Stop Parenting (eBook)

Twenty of us gather in a hotel conference room in Singer Island, Florida, mostly strangers who smile tentatively at each other as we check in with a young woman named Jamie. Jamie wears funky silver high heels and pale yellow pants that match her hair. Her eyes are a startling, Nordic blue. She hands out journals embossed with the words Inquiry Method. We peel off the cellophane and write our names inside the covers.

We’re all poised to embark on a spiritual renewal retreat called “The Mountain Experience.” Although we’re 682 miles away from the nearest mountain (in Helen, Georgia), the title seems apt. The air crackles with the sort of energy that people must bring to Base Camp on Everest. A heavily tattooed man shifts from side to side, flashing me a warm but anxious smile. A young woman in yoga pants gnaws her thumbnail. I intuit that our weekend will involve some real personal risk, and that the strangers around me are beginning to realize the same thing. I’ve signed up because something tells me that the rewards of gaining some spiritual altitude will be worth it.

Outside our conference room, families in brightly colored swimsuits amble past our window. Parents are loaded down with pool noodles and beach totes, and their children race ahead, eager to test their mettle in the navy blue and turquoise surf. It’s Mother’s Day weekend, but I’ve left my child back home.

Only my guilt is portable.

We’ve gathered to learn from a man named Kyle Mercer. Five minutes with Kyle and it becomes clear that helping others is his true calling. He developed a practice called Inquiry Method and has been working as a professional life coach and running retreats like “The Mountain Experience” for twenty years. Approximately three thousand people have attended his seminars.

I’ve chosen to come to the Mountain Experience for lots of reasons. Despite all of my external markers of success—a meaningful career as a ranked college English professor, marriage with a fellow creative writer and professor named Tom, a beautiful six-year-old son named Charlie, a strong relationship with my parents, terrific friendships, financial security, etc.—I’ve been struggling mightily. In fact, this isn’t the first time I’ve met Kyle in a hotel on Florida’s east coast, despite the fact that neither of us lives here. I live in Naples, Florida, and he lives in Ashland, Oregon. We met nine months ago for an intensive private coaching weekend with my husband Tom, at the suggestion of my friend Diane, a longtime client of Kyle’s who is now a life coach herself. “I just think you could be happier,” Diane said to me. Since then, I’ve been having weekly coaching calls with him. After each one, I wonder how someone can divine so much about me and then provide so much relief from the side of a mountain on the opposite end of the United States.

Kyle makes his entrance and asks us to stand and form a circle. We prepare to receive our first gift from him. It’s a gift none of us knows enough to want before we receive it.

“We’re going to start by creating sanctuary,” Kyle tells us. He asks us to agree to some basic ground rules for our weekend retreat, including that we refrain from drug use and agree not to divulge other people’s secrets after we leave.1We all show him “Yes” by taking a step forward into the circle. Then Kyle gets quiet, and the barometric pressure in the room drops. In calming and centering himself, Kyle models the same way of being for us. We follow him into a deeper level of presence.

Kyle is not a tall man, but he emanates a deep tranquility that makes him seem like a human Sequoia. His dark blue eyes tell me that he has weathered genuine sadness in his life, but also that he has felt plenty of joy. There’s an intelligence and a soulful quality in those eyes, an unusually deep capacity for the acceptance of others. He must spend a fair amount of time walking in the woods in his hometown of Ashland, Oregon, given his tanned skin, his shaved head/ full beard combo, and the grounded, confident way he holds himself in his plaid shirt and jeans. Add to the mix Kyle’s joyful, mischievous, and whole-hearted laughter, and you begin to get a sense of the man.

Kyle holds a Masters in Education that he is quick to disavow. He isn’t heavily laden with diplomas and certifications. Instead, he is more of a modern-day shaman. He’s acquired knowledge from a variety of sources, with a particular emphasis on the Indian Yogic tradition. He intuits the places in need of healing, new strategies, and wisdom. Then he gets to work.

Kyle makes his way slowly around the inside of our circle. He stands in front of each of us and holds our gaze for an extended moment.

