Written by: Safar
I was running my very first workshop. An afternoon mini-seminar on family constellations, at my home, fourteen people. I had prepared carefully.
The first to arrive was a colleague of mine, a woman in her fifties, a well-regarded group therapist from Prague. Let’s call her the Lady.
From the very first minute it was clear this was going to be a different afternoon.
“Safar, I’d like a coffee. With sugar, no milk.” “I’d be happy to make one, but I don’t have sugar at home. I can offer you honey.” “I don’t want honey. I want sugar.”
A little later: “You only have a cloth towel in the bathroom. I have an immunosuppressive condition. I want a paper towel.” I brought a roll of paper towels.
During the workshop: “There’s cold air blowing in here.” It was a hot August afternoon, the air conditioning was running at full blast. I turned it off.
A little later: “The air in here is stuffy.” We took a break. I opened the windows.
And so it went on. One comment after another, one complaint after another. And at the end, during the final sharing, the Lady announced that this had been the worst workshop she had ever experienced. And that the constellation I had facilitated for her had been completely worthless.
When everyone had left, I sank into my chair.
And it began.
Day one: You will never run a workshop again. You are not cut out for this. You failed. You are incompetent.
Day two: You should have stood up for yourself. You should have thrown her out in the middle of the seminar. You are weak.
Day three: What a cow. How is it even possible that people like that exist.
I was not able to get out of it.
Then came about the tenth day.
I was sitting on a train, watching the summer landscape rushing past. A steward came by with a trolley and I ordered a coffee. A cup landed on the small table in front of me, along with a stirrer, a napkin – and two sachets of sugar.
I automatically reached out to hand them back.
And then a thought came to me: Keep them. Collect them. Next time you run a workshop, offer them to your clients.
A small silly thing. But in that moment it was like someone opening a window.
Suddenly I saw the whole workshop differently. Paper towels in the bathroom are actually more hygienic – and more comfortable for clients. Why hadn’t I thought of that myself? Frequent breaks and fresh air? Great for the group’s concentration, a natural rhythm for a workshop. And the Lady with her endless comments? The best preparation for everything unpredictable that can come up when leading a group.
Creativity started flowing. I was filled with relief, energy, euphoria – what people call the joy of life.
And then came the second feeling – barely less intoxicating: How brilliant I am for getting through this. How I have risen above it. How I am better than those who would have stayed stuck in that dark place for much longer.
And right there, on that train, I saw it clearly for the first time.
For ten days my male side had been running at full speed – analysing, judging, defending, attacking. First self-punishment, then the role of victim, then anger. And my female side had curled up in a corner and quietly suffered. Then came the euphoria – and my male side grabbed hold of that too, to show me how special I was.
The pendulum had swung from one extreme to the other – and I flew with it, without even
realising it.
Osho put it precisely:
“When the pendulum is going to the right, in fact it is gathering momentum to go to the left. You cannot get out of the vicious circle by moving to the other extreme, because the other extreme is part of the vicious circle.”
According to him, the only way out of this loop is meditation. And that is my experience too. Not as a technique, but as a way of being – slowly learning to see thoughts and feelings as they arise, without immediately believing them, without identifying with them. The inner male learns to observe his typical patterns. The female too – her own.
About a month after the workshop I opened my inbox.
A registration for another seminar. From the Lady.
First a cold shiver ran through me. Then I realised that this was exactly the moment that matters. To step back out of the outer noise. And watch.
I took my time.
First, the place. A spot in the room that I fully resonated with. I became aware of my body position – straightened up, relaxed my shoulders, moved my head, my arms, swayed gently through my pelvis and knees. I waited for the rhythm. I found it in my breath and in the gentle swaying of my body. Then I connected with my heart – not with my head, not with that voice that wanted either to flee or to take revenge, but with my heart. And only when a natural impulse arose – not a reaction born of fear or ego – did I pick up the phone and dial the number.
“Am I understanding correctly that you have signed up?”
“Yes. And I want to apologise for how I behaved. In front of strangers and in the role of a client I always act very arrogantly – it comes from my own insecurity. I told you it was the worst workshop I had ever experienced. But about ten days later something unexpected happened. The issue I had been working on resolved itself far beyond anything I had hoped for.”
I hung up and sat quietly for a moment.
The pendulum keeps swinging. But I am slowly learning to be the one who watches it – not the one who flies with it.