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The Pictionary Lesson
April 9, 2009
There once was a man who could not love. He could not say the things he wanted to say to the wonderful girlfriend who loved him. He wanted to love her, but he could not say the words. And besides, his feelings seemed to come and go. He just couldn't commit.
One evening he was compelled by the girl who loved him to play Pictionary with some friends. Pictionary is a game, not unlike charades, where one person tries to draw picture clues, while his or her partner tries to guess at the phrase or meaning intended.
The man was a reluctant participant, and he guessed only half-heartedly at his girlfriend's amateurish drawings. Meanwhile, another couple kept winning and winning, and when the man who could not love hinted that there might be some unfair communication going on between them, they offered to swap partners.
The man felt embarrassed and and he realized that perhaps he hadn't been trying hard enough. After all, the winning couple, when trying to guess clues, showed no hesitation in yelling out words and phrases. So he resolved to be less inhibited, and to yell out any ideas that his girlfriend's poor drawings brought to mind, even if they seemed ridiculous.
Well, guess what? He and his girlfriend won!
That night he had a wonderful idea. He began to pantomime his feelings to his girlfriend. But he wasn't much of an actor, and she though he was going nuts. "Go to bed," she said.
The next day he decided he would try again. The next time he would let her know before hand that they were playing a game. "Let's play a game," he said, and she thought the moment was already very special. He began pointing to his chest, and then flapping her wings like a bird, but she couldn't guess it, and so he pretended he was pulling back a bow and arrow, and he let the arrow fly and pantomimed that it went into his heart. Like I said, he wasn't a very good actor. She couldn't get it and he went to bed very frustrated.
But he was determined to try again. Even though his gestures did have the effect upon her he wanted, the acting out was having a pleasant effect upon himself. Even if he couldn't get the words out, and even if she couldn't grasp his meaning, he was sincerely expressing his love for her.
The next night he proposed they again play the game. "We're starting our own little nightly ritual," she said, "how very nice." He let her go first, and she pantomimed the phrase "the cat in the hat." It was a very sexy performance, for she was something of a dancer, and it kindled his trapped feelings for her into an even higher pitch. He realized what he needed was an actual phrase, like hers, to act out. The phrase "I love you" wasn't working very well, judging by his previous attempts -- love seemed to be too abstract. He decided he would act out the song title "You Put a Spell On Me," and it took a long time, but she got it.
He was happy. She didn't seem to notice that he was trying to tell her something, but that night they slept soundly in each other's arms. The next morning he hummed a few bars of his song, and she smiled and gave him a kiss.
For the next several nights they continued their ritualing, and he continued sending up qualiadelic flares in the form of pantomimed song lyrics. This was not lost on his wonderful girlfriend, who finally asked him if there was something he wanted to tell her. He grinned sheepishly, but was mute. He started to flap his arms and point to his heart, and she nodded her head. "It's okay," she said, "if you say it." He looked down. "I just can't," he said.
She loved him very much, and she had pretty good common sense about this love stuff, so the next night during their ritual she made a rule. "You can say anything," she said, "and I will only hold you to it for tonight." That night they skipped the charades, and he told her how wonderful she was. He told her how he thought about her all the time, and how he loved smelling her perfume on his shirts. But he couldn't tell her what he wanted to tell her most of all, because those words felt just too permanent.
Nevertheless they were both very satisfied with the new turn their ritual had taken. Even she recognized that they were moving into uncharted territory, but they were both content to trust their special, set aside nightly moment to guide them. The weren't playing charades much anymore, but all day long, if they were together, they would hum certain song lyrics, or make knowing gestures, and they held hands an awful lot.
During their nightly ritual they laughed and talked and played and sang and acted out whatever antics inspired them at the moment. They made love, too, and throughout the day they when it occurred to them they riffed on the previous evening's qualiadelia.
One day she came home and told him she was pregnant, and he immediately asked her to marry him, with no hesitation at all. They had a charming wedding, and soon after a charming baby. The years went by, and they never stopped setting aside a small amount of time each night to express their feelings, and they naturally included their children, too, who numbered three.
People who knew the family always remarked about how close they were. Old friends often said they never saw a man and woman so in love.
And so the Pictionary lesson teaches us to set aside time each day to express the things we feel. As long as everyone knows that it's a moment set aside for ritualing, we are free to be uninhibited, to play with words, to be foolish or act wise, without censor. We are exploring uncharted territory, in relationships, in business, in creativity. Rituals aren't like contracts, which bind us to our word. But when the word or the gesture works, when everyone starts to appreciate its qualiadelic power, then we repeat it, and the ritual becomes a tradition. A qualiadelic idea like love only becomes real through repeated ritualing. No contract is necessary, because we are creating a world we can believe in.
Be Qualiadelic. Be Conscious. Change the routine.
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