Full Writing

The Heart of Life

Full Writing, Ours

One word or image that has recurred over and over again is that of heart, from little emojis to songs to book titles. The Latin word is cor which, I think, gets at its inner meaning, the core or inmost centre of ourselves or of anything. Following this same direction, theologian Karl Rahner speaks of heart as well as the centre of unity in a person from which all that is within the person flows and to which all is gathered back into that unity. It is a unity that is a fullness rather than an onliness.

We have previously quoted Eva Rockett who, in a Homemakers article, says that beautiful music is able to reach behind all our defences and touch the core of the condensed self. We have also spoken of that core self as the home place, surrounded by other layers of the self. Anything that is able to reach behind those layers and reach the centre is something that touches the heart, that, so to speak, hits home to us.

In Greek mythology, arrows which reach the heart are associated with Artemis, Apollo, and Eros or Cupid. Artemis is associated with birth and death, with the protection and hunting of nature; Apollo with sickness and healing; and Eros with love. If we try to integrate these elements, they suggest to me that these are experiences which touch us at the core. Birth and death mark the beginning and end of our lives. Once when I gave a talk to hospital staff, and an elderly nun who was also a retired nurse told me how she witnessed the death of an old man in the morning and the birth of a child in the afternoon, and how the feeling level of both experiences was uncannily similar. It strikes me that in both cases the preciousness and precariousness of life were felt at once in their inseparability.

As protector and hunter, the myth of Artemis indicates how are lives are lived out within a context of nature, a natural universe of which we are a part, and which can be at once the source of food that sustains our life and beauty that gives it meaning. Yet it can also be threatening, whether in the fury of a storm or the predatory character of some animals. Once again we experience both the preciousness and the precariousness of life. These too are reflected in the arrows of Apollo which can confer both sickness and healing. A Modern counterpart is found in the words of scientist, Carl Sagan: “For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.”

The myth of Eros and Psyche indicate that it is love which can hold all things together. The Latin name for Eros is Cupid, whose arrows of love, are often portrayed today in a sentimental and surface way. In a more fundamental sense, the arrows that pierce to the deepest heart or core of a person are those of love. The Greek word psyche can be translated not only as mind, soul, or life, but also as butterfly, which is a perennial image of transformation. It suggests that it is love which can most thoroughly transform a person and the meaning which they experience in their lives.

In our perspective, to love is to see and respond to the sacred beauty of another person and its reflection in oneself. It is to see and respond to the sacred worth of self and other, which does neither deny nor does it stop at the wounds, insecurities, or hostilities of self or other, but sees a sacred identity that is deeper than and beyond these frailties. In the story of Psyche, as in the folk tale, Beauty and the Beast, this kind of love is not blind but seeing, and involves a difficult journey to all the hidden recesses of the self, followed by a transforming awakening to a genuine love.

Along similar lines, one translation of the Jewish Song of Solomon, the lover says to the beloved, “You have wounded my heart.” This too is an indication of a love that reaches to and from the inmost core of the person.

It is fascinating that the word creed is so often taken as an expression of a set of beliefs held by the mind. The Latin root comes from two words cor and do, meaning heart and give. Your creed in this sense is what you give your heart to. It is that to which you entrust your self and your life; what you consider worthy of the gift of your whole self, your whole life; what is the foundation of your life and its meaning.

This is the lesson of the story of Rumpelstiltzkin, which comes out in one line of the story said by the dwarf who can spin straw into gold but lacks a child to love. “Something living is more precious than all the gold in the world.” It is echoed in the words of King Oedipus: “One little word can change all pain: that word is love.”

Albert Einstein says something similar in his letter to his daughter. “There is an extremely powerful force that … includes and governs all others. ..This universal force is LOVE. … This force explains everything and gives meaning to life. … When we learn to give and receive this universal energy, …we will have affirmed that love conquers all, is able to transcend everything and anything, because love is the quintessence of life.” In a similar vein, Eva Cassidy sings beautifully a song whose title is I Know You by Heart.

Finally, we may conclude with a similar teaching from the story of King Midas, as it emerged in a retelling from a conversation with my six-year-old godson.

