When I first moved here from the UK I didn't get the bring-a-plate thing. Not only did I not get it, I hated it. The silent speech bubble over my head would read something like "You've invited me for dinner and then you are telling me to bring my own food? What's the matter with you people."
Or words to that effect as I fiddled around at the last minute, throwing something together. It seemed so much easier to do as they do in the UK and take some wine/flowers/chocolate.
So easy. An entirely acceptable social convention that can handily be bought at a bottle store or petrol station on the way to said event.
So, in the beginning, I would bring-a-plate, slightly grudgingly, but aware of the acute social faux pas if I did not. But I simply could not do it in return. It seemed rude beyond belief to ask someone to bring a plate to my thing. "Just bring yourself." I would trill merrily as I worked myself to the bone getting everything prepped.
It was a real cultural block I couldn't get past. It was also a very unequal situation I was perpetuating and I know guests felt guilty or awkward that I refused their help. I could bring a plate for them, but I couldn't ask it for myself. Which brings up the subject of compassion and the equality with which we practice it. I see a lot of people in my coaching room who are burned-out from giving and who are so kind in thought and word and gesture. They know the exact words to pick up those around them. To encourage when needed. To comfort, motivate, soothe. And yet, they do not extend that same compassion to themselves.
