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James Knows Understanding …

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I love the podcast 10 Percent Happier... Today, I listened to the latest episode on my commute to work.

It gave me a couple of great reminders for what I am working on, observing around me, and meditating on these days. I am sharing this to document my thoughts, but also for anyone feeling any feels that can relate – or need the reminder (like I do) – because we’re not all perfect, but I really believe we are all out here trying our very best …

In the episode of the podcast, Dan (the host) quotes the great Thích Nhất Hạnh who wisely stated that another word for LOVE is UNDERSTANDING.
In my own limited life experience, understanding has always required more than what we often believe it to be; it isn’t memorization, analysis or categorization – at least not when it comes to human emotion.

Firsly, most importantly, and also one of the most challenging parts of understanding requires only listening (in silence) – to the story (or whatever). I want to say that one shoud avoid judgement, but this is not always natural or reasonable for any human – as much as we’d love to believe we are masters of our minds – we cannot always control the judgemental mind. Judgement is a human thing, it is protective – we develop this skilll of judging and it is useful in many ways otherwise. What we can do when trying to understand, is keep this judgement to ourselves (hence the silence): let it remain in the rumination of the mind until after we experience the being with fully (i.e. listening attentively). Only then can we find enough distance from that judgement that being with the other allows. The truth is, often with a bit of silence and listening comes the space to reflect- and these judgements fall away; replaced by true understanding.

This is love. The will to listen, without an agenda, an aim to fix, or solve, or prove that you know (better)- even if you are an expert on the topic – i.e. you studied, you read, you researched the data .. Human emotion cannot be reduced to data and your experience of it does not make it real or true for anyone else.


True understanding is not about you – It’s about connection, it’s about this love thing…

Understand – the English term, has roots in both Sanskrit and Latin – the prefix references not being beneath (under), but standing with, or among from the Latin comprehendere – to take together, to unite ( com – with, together; pre– before; hender/ghend – to seize with the mind).

It’s about how you can show your connection to the other person (being with). Listening, so you can be with them, hear how it feels for them without speaking, before (pre) letting your mind take over (seizing with the mind) to solve, advise, etc.

No advice is required if we want to validate someone’s experience of pain – or whatever they are sharing. In fact this act (advising – stating your opinion), even when attached to the best of intentions can be invalidating. The other person hears “Your best is not good enough,” “You’re doing it wrong,” “I (know better and) see it this way …” and many other versions of similar invalidating statements. One need only remember their own teenage years to really feel this on a personal level.


As an educator, and a learner – I believe that for the most part, we are all doing our very best and we all learn and grow into better versions of ourselves. So, being there, in the darkness with someone and really believing this – that they are doing the best they can right now, the same way you believe you are doing the same, is enough. No one needs to hear that you understand (in the sense of having been through the same or similar situation), if you don’t. It just feels nice to have someone sit with you so you’re not alone, sometimes.


Being with – is loving, and it requires no work at all, just time and enough courage to keep quiet. In the words of one of my favourite musicians James, sometimes the most understanding of acts is just sitting with someone.

“Those who feel the breath of sadness
Sit down next to me
Those who find they’re touched by madness
Sit down next to me
Those who find themselves ridiculous
Sit down next to me…”

This is true understanding as I see it.

Life lessons from my children

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I grew up in the 80s, when kids who couldn’t pay attention, or sit still, were just plain “badly behaved.” I did not identify with this at all, in my elementary school days; in fact, I did pretty well – I got good grades (not stellar, but not bad, either). I didn’t stand out from the crowd for not being attentive, my parents never had to worry about getting a phone call from a teacher. I was creative! I loved reading – even though I did recognize that I did take a little longer to absorb what I read – and that spilled over into a love of writing poetry and short stories. Language, art and history were my thing; I had an easier time remembering something if it had a story to it. My teachers often commented on my positivity – I was always smiling and happy! When it came to my mood, things just slid off my back – I never was one to hold grudges or take things too seriously.

I trudged along through high school, working part-time, and getting ok grades. I dated boys, and I had amazing teachers that I looked up to. They encouraged me to apply to university, which I did.

This is when I really noticed how different I really was: I took languages and literature and memorizing was just too hard for me, my memory seemed like a sieve. I failed my first year, which was devastated, but I was determined. I learned to borrow notes from my classmates, and compare them with mine – noticing how much I really was missing – then I made better notes. But that wasn’t enough – I learned to live with my weak memory by instead relying on really understanding concepts – and making myself visuals. I struggled to develop skills to deal with my challenges, I was on my own.

I distinctly remember buying a Bescherell grammar and seeing the grammar trees and cognitive maps – and all of a sudden it all made sense! That didn’t help my grades much, but it made me feel better, because I knew I understood the concepts.

