"When we plant a rose seed in the earth, we notice that it is small, but we do not criticize it as "rootless and stemless." We treat it as a seed, gi… - Timothy Gallwey

When we plant a rose seed in the earth, we notice that it is small, but we do not criticize it as “rootless and stemless.” We treat it as a seed, giving it the water and nourishment required of a seed.

Read this simple analogy and see if an alternative to the judging process doesn’t begin to emerge. When we plant a rose seed in the earth, we notice that it is small, but we do not criticize it as “rootless and stemless.” We treat it as a seed, giving it the water and nourishment required of a seed. When it first shoots up out of the earth, we don’t condemn it as immature and underdeveloped; nor do we criticize the buds for not being open when they appear. We stand in wonder at the process taking place and give the plant the care it needs at each stage of its development. The rose is a rose from the time it is a seed to the time it dies. Within it, at all times, it contains its whole potential. It seems to be constantly in the process of change; yet at each state, at each moment, it is perfectly all right as it is. Similarly, the errors we make can be seen as an important part of the developing process. In its process of developing, our tennis game gains a great deal from errors. Even slumps are part of the process. They are not “bad” events, but they seem to endure endlessly as long as we call them bad and identify with them. Like a good gardener who knows when the soil needs alkali and when acid, the competent tennis pro should be able to help the development of your game.

Un juicio negativo de los resultados obtenidos hace que intentemos esforzarnos aún más; una evaluación positiva hace que intentemos obligarnos a seguir por ese mismo camino en el siguiente golpe. Tanto el pensamiento positivo como el negativo inhiben la espontaneidad.

As I look back on the cornerstones of my conditioning, I see to my surprise that the atheist Freud and my religious upbringing were fundamentally in agreement. Both assumed that human nature was basically bad and in need of control from outside. Freud told me I needed “civilization” and not religion. Religion told me I needed obedience to the precepts and laws of its “God.” Both agreed that my desires would get me into trouble. My religion told me I’m bad, but “God” will save me; Freud said I’m “bad” at the core, but “enculturation” will save me. Bottom line: I shouldn’t trust my desire. And if I can’t trust my core desire, is it really possible to trust myself? The answer was no — that which is trustworthy is not you, it is outside of you. All you have that you can trust is your reason, which will dictate that you should follow the social good. But if desire was bad, what was going to fuel my effort to obey reason? The unspoken answer was the same as the answer in childhood — fear. “Be responsible and be productive, or else . . .” Such a fear-based mental construct increases reliance on external sources of control. These external controls become internalized as Self 1 concepts that judge both desire and behavior. As I lose touch with Self 2’s natural instinct and am subject to the various cycles of Self 1 interference, there is a great price to pay in terms of human dignity, enjoyment, expression, and capacity for excellence.