I have had the story of Orpheus and Eurydice on my mind, and not just because I recently saw Hadestown.
A quick summary: Orpheus’s wife, Eurydice, died of a snakebite. The grieving Orpheus journeyed to the underworld, where he moved everyone with his singing, including the big bosses Hades and Persephone. They permitted him to return with his bride to the land of the living, free and clear, with one condition: he could not look back at her until they both were again above ground.
Easy, right? But Orpheus hadn’t seen Eurydice, hadn’t any confirmation that she was actually following him, except from Hades. And if you trust the word of a Greek god, you might not have read much Greek mythology, since they think nothing of pranking each other, let alone mortals. Orpheus was also quite aware that he had bent the rules in visiting the underworld, but that no living mortal could enter it twice. As he got closer to the exit, his doubts got the better of him. He turned around, where he got a fleeting glimpse of Eurydice before she was whisked back to the infernal realm.
It isn’t likely that many of us will find ourselves in Orpheus’s shoes. Even if we lose a loved one, we probably don’t know the way to the underworld, and our singing chops might not be primo enough to secure a get-out-of-jail pass. But his mistake speaks to a deeper problem in relations in our mortal realm.
That problem is this: sometimes, getting more information about a perceived conflict can make the conflict worse.
For example, someone thinks their supervisor could benefit from some leadership training, so they slip this suggestion into their next conversation. There are a few possibilities here: the supervisor lashes out with anger that someone could even suggest that their leadership is less than stellar; the supervisor slumps down in shame, dismayed that someone else has finally caught on to their (perceived) total lack of substance; the supervisor carefully completes a self-inventory and decides that, yes, they could work on their leadership, and signs up for the training.
I think I have given the possibilities in the order of their relative likelihood, with the last one a distant third.
Or we can take power dynamics out of the equation. One of your friends have stopped returning your texts. You suspect that possibly you did something to upset them, but the act of asking then point blank why they are mad at you could set them off. “Why do you think I’m mad at you,” or “How do you not even know what you did?” could be responses. By asking, you made the issue worse.
You can even take yourself out of the equation. Imagine a group of basically decent people who are having trouble getting along. You might be able to see some patterns that are leading to tensions. But in broaching the topic, you immediately run into the brick wall of defensiveness. What could have been an opportunity to bring people together to build a stronger future becomes a big step backwards.
These examples demonstrate, I hope, the dilemma here. Someone (singular or plural) needs help, and you are perfectly capable of giving it to them, but the act of making a statement or even asking a question makes it less likely that they will get the help they need.
As someone who works in conflict resolution, I must confess that this dilemma comes up more than I would like. So what is the solution?
There are no easy outs here. The key is to weigh the potential benefits of saying something versus the downsides of maintaining the status quo, factoring the consequences if things go sideways. I can make an analogy to gambling here. Skilled poker players can analyze what cards they can see, what they can’t, and the odds of prevailing against the hands that other players might have. When they can get a return on those odds, they stay in the hand. When they can’t, they fold. Likewise, if there is a good probability of a positive resolution, it might make more sense to initiate a conversation than where there is a slender chance, at best, of a good outcome.
And how the conversation is initiated can make a difference. Some people might react well to the direct approach: “I noticed you haven’t been participating in our meetings lately. What’s going on?” Many might react poorly. Others might need a more gentle start to the conversation: “I’m not totally pleased with how things are going. What do you think we can do better?” There is the chance that someone could be totally oblivious here, but in many cases asking a question that gets the other person thinking, rather than reacting defensively, is a good point of departure.
There are tons of reasons not to have that difficult conversation: it’s the wrong time; it’s above your pay grade; they’ll never listen to you, anyway; no one wants to improve. But I’ve found that once people can start honestly talking about what they want from each other—and themselves—they have incredibly productive discussions. Whether it is a large group, a small one, or a pair of people, when they finally get the chance to talk about how to improve their work and relationships, good things happen.
I’m not promising that it is going to be an easy day. I’m certainly not saying that there is no risk involved. To be honest about what we want from others and what we are willing to give them requires opening ourselves up to vulnerabilities, both internal and external. Not everyone is ready for that, not yet.
Thinking back to Orpheus, all of his doubts and insecurities, we understand why he turned around. And we might say that the fool never should have doubted himself. But imagine another myth, one where the self-assured singer actually takes Hades at his word, and waltzes out of the underworld without a care. Orpheus becomes a synonym for slipshod overconfidence. Which is my way of saying that yes, there are consequences for acting, but there are also consequences for not acting.
So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.
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