My husband and I have a name for ourselves sometimes.
We call ourselves The Quibblers.
Or, on certain days… The Bickersons.
There’s something almost uncanny about it.
We can begin in the same place—
looking at the same situation—
and within minutes, find ourselves
on opposite sides.
Not dramatically.
Not even in a deeply serious way.
Just… different.
Different interpretations.
Different emphases.
Different conclusions.
And what’s most interesting is this:
We’re both sincere.
We’re both making sense.
And we’re both… a little convinced we’re right.
If we catch it early enough, it can even be funny.
Because from the outside, it’s clear: We’re not actually in opposition.
We’re just standing in different places—seeing different parts of the same thing.
There’s an old story about a group of monks
who are asked to describe an elephant.
Each one touches a different part.
One feels the leg and says,
“It is like a tree.”
Another feels the tail and says,
“It is like a rope.”
Another touches the ear and says,
“It is like a fan.”
Another, the side,
“It is like a wall.”
Each one is certain.
Each one is correct— and incomplete.
And as they speak, they begin to argue.
Each is convinced they know what the elephant is.
It’s easy to smile at this story.
And yet… we can recognize ourselves in it.
In our relationships.
In our families.
In the quiet, everyday moments where something small becomes… something more.
We speak from the part we are touching.
What we feel.
What we see.
What makes sense to us.
And without realizing it, something shifts.
From sharing…to persuading.
From curiosity…to certainty.
And in that shift, we can begin to lose something more important than the point we’re trying to make.
We lose the sense of being on the same side.
Over time, I’ve come to see these moments a little differently.
Not as problems to solve…but as invitations.
To pause. To notice.
To remember that what feels complete to me…may only be one part of something larger.
And that the person across from me is not the opposition—but someone holding another part.
This doesn’t mean there aren’t real differences.
Or that everything can be easily resolved.
But it does open a small space.
A space where we can stay in relationship even when we don’t fully agree.
Where we can become curious again.
Where we can listen—not to win, but to understand.
Perhaps this is part of what it means
to live with awareness.
Not to see everything clearly all at once— but to recognize that we are always seeing from somewhere.
And that something larger is trying to come into view.