King Midas and the Foolish Wish 

King Midas was a kind but not very wise man. He had always been a friend of the satyrs. These were part human and part horse, and companions to Dionysus, the god of wine and strong feelings. One satyr was found sleeping in the king’s flower bed, but Midas did not punish him.
Dionysus was grateful and granted Midas a wish. Without thinking, King Midas wished that everything he touched would turn to gold. He thought that this gift would make him the richest person on earth.
But when he tried to eat something, the food turned to gold and he could not eat. He was afraid that he would starve to death. While he was sitting worried and hungry, his beloved daughter came and gave him a hug, and she too turned to gold.
Midas was terribly upset and begged Dionysus to undo the wish. Dionysus granted his new wish. He was able to eat and drink again and hug his daughter.
Midas was beginning to learn that life itself and the food that keeps us alive is more important than gold. He also began to realize that love is what makes life wonderful, and that no amount of gold or wealth matters as much as love. The two greatest gifts are life itself and the love that makes life so worthwhile.

May you more and more be in touch with your heart, your inmost core, recognize its sacred worth, and live more and more from that centre.

Norman King, November 7, 2021

Listening from the Heart

Full Writing, Ours

Last week, we spoke of compassion as offering to one another not advice, answers, or a defensive wall, but a caring and safe place, a largely silent and listening presence, empty of our own clutter. The poet Rumi says: “Some human beings are safe havens. Be companions with them.”

As suggested by the Greek and Hebrew roots, compassion means feeling in our guts, our womb, and so the listening involved is a listening from that same inmost place. As the Rule of St. Benedict puts it, it is listening with the ears of the heart.

David Steindl Rast, at once a Christian and Buddhist monk, brings out that the word “obedience “ comes from the Latin that means to listen deeply. It does not mean doing what one is told, but listening, that is tuning in to the meaning of our lives in the present moment. The opposite is “absurdity” whose Latin source connotes being totally deaf, unable or unwilling to tune in to that meaning.

The challenge then is to listen from our inmost core, both to ourselves and to one another. Such listening requires silence. Silence can be at first somewhat unnerving. We may readily opt for noise to drown out, to deafen our own inner voice or the voice of another. Conversations can sometimes be less a matter of communication than a trading of surface words. They can be empty not of our clutter but of our presence. Rumi puts it concretely: “Now silence. Let soul speak inside spoken things.”

I have said before that an image I have is of our core self around which are layers of hurt and fear and hostility and superficiality. As long as we live mainly in these layers, we are away from our real home, and do not have a felt sense of our own sacredness. We will feel forever restless, and almost always on the defensive or on the attack. Perhaps a first and continuous step is to recognize that having feelings does not mean that these feelings need to be unleashed on others or used to name ourselves. As we’ve noted from writer Sharon Salzberg, it may be best to regard them as visitors who are not to be given the run of the house.

Within that framework, such feelings may not be threatening when we allow them to come to the surface of our awareness in times of silence. And we may come to sense, within and beneath that silence, our real home, our true and sacred self. As we listen to ourselves in this way, and become more at home with who we truly are, we are more and more able to speak and act from that place of home. One way of putting it is to say that our truest words come, not from our noise, but from our silence. They come not from our hurt or fear or hostility, but from our heart, from the sacred core of who we are. It was said of writer Thomas Merton, for example, that when he spoke he did not break the silence, but gave it voice.

There is a film, Through a Glass Darkly, by Swedish director, Ingmar Bergman, which portrays difficult family relationships, marked by a lack of communication. Towards the end of the film, the father does actually speak from the heart to his adolescent son. With a sense of wonder and gratitude, the profoundly moved son simply says, “Papa talked to me.”

Psychologist Erich Fromm says that love involves such communication in depth, and that its real essence is not what is talked about, but where it is spoken from.
Love is possible only if two persons communicate with each other from the center of their existence, hence if each one         of them experiences himself or herself from the center of their existence. Only in this “central experience” is human             reality, only here is aliveness, only here is the basis for love. Love, experienced thus, is a constant challenge; it is not a         resting place, but a moving, growing, working together; even whether there is harmony or conflict, joy or sadness, is             secondary to the fundamental fact that two people experience themselves from the essence of their existence, that                they are one with each other by being one with themselves, rather than by fleeing from themselves. There is only one             proof for the presence of love: the depth of the relationship, and the aliveness and strength in each person concerned;         this is the fruit by which love is recognized.

If we are able to listen to our own sacred worth, we are able to hear that worth in others as well. The practice of silence is one pathway. So too is open conversation within a situation where trust and vulnerability are possible. So too is beautiful music that, in the words of previously quoted writer, Eva Rockett, is able to reach behind our defences and touch the core of the condensed self. Stories can do so as well, such as those by Margaret Laurence, which expose the whole range of human feelings and foibles, yet also unveil the sacred self beneath them.

