In this book, I am using the word “contingency” to mean “attending to others and responding to what they say.” This definition comes from Attachment theory and is a less common definition compared to the more usual one (“a provision for an unforeseen event or circumstance”). (See: David Wallin, Attachment in Psychotherapy.) Contingency, in this sense, requires listening, but it also requires responding to what was said – not what we imagine or hoped was said, but what was actually said in the present moment. In Attachment theory, we first learn to be contingent by having a partner who responds appropriately to our emotional needs. Contingency implies an adaptable response – a response to the child’s feelings in this moment – rather than a universal response – the same response no matter what.
Sometimes, it is tempting to focus on responding. What’s important, we think, is to say something, anything in response. But if our response is universal rather than adaptable – the same response no matter what – it is full of “I” rather than “you.” Our response, at times, is not really influenced by what the other person said – we say something generic that we might have said to anyone. Or we may divert the topic of conversation toward something that is important to us. For this reason, mere responding (saying something in response to what “you” have said) is not enough. It is important to focus on listening as well as on responding. When we focus on preparing what we are going to say in response, we stop listening.
I’ve mentioned that viewing contingency as a kind of program you can enact – or an idea that’s connected to everything you do – is a fallacy. If you think “I must respond appropriately” whenever you talk to people, it will not help. You can use contingency as a philosophical escape (“I think I’ll contemplate contingency instead of engaging with life’s difficulties”) but that’s probably not what you want. However, contingency as a motivator for exercises (primarily for journaling or therapy about interpersonal relationships) is powerful and helpful. We’ll go into that in the exercises section.
How do you know if you are being contingent? A good way to check is to see if your words and ideas closely match what was said by the other person. Are you talking about the same nouns and verbs that they were, using their language? Or are you talking about something totally different?
Here are seven varieties of response, perhaps roughly in order of decreasing helpfulness or communicative efficacy. The first two are true contingency – an appropriate response that meets the other person’s needs. The others are less and less contingent in this sense. This is not meant to be a complete list of contingent and noncontingent responses – just some examples.
- Explicit contingency.
With explicit contingency, the other person says in words how they feel, and we trust them to accurately convey their thoughts and feelings verbally. For instance, the other person says “I feel like I’m carrying an enormous weight,” and we listen to their words and understand what they’re feeling. On one view, this is the ideal case, because there is less guesswork as to what people mean; but it could also be pointed out that words are always limited. Is their weight a burden of anxiety, sadness, or something else?
- Intuitive contingency.
With intuitive contingency, we can intuitively understand the other person’s zell. For instance, someone might squeeze our hand, indicating reassurance. On the other hand, the squeeze might mean that they feel what we feel. Intuitive contingency assumes that we accurately figure out, intuitively, which of these meanings is the case. The other person’s thoughts and feelings are communicated successfully.
- Ambiguity.
With ambiguity, we can think of multiple interpretations of another person’s zell, or we are confused by their behavior. This is quite common, and it is often difficult to tell if ambiguity is present or not. We may think we understand, but we actually pick up on just one of multiple interpretations. For example, while we’re hiking, someone says “I think we’re on the right track,” but we don’t know if they mean the right hiking trail or the right idea in our conversation.
- Idealization.
With idealization, we intellectually understand how others might be feeling, but we don’t want to view them as a vulnerable or complex person (perhaps because they are a parent figure). If a mentor says “I’m tired of pretending to have it all together,” we may filter out their words because we want them to be strong.
- Alienness.
With alienness, we don’t understand how others think or feel, because they are too different from us. For example, one person enjoys nature, but the other can’t quite understand why they’d care about it. The two people might differ in psychology, politics, personality, or in any number of other ways. Sometimes, we can be alien to ourselves as well – if we feel that we don’t understand why we are doing what we’re doing.
- Danger
With danger, we can relate to others, but doing so is dangerous – it may even threaten our vision of a hospitable and moral world. An example would be if someone fears talking to their friend, since it will unleash a flood of emotions that they’re not prepared to handle..
- Embedding
Embedding, in my sense, means getting caught up in our own mind – in our own model of how others think and feel. There is little exchange of zell. Psychologists sometimes call this the mode of psychic equivalence (e.g. the work of Peter Fonagy) where we take our narratives literally. Another way of putting it is that this is full “story mode” instead of “dereification mode”; we view our mental story as real. For example, if one person feels that another person has been avoiding them, they may make up a whole complex story about why they are avoiding – a story which has little or nothing to do with reality.
A common cause of embedding is projection – that is, assuming that the other person has the same motivations, emotions, or interests that you do. Projection is a major cause of the universality problem that I mentioned earlier. That is, you know a truth, connection, or type of compassion that works for you, and you assume that it works for everyone. A more enlightened version (it might seem) is to project only to a narrower category – perhaps you feel that what works for you will work for everyone of your given type (all introverts or all extroverts). This belief can seem to be more restrained and therefore more helpful, but in fact it can quite easily become even more virulent as it is possible to feel very sure that all introverts think exactly like you, whereas with garden variety projection we may be a bit more cautious.
When contingency doesn’t work (following a pattern of embedding, danger, idealization, alienness, or ambiguity) we are often tempted to search for an underlying cause. Why isn’t someone contingent like we want them to be? Why are we not contingent like others want us to be? These questions can sometimes be helpful, but they can also be a kind of universality – an attempt to explain everything using a single set of ideas.
