It was a potato farmer who first taught me about empathy, and how it is connected to this idea of Attunement.
As a young student, I was impoverished and often hitchhiked – sometimes for long distances. Long distance hitchhiking is not quite the same thing as getting a lift to the next town; there is an art to gauging how far you need to go per ride, and where you need to be dropped off in order to have the best chance of getting picked up again quickly. There was also the question of how to dress, depending on where in the world you were hitchhiking – conservative in some parts of some countries, more like a hippie in others; bright colors in parts of the Andes; military-looking garb in parts of the U.S.; in France, the nicest clothes you could find.
Also, in long distance hitchhiking you had to be careful not just for your safety, but also for your sanity. Eight hours in a car with a stranger could be heaven, or it could be hell.
One night, outside of Denver on my way to California from Boston, a middle-aged man in a black Mercury Cougar picked me up. I was on the Interstate, and had been hoping for a trucker; they had longer routes and a bed in the back where they would sometimes let me sleep while they drove. Because picking up hitchhikers was invariably against their company’s policy – or perhaps because of it – they often were the most interesting rides.
To hitchhike well, you must be alert. Once you’re in a car – as I learned the hard way – it’s hard to get out. From the second someone begins to slow down, you size them up: What do their plates read? How long had it been since they had washed their car? How quickly did they stop?
The next step is to ask how far they are going. Too short a ride would waste time, and end you up in the middle of nowhere with little prospects for your next ride. Also, you are stuck with the driver for the duration.
Not only did black Cougar stop; it backed up to meet me, saving me a 40-yard run to get to the car and signaling that inside was probably an interesting driver. Maybe he was lonely; maybe just considerate; maybe high on speed or cocaine.
A hitchhiker must learn to size up someone quickly while looking in from the passenger-side window before opening the door. As I quickly scanned the car for beer cans or drug paraphernalia (neither bodes well for a good ride), I asked, “How far are you going?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “At least as far as Vegas.”
He was sober. He looked well off. The interior of his car was reasonably clean. He spoke without a drawl, but there was a cowboy hat on the back seat and Merle Haggard was playing softly on the car stereo. I took the ride from the man in the black Cougar.
There is an unwritten rule for hitchhikers: Once you’re in the car, never speak unless you are spoken to. I sat silently for what seemed liked many hours, listening to the same Merle Haggard songs play softly, over and over.
Not a single word was spoken for more than an hour. I tried to doze, but couldn’t. Gradually my mind quieted down as my anxieties and preoccupations began fading. It was then that I noticed that the car was so filled with sadness you could cut it with a knife.
As I became internally quiet and looked silently through the front windshield with him, I felt the sadness in the car begin to seep into me. Finally he spoke – softly.
“Have you ever been hurt by a woman?”
”More times than a few,” I said, looking out the window.
“My wife left me,” he said flatly.
“Ouch.”
“I still love her,” he said after a long pause. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. He was not looking for someone to feel sorry for him. He didn’t want pity. He was bewildered and heartbroken.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She stopped loving me, I guess.” Then, after another pause: “You know, I really don’t know what happened.”
“You can’t make someone love you.”
“No,” he replied. “You can’t make somebody love you.”
Neither of us had looked at each other; instead we kept our eyes on the hauntingly beautiful, moonlit desert landscape in front of us as the miles kept passing by.
He didn’t bring up his wife again for the remainder of the ride. After a long while, he told me he was a potato farmer and that he had just brokered a large corporate deal with McDonald’s to supply the potatoes for their French fries. It turned out he was not just well off; he was rich. He also was intelligent, sensitive and very kind.
For the first time, I began to see him – before, I had barely even looked at him. All the show – the black Cougar, the gold and diamond pinkie ring, the thousand-dollar boots – they were not him at all. He was a decent, hardworking, bewildered, brokenhearted man whose woman didn’t love him back.
We neared Las Vegas at sunrise. He had gone out of his way to drop me off on the other side of town, so I would have no trouble getting my next ride. As I was getting out of the car, the twinkling lights of the casino skyline mingled with the rising sun – gems sparkling at the first intimation of dawn.
He said, “Thank you for what you did for me back there.”
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”
“You were there. Thank you for being there.”
It was then that I understood: Empathy simply means being there. Not judging; not feeling for someone, but feeling with someone.
Later, in my psychiatric training, I would learn that empathy was the most powerful stance of a psychotherapist. Feeling with someone – not analyzing, not dissecting, not probing, but just being with them as they felt their pain. Empathy is a form of Attunement that can never be faked or contrived. It takes no effort.
When we are present in our own being, we are open to seeing – not just looking – at another person, and we naturally fall into empathy. We share the same view of the world, feel the same feelings. By knowing the other in ourselves, we attune ourselves to a shared being with an extraordinary gift called empathy – a manifestation of Attunement in which, as Buddhists would say, there is no giver and no receiver.
Before I left him, he gave me the address of a house in Newport Beach. He said he would call ahead so his house sitters would let me in. I could stay as long as I liked. Food, beverages, laundry, maid service, the pool, the beach, surfboards – all the amenities were mine for as long as I wanted.
He asked if there was anything else I needed. I said no, thanked him, and then watched his car disappear through shimmering waves of hot air from the road leading into that city of forgetfulness.