May you come more and more to listen with the ears of the heart and to hear your own sacredness and that of others, which gradually fills you with a sense of gratitude that flows into compassion and generosity of sprit.

Norman King, November 01, 2021

Compassion for Self and Others

Full Writing, Ours, Uncategorized

There was a CBC program quite a few years ago, in the Ideas series, that was called The World of the Child. One of the many speakers was educator, John Holt. His comments still resonate with me.
I think the social virtues are overflowing, they are surplus. People have enough kindness for others when they have              enough kindness for themselves–otherwise not. … My very strong feeling is that if children are allowed a growing up            which enables them to become adults with a strong sense of their own dignity and competence and worth, they will              extend these feelings to include other people.

The key thought here, one that strikes me both as profoundly true and equally difficult to reaize, is that kindness to oneself is a precondition for kindness to others and that a sense of our own worth is a precondition for a sense of the worth of others.

We perhaps think more readily of kindness and compassion as something directed towards others more than, and even rather than, towards ourselves. It seems to Holt that kindness towards others is an overflow from kindness to ourselves or else it is absent. I agree and would like to try explain it by speaking first of compassion as a caring space around the pain of another–and ourselves, and seeing the alternative as a wall around ourselves behind which we hide and from which we attack others as a kind of sniper.

When someone brings their pain to us (or vice versa), the best we can offer is not advice, answers, or a defensive wall, but a caring space, a safe place, a place of compassion, a space that is empty, so to speak, rather than filled with our own “clutter.” This largely silent and listening presence allows another to be where and how they are, without defence or pretence. If our own compassion has been stretched far enough by the joy and sorrow of our life, then we can, in some limited way, offer a space of compassion around the pain of another, that makes real to them, that there is something vaster than their suffering, and that this sorrow need not take away all their meaning and hope, even though it still may feel that way.

One personal memory that comes to mind here, from a slightly different angle, is the two and a half weeks, I was able to spend with my mother, at the end of her life. She found very difficult the time between when she had concluded her life, so to speak, and when she actually died. there was nothing I could “do,” except to “be” there, which I sensed was better than not being there. Later it struck me that the basic gift we have to offer one another is precisely our presence (which comes from the Latin words “being-there”), and that any gifts, skills, and actions do not replace but only build on that presence.

But to have that uncluttered but caring space to offer, we need to become free of the need to defend or justify ourselves or to attack someone perceived as a threat. This is something most of us can probably manage only on occasion We may perhaps best consider this as a direction to move towards, a place at which we may never fully or consistently arrive. To the extent that we feel insecure or threatened, or in a situation that appears in some sense dangerous, we need to build protective walls around ourselves. These walls become ever higher as we feel the need to hide behind them. They readily become a fortress from which to attack others. And they seem in the end to become a prison that entraps us.

The only way out, it seems, is to have a sense that our sacred worth is something that goes with who we are and not with what we achieve or possess, all of which can be lost in an instant. As Holt suggests, it may well require that someone see the sacred worth in us and treat us accordingly, especially as children, before we can come to see and feel it in ourselves. This is not to deny that there are situations in which trust and openness are not possible or advisable. It is to say that they are possible only when we are moving towards a sense of our own worth as intrinsic, as going with our very existence, as something we are, and so as something that we cannot lose but only lose sight of, or fail to realize in a way that is deeply felt.

To the extent that we do have that sense of sacred worth, we are able–in appropriate situations–to be without walls of defence or offence, and to have an empty space around us, a caring space, a home space, where others can enter and remain and leave, without being imprisoned or rejected but accepted.

Henri Nouwen, a writer who speaks of personal growth as rooted in sacred worth notes that the Greek word for compassion means to feel in your guts, and the Hebrew word means to feel in your womb. In both cases, it means to sense in your deepest centre. To be compassionate to another is to feel something of their pain in our own guts, which implies an openness to let it enter safely and without barriers.

Other writers, such as Sharon Salzberg and Wayne Muller, stress repeatedly as we noted last week that there is some measure of suffering in every human life, that life sometimes just hurts. And so all of us need some compassion, including compassion for ourselves. To achieve such compassion for ourselves and gradually extending beyond ourselves to others can be a slow and difficult process. The usual practices of reflective reading or podcasts, moderate exercise, healthy diet, conversations with friends, some outreach activity and the like, can be helpful.