After university, I started teaching. My first years of teaching were the most challenging: I just didn’t get how everyone else seemed so organized, and with-it. I was a notorious procrastinator, which made my stress levels double, and my mood often plummeted. I asked colleagues for pointers constantly, and applied some of their strategies, and slowly started to improve my own. I am eternally grateful to those colleagues that were generous enough to share, and I strive to do the same to help others, any chance I get.

Life went on, and those that knew me, knew that I was a creative, passionate person (that was my euphemism for my impulsivity): my mouth and actions sometimes got me into trouble; I seemed to have a hard time controlling impulses – and as an adult, that became more prominent in my relationships. I had bouts of depression and anxiety – largely due to guilt over my impulsive behaviour. The inner dialogue was crushing, at times.

Life went on. I had three beautiful children and continued to live in this same way, until my own children began to have their challenges. They were diagnosed with ADHD, one after the other, in their own time. I struggled at first, to accept this, since it surfaced in different ways in each of them – and this was all new to me. Even being a teacher – knowing and supporting my own students with similar diagnoses – being part of the team that helped to get them diagnosed: I never thought it would be something that showed up in my own family. Hearing my kids talk their challenges and how they coped, began to open my mind, I really began to listen, and saw the connections to my own life experience. I am so appreciative of my kids’ patience with my accepting and understanding what they went through. I accept and acknowledge my lack of insight when they needed it most. I hope I have done better, since.

In my own experience, I saw myself jumping from one interest to another, taking courses, loving them, getting hyper-focused on them, then losing interest as the next shiny thing appeared. I grew up with adults who had one career path and stuck to it until they retired, so I continued to see myself as scattered, and imperfect in so many ways because it seemed that even in my 40s, I didn’t have a career focus.

I finally decided to do a free online Adult ADHD questionnaire, out of curiosity, after hearing our doctors mention that often parents of children with ADHD end up being diagnosed, themselves. Not surprisingly, the questionnaire indicated that I was likely ADHD; it was difficult to be honest with myself in answering, after so many years of making excuses. I made an appointment shortly after, to get diagnosed. I was still skeptical, though: I knew that the diagnosis would offer some relief and explanation – and perhaps a way to seek out more strategies, in a more informed approach – but I feared getting stuck in the box that a label puts you into – I was afraid of the sheer paralysis that this could cause. I knew myself and did not want this to become another excuse not to move forward.

A few things have come to my rescue: my amazing children – they have taught me so much about getting past this, they’ve really been my best teachers – my incredible colleagues, partner, and students, who accept and love my insanity, and my yoga practice. The latter has taught me that I am perfect and whole, just as I am. I’ve learned that this is really an amazing gift. I’m curious and creative and yes, I have many varied interests; I dig deeply into them when it feels right – and I have knowledge in so many different disciplines. I can be a scholar and an artist, and a yogi – I can really have it all! There is no limit.

I’ve stopped feeling ashamed of this label – I have taken back my power over it. I share this with my students and it has been so uplifting seeing them know that I really do understand – I am able to really inspire them to go for it, and not be afraid to do all of things, and to ask for the help they need, when they do. I connect with them on a whole other level when I let my humanity show – and I encourage them to do the same, without shame. They know I have a horrible memory – and they see me adopting my own strategies to cope. They look at me in disbelief when I tell them I am disorganized – and I tell them that it is because they can’t see the years of building my own way of dealing with it and developing strategies. I only hope that they can feel inspired to do the same, and that I can be instrumental in their feeling worthy, and smart, and capable – so that they can avoid falling into the mental health spirals that many others fall into, for lack of support.

I hope that I can be of service to my own children, as I learn with them. My wish is that they see me living my life and recognize that there is hope – I want them to really know that they they are enough, that they are perfect, and whole just as they are. I hope that they feel loved, unconditionally.

What do Yoga, “French Theory,” and Translation have in common?

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Yoga today, in the West, is most popularly associated with thin, young white women, contorting their bodies into pretzel-like shapes. But many who practice, tend to develop an ensuing curiosity about how these practices came to be; they see it as so much more than “exercise.” It is often described as a lifestyle (not a religion), by Western yogis: they often use the Sanskrit yoga terms, and their own travels to the East as markers of legitimacy. Being a yogi myself since my early teens, and having finally committed to completing a teacher training, I have come across some angst among yogis who are well-intention, regarding the possible appropriation of an Eastern philosophy, and it speaks to my translator’s heart.

Translation theory, is weaved into the crossing over of this Eastern philosophy. I will even go so far as to compare it with the crossing over of another philosophy (or group of philosophies), I recently researched: that of “French theory,” or poststructuralism.

