The reading material arrived in my inbox on a Wednesday, five days before the workshop was due to start.

It was from a 2016 book: “Applied Theatre: Facilitation Pedagogies, Practices, Resilience”, by Sheila Preston. Chapter 1 presented a case study where:

a member of a mental health institution expressed his disquiet at the idea that other members of the group were happy to perform, in public, a play about the experience of mental illness. He felt uncomfortable with the association and that they would be representing “him”.

Indeed, any intervention – which may sometimes be a facilitated workshop, or a staged theatre production – may run the risk of reproducing dominant narratives, leading to anxiety and sensitivity among the disenfranchised.

What then is the role of a facilitator in this social and cultural system that surrounds the facilitator on all sides – whether at the family dinner table, or at the workplace desk, or during the morning commute?

I attended a workshop to find out – it lasted fourteen hours over two days, 10 AM to 5 PM each day.

The host, H.L., was candid about the setting of the workshop: “Workshops are romantic. They allows participants to meander on topics. After the workshop ends, the participants – and their accumulated know-how – are tested by the reality that awaits them outside of the workshop venue.”

The books referenced in this workshop did not make for light reading:

1. “Theater of the oppressed”, a book by Augusto Boal (a Brazilian).
2. “Pedagogy of the oppressed”, a book by Paulo Freire (another Brazilian).
3. “Games for Actors and Non-Actors”, by the same Boal.

Time does not suffice to elucidate the proceedings of the workshop in detail. Nonetheless I attempt a sketch.

The participants numbered about thirty. Most appeared to be in mid-career, whether as a facilitator of workshops within a large, top-down organisation, or as a founder of a small enterprise.

H.L. started the workshop by inviting participants to set the rules of engagement.

Two participants collaboratively volunteered the first rule: “Hold space for each other's choices”.

Another rule was volunteered: “have fun”.

As a group of strangers coming together for the first time, this first activity served as scaffolding for the next seven hours of the first day.

H.L. introduced the “banking” concept of education (from Freire's book) where students are seen as docile cabinets that store the knowledge that trickle down from the teachers' authority-position; think: large imposing teacher's desk in the classroom, and quite possibly a punitive device, such as a rattan cane.

But H.L. draws from Freire's idea of the problem-posing method: here is a problem that has emerged; how shall we solve it together? This dissolves the dichotomy between teacher and student. In Freire's words (as translated by Myra Bergman Ramos):

“He [the teacher-student] does not regard cognizable objects as his private property, but as the object of reflection by himself and the students. In this way, the problem-posing educator constantly re-forms his reflections in the reflection of the students. The students – no longer docile listeners – are now critical co-investigators in dialogue with the teacher. The teacher presents the material to the students for their consideration, and re-considers his earlier considerations as the students express their own. The role of the problem-posing educator is to create, together with the students, the conditions under which knowledge at the level of the doxa is superseded by true knowledge, at the level of the logos.”

H.L. has his own spin on this afore-mentioned “re-considering of earlier considerations” – he coins the term: Negation Of Negation. (A heady brew of words, for sure).

In other words, the facilitator considers the downsides of the participants' choices, and then performs an intellectual leap to re-consider his own thoughts about the supposed down-sides – what if I go along with the participants' choices? What choices would be lost? What would be gained?

This idea could certainly be lost in a stew of cerebral-sounding words that ring hollow for participants and clients of the facilitator, so H.L. has provided a role model during this workshop, by having all 30 of us engage in activities that involved our physical bodies. These were games titled: “Take my name”, and “Sword and shield”.

“Learning involves the body and the emotions,” H.L. observed.

After the games, we sat down and formed a pair to discuss what happened during the game. This was particularly insightful as every one of us (30 pax) had brought a refreshing perspective based on our differing professional experiences: for example, one was a theatre performer, while another was a social worker.

According to H.L., the praxis of building possibilities together in such a teacher-student collective exploration, comes from (a) action and then, (b) reflection.

There was certainly plenty of time for games, and plenty of time to reflect on how the game illuminated these aspects:

1. What did I notice about me as a person?
2. What did I notice about Facilitation?
3. What did I notice about myself as a facilitator?

In retrospect, I realise that the game serves as the problem-posing method. What happened in the game just now? How can we play better the next time?

