By this time I hope it is becoming clear that the exercise(练习) of discipline is not only a demanding(费时费力的) but also a complex(复杂的) task, requiring both flexibility(灵活性) and judgment(判断力). Courageous people must continually push themselves to be completely honest, yet must also possess the capacity to withhold the whole truth when appropriate. To be free people we must assume total responsibility for ourselves, but in doing so must possess the capacity to reject responsibility that is not truly ours. To be organized(有条理的) and efficient(有效率的), to live wisely, we must daily delay gratification and keep an eye on the future; yet to live joyously we must also possess the capacity, when it is not destructive, to live in the present and act spontaneously(自然地). In other words, discipline itself must be disciplined. The type of discipline required to discipline discipline is what I call balancing, and it is the four and final type that I would like to discuss here.
Balancing is the dicipline that gives us flexibility. Extraordinary flexibility is required for successful living in all spheres(领域) of activity. To use but one example, let us consider the matter of anger and its expression. Anger is an emotion bred(养育) into us(and into less evolved organisms(生物)) by countless generations of evolution(进化) in order that our survival may be encouraged. We experience anger whenever we perceive another organism attempting to encroach(侵犯) upon our geographical(地理上的) or psychological(心理上的) territory or trying, one way or another, to put us down. It leads us to fight back. Without our anger we would indeed be continually stepped on, until we were totally squashed(压碎) and exterminated(消灭). Only with anger can we survive. Yet, more often than not(往往), when we initially perceive others as attempting to encroach on us, we realize upon closer examination that that is not what they intend to do at all. Or even when we determine that people are truly intending to encroach on us, we may realize that, for one reason or another, it is not in our best interests(符合我们的最大利益) to respond to that imposition(无理要求) with anger. Thus It IS necessary that the higher centers of our brain(judement) be able to regulate(控制) and modulate(调整) the lower centers(emotion). To function successfully in our complex world it is necessary for us to possess the capacity not only to express our anger but also not to express it. Moreover, we must possess the capacity to express our anger in different ways. At times, for instance, it is necessary to express it only after much deliberation(考虑) and self-evaluation(评估). At other times it is more to our benefit to express it immediately and spontaneously. Sometimes it is best to express it coldly(冷冷地) and calmly(平静地); at other times loudly(大声地) and hotly(激烈地). We therefore not only need to know how to deal with our anger in different ways at different times but also how most appropriately to match the right time with the right style of expression. To handle our anger with full adequacy(恰当) and competence(能力), an elaborate(精心制作的), flexible response system is required. It is no wonder, then, that to learn to handle our anger is a complex task which usually cannot be completed before adulthood, or even mid-life, and which often is never completed.
To a greater or lesser degree, all people suffer from inadequacies(不适当) of their flexible response systems. Much of the work of psychotherapy consists of attempting to help our patients allow or make their response systems become more flexible. Generally, the more crippled(残疾的) by anxiety, guilt and insecurity our patients are, the more difficult and rudimentary(初步的) this work IS. For example, I worked with a brave thirty-two-year-old schizophrenic(精神分裂的) woman to whom it was a veritable(真正的) revelation(启示) to learn that there are some men she should not let in her front door, some she should let into her living room but not her bedroom, and some she could let into her bedroom. Previously she had operated with a response system by which she either had to let everyone into her bedroom or, when this response did not seem to be working, not let anyone in her front door. Thus she bounced(弹跳) between degrading(丧失体面的) promiscuity(劈腿族) and arid(乏味的) isolation(孤独). With the same woman it was necessary for us to spend several sessions focusing on the matter of thank-you notes. She felt compelled(强迫的) to send a lengthy, elaborate, hand-written, phrase-and word-perfect letter in response to each and every gift or invitation she received. Inevitably(不可避免地) she could not continually carry such a burden, with the result that she would either write no notes at all or would reject all gifts and invitations. Again, she was astounded(感到震惊的) to learn that there were some gifts that did not require thank-you notes, and that when these were required(必须的), short notes sometimes sufficed(足够).
Mature mental health demands, then, an extraordinary capacity to flexibly strike(达到) and continually restrike a delicate(易碎的) balance between conflicting needs, goals, duties, responsibilities, directions, et cetera. The essence of this discipline of balancing is “giving up.” I remember first being taught this one summer morning in my ninth year. I had recently learned to ride a bike and was joyously(欢乐地) exploring(探索) the dimensions of my new skill. About a mile from our house the road went down a steep(陡峭地) hill and turned sharply(急剧地) at the bottom. Coasting(滑行) down the hill on my bike that morning I felt my gathering speed(加速度) to be ecstatic(狂喜的). To give up this ecstasy(狂喜) by the application of brakes seemed an absurd(荒唐的) self-punishment. So I resolved(决定) to simultaneously(同时地) retain(保持) my speed and negotiate(成功越过) the corner at the bottom. My ecstasy ended seconds later when I was propelled(推动) a dozen feet off the road into the woods. I was badly scratched and bleeding and the front wheel of my new bike was twisted beyond use from its impact(撞击) against a tree. I had lost my balance.