Perhaps also helpful is the recognition that life sometimes hurts and that to feel sad or hurt or other painful feelings, are part of life, that they are not something to blame ourselves for, and do not detract from our sacred worth. A nineteenth century cleric, John Vianney, commented that suffering passes but having suffering does not. I think his thought is echoed in the Oedipus plays and the writings of Viktor Frankl, that these sorrows can be a source of inner strength and wisdom. It seems, however, that this is a process that occurs only over a period of time, and perhaps with the support of intelligently caring others. To recall again favourite words from Henri Nouwen: the true friend is not the person with the answers, but the one who sticks it out with you when there are no answers.

May each of you discover more and more a profound and enduring compassion for yourselves, and one that gradually radiates to all who come within the circle of your light.

October 24, 2021

Wisdom from Sorrow and Joy

Full Writing, Ours
The past five weeks, I have had the privilege of teaching a class on Greek Mythology. This experience followed several months spent with a five-year old friend who became totally immersed in these stories and with whom we explored many ways of looking at them. Revisiting these ancient stories, with their many layers and rich imagery and symbolism, was a profoundly moving and enlightening experience. We came to see that the many gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, and the vast array of stories about them were expressions of real forces of nature and real feelings in people, and of the many kinds of energy that flowed within and from them.
Hestia and Hermes together, for example, expressed at once the need for a home, a place to feel safe and cared for, and also the need to move beyond where we are now, to cross boundaries of thought and feeling and activity. The perilous journey of Odysseus, paralleled by the largely untold journey of Penelope, his wife, suggested that it was really an inner journey. In the words of Dag Hammarskjold in Markings, this is the longest journey, the journey to the core of one’s being. It makes possible, in the word of the poet Rilke, “the love that consists of two solitudes that protect, border, and greet each other.”
In looking at these stories through the lens of the sacred worth of the person (and actually of all that is), which implies an equality, mutuality, and interdependence, one theme especially emerged for me: there can be much suffering, great and small, in a person’s life, but this suffering need not be permanently destructive. It need not take away the meaning of our lives, but can, over time, and with the help of one another be the source of inner strength and wisdom.
The prolonged and seeming endless time of pandemic has, for many, occasioned a weariness of spirit, an undercurrent of continuing irritability, a sense of enforced isolation, and even a tension with those with whom we may have become even closer. As we listen to or watch radio or television, we may find strong feelings of impatience, annoyance, or anger at those who seem to us to have uninformed, wrong, and hurtful opinions. The uncertainty of the future, not just for ourselves, but for younger generations, may also weigh heavily upon us. We may also have an uneasy sense that our own difficulties seem somewhat small when compared to the overwhelming hardships faced by many on our fragile planet.
In the midst of all these events, I have been struck by an underlying theme that seems to run through all the ancient Greek stories, whether men like Oedipus or Odysseus, or women like Penelope or Psyche. It is the theme of wisdom through suffering that flowers in love, echoed in the words of Oedipus: “Love can transform all pain.” That theme if find echoes in more recent authors, such as Rainer Maria Rilke, Viktor Frankl., Sharon Salzberg, Wayne Muller, and so many others.
Sharon Salzberg, who co-founded the Insight Meditation Centre, suggests that we recognize the whole variety of feelings, including the more difficult ones, and allow them to be there. At the same time, we can regard them as visitors, and not let them have the run of the house or see our identity in them. She writes “It’s because of visiting forces that we suffer. … greed, hatred, jealousy, fear. They’re not inherently, intrinsically who we are, but they visit. And they may visit a lot, they may visit nearly incessantly, but they’re still only visiting.“ She often says that some things just hurt and there is no denying that fact of life. As a result, she says that we need  to have compassion for ourselves rather than judging ourselves–or others–so harshly.
Wayne Muller adds that suffering blows either as a gentle breeze or as a strong wind through our lives; that is, either in a lesser or greater degree. It is important to recognize the hurt, and to allow ourselves to feel it in a safe place, either by ourselves or with a caring other. Then he says that it can be a resource for growth rather than a paralyzing force. Viktor Frankl, even out of his horrendous concentration camp experiences, says that meaning can be found in the midst of unavoidable suffering. Rilke adds a similar theme. He writes that even our sadness, uneasiness, pain, or depression may well be accomplishing something in us that we do not yet realize. Frankl also recalls experiencing the beauty of a sunset and thoughts of his beloved wife and the surge of inner joy they brought.
There are many joyful experiences, large or small that can evoke a thankfulness in us that counters our sadness. Theologian Karl Rahner observes that if suffering and anxiety call into question the meaning of our lives then the experience of joy, truth hope, and all the positive things in life give a yes answer to the question of meaning.
Daniel McGuire says we “see the bird in flight, the rose in bloom, the infant blessing us with smiles,” and “the complexities and the beauties of our setting,” and reflect that “there is more to this than meets the eye..”
In sum, the little everyday experiences that occasion a smile, or call forth a tinge of gratitude in our hearts, or lift our spirits, can remind us that life is a precious gift. They instill the conviction that it is worthwhile to be alive even if it sometimes hurts.
May all of you experience today and every day moments of joy and  gratitude that lighten your heart, deepen your compassion, and bring hope to those with whom you are in touch.