This brings me back to the topic of this workshop, Critical Facilitation. Such a process of Critical Facilitation serves a dual purpose: (a) identifying the forces at play, in a oppressive dynamic – for example, to consider a dynamic between an alcoholic father, and his worker-children who toil away in sweatshops to send him money to feed his alcoholic addiction: there may be a toxic dependence on each other, and that is why the children are reluctant to leave: they rely on any crumbs of affection from the father, while the father is unable to find a job due to an economy that prioritises cheaper labour from women, and then he feels useless, and then he drinks to numb his pain.

A workshop setting (hopefully) allows the disenfranchised to build the world they live in, giving a voice to tensions that exist in this situation but which may have gone unheard in the outside-workshop setting. H.L. quotes Thomas Hardy here: “The caller always calls but is not heeded. That is why love falls through.”

Question: can the caller be heeded in a facilitated workshop?

But such a singular purpose is not enough. Critical Facilitation serves the second purpose of (b) imparting skills so that participants can make change after the workshop, as they return to their communities, in the hopes that they themselves can participate in such change.

A question for myself: what kind of skill might be useful to an adult child of an alcoholic father?

I think, perhaps that might look like instilling a greater sense of confidence in that individual's own gut feeling and intuition, which may likely have been buried under the shame of having been abused verbally and physically by the addict-father.

But, in the spirit of curiosity, and to apply Negation Of Negation, perhaps my above-ventured intervention could run the risk of being repulsively prescriptive – perhaps a facilitator could more skillfully serve the adult child by being asking what he, or she, wants – what she (i.e. the adult child) finds helpful and what she finds unhelpful.

However H.L. sounds a caution for any would-be facilitator, by quoting a Jewish proverb: “When humans plan, God laughs.”

This corresponds with the Biblical Book of Proverbs, chapter 19, verse 21: “Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails.”

At this point, I want to end this short reflection by listing the questions that H.L. has invited us to carry out of the workshop venue:

1. What did this space just admit?
2. What limits us here?
3. What will you bring into your space of practice?

Thank you for reading.

#acting

Locks click twice now, force of habit, even when nobody's coming up the stairs.

I tell the mirror I'm fine before it has time to ask, get dressed in a hurry so it doesn't catch me still.

Face turns toward the window whenever footsteps slow outside, I count them past the door, exhale when they keep going.

Everyone who gets close eventually hears it, my voice going flat and careful, like I'm reading it off a card.

I still leave the second cup on the drying rack, though nobody here has needed it in months.

Sultry noon curdles into grey by four most days, the kind of sky that can't commit to one mood either.

A knock comes sometimes. I count to ten before I move, like the door might forget I'm home if I wait long enough.

Barometer dropping in my chest before it drops outside, I feel the storm coming before the weatherman does.

I want the rain and the closing door to be different things, one leaves a rainbow I never catch in time, the other leaves nothing.

Tuesday the sun broke through for maybe six minutes, I stood in the kitchen and let it hit the back of my neck.

Cup's still on the rack. I rinse it anyway most mornings, not sure yet if that's habit or something closer to hope.

Hoping the next knock finds the door already open, not promising I'll get there. Just hoping I'm learning how.

• diimaan (08/09/2026)

People's MOTIVES and some dynamics in RELATIONSHIPS

The BRAIN can read a current person as a threat based on past experiences and relationships. It can recognize the behaviors of individuals that were acting with malice and forethought and identifying some current people as THE SAME. However, it does not always mean the current person acting this way has THE SAME malice and forethought as that past person or other past people did.

It is just so TOUGH nowadays with any relationships because people are seeming to only be motivated out of self-interest. That many just DO NOT CARE about other people, only what they can get out of other people.

Statements I've heard such as: “I'd like to be his (Corey Taylor's) ex-wife some day” have this type of materialistic ideology. Even said jokingly (if it was) shows me that many ARE just self-interested. That their idea of “happiness” lies in material wealth and goods.

A HUGE DISTINCTION: some may act 100% one-sided, but it's SO NOT INTENTIONAL. I made the mistake of treating these situations as other past toxic situations but one thing I left out: THERE IS A LEARNING PROBLEM involved that produces this behavior. It matches up all one-sided but again it is SO UNINTENTIONAL. That's the difference!

These situations cannot work either way, though. There is a recognition of the behavior, but it still makes the dynamic unworkable. I need to be heard too, and other people that are participating need to recognize that. It cannot work if the dynamic is always one-sided. People need reciprocity. Some are just incapable of it, even though their intentions are essentionally good.