Balancing is a discipline precisely because the act of giving something up is painful. In this instance I had been unwilling to suffer the pain of giving up my ecstatic speed in the interest of maintaining my balance around the corner. I learned, however, that the loss of balance is ultimately more painful than the giving up required to maintain balance. In one way or another it is a lesson I have continually had to relearn throughtout my life. As must everyone, for as we negotiate the curves(转弯) and corners(角落) of our lives, we must continually give up parts of ourselves. The only alternative to this giving up is not to travel at all on the journey of life.
It may seem strange, but most people choose this alternative and elect(选择) not to continue with their life journeys-to stop short by some distance-in order to avoid the pain of giving up parts of themselves. If it does seem strange, it is because you do not understand the depth of the pain that may be involved. In its major forms, giving up is the most painful of human experiences. Thus far(迄今为止) I have been talking about minor forms of giving up-giving up speed or the luxury or spontaneous anger or the safety of withheld anger or the neatness(整洁) of a thank-you note. Let me turn now to the giving up of personality traits(性格), well-established patterns of behavior(既定地行为模式), ideologies(意识形态), and even whole life styles(生活方式). These are major forms of giving up that are required if one is to travel very far on the journey of life.
One night recently I decided to spend some free time building a happier and closer relationship with my fourteen-year-old daughter. For several weeks she had been urging me to play chess with her, so I suggested a game. She eagerly accepted and we settled down(安顿下来) to a most(非常) even(公平的) and challenging match. It was a school night, however, and at nine o’clock my daughter asked if I could hurry my moves, because she needed to get to bed; she had to get up at six in the morning. I knew her to be rigidly(严格地) disciplined in her sleeping habits, and it seemed to me that she ought to be able to give up some of this rigidity(严格): I told her, “Come on, you can go to bed a little later for once. You shouldn’t start games that you can’t finish. We’re having fun.” We played on for another fifteen minutes, during which time she became visibly(明显地) discomfited(困惑的). Finally she pleaded, “Please, Daddy, please hurry your moves.” “No goddammit,” I replied. “Chess is a serious game. If you’re going to play it well, you’re going to play it slowly. If you don’t want to play it seriously, you might as well not play it at all.” And so, with her feeling miserable(悲惨的), we continued for another ten minutes, until suddenly my daughter burst(突发) into tears, yelled that she conceded(认输) the stupid game, and ran weeping(哭泣的) up the staris.
Immediately I felt as if I were nine years old again, lying bleeding in the bushes by the side of the road, next to my bike. Clearly I had made a mistake. Clearly I had failed to negotiate(成功越过) a turn(拐弯) in the road. I had started the evening wanting to have a happy time with my daughter. Ninety minutes later she was in tears and so angry at me she could hardly speak. What had gone wrong? The answer was obvious. But I did not want to see the answer, so it took me two hours to wade(艰难行走) through the pain of accepting the fact that I had botched(搞砸) the evening by allowing my desire to win a chess game become more important than my desire to build a relationship with my daughter. I was depressed in earnest(认真地) then. How had I gotten so out of balance? Gradually it dawned on me that my desire to win was too great and that I needed to give up some of this desire. Yet even this little giving up seemed impossible. All my life my desire to win had served me in good stead(很有好处), for I had won many things. How was it possible to play chess without wanting to win? I had never been comfortable doing things unenthusiastically. How could I conceivably(可以想象地) play chess enthusiastically but not seriously? Yet somehow I had to change, for I knew that my enthusiasm, my competitiveness(好强) and my seriousness were part of a behavior pattern that was working and would continue to work toward alienating(疏远) my children from me, and that if I were not able to modify this pattern, there would be other times of unnecessary tears and bitterness. My depression continued.
My depression is over now. I have given up part of my desire to win at games. That part of me is gone now. It died. It had to die. I killed it. I killed it with my desire to win at parenting. When I was a child my desire to win at games served me well. As a parent, I recognized that it got in my way. So it had to go. The times have changed. To move with them I had to give it up. I do not miss it. I thought I would, but I don’t.