People who are willing to listen, even if (or maybe because) they are unconventional like Ruth. People who respect your timing as did Émile. I hope you have a chance to show your vulnerabilities. I also hope that the "mirror" of the listener reflects you as stronger than you thought. I hope we can all learn to be the kind of confidant others need. I hope I can learn to be the confidant those around me need.

Jean-Guy and Ruth sat and talked over weak tea. I couldn’t bring myself to make weak Ruth-like tea to accompany this post. Gamache and Émile, on the other hand, had a breakfast meal that included an omelette.

I made my son an omelette for breakfast the other day. This is his favorite egg recipe. It’s not gourmet. It’s not fancy. It’s not even really a recipe. It does please the 8-year-old with a knack for talking through his thoughts… and who’s learning to listen to those of others. We spent most of breakfast talking about his issues. Most of them involve Minecraft and/or Pokemon.

M-style omelettes:

I beat the eggs and add a pinch of salt. A little bit of butter goes on the skillet, then I pour the eggs in. Wait a few minutes until the egg forms a bit of a crust. Add a bit of grated parmesan. Fold. Done! Sometimes basil or marjoram is added. Parmesan omelette is his favorite, though. It doesn't look very appetizing, does it? (It's the picture below)

What do you like on your omelettes? Do you like to add milk to the beaten egg? I did for mine. I'm not a huge egg fan, so the milk means I can use just one egg and have a decent sized omelet. Do you like to add ham or cheese? My husband likes his omelettes with quite a bit of ham and cheese in them. I tend to add veggies and usually some cheese (I added feta to the one pictured in the beginning of the post). They still don’t disguise the egg taste. Although I suppose omelettes are supposed to taste egg-like, right? Still, the green and red in mine make it look more appetizing, don't you think? Or is it just me?

All quotes, unless stated otherwise, are from Louise Penny's BURY YOUR DEAD.