A week ago, esx.ie was quietly configured as the short-link domain for the Essayism family: essayism.org, essayism.ie, essay.ie, esy.ie, essayist.ie and so forth.

The logic seemed perfectly obvious. They all begin with es; x is an agreeable little code-letter for everything that follows. Neat, compact, almost self-explanatory.

Then, without announcement, promotion, or meaningful use – apart from a default error page and one modest footer appearance – esx.ie received 177 clicks.

This raises several possibilities. Perhaps people are intuitively drawn to concise domains. Perhaps the internet has developed a taste for unexplained initials. Or perhaps 177 accidental visitors were simply looking for somewhere called “Essex” and took a poetic wrong turn.

Whatever the reason, esx.ie has made its first small, mysterious entrance. It appears that even a link can have a life before it has a purpose.

For a micro-second I pondered

Ah. Of course. :–)

The 177 clicks may not have been a spontaneous celebration of elegant URL architecture after all. They were probably seekers of sex.ie whose fingers, morals, or browser autocomplete took a slight turn toward Essayism.

Which is rather wonderful: a short-link domain devised as an efficient code for a family of essays, accidentally masquerading as Ireland’s most optimistic typo.

“Essayism begins where expectation ends.”

David Marshall Skerries

We met heard about how the Magician Gordon White was dead, same way as everyone else – on the digital world wide web, where he contributed so much.

His work was the catalyst that brought a crew of us together, really – initially, we formed as a reading group for Star.Ships, and a working group for The Chaos Protocols, and especially a drinking group for rum, which fuelled the whole jagged, swaggering affair.

The group and its history endure, though we meet less, and our interests have evolved, as they can only be expected to. Horizons tend move as they're approached, and none of us were staying still.

It was a wild time – I certainly gained a lot from it; I'm sure the others did too, and each in our own way. I've found huge value in having peers and fellow travellers in this enterprise – even though we've been on radically different trajectories, that have only diverged further over the years.

Dissenters anonymous

None of us agreed whole-heartedly with all of Gordon's positions, either – and, with his work rate, there were a lot of them. His work elicited, provoked, and suggested exceptions and divergences. We all felt he was a fellow traveller, for sure.

We'd all signed up to his premium membership, when it launched, explored his material, taken what applied and left to go our own way. Some resonated more than others. I appreciated his whole “restoration of context” angle. That early history of the grimoires course was an absolute banger.

Then and now, I personally disagree with his various collapse theses, though got a lot out of his “World Without Sin” writing, and loved the All Red Line. I liked a lot of the stuff in Chaos Protocols, but couldn't really make the operations work for me, to the extent I'd become used to with other methods. I liked that he referenced source materials – and deeply enjoyed reading Witzel's The Origin of the World's Mythologies, which inspired so much of Star.Ships.

I appreciated White's journalistic flair and sense of adventure. His blog posts inspired my own appreciation and, later, significant collection, of rum. This led to cocktail making, then distilling spirits – and my own small experiment, Elixir Arborvitae.

An offhand mention in in one of his blog posts led to tiki culture, and through this, to many drunken, delightful nights recreating forgotten and recovered cocktail recipes, originating from now-long-closed bars. The respective revivals of the Grimoire tradition and Tiki mixology have some curious similarities, that become even more apparent after communing with strong spirits. Missionary's Downfall, indeed.

The Wake

So we met, on a hilltop, where we could see the harbour mouth, and the sea, and the point where the water merged into the horizon. The sun was in our faces and the jagged ridgeline of hills at our backs on cold, clear Saturday Winter Wellington morning.

We burned incense, drank coffee and rum, and talked about our beautiful, brave new world, that has such people in it. A persistent squawking bush parrot hung around, even as dogwalkers gave the animated, daydrinking characters in the park a wider berth. Those weird kids? Hell, the weird adults were hanging out, getting louche that particular morning.

With this man's death, something significant and special has ended. A most strange and transitional time. He called the changes, and spun good yarns.
The Sons of Hermes raised and drained dry our glasses to the mighty wizard and adventurer, Gordon White.

Fair winds and following seas, traveller.

THE TRAUMA OF MY EVERY DAY LIFE – why living with Bipolar 1 and cPTSD makes every day feel like it's unlivable...

...and on top of that: NOBODY LISTENS.

Seeking out a trauma therapist. No GENERIC therapist, someone with the specialty in trauma.

The mood swings (even on medication) and constant hypervigilence is leaving me exhausted every day and this has been repeatedly going on for almost 3 years.