The concepts that spread on the American content related to the rise of “French theory” – the ideas of a handful of (originally) French philosophers – actually gained more popularity on this side of the Atlantic, than that which they experienced in France. In France, their ideas were quickly forgotten after the May ’68 era. But on the American continent, they gave rise to concepts that we are still developing and unfolding in their more modern iterations: feminism, postcolonialism, and now giving rise to the new diversity and inclusivity movements, to name only a few.

What most people do not realize is that translation had a powerful hand in all of this: “French theory” is actually non-existent, in France[1]. Those founding French thinkers’ ideas were translated, and the translators were largely responsible for the spread of these ideas in America. They translated them for the American audience, and the American audience interpreted them in a way that served their own socio-political context.[2]

Something interesting happens when ideas are translated. This genre (philosophy, or theory), based on ideas or concepts is a cross between creative writing, which is for the most part, subjective in nature, and more objective non-literary writing, which is as Joshua Price[3] says, is more “pragmatic.” These are the two realms Translation Studies traditionally categorizes texts into: literary and non-literary. When we, as translators, translate philosophical texts we need to bring into our translation process, the creativity of our own minds, and espouse to it, the skill of translating pragmatic texts that are meant to discuss subjects that contribute to a “universal” conversation.

In translation studies, the controversy holds that the resulting translation of a philosophical text cannot be an exact replica, considering the translator’s creative efforts and the impossibility of exactitude in translation, but something new. Translators work quietly in the background, not realizing the power they have in creating these new concepts.

With respect to “French theory,” from time to time, whole scholarly journals and conferences revolve around the discussion of whether or not it even exists, or if the name, “French theory” is appropriate. It is often called poststructuralism or even postmodernism.[4]

So, the question persists: does this mean it is appropriation? This is the question that translation researchers, like me, have grappled with.

One explanation we often come back to is: if philosophy itself, is conceptual work (revolving around ideas), can we really say that ideas belong to a specific person, or group of people? For this is what appropriation means – something has been taken from – which indicates that there is some sort of claim to possession. This is the conclusion I came to in my own research on “French theory” – there is no denying “French theory’s” existence (as some researchers have done[5]), if scholarly journals, papers, conferences, books refer to it by name – how can it be non-existent? Furthermore, it is not appropriation, for the name itself pays homage to the original group of philosophers, acknowledging the origins of the philosophies (or commentary – because many of those original texts were actually commentary on German philosophy, as Alfandary also explains – but that is a whole other discussion) it represents.

I think of yoga philosophy in this same way, it was translated when it came to the West, it could never be a replica of the yoga that exists in its source context. We use the word yoga and its many teachings, along with its Sanskrit references in our yoga classes – not to appropriate the culture, philosophy, or the many practices that yoga entails; but to acknowledge its roots. But many of the concepts related to yoga are present in other ancient Eastern cultures, in fact I can almost guarantee that if you enter a yoga studio in the West, you will likely see on their schedule, some form of yin or yang/yin class: a concept adapted from ancient Chinese Taoist philosophy. This harkens back to the thought of “French theorists” being commentators of German philosophy – only on a different scale. Yogis in the West are often criticized for “cultural appropriation,” from those unaware of what it is they are really doing when they reference Sanskrit names, or lineages; but this is exactly what this is: a reference. No scholar would use the ideas or words of another, without paying this same respect.

In my opinion, we need not to go so far as to memorize all of the Sanskrit names and lineages (although some do), or even adopt scripted acknowledgements; but continue to use the Sanskrit references, when we can, put effort into learning their pronunciation, seek to learn more, listen to those that do know more – that have grown up in these traditions – give credit where it is indeed merited. This is what I will continue to do, just as I continue to reference “French theory” as such.

[1] Angermuller, Johannes. Why There Is No Poststructuralism in France: The Making of an Intellectual Generation. Bloomsbury Academic, Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2015.

[2]Cusset, François. French Theory: How Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze & Co. Transformed the Intellectual Life of the United States. University of Minnesota Press, 2008.

[3] Price, Joshua M. “Translating Social Science: Good versus Bad Utopianism.” Target : International Journal of Translation Studies, vol. 20, no. 2, Benjamins, 2008, pp. 348–64, doi:10.1075/target.20.2.09pri.

[4] It remained only to dub the final package ‘French theory’ (following the appellation that appeared in the second half of the 1970s), “poststructuralism” (for the purposes of intellectual history), or else “French postmodernism,” according to the term most often used by its detractors. (Cusset, 2008, p. 8)

[5] Alfandary, Isabelle. “Pourquoi la « French Theory » n’existe pas.” Palimpsestes, no. 33, Oct. 2019, pp. 214–26. DOI.org (Crossref), doi:10.4000/palimpsestes.4769.