Norman King, October 18, 2021

Reinterpreting Ancient Stories and Our Own Life Story

Full Writing, Ours

In renewing my study of Greek mythology, I tried to discern the experience behind the stories, the basic life questions they raise, the answers found in these ancient tales, and the continuing light they shed on our current life situations. At the same time, I tried to look at them through the lens of the sacred worth of the person, the fundamental equality of human beings, and the perspective that the outer events portrayed are inseparably a projection of inner events. The long journey of Odysseus back to his home in Ithaca, for example, is essentially a story of his inner journey to his most authentic self, his inner home. He is then able to share that home with his wife, Penelope, who has made that same inner journey in solitude as well.

The story of the Athenians’ choice of Athene over Poseidon as patron of their city, for example. reflects the priority of wisdom over power. There is a recognition of the raw power of the sea, of rampant vegetation, and of the wild horse. Yet preference is given to the ships that sail the sea, the cultivated olive grove, and the tamed horse one rides. A similar choice is reflected in the resolution of conflicts by jury rather than vendetta, that is, by reasoned decision rather than violent destruction.

The story of Oedipus, echoed somewhat in Shakespeare’s King Lear, reflects a profound transition in the understanding of power, wisdom, and love. It occurs as a result of his passage from successful king to suffering exile. Initially, reflecting a view of power as domination, he is provoked to violence and kills the person who turns out to be his birth father. He next solves the riddle of the sphinx, which asks what has four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening. The answer is a human being at three stages of life. This is an illustration of Oedipus’ cleverness, yet also of his failure to grasp its deeper meaning, which points to the brevity and fragility of life. Finally, he is made king and receives its queen as a reward, so to speak, an example of love as possession. When the painful truth of the situation is unveiled he loses all royal authority and goes into exile, blind and physically week, In wrestling with his tragic situation and the suffering it entails, he comes to an inner strength and wisdom, and his last words to his daughters expresses his realization of a deeper sense of love. He proclaims his great love for his daughters and tells them that such love can change all pain.

A reinterpretation of the story of Narcissus helps to shed further light on a renewed vision of power, wisdom and love. After running from closeness to another, Narcissus discovers an image of himself as lovable, as one who is capable of giving and receiving love. If we translate this story as a dawning awareness of the intrinsic worth or value of the person, we may have a starting point for a new interpretation.

In this perspective, wisdom becomes a profound experiential conviction of the worth of each human person, and, in some way of the whole universe. Power becomes empowering not domination. Based upon the recognition of the worth of the person, it becomes the capacity to bring something to life, to summon the growth and fulfillment of the person, not the unreal need to put something to death in that person. Love is transformed from the attempted possession of a person to a genuine concern for their well-being that befits their intrinsic worth.

Last week, we referred to Howard Thurman who calls us to listen for the sound of the genuine in ourselves, which Thomas Merton calls the true self, which the Quakers describe as the inner light, and which Wayne Muller calls the song deeply within ourselves. This, I believe, is the voice of our own sacred worth. Thurman goes on to invite us to listen as well for the sound of the genuine in others. Then our hope is to have others listen to the sound of the genuine in us. When this opening occurs, there is a mutual, respectful encounter, which enables and summons both or vulnerability and our security. Finally, Thurman holds that we may come to hear the same music, the same sound of the genuine flowing through all that is, through everything. The starting point, the foundation, appears to be, a gradual awakening to our own sacred worth, as did Narcissus, though sometimes with great pain, as did Oedipus. It may be aided by the caring of others, or hindered by their indifference or even hostility. It can be fostered by the world around us and the experience that the universe is friendly. It may be clung to when it is not felt or when our feelings push us toward self-rejection. All of these may be the crack that lets the light in, and gradually lets the light of our own sacredness shine beyond all barriers.