IMAGINE: scanning every environment, every interaction, reading every face/gesture, and more of other people's behavior all day long. And the mood swings on top of that. I literally have nothing left.

I cannot do this anymore. If I don't get out of my own head, days are going to repeatedly feel exhausting more and more.

Celebrating 60 years of Star Trek with a nostalgic view of the USS Enterprise model, an open book, and a themed drink, blending classic sci-fi adventure with modern fandom.

Star Trek aired three years before I was born, yet it has had a significant influence on my life. The only thing more profound and more influential has been my faith and salvation in Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior.

To me, Star Trek has long served as an earthly role model. It is more than a story or a television show. It is an aspiration for how a fallen world might come together and work for the common good. The ethos of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets represents an ideal that a world or species might pursue on its own, if there were no grand Savior.

By that ethos, I mean the hopeful idea that people from many worlds, cultures, and backgrounds can serve together for something greater than themselves. It is built on exploration, peace, sacrifice, reason, mercy, discovery, and cooperation. It is the belief that humanity can rise above its worst instincts and become better than it is now.

I want to mark 60 years of storytelling, especially those deep episodes that ran in reruns every week when I was a kid and a teenager. What prompted this reflection, of all things, was a gift from my sister. For my birthday in April, she gave me a special Parade release dedicated to Star Trek’s 60th anniversary (see image below).

Celebrating 60 years of Star Trek, this Parade Collector's Edition honors the iconic heroes, villains, and strange new worlds that transformed science fiction forever.

The franchise that started on September 8, 1966, inspired many real-life ideas during the 1960s and 1970s space race, and it continues to spark imagination today. I have not always agreed with the direction the franchise has taken, but with few exceptions, the United Federation of Planets and the Star Trek ethos remain largely unchanged.

Star Trek has shaped part of how I see the world, alongside my faith, and that combination still matters to me. I want to see AI grow into something like the Star Trek computer, and I look forward to seeing more of its science fiction technology come to life in ways that help humanity.

So today, on Star Trek Day, let’s boldly go where no one has gone before and celebrate the series and its ideals.

#StarTrek #personal #tv

THAT PARTICULAR TIME – Alanis Morissette (song meaning)

NOT a typical breakup song.

It's the recogition that an attachment between two people is constantly costing the other person to sacrifice all of their needs in order to maintain THAT relationship. So leaving is the only option to preserve the “self”, otherwise the costs of remaining in it are way too high and exceeding the benefit to maintain it. It's about still loving and caring about the person but knowing that the dynamic can never work.

'De eerste sinds...'

De eerste sinds gisteren die een rit in lijn wint de eerste zin sinds het vroege begin de eerste Spanjaard die Italiaans spreekt sinds deze de grens is overgestoken De eerste geest die sinds de vorige het leven liet is gaan rond spoken De eerste sinds de vorige kwam opzetten de eerste uitbraak sinds we bij een eerdere op onze ellebogen moesten letten de eerste verpozing sinds een lange tijd lanterfanten de eerste persoon sinds eeuwen die met iedereen en alles kan voortplanten

Sinds sinds is er veel onzin in omloop gepraat Sinds dat unieke moment zitten we voor meer van dergelijke uitspraken paraat van sinds om meer woorden te voegen bij een kleine niets betekenende over en overdaad De eersten zullen eindelijk weer eens de laatsten zijn sinds bij die ene klassiek geworden omloop de eersten per ongeluk waren blijven hangen in catatonische staat

Het eerste stuk sinds een stukje geleden de eerste die sinds de regel is geschreven die regel niet heeft overtreden Het is de eerste noot sinds de vorige gelijkgestemde is gespeeld de eerste groep sinds een andere groep verdween in een enorm lange diepe rotsspleet de eerste zin sinds jaren die net zo als de zee woelig kan baren de eerste mens sinds eeuwen hopsend op de maan de eerste gewonnen set sinds de eerste set op de tennisbaan de eerste sinds een maand die aan de gevolgen ervan het leven heeft opgegeven de eerste keer sinds een poosje terug dat de aarde heftig is gaan bewegen een reeks aan eerder vastgestelde records aan de lopende band gebroken een serie voor het eerst sinds tien opgenomen afleveringen wat langer dan gewoonlijk onderbroken de meest tijdloze tijdverspilling gevangen in een zin sinds het oorspronkelijk begin is degene verantwoordelijk voor het verzinnen van de lam gevleugelde uitspraak 'De eerste sinds'

My Love called me while on his daily walk. He is miles away so an unexpected phone call in the middle of my day—what an underrated and sacred gesture. We get to speak daily, but we don’t hug or touch at all. So any point of connecting in the present, in the same moment, brings about waves of gratitude. He is full of life and I love everything about him. I heard cars tires screech against the asphalt, and he said that there was some sort of getaway-car-chase scene happening. Then I pointed out that somehow, whenever I’m listening to him whether it’s a call or our voice notes, I seem to get a taste of the America that the media shows to the rest of the world.

