Previous Guest

Keith Wilson (he/him)

Keith joined Momma on November 13, 2023 live on Twitch to talk about The Art of Finding Peace and Reconciliation

About Keith

Keith Wilson is a psychotherapist in private practice in Rochester, NY with more than 35 years of experience. He's the author of The Road to Reconciliation: A Comprehensive Guide to Peace When Relationships Go Bad, How to Make an Apology You’ll Never Have to Make Again, and Constructive Conflict: Building Something Good Out of All Those Arguments. He also wrote three novels and innumerable articles on mental health, addiction, and relationships in the online platform, Medium. 

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References / Things Mentioned During the Stream

Episode Summary

Embark on a journey of self-discovery and relationship mastery in this episode, perfect for anyone craving insights on navigating life's conflicts with grace, finding peace in chaos, and adding a dash of creativity to the art of reconciliation. Tune in, because even tacos fall apart, but the wisdom shared here is bound to keep your spirits together!

Key Takeaways:

In this insightful episode of Even Tacos Fall Apart, MommaFoxFire engages in a thought-provoking conversation with therapist and author Keith Wilson, exploring the nuanced topic of "The Art of Finding Peace and Reconciliation." Throughout the interview, they emphasize the importance of navigating conflicts, offering genuine apologies, fostering creativity, and recognizing the significance of connection.

Conflicts are acknowledged as natural components of relationships, with the potential to spur personal and relational growth if handled effectively. Keith emphasizes strategies for conflict resolution, such as summarizing the other person's perspective and implementing breaks when emotions intensify. Genuine apologies are characterized as IOUs for making amends, requiring subsequent actions to repair and strengthen relationships.

Establishing a system for resolving conflicts is deemed crucial, along with the ability to distinguish between healthy and detrimental conflicts. The importance of taking concrete actions to change behavior and repair relationships is emphasized as an integral part of making amends. The conversation delves into the intricacies of reconciliation, highlighting the role of creativity in encouraging individuals to find unique solutions and perspectives.

Addressing peace in chaotic environments, Keith emphasizes the need to create a sense of safety and develop escape plans. The discussion broadens to include internal conflicts, urging individuals to understand the origins of negative thoughts and create distance from self-critical voices.

Feedback is a central theme in therapy and personal relationships, and Keith emphasizes its role in fostering open communication and facilitating growth. The reflective eclectic approach to psychotherapy is introduced, emphasizing the importance of drawing from various techniques and focusing on the therapeutic relationship.

The interview touches upon the significance of self-exercises in enhancing personal growth and well-being. Relaxation techniques and active imagination are highlighted as valuable tools. Keith shares a personal anecdote illustrating the impact of simple yet effective exercises, like square breathing, in managing anxiety. Connection is a cornerstone of mental health, and Keith eloquently expresses the interdependency inherent in the human experience. 

This conversation with Keith Wilson provides a comprehensive exploration of the art of finding peace and reconciliation. You will find practical strategies for conflict resolution as you delve into the deeper layers of personal growth, creativity, and the importance of connection in fostering mental well-being.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 

by T. S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo

Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.