When these ancient stories are reflected upon beneath their surface words and images, they perhaps echo the challenge of the German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke in his Letters to a Young Poet: “Go within yourself and probe the depth from which your life springs.” And: “Always trust your own feeling. …Then slowly and with time the natural growth of your inner life will bring you to fuller awareness.”

May each of you discover and hear and appreciate the sound, the song, of the genuine within yourselves, and within others, and may you learn to sing its melody more and more in your everyday life.

Please visit our website: www.touchingthespirit.ca
Norman King, October 10, 2021

 

“The Sound of the Genuine.”

Full Writing, Ours
After last week’s reflection on solitude, I came across words of poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, and educator Howard Thurman that really resonated with me.
These are the words of Rilke
“Love your solitude and bear the pain of it without self-pity. … Be glad that you are growing, and realize that you cannot take anyone with you; be gentle with those who stay behind. … Love life in a form that is not your own, and be kind to all the people who are afraid of their aloneness.”
He seems to be saying that we must learn to follow our own path, a path that is largely discerned in the silence and solitude. At the same time, respect and kindness to others is also an inseparable responsibility. It recalls undercurrents in the Greek myths of Echo and Medusa, which stress that is essential to find our own vision and voice, and not simply parrot the voice of others or have our own inner voice denied. The story of Narcissus reminds us that a necessary dimension of this challenge is to discover an image of ourselves as lovable and able to love.
Howard Thurman was also an author and civil rights leader who played a leading role in many social justice movements. He held that inner transformation is the basis of positive social change. Here is the quotation I came across.
“There is something in every one of you that waits, listens, for the sound of the genuine in yourself. It is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will never find whatever it is for which you are searching. … The sound of the genuine is flowing through you, … Cultivate the discipline of listening to sound of the genuine within yourself. … Sometimes there is so much traffic going on in your mind … and you are buffeted by these, and in the midst of all of this you have got to finds out what your name is.”
The sound of the genuine appears to be the voice of our inmost deepest and sacred self, a self that remains and echoes within us throughout our lives, even if it can sometimes be muffled and drowned out by many noises from the society around us, that can hook into our tendency to superficiality, fear, hostility, or indifference.
Author Kathleen Norris tells of her experiment with children in an elementary school inviting them first to make noise and then to make silence, and afterwards to write down their response. While their comments on noise were largely cliches, their descriptions of silence were much more imaginative and profound. In one instance a young girl wrote: “Silence reminds me to take my soul with me wherever I go.” Without the self-awareness that comes from solitude, we may easily forget to take our soul, our genuine and true self, with us, and leave it behind in our work, our relationships, or our social involvements.
Spiritual writer Thomas Merton speaks extensively of what he calls the true self and the challenge of going beyond the false self, which seems to be the self that leaves its soul behind. For Merton,  this is a passage from the surface of life, fed by illusions, fear, and hostility,  to its inner depth and meaning, nourished by truth and love. The false self is the part of us that keeps forever busy on the surface of life, views its self as an isolated unit in competition with everyone else, and identifies blindly with the slogans of its nation or culture.  This is reminiscent of J. Afred  Prufock in the poem by T. S. Eliot. Out of fear and inability to communicate, he measures out his life in coffee spoons.
Merton insists that we are more than our possessions, our rivalries, and our social role; we are more than our surface wants, our fears, or our hostilities.  Rather there is in everyone a secret beauty in the depths of their hearts, in the core of their reality.  At the centre of our being, he says, there is a point of pure truth, like a pure diamond. He is speaking here of what we have called the sacred worth of each human being, as a unique person, who yet shares a common humanity that may be expressed in an enriching diversity. For Merton, that sacred core remains as at once and always as a gift and a call, even if we fail to discern, acknowledge, or honour that worth in self or others.
To tune in to the voice of our true self and our sacred worth is, I believe, what Howard Thurman means by listening for the sound of the genuine in ourselves, and what the child means by taking our soul with us wherever we go. It is reminiscent of a comment of Jane Ripley  who has said that what is important is not so much what we say or sing as where we speak or sing from.
What initially might seem as coming from the opposite direction, but amounts to the same reality, is expressed in the famous line from Leonard Cohen’s song Anthem: There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Oscar Wilde’s story, The Selfish Giant, tells of the giant who builds a wall around his house and garden to keep everyone out, and finds that it is always winter Then a crack appears in the wall and the children creep in, and it is once again springtime. The walls we build around our self are like the walls of what Merton calls our false self. They prevent new life from entering in. But if we live behind these walls and live from them, we also fail to be in touch with and live from our own true self. We become homeless, away from the true home of our inner sacred core. They prevent our light from getting out.

