Going to Work Naked: My Journey to Byron Katie (4)
George Orwell
Going to Work Naked: My Journey to Byron Katie
Carol L. Skolnick
Soon it was time for the lunch break. Some people took this opportunity to leave;avoiding the threatened snowstorm, I wondered, or escaping the intensity of The Work? I wasn't sure what was keeping me in the room, myself; I was feeling very fragile.
I went to the lavatory. Katie was on her way out. It was an awkward place to introduce oneself, but she gave me a warm smile and an opening, so I took it. I thought, maybe she is enlightened; an enlightened person wouldn't mind holding court in a restroom.
“Katie, hi, ‘ I said shyly, “I'm Carol. I e-mailed you, and...”
Before I could finish, I was in Katie's arms. I think she asked, “How are you?” first, but there wasn't time to notice because she was rather ardently hugging and kissing me as if I were the most adorable thing she'd ever seen.
To my surprise, the woman had no body. Oh, of course there was a body there, it was embracing me and calling me Sweetheart. But it felt weightless and papery, as if there were nobody home.
“So do you want to sit with me?” she asked warmly, releasing her grip.
“N-now?” I stammered.
“Yes, today, after the break, in the chair,” Katie enthused.
A surprisingly loud “Yes!” flew out of my mouth spontaneously as I fell back against the paper towel dispensers on the wall behind me.
“But – oh my goodness – I wrote to you to say I couldn't do The Work!” “Yes, you can,” she cheerfully reassured me, and before I knew it, she was on to someone else, standing there in the ladies' room giving love.
I didn't feel hungry for lunch after that. I split a sandwich with Curt, who had been sitting next to me during the program. Over our meal, we nervously cracked “Work”jokes. “This is a sandwich, is it true? Can you really know that?” Curt offered me some cookies he'd brought from home. I tasted one. The sugar overwhelmed me. This was most assuredly not like me.
Perhaps I had to be empty in order to receive.
“Maybe everything you've ever done has been for love.”
–Byron Katie, 3/4/01
Afternoon session. I am at once scared and psyched to go up in the chair with Katie.
I've got my Work sheet with its fodder for the four questions all filled out with judgments, my purse-pack of tissues in hand to stanch any tears. I'm ready.
She doesn't call on me. A mother and her teenage daughter go first. At Katie's behest, the girl accompanies her mother to the platform and sits on the floor at Katie's feet.
The mother speaks her judgments directly to her daughter; nice things, not so nice things. “You're beautiful; you don't appreciate me.” The young girl listens, letting the words sink in, responding uniformly, per Katie's instructions, “Thank you.” The child appears unaffected but the mother is visibly changed by the exercise. I'm moved by this exchange; these two are lucky, I think. They have a tool now whereby they can always get to the essence of their relationship, which – despite what they may feel at any given time – is love. I wonder if the girl gets it. I wonder if it matters.
I reflect on my own family. We fought all the time for the love we didn't think we could have, that we didn't think was there for us. Love is not something you can fight for, I realize.
Next, a handsome pony-tailed man vents his anger with the business partner whom he believes cheated him. Katie helps him turn it around, to show him that he can find the motives he ascribes to another within himself.
The man's stern face softens as he comes to see that he – not his partner – needs to change. “You're the one,” is a Katie-ism she repeats often.
You are the source of your own happiness or unhappiness. And
if you think what you want others to do is easy, Katie suggests you try it yourself first.
I can barely listen to the man's piece. I'm getting antsy and angry. I'm thinking, “She invites me to work and then she doesn't call on me. What's that about?” I react like a little kid who's not getting her way:
“Hey, that's mine! But you promised!”
I'm doing The Work where I sit, and I don't yet know it. This is a test that gets me judging and turns me inward where the answers are. Am I supposed to be up there?
When she asked me to sit with her, did she mean something else? Is this whole thing a crock? What am I feeling? Who would I be without this feeling?
This Work is as insidious as my concepts.
When the designer is done, there is time for one more. I've noticed, with the previous hot-seat clients, that there is some competition to get in the chair; one must move quickly. I've never been good at that kind of thing, always last in line, not wanting to be pushy, regretting and resenting it later. Another favorite story: “Carol never gets
what she needs.”
Katie acknowledges in my general direction; I can't tell if she's looking right at me, but desire propels me. I bolt to my feet, as fleet as the wind.
I'm in the chair!
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