Chaos and such scenes, are always finding him—but maybe it’s because, we each call upon and even, welcome that energy? That neither of us are afraid of it?

Anyway, I’m obsessed with him. It’s not a secret. I was also speaking to a friend over the weekend, that that’s how you find longevity in partnership. Find someone you can be sustainably obsessed with, who is equally obsessed with you. Healthily obsessed with? I’m here, and he’s there, but we are fundamentally connected. For the first time in my love life, I feel a very calm bond with someone. The connectedness. The magnetism of connection beyond the physical, that it is hard to describe. True and pure connection. I believe our meditation has something to do with it but maybe it’s also because in the philosophies, studies, teachings I/we follow, the world and things are less separate—there is more spaciousness and in that spaciousness, love is the guiding force and principle. And if love is the guiding force and principle, you always invite it to the moment. Even when it’s one of those moodier days. Even if you’re shaken by life happening and things are going haywire and wayward, when you leave a little gap for love—there is a lightness to things, and the moment can be filled with more ease.

Suffering in duality. It seems that part of being human, means that we have to first feel the pain of duality in the physical world. To be in the mud. Even how the body was structured has dualism and disparity/disjointedness. To be feeling your body in the mud. Perhaps we have to be aware of that first, before we can learn to recognize and be aware of the love that unifies, and the joy in all things.

#writing #tarot #love #daily #braindump

Hørte jeg riktig på Politisk kvarter i morges, Nils August Andresen? Du vil ikke fordømme “Den store utskiftningen”? Teorien som inspirerte Anders Behring Breivik til å begå det verste terrorangrepet i norsk historie?

“Den store utskiftningen” er altså en ekstremt farlig konspirasjonsteori som går ut på at vestlige eliter (les: venstresida) har en agenda om å bytte ut befolkningen med innvandrere, helst muslimer, og utslette den “hvite rase” og kristendom. Denne store løgnen leder til terror, vold og i ytterste konsekvens etnisk rensing og folkemord.

Ytre høyre over hele vesten har omfavnet etnisk rensing under det nye slagordet “remigrasjon”, og i USA implementeres allerede denne politikken av de maskerte bøllene i ICE, via et brutalt system av interneringsleirer i og utenfor USA. På kort tid har Trump-regjeringen bygd opp et system som ville få arkitektene bak Sovjets GULAG til å nikke anerkjennende.

I bunn ligger altså de gamle, store løgnene, om at menneskeheten består av raser, at de må holdes rene, og at den hvite rase er under akutt trussel. De samme løgnene som har ledet til noen av menneskehetens verste orgier av vold og statlig undertrykkelse, og i norsk sammenheng: verste terrorangrep.

Når vestlige poiltikere lefler med disse tankene, for eksempel når Jimmie Åkesson snakker om at det pågår et “folkutbyte” i Sverige (et utsagn han aldri har dementert), eller når tyske AFD åpent argumenterer for “remigrasjon”, så må alarmklokkene gå i alle politiske leire. Også Minerva. Eller kanskje særlig Minerva.

Vi blir alle satt på prøve i møte med fascismens tilbakekomst i vesten, og høyresiden blir satt på den hardeste prøven. I dag morges strøk Andresen på denne prøven. I stedet for klar tale, kom mumling og bortforklaringer, og en vag oppfordring til å “møte bekymringene med politikk”.

Ærlig talt Nils August: hvor går grensen her? Hvis “bekymringen” er en absurd konspirasjonsteori uten rot i virkeligheten, skal man virkelig komme den i møte? I så fall: hvordan? Dette bør særlig aktører på høyresida være i stand til å svare på.