Once again, we see the importance of a sense of worth, uncovered and affirmed in solitude and friendship, which frees us to be attuned to that sacredness, and more and more to learn to live from our genuineness.

May you come more and more to listen to the sound of the genuine in yourself–and in others. And may you take your soul with you wherever you go. 

Norman King, October 04, 2021

A Few Thoughts on Solitude

Full Writing, Ours

In preparing the Greek mythology class, as well as readings from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke and other reflections, the theme of solitude has come up many times.

In the story of Odysseus and Penelope, they are separated for many years because of his involvement in the Trojan war. On his long journey home, he hears the beautiful singing of the sirens, barely escapes from the Cyclopes, is invited to stay and become immortal by Calypso, is washed up on the island of Phaeacia where he hears his life sung for him at a banquet, and finally returns to his wife Penelope. During his absence Penelope has been showing the same heroic qualities of inner strength as she weaves out a solitary life and relies on her intelligence and wit to protect her home from those who would invade it.

From a certain perspective, what seems to be involved here is a struggle on the part of both Penelope and Odysseus that takes place for each in solitude. In this struggle they come to recognize their limits and mortality as well as their deeper longings. From this hard won wisdom, they are now capable of a profound love for each other which gives meaning to their lives.

In a very similar way, Rilke writes: “Your inner solitude will be a support and a home to you. It will be the starting point of all your journeys.” He suggests that this solitude can be a source of profound awareness: “Go into yourself and probe the depths from which your life springs.” Elsewhere he writes: “Slowly and with time the natural growth of your inner life will bring you to fuller awareness.” From this solitude can arise a profound love: “the love that consists of two solitudes which border, protect, and great each other.”

Solitude differs from loneliness. Loneliness can be described as a felt absence and isolation that is unwelcome. This sense of isolation has been made more difficult and painful as a result of the prolonged pandemic which often evokes an irritability and weariness of soul.

Solitude, distinct from loneliness, is a time of quietness by ourselves. It may be initially uncomfortable, but if we are able to be immersed in life with awareness and openness, that time in our own company can be a time to reflect on our life, our experiences, our relationships, our place in society. One example that comes to mind is the difference between being alone by oneself in an unfamiliar and somewhat cold hotel room, and being by oneself in a home that knows or has known the presence of people with whom we have shared our lives. One place tastes of absence and the other of presence.

We are each a unique person, and there are no carbon copies of any of us. We are also quite complex, with a vast variety of backgrounds, life-situations, experiences, reactions, thoughts, feelings, and much more. We are to a considerable extent a puzzle, a question, a mystery to ourselves, as well as to one another. Solitude, time spent quietly by oneself, is a way to journey to and get in touch with our inmost self. This dawning awareness may come from reading something reflective, going for a walk at dawn or twilight, spending time in a natural setting, listening to music, or engaging in some form of meditation. This need not be seen as a probing into oneself from without with a kind of psychological pliers.. It can be simply allowing what is within to arise, hopefully in a gentle way, to the surface of our awareness. As an example, if we go to a pond and stir up the bottom with a stick, everything becomes murky and cloudy. But if we and the water become perfectly still, the water becomes clear and what is at the bottom can be seen.

Part of this process is to allow our feelings to arise in a safe place for us and we may find that one feeling dissolves and another emerges. What is helpful is to recognize that all of us share the whole range of human feelings from sadness to joy, from anger to compassion. It is also important to recognize that while we have such feelings we do not either have to deny them to ourselves or unleash them on others. We can simply notice them and let them be, somewhat as we would notice a cloud floating by.

Sometimes we may find it to difficult to sit quietly by ourselves. Then it can be helpful to be with a caring other person with whom we may discover our own feelings through conversation in a context of trustworthiness and trust. Or we may share these feelings with another whom we can trust..

If we try to spend some quiet time by ourselves, we may at first feel uncomfortable. We may recognize that we are in fact living most of the time in what we could call our hurt or fear or angry town. I think that these are part of all our experiences. At the same time, we may also gradually be aware of something in us that is deeper than all of these feelings. It is who we are beneath and beyond and more than these. We may also sense that this is a place of sacredness and worth, even if we are not often there. And it is our real home.