Trying to explain noncontingency
“Mu” is the answer that un-asks the question. It un-asks the question without even explaining why it is un-asked. In The Gateless Gate, the most famous Zen text, compiled in the 13th century, the following koan (a mystical or paradoxical story) appears as the first one:
“A monk asked Joshu, a Chinese Zen master: “Has a dog Buddha-nature or not?”
Joshu answered: “Mu.””
(The Gateless Gate, Wumen Huikai)
Translation: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Gateless_Gate
The Buddha nature is the potential for sentient beings to become a Buddha, perhaps in a future life. The monk is asking whether a dog has the potential to become a Buddha.
In his book Gödel, Escher, Bach, Douglas Hofstadter explains that Joshu’s word “mu” un-asks the question; Joshu is asserting, perhaps, that the question is not a helpful one, is not meaningful, or that he simply chooses not to get involved in it. In the same way, we may un-ask the question of why someone (ourself or others) is not being contingent. This helps us to avoid being addicted to connection or attention.
Imagine that two friends, Colin and Elise, are talking over lunch. Colin says that there must be something wrong with him, because a third person, Craig, isn’t listening to him. Is it his fault or Craig’s fault? Elise responds with “mu” – un-asking the question. Both of these options (it’s Colin’s fault; it’s Craig’s fault) have too much “I” in them. Blaming Craig is not that different from blaming Colin; one is a consequence of the other. That is, Colin might blame Craig in order to avoid blaming himself.
The significance of the mu-explanation here is that if, like Colin, you do not find yourself (or others) being contingent, it is not always helpful to inquire into why. These inquiries can be a form of Value Addiction to connection or attention, and can buy into self-narratives. (“It’s my fault / it’s not my fault.”) Trying to understand why someone isn’t contingent may sometimes hinder contingency itself. That is, the idea that “they are noncontingent because they’re self-absorbed or uncaring” may be an idea that is incompatible with being contingent oneself.
The theories in this book are not special theories that are exempt from “mu-explanation.” That is, if you find yourself thinking that someone is not being contingent due to terror management theory – the answer could be mu. If you’re asking whether someone is not being contingent because they have a different partial truth than you do – the answer could also be mu. If you’re asking whether they are not contingent because you are not contingent, or because they are addicted to a value, the answer is again mu. The way to figure out how human motivations work is via exercises (such as journaling) not universal ideas.
I’ve found that contemplating categories of people is often aimed at knowing or controlling others in ways that are actually impossible or undesirable to achieve. They push “I” into the space between “I” and “you”, especially if my categories are mine and not yours.
We may, therefore, interpret people as players in our own drama – their purpose is to increase our esteem, our belonging, or our legacy. Categories tell us which people are going to be willing to play the role we want them to play. This kind of person works for “me” and that kind of person doesn’t. We may also feel that by categorizing someone in a certain way, we can “manage” them (i.e. control them) or that we can avoid people like them in the future. My point isn’t that categories are never helpful: it’s good to realize that there are more than one kind of person in the world. That is, if one is an introvert and doesn’t understand that people can be extroverted, then understanding this is very important! Categories can help us get beyond ourselves in that respect. But it’s not always helpful, and it’s good to realize the conditionality of categories.
Categories
Putting people into psychological categories does / does not (mu) explain why I or they struggle with contingency. That is, the answer to whether a given category explains our communication difficulties is likely “mu.” Categories are fun to know a little about; they are a valid partial truth – but it can easily become too much. We can treat categories as though they have universal power or universal applicability.
One problem is that categories can imply that we do not need to attend to what another person is saying here and now, because we think we already understand everything we need to know about them. But connection (in my framework) is based on attending to what another person is saying here and now. Categories can also turn a single action into an indicator of the other person’s permanent state or identity – this is known as the “fundamental attribution error.” That is, a person has one particular behavior; that behavior means they are anxious / avoidant / secure; and we think that means they must have a lot of other behaviors. If introverts are shy and introverts like spending time alone, we may assume that every shy person likes spending time alone, or vice-versa. But it isn’t necessarily the case. Here are some example categories:
Attachment theory
- If I get too close, I’ll lose myself. (Avoidant).
- If I’m not close, I’ll be rejected or forgotten. (Anxious).
- Closeness and distance ebb and flow — the puzzle piece may fit for a while, then it doesn’t. I can adapt without losing myself or others. (Secure).
David Wallin, Attachment in Psychotherapy
Amir Levine and Rachel Heller, Attached: The New Science of Adult Attachment, and How it Can Help You Find – And Keep – Love.
Enneagram
- Perfectionist
- Giver
- Achiever
- Individualist
- Investigator
- Skeptic
- Enthusiast
- Challenger
- Peacemaker
Big Five
- Openness to experience
- Conscientiousness
- Agreeableness
- Extraversion
- Neuroticism
Myers-Briggs
- Introvert / Extrovert
- INtuitive / Sensing
- Thinking / Feeling
- Perceiving / Judging
Love languages
- Quality time
- Words of affirmation
- Gifts
- Physical touch
- Acts of service
Gary Chapman, The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts
Interest categories
- Fiction interest
- Science interest
- Computer interest
- Hobby interest
- People interest
Selves (this book)
- Finds self in one’s nation, group, or family
- Finds self through status / esteem
- Finds self through legacy
- Finds self through safety
- Finding self is conditional; does not overdo the self
Nexus State Theory 