“Find people with whom you have rapport.” A bear of a man—Liam Rector—declared that to a group of writers I sat amongst two decades ago. It was the introductory meeting for my Master of Fine Arts in poetry, and I have carried that comment with me ever since.
At first glance, my favorite book in the world, The Oxford English Dictionary, fails to capture the meaning of rapport that Liam was after. The initial entry blandly defines rapport as “harmonious accord, close connection.” Nothing special, right?
The second definition swings us to the other end of the spectrum. “A state in which mesmeric action can be exercised by one person on another.” While I don’t necessarily want to surround myself with people who are ever-ready to hypnotize me, the definition elaborates, using words like “fascinate” and “hold spellbound.”
This is what Liam was talking about—those who fascinate, enchant, charm, and delight, but also those who challenge and provoke, in the best sense of those words. What if we surrounded ourselves with those who excite us, who stir us up, who call us on our bullshit in order that we might build our lives in the most authentic and sincere way?
Because we are all cathedrals of the weird, each and every one of us. What we hold inside is beautiful and holy, yes, but since we are human beings, we are also anxious and tender, playful and untethered, confused and complex.
We are taught to suppress all of that. We are told we should keep these roiling, deep selves quiet, contained. We are told no one can ever understand who and how we are. Those shame monsters that some of us might have slithering around our darknesses are so damn easy to believe.
Hence, why Liam’s comment landed so deeply inside of me 20 years ago. Because what he was saying is that if we are all weird (and we are, trust me), if we are all anxious and confused, noble and struggling, all we have to do is find those with whom we can talk about our own vulnerabilities. People who are ready to be fascinated and charmed by our ways of being, those who will hold them with kindness.
This takes time. And courage. And it requires that we make choices that put us in places where we might find those with whom we have rapport. I did it two decades ago with writing.
I did it again last year, when I began my 500-hour yoga teacher training. Our merry little band graduated this past weekend, and those of us who studied together have not only waded through yoga philosophy and sometimes practiced asana for four hours in a row, but we have also shared, cried, laughed, and breathed together. I have matched the rhythm of my breath to these other bodies, and as a result, we have been filled with more life and light.
In a life full of larks and lions, we can hide our true selves in a cave, starving them of a bright and wild life. Or we can step out into the open, and find others who have had the courage to do the same, those with whom we can have rapport. Those who love and support and cheer on our real selves. And if we can brave that, oh how we might sing, roar, and live light.