We might say that we are truly free when we are at home to our inmost self and can then be truly at home to and even a home for one another. In the words of Rilke, to discover a “ love that consists of two solitudes which border, protect, and great each other.”

May your loneliness turn into a solitude in which you discover your true self and its sacred worth May you find your true home within yourselves and live there and from there. May you become more and more a home for those near to you and a place of compassion for others.

Norman King

Remembering What Is Essential

Full Writing, Ours

We have spoken lately of the importance of being in touch with and naming our own deepest experience, especially through images and stories. Stories of real depth, like the ancient mythologies, can also be approached from many angles, perhaps most helpfully through the lens of our sacred worth.

This past week, I began teaching a five week course on Greek Mythology. Besides looking at their original context, we can ask what these stories look like through the inclusive lens of the sacred worth of each human being and of all that is. From that perspective, we can also ask what their wrestling with basic life issues can offer to us today.

Sam Keen, a writer mentioned before, says that every mythology tries to answer in story form basic life questions. These concern our search for meaning in our lives, for a sense of identity and worth, a sense of purpose and belonging. He suggests that, instead of taking their answers, we try to uncover their questions. Then we can ask these questions of our own life story. Some of the questions he suggests are these. Where did I come from? With whom do I belong? What is the purpose of my life, my vision? Whom should I imitate? Who are the heroes and heroines? Who are the villains? Why is there evil in the world? Who are my helpers, guides, allies?

He adds that we have inherited a life-script, a story, a mythology from our family, education, culture, religion, and the like. The challenge is to sift through this inheritance and decide what to keep, what to refine, and what to discard. In his words: “The task of a life is to exchange the unconscious myth with a conscious autobiography.”

I would add that the challenge is to see as clearly and truthfully and deeply as possible, to see with the eyes of the heart. This is the difficult challenge to learn to see beyond our childhood scripts, our fears, our insecurities, our hostilities, our judgments. We may recognize that earlier images of ourselves and of the script we have been following are not an irreversible fate or a lifelong prison sentence but, to some extent at least, are optional and open to change. With the help of caring others, we may gradually come to look at ourselves, and others, and life itself, with a sense of our own worth and with eyes of compassion.

An example of a change of vision is offered by author, Stephen Covey. He tells the story of sitting on a subway when a man with four young children enters. The children are acting up and creating somewhat of a disturbance around them. With what he believes is restraint, he suggests to the father that he might do something to control his children. The father replies that he believes that is so, but that he does not know what to do since they have just left the hospital where their mother died an hour ago. Immediately Stephen’s response is transformed to one of compassion because he sees the situation differently.

An example from Greek mythology is the story of the sirens. These are creatures who sing so beautifully that whenever sailors are passing, they are irresistibly drawn to the island of the sirens. In so doing, their ships strike reefs and they perish. One approach sees this as a tragic tale which says that our life is over before we get to experience fully its beauty.

Yet we can ask if it there is another angle of vision that may see it differently. Perhaps its enduring lesson is that it is essential to experience beauty in our lives. Along the same line, the Muses (from which we get our word music), are part of the makeup of the universe and therefore necessary to our lives. Whether it is the beauty of music or of a starry night or of the conversation with a friend, these are essential to a meaningful life. We are more than a human having or a human doing, but are a human being. We need in our life things that are for their own sake and not just a means to something else.

I recall one evening class in which an elderly women told of a fire in her house which destroyed the house itself and all its contents. As she and her husband stood outside and watched with a tear-filled sadness, her husband said to her that it would be alright because they still had each other. Amid such a tragic loss, something deeper remained.

In a similar vein, after the death of his mother and his own flight from Nazi persecution as a teenager, social theologian Gregory Baum recalls that he sought a vision of life that could outlast tragedy. This is a way of looking at life that takes into account both its joys and sorrows, yet retains an underlying sense of hope in its lasting meaning. Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl offered a similar perspective in the light of his own experience in a concentration camp.

Of course, story and music and friendship, and other things in life that are for their own sake, can fill us with the conviction of meaning. Ethicist Daniel McGuire has expressed it: “People see the bird in flight, the rose in bloom, the infant blessing us with smiles,” and they proclaim: ‘There is more to this than meets the eye.’‘ In simple terms, there is a central line from the story, The Little Prince: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Experiences and stories such as these can enlighten and heal us. They may assist in transforming the pain of the past into a resource for the present and future.

May you more and more discover and experience deeply the music of your soul, the bonds of friendship, a life-giving script, and all else that is essential and of lasting value in your lives.

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Norman King, September 19, 2021