“I want to be totally safe for you,” he tells a thirty-one-year-old art teacher from Colorado.

“I won’t hurt you in any way,” he tells a silver-haired plastic surgeon from South Africa.

“I see you,” he tells a former Air Force soldier who currently lives as the stay-at-home mom of toddlers in southeast Florida.

“You don’t have to do anything to earn this,” he tells a single pediatrician from Denver.

“I won’t judge you in any way,” he tells a construction worker from New Jersey. “I won’t gossip about you, or talk about you behind your back.”

“I just want to blow wind in your sails,” he tells a retired dentist from New York.

“I promise not to rescue you,” he tells a physician’s assistant from Oregon who has come with his wife. “I know that you already have everything that you need.”

“I’m just looking for the uniqueness and individuality of who you are,” he tells a female small business owner from North Carolina. “You don’t have to protect yourself. You don’t have to defend.”

By almost every available measure, everyone in the room is an American success story. We have love and friendship in our lives, we have families, we have homes, we have cars, we have earned advanced degrees, we have our health, we have meaningful work, we pursue various interests, and we give back to our communities. The majority of us have chosen professions that involve service to others. We are privileged in that we all have enough money, time, and support in our lives to attend this retreat and stay at this posh seaside resort. Yet by the time Kyle has completed his circle, half of us are crying. I watch the lovely pediatrician from Denver struggle to accept sanctuary from Kyle, her face turning dark red with emotion, and I find myself crying first for her and then for myself. When was the last time anyone ever provided total sanctuary for us, love without any conditions attached? Had we ever received this gift before? And how could something so basic and so nourishing be so rare?

One thing becomes clear: I wish everyone on earth could feel Kyle’s brand of sanctuary, if only for a moment.

In the nine months since we first began talking, Kyle has been helping me shift my perspective on just about every front. In a recent coaching call, I tell him about a struggle I’m having with my son.

“Oh, I see what’s going on,” he says with a laugh. “Quit parenting.”

“What?” I say. “You mean, like, give Charlie up for adoption? But I’ve grown kind of attached to him...”

“No, no, no,” he says. “Just stop parenting.”

Of all the ideas Kyle Mercer has thrown my way, this is by far the most radical. I’m parenting with all of my might, as if my life—and Charlie’s—depends on it. “But ’parent’ is a verb,” I say. “Its synonyms are teach, mold, shape, instill, educate, protect, guide, and sacrifice.” If I no longer approached parenting this way, wouldn’t that make me a bad mother? Wouldn’t Charlie suffer? How on earth could I stop parenting? How could that possibly be a good idea? What would that even look like?

Kyle piques my curiosity. I bring up another parenting struggle during a coaching call. Charlie’s bedtime has become grueling for our whole family, a real horror show. It might have something to do with the fact that I co-slept with him for two years, or that I’m working too much during the day, or that Charlie is beginning to break a little under the strain of all the preventive medical treatment demands we place on him for a condition called cystic fibrosis. Then again, it might just be happening because he’s six years old, and little kids resist bedtime. One night, he’s pitching an epic fit—screaming, crying, scratching himself on the legs, and saying he hates himself. Tom and I grow alarmed.

I rush to soothe Charlie by holding him and telling him that he’s a good boy and has a good heart. He wails in my arms. “How do you know I have a good heart?” he asks. I think about it for a minute, trying to imagine what all the experts call an “age appropriate” answer, and this is what I come up with: “Because Daddy and I made you, and we made your heart, and we put all the best things we could find in it, like rivers and mountains and puppies and rainbows and unicorns.”

When I relate the story to Kyle, I hear a sharp intake of breath.

“What is it?” I say. How could an affirmation of the goodness of my son’s heart be wrong?

“Charlie knows perfectly well that his heart isn’t filled with rainbows and unicorns,” Kyle says.

Kyle gives me additional feedback, but I can’t hear another word. I’m too distressed. I had only meant to help my son. Have I instead done him some irreparable...