Het voetbal, de fans en hun Opperhoofd

Kabel tv, kleine criminaliteit, watersnood, de derde dinsdag van September, betonrot en God Ze maken het voetbal kapot Ze maken het voetbal kapot Het leek onkreukbaar, in elk stadia een schitterend feest de stadia in verval, het wordt nooit meer zo fijn als het is geweest Marketing strategie, winstanalyse, uitlaatgassen, een scheur in de wc pot en God ze maken het voetbal kapot Ze maken het voetbal kapot Herstructurering, bestuurswisseling, rode en gele kaarten, energie centrales en God Leverworst, matennaaiers, ribbelchips, castratie, honger, dorst en God Ze maken het voetbal Kapot o ze maken het voetbal kapot Kapot voetbal is lang niet zo leuk als heel dat valt op omdat iedereen zich er omheen onnoemlijk verveeld de speaker zingt rond en roept om'nom'om waren we maar twee, of meer, samen spelende hondjes dan konden we op dit kort gemaaide perkje blij dartelen in dolle rondjes helaas, helaas, onder andere door het smadelijk lot is het voetbal kapot van de ene op de andere dag is het voetbal kapot ik weet niet meer waar ik naar moet kijken mijn blik moet naar binnen uitwijken het voetbal is stuk het is naar zijn mallemoer niks meer van over in gruzzelementen alleen nog maar goedaardig kijkvertier voor zeer zwaar dementen kippekracht, fabriekspijpen, kinderkopjes, kopieerapparaten, printers en God ze maken het voetbal kapot ze maken het voetbal kapot o het leven is zo intens zwaar nu we onze energie niet meer kunnen dumpen in dat altaar het is voorbij met de pret diepe programmeer gaten op elk uitsturend net onaangename situaties, bijwerkingen, hard gelach, kleefpasta, suiker en God repelsteeltje, kuiertochtjes, hardnekkige nekklachten, insubordinatie en God ze maken het voetbal kapot allemaal ze maken het voetbal kapot ze maken het voetbal kapot gedaan met tussen de lijnen draven we moeten de dode spelmomenten begraven nooit meer ploeteren tegen degradatie onbeduidend onderdeeltje zijn in de totale orkestratie nooit meer onterecht of terecht buitenspel ik word spontaan onwel er zit eigenlijk geen leven meer in ik begin me steeds vaker af te vragen wat ik hier doe en wie ik ben O zeer competititieve altijd alles woeker winnende God waarom moest het voetbal er eerst komen en daarna weer kaaaaapot?!

J and I planned to hang out today, and we ended up trying to re-create poster boy for five hours on FL studio. Honestly, I’m pretty proud with what we made even though it’s nowhere near Accurate enough to pass, but I actually learned a lot while making it. I actually really enjoyed that, and I could see myself fucking around with more music stuff, especially if I have a friend to do it with.

J’ai longtemps cru que l’amour grandissait à mesure que les frontières disparaissaient. Plus nous partagions, plus nous nous appartenions. Aimer, c’était mêler les jours, les corps, les projets, les peurs, jusqu’à ne plus savoir exactement où finissait ma vie et où commençait celle de l’autre. Je ne savais pas encore que deux êtres peuvent se rapprocher au point de ne plus savoir lequel souffre, ni lequel doit guérir pour que l’autre puisse respirer. Je croyais que cette confusion était l’aboutissement de l’amour. Elle n’en était que le premier mouvement.

Ce mouvement n’avait rien de faux ni de honteux. C’est souvent ainsi que l’amour entre en nous. Il ne demande pas une chambre. Il occupe peu à peu toute la maison. Notre identité s’agrandit réellement autour de la personne aimée. Nous empruntons ses goûts, ses gestes, ses habitudes. Ses projets déplacent les nôtres. Son regard finit par participer à la manière dont nous nous regardons. Le « je » ne disparaît pas soudainement. Il apprend simplement à parler au pluriel, puis oublie parfois la langue qu’il parlait avant.

Avec les années, la personne aimée devient aussi une accumulation de rôles. Elle n’est plus seulement une femme. Elle devient l’épouse, la mère, l’alliée, la mémoire, la gardienne de l’histoire et le témoin de celui que j’ai été. Et moi, je ne suis plus seulement un homme. Je deviens le mari, le père, celui qui protège, qui construit, qui maintient le récit debout. Nous finissons par aimer une maison entière à travers un seul visage. Nous confions à une seule relation le poids de notre passé, la sécurité de notre présent et la forme de notre avenir. Aucun être humain ne peut porter éternellement autant de murs sans qu’un jour quelque chose se fissure.

