IT NEVER FAILS. I’m playing basketball at the city park, right? I’m having a good time jostling with the guys under the backboard—leaning in a little on the drives. Then, at the end of the game, this big 250-pound lug with bib overalls tries to dunk the ball. He can’t do that, of course, but he gets high enough to grab the rim and hang there like a bloated Christmas bulb. And, naturally, the rim drops about an inch.
The next time it happened, I spoke up.
“Hey!” I barked, “don’t do that.” If I had stopped there, it would have been fine. I didn’t. I decided my demand required a descriptive title to underscore the seriousness of the crime. “Hey! Don’t do that, CLOWN!”
That was a mistake. The joker whipped his head around, peeled back his lips, and made a lewd remark about the legitimacy of my birth. About that time someone suggested we play another game. Because I knew I would be guarding Clarabell, suddenly, “jostling with the guys” lost a large chunk of appeal. So I bowed out, making up some virile excuse, like having to mount a gun rack on my four-wheel-drive pickup truck.
That is one way to deal with conflict—to push back. But “pushing back” almost always escalates the dialogue and aggravates the situation. It becomes a name-calling contest; the person with the most colorful vocabulary or heaviest fist wins.
When I shared those thoughts with a friend recently, he quoted a line from a book by Chris Griscom: “Where there is no resistance, there is no harm.” At first, the statement didn’t make sense to me, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Why, of course, there is safety in letting go. I can resist the 250-pound lug—and possibly have my teeth reshuffled in the transaction—or I can let go, stating my case as an adult if necessary, but avoiding hostility.
Griscom’s statement is in line with an image of civility and tranquility that I’ve been carrying around in my head lately. I call it the “Silent Samurai.”
The “Silent Samurai” is the person who is calm, self-assured, at peace with himself and his surroundings. He is mentally disciplined, physically powerful, and spiritually centered. But he does not need to boast or flex his muscles. He has nothing to prove; he is fully aware of his virtues and shortcomings and, at the same time, acceptant of the condition of others.
The “Silent Samurai” is a mighty warrior; he can move with the quickness of a cat. Still, he seldom strikes. He never swaggers into a saloon and assumes the crane position—wahaaaaa. His inner peace tempers his aggression and dissuades his opponents. When he does act, it is more like a dance. He simply flows with the thrust of his assailant, who tumbles to the ground under his own force.
I would like to be like a “Silent Samurai.” Just think how liberating that would be. No longer would I have to prove my toughness or cleverness or superiority. No longer would I have to “beat up” on people, like some stag asserting my position in the herd.
Perhaps you’re thinking, “Yeah, but sometimes you have to stand up and fight. Otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.”
I agree in part. I do believe you have to stand up for what you value. But I do not believe in fighting.
Let’s replay the incident at the park. I think my best strategy would have been to speak as an adult.
“You know, all of us use this court, and it’s a lot more fun when the rim is level. I, for one, would appreciate it if you didn’t hang on it.”
That is a straight message; there is nothing disparaging about that statement. And most people will respond favorably. But what if he doesn’t? What if he keeps at it?
At that point I need to remember that I am not responsible for his behavior; it is not my job to fix him. Force of any kind—even a threat to call the police—is unlikely to change his style. I think my best choice is simply to walk away. To resist further would only result in harm. That does not make me a pacifist, for a battle is still raging, an inner battle to preserve my personal integrity and dignity. For me, that is the only struggle worth pursuing.
