My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Misdiagnosing Dialogue
Dialogue is what they called it. They were, they said, exchanging points of view. It was nothing of the sort. It was the shutting off or out of what each other might say. No sooner were words spoken than they were countered, rejected, contradicted, condemned, denied, or made to mean something else. One side could not listen. The other would not see. The gap widened. Alienation was born, and flourished. They had begun with nothing in common, and went on to prove they never could. It was combat rather than sharing, and so while each felt he had won, neither felt he had gained. Surely, they'd given it the wrong name. Dialogue must mean something else.
Labels:
communication,
conflict,
therapy
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