La fusion ne consiste donc pas seulement à ressentir très fort. Elle consiste à répartir entre deux personnes des fonctions devenues indispensables. Je demande à l’autre de calmer ma peur, de confirmer ma valeur, de certifier mes souvenirs, de donner un sens à mes sacrifices. Une limite ressemble alors à un abandon. Un désaccord paraît menacer le corps commun. Une distance devient une trahison avant même que la trahison existe. Nous disons tellement « nous » que le simple fait de redevenir « je » finit par ressembler à une faute.

Lorsque la trahison arrive, elle ne brise donc pas uniquement la confiance. Elle rend inhabitable l’endroit où j’avais déposé une partie de mon identité. La personne qui devait garantir la sécurité du monde devient celle par qui le danger entre. Le cerveau cherche alors désespérément à rapprocher deux visages devenus incompatibles. Celui qui fut connu, familier, parfois tendre. Et celui qui a pu dissimuler, abandonner, blesser ou réécrire. C’est pour cela que la pensée tourne. Elle ne tourne pas toujours parce qu’elle espère encore. Elle tourne parce qu’elle tente de reconstruire un monde cohérent.

J’ai longtemps cru qu’une explication exacte produirait une réparation exacte. J’ai interrogé les souvenirs comme on fouille des décombres pour retrouver le plan de la maison. Mais comprendre ne remonte pas le temps. Certaines conduites possèdent des raisons sans posséder d’excuse. Certaines contradictions ne se résolvent pas. Elles doivent seulement trouver une place suffisamment juste pour ne plus occuper toute la pièce.

Le passage commence là. Non lorsque la douleur disparaît, mais lorsque je cesse d’exiger du passé qu’il devienne enfin autre chose que ce qu’il fut. J’accepte que la même personne ait pu aimer et blesser, protéger et abandonner, bâtir et détruire. Je n’ai plus besoin d’en faire un ange pour préserver ce que j’ai aimé, ni un démon pour préserver ma colère. Je peux tenir ensemble sa lumière et sa capacité de nuire sans transformer l’une en excuse pour l’autre. Voir un être dans sa totalité n’est pas l’acquitter. C’est renoncer à mutiler le réel pour rendre mon histoire plus simple.

Je commence alors à retirer à l’autre les rôles immenses que je lui avais confiés. Je ne lui demande plus de garantir ma valeur, de confirmer mes souvenirs, de rendre justice à mon histoire ou d’assurer mon avenir. Derrière l’épouse, la mère, l’alliée et la gardienne du récit réapparaît une personne séparée de moi, avec ses blessures, ses choix, ses peurs et sa responsabilité. Et tandis qu’elle redevient une personne, je redeviens moi aussi quelqu’un. Pas la moitié abandonnée d’un couple. Pas seulement le père d’une famille déplacée. Pas seulement celui à qui cela est arrivé. Je recommence à habiter en moi.

On appelle parfois cela se “différencier”. Humainement parlant, c’est rester profondément relié sans abandonner son centre. C’est pouvoir reconnaître ce que l’autre ressent sans devoir l’adopter. Entendre sa version sans effacer la mienne. Supporter le désaccord sans le confondre avec un abandon. Ressentir une émotion sans lui céder la direction de toute ma vie. Dire non sans avoir besoin de fabriquer de la haine pour tenir debout.

Ce n’est pas devenir froid. C’est devenir assez entier pour que la proximité ne réclame plus ma disparition. L’autonomie véritable ne consiste pas à ne plus avoir besoin de personne. Elle consiste à pouvoir avoir besoin de quelqu’un sans lui demander de devenir notre seule source d’air. Un lien sûr n’est pas celui qui empêche de partir. C’est celui dans lequel personne n’a besoin de s’effacer pour pouvoir rester.

Le corps apprend cela plus lentement que l’esprit. Il lui faut du temps pour comprendre qu’une distance peut protéger sans abandonner, qu’une porte fermée n’est pas toujours une punition, que l’absence de réconciliation ne transforme pas nécessairement l’amour passé en mensonge. Peu à peu, le système d’alarme se calme. Non parce que le monde est redevenu sans danger, mais parce que je ne demande plus à une autre personne d’en garantir seule la sécurité.

