Ay, in the very temple of DelightVeil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongueCan burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
John Keats, Ode on Melancholy
“As a matter
of interest,” announced an Enneagram Four client, “I now
know the difference between depression and melancholy.
Melancholy is a sweet sadness I don’t mind.
Depression is a much darker place, a deeper pit of despair
and hopelessness.”
This level of attention to the nuances of
anguish doesn’t make me uneasy. Indeed, it attracts me. In 2000, I
began an ill-fated love affair that took me to ecstatic highs
and tragic lows. In spite of the great pain I suffered, I always
think of that lost relationship with joy. The reason? I thought I’d experienced the full range of
feelings, and I had. But I hadn’t yet experienced the full
intensity
of feelings,
an intensity that’s now more available to me. I find this to be
especially true when I’m coaching someone with more mercurial moods than typical of my quieter, Enneagram style Nine personality.
It’s easier now for me to establish rapport with clients in pain, to tap into my previous experiences with symphonic overtones and authentically affirm the heartbreak they're enduring.
But something else may happen that I need to attend to – I can sometimes merge so much I begin to lose my objectivity as a coach, showing too much empathy, indulging in the thrill of
feeling what clients are feeling. This won’t help them move from being
stuck in their emotions to becoming effective in the external
world.
Some years
ago I left a workshop with the commitment to “live life
with passion.” After my roller-coaster love affair I renewed
that commitment, but reworded it slightly: “to live my own
life with passion.”
I encourage you to think about what
clients you’re drawn to and why, and to notice when your own personality patterns may help or hinder the coaching relationship.
