“Ooo, look Daddy! Bunny!” My two-year-old daughter, Briana, was frenetically pointing, bouncing, and squealing with delight. We were plopped on the couch early one Sunday morning, channel surfing through the too-many options available on cable TV. Sure enough, there was the most adorable little rabbit, hippity-hopping across a meadow. We settled in, just Daddy and Be-Bop (my nickname for her), to relish the spectacle of the delightful furry creature. But no sooner had I placed the remote control down beside me, when the camera panned back to reveal that the frolicking bunny was, in fact, being feverishly pursued by a bloodthirsty fox. Recognizing that catastrophe was imminent, I made a mad reach for the remote, fumbling it in my hands (like Fredo Corleone’s gun in The Godfather). But alas, too late. The doomed bunny’s fate was sealed. We watched on in silent horror as it was dragged mercilessly to the ground.
I felt consumed by empathy and guilt. I had failed to protect my innocent daughter from the cruel brutality of nature. Be-Bop’s eyes welled with anguish and tears. “Daddy, I don’t like this,” she softly whimpered. I was at a loss for words. What’s a parent supposed to offer at a time like this? Some inane fatherly lecture about “the cycle of life?” Though I tried to act calm, my soul ached. All I could eke out was a feeble, “How come, sweetheart?” Her response was simple: “Because it makes my throat dry and my stomach hurt.” (Definitely not the answer I was expecting.)
It wasn’t “I’m sad.” Or, “I’m scared for the bunny.” Or even, “I’m mad at the fox.” Nothing like that. No, she actually was answering my question in the most plain and direct way possible. She didn’t like it because it made her physically feel bad. She didn’t need the label of any particular emotion; the raw physiological sensation was enough to let her know how she felt — which was bad.
In an odd way, it reminded me of how our family dog, Zorro, would pick out his toys to play with. He’d ritually drag out a wicker basket loaded with doggie playthings, then methodically remove them, one at a time. If his verdict was thumbs down (or, I guess, “paws down”), he’d toss it aside. Rubber ring? Nope. Plastic ball? Nah. Pull rope? Negatory. The rite would continue until he came across the one that evidently suited his preference. Squeaky piglet? Aha! That’s the one! Then off he would prance, toy-in-mouth, for hours of bow-wow delight. And each day brought a different choice.
I’d wonder, what on earth was the basis of his selection? After all, it’s just a random assortment of doggie toys, all of which, at different times, he enjoyed playing with. I could only assume that as he was rummaging through his playthings, he was awaiting some kind of inner “Ding!” that prompted his decision. He wasn’t searching simply for a toy; he was searching for a particular feeling — a cue that let him know that this was the “right” toy.
We are all like Zorro. And Briana. How do we conclude if we like or dislike a type of food? Or clothing fashion? Or piece of art? Or music? It starts with a gut feeling (a visceral “yeah!” or “yech!”) that our body conveys to us if it’s pleasant or unpleasant.
Same goes for dating choices. Typically, one is looking for “chemistry,” right? But it’s less about the social chemistry between you and someone else, and more about the actual chemistry within yourself. Like a flutter in your chest. Or a racing pulse. Or a warm glow. Or a certain tingly feeling. “We had chemistry” really means “I felt chemistry.” Likewise, what if you’re left feeling kind of numb? Or drained? Or empty? Or bored? In that instance, “we didn’t have any chemistry” equates to “I felt no chemistry.”
So, how did things turn out with my distraught daughter on that fateful Sunday morning? Fortunately, I was able to salvage the debacle by trying a different tack: “Be-Bop, how about a big scoop of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream covered with sliced bananas and chocolate syrup on a toasted waffle?” Within moments, her body transported her from anguish to ecstasy. Her eyes widened, and she was licking her lips in anticipatory delight. I had my answer…and she didn’t need to utter a single word.
Want to know what you’re feeling about something — or someone? It’s a good idea to start by listening to what your body is trying to tell you. The question, “how are you feeling?” isn’t an intellectual endeavor; it’s literally, “how are you feeling?”