Admettre la trahison prend alors un sens nouveau. Ce n’est pas la rendre acceptable. C’est reconnaître qu’elle appartient désormais au réel et qu’elle n’en sortira plus. L’acceptation s’incline devant le fait, pas devant son auteur. Le pardon désarme progressivement la vengeance, mais ne blanchit pas l’acte. La confiance concerne l’avenir. Elle ne se donne pas en récompense d’une belle parole. Elle se reconstruit, lorsqu’elle peut l’être, à partir de gestes cohérents, répétés et observables. La réconciliation, enfin, n’est pas un mouvement solitaire du cœur. Elle est une œuvre commune. Elle demande deux vérités, deux responsabilités et deux volontés.

Je peux donc accepter sans pardonner encore. Pardonner sans refaire confiance. Comprendre sans absoudre. Aimer sans revenir. Je peux cesser de souhaiter que l’autre souffre sans lui rendre le pouvoir de me faire souffrir à nouveau. Ce ne sont pas des contradictions. Ce sont les séparations nécessaires que la fusion m’empêchait autrefois de concevoir.

J’ai longtemps pensé qu’un amour véritable devait tout accueillir. Je comprends maintenant que le sentiment et l’accès ne sont pas une seule chose. Le sentiment peut conserver une part inconditionnelle parce qu’il appartient à mon histoire, à ce que j’ai vécu, à tout ce que cette relation a déposé en moi. Mais l’accès à ma vie, à mon intimité et à ma confiance ne peut pas être inconditionnel. Il dépend du respect, de la sécurité et des actes. Je peux garder une tendresse pour ce qui fut sans rendre les clés de ce qui demeure. Je peux souhaiter la paix à quelqu’un sans lui confier la mienne.

Une limite n’est pas une vengeance. Elle est la conséquence par laquelle la réalité se protège. Pardonner sans réparation peut devenir une manière de s’abandonner encore. Si aucun geste ne rencontre le pardon, si aucun changement ne suit la blessure, la bonté finit parfois par enseigner que tout peut recommencer sans véritable conséquence. Ce n’est plus de l’amour. C’est un être humain qui disparaît à l’intérieur de sa propre capacité à comprendre.

La limite n’est donc pas l’endroit où l’amour meurt. Elle est l’endroit où chacun recommence à exister. Elle ne dit pas toujours : « Je ne t’aime plus. » Elle dit parfois : « Je compte désormais parmi les êtres que mon amour doit protéger. » La douleur de l’autre mérite parfois d’être entendue, mais elle ne lui donne plus le droit d’envahir la mienne. Ses peurs peuvent expliquer certains gestes, mais elles ne peuvent pas exiger que je me livre de nouveau au même danger.

Ce qui reste de l’amour ne m’ordonne plus de revenir. Il m’apprend comment je veux vivre. Il passe dans mes tentatives incessantes de protéger sans posséder, de parler sans détruire, de ne pas transmettre la blessure à mes enfants, de conserver ma dignité sans piétiner celle de l’autre. Il devient moins une revendication adressée à quelqu’un qu’une qualité de présence dont je reste responsable. Il ne cherche plus à obtenir. Il cherche à ne pas se trahir lui même.

Ce dernier amour est moins spectaculaire que le premier. Il ne promet plus de sauver le monde à deux. Il accepte que deux mondes puissent se rencontrer, se transformer profondément, puis demeurer distincts. Il sait que la proximité n’abolit jamais entièrement la solitude de chacun. Il s’approche sans conquérir. Il se retire sans punir. Il offre sans se sacrifier pour prouver sa profondeur. Sa douceur n’est plus une faiblesse. Elle est une force qui n’a plus besoin de crier.

Sous la peur, je peux encore vouloir fusionner, contrôler, comprendre jusqu’à l’épuisement. Ce passage n’est pas un diplôme que l’on obtient une fois pour toutes. C’est une manière de revenir chaque jour à soi sans renier le lien. Un exercice discret par lequel je rends à l’autre son humanité et à moi la mienne.

Je peux désormais laisser deux vérités habiter la même histoire. Ce qui a été aimé fut réel. Ce qui a été détruit l’est aussi. Je n’ai pas besoin de salir tout le passé pour protéger le présent. Je n’ai pas davantage besoin d’effacer la trahison pour préserver ce qui fut beau. L’amour devient assez vaste pour contenir la contradiction et assez précis pour ne plus la confondre avec une permission.

Il se peut que ce soit cela, le dernier passage. Ne plus avoir besoin de haïr pour savoir dire non. Ne plus devoir nier l’amour pour protéger ma dignité. Ne plus prendre le retour de la tendresse pour une obligation de revenir.

L’amour demeure, mais désormais, moi aussi.