We spoke last week of a few ways to sustain a sense of sacred self worth, while acknowledging our experiences of weakness, mistakes or failures, and recognizing that we cannot always have that sense of worth at a feeling level. We mentioned in summary that such ways may include attention to breathing, meditation in solitude, the world of nature, kindness to self and others, enduring friendships, and struggles for compassion and justice.

One aspect of this whole process can be expressed by saying that there are many seasons in each person life. In this time of pandemic, there is for many of us, an abiding feeling of weariness and uncertainty and doubt, as well as a sense of isolation and deprivation. This experience so common today can lead us to question our own sacred worth. Henri Nouwen has written that the greatest challenge everyone of us faces is the tendency to self-rejection, though it is often disguised from one another. It contradicts the inner voice that calls us sacred, which he sees as the core truth of our existence.

It may be helpful to think of such difficult times (whether occasioned by the pandemic or other stages or experiences of our life), as a season of our life which will eventually give way to another brighter season. I recently listened to an On Being interview with a Katherine May, who wrote a book called Wintering. She says that “wintering is a metaphor for those phases in our life when we feel frozen out or unable to make the next step, and that can come at any time, in any season, in any weather.”It brings up lots of emotions, such as sadness and failure.

She adds that “the hardest thing to believe when you’re in the midst of that dark place. Is that there is a summer on the other side.”Yet sadness is a part of life and sometimes we need to acknowledge our own sadness and have friends who allow us to be sad without always trying to cheer us up. Such times can be a crucible for transformation, for recuperation and renewal. Taking our cue from the animal world, we can see that there are times of rest that are needed. She mentions that in many children’s books, the winter snow is a time of transition, as for example when the children cross into Narnia.

Wayne Muller writes in a very striking way both about sadness and about the need for rest and renewal, which he calls Sabbath time. He tells of his experience of sadness on a week long silent retreat. He allowed himself to feel this sorrow in a silence that gradually deepened. “And I began to sense something beneath even the sorrow,” he writes. “I could feel a place inside, below all my names, my stories, my injuries, my sadness–a place that lived in my breath. I did not know what to call it but it had a voice, a way of speaking to me about what was true, what was right. And along with this voice came a presence, an indescribable sense of well-being that reminded me that whatever pain or sorrow I would be given, there was something inside strong enough to bear the weight of it. It would rise to meet whatever I was given. It would teach me what to do.”

He concludes: “All my life I have felt this presence, but at that moment I could feel its fundamental integrity. …Neither my pain nor my confusion can stop the relentless companionship of this true and faithful voice. Something more vital, strong and true lies embedded deep within me. Sometimes I barely see it, can’t quite touch it. Then I experience a starry night, a forest after a rain, a loving embrace, a strain of sweet and perfect melody–and that is all it takes to remind me who I am: a spirit, alive, and whole. It helps me remember my nature, hear my name.”

In his book, Sabbath, he writes: “If busyness can become a kind of violence, we do not have to stretch our perception very far to see that Sabbath time – effortless, nourishing rest – can invite a healing of this violence. When we consecrate a time to listen to the still, small voices, we remember the root of inner wisdom that makes work fruitful. We remember from where we are most deeply nourished, and see more clearly the shape and texture of the people and things before us.”

“We, too, must have a period in which we lie fallow, and restore our souls. In Sabbath time we remember to celebrate what is beautiful and sacred; we light candles, sing songs, tell stories, eat, nap, and make love. It is a time to let our work, our lands, our animals lie fallow, to be nourished and refreshed. Within this sanctuary, we become available to the insights and blessings of deep mindfulness that arise only in stillness and time. When we act from a place of deep rest, we are more capable of cultivating what the Buddhists would call right understanding, right action, and right effort. In a complex and unstable world, if we do not rest, if we do not surrender into some kind of Sabbath, how can we find our way, how can we hear the voices that tell us the right thing to do?”

I would just add that our sacred worth does not depend upon our being better than we are at the present moment, or on being busier, or on anything external. It is always there as a gift to be accepted, cherished, and shared. Sometimes a quiet space in our heart or in the heart of another can help us recognize and accept this inner voice of our sacredness. Whatever season you are now in, may you be at home to your sacredness and to others who need your presence in whatever ways are now possible.

Norman King. January 30, 2021

I have written frequently that my fundamental conviction is that there is a gifted sacred worth to each and every human being, and even beyond that to all that dwells on this earth. This conviction is expressed religiously in the belief that human beings are fashioned in the image of God and in the golden rule that is found in all religions. In her Charter for Compassion, Karen Armstrong maintains that “the principle of compassion lies at the heart of all religious, ethical and spiritual traditions,” and calls us “to honour the inviolable sanctity of every single human being.” In the preamble to its Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the United Nations grounds its assertion of human rights and corresponding responsibilities in the dignity of each and every human being.

The questions that arise include how this conviction is expressed in attitude and action in relation to oneself, to others, to communities, social organizations, and even to national and international relations. A core issue, however, is how does each of us recognize this conviction in ourselves. Many of us, myself included, struggle not to have a sense that we are not worth much, that we are of little significance. This sense can readily arise from our experience of limitations, weakness, failures, disappointments, and all the things that make us feel that our lives are not what they should be or could be or ought to be.

Henri Nouwen has an interesting approach to this matter. He says that we are all needy persons. We are affected by a neediness for affection, attention, affirmation, and praise, as well as influence, power, and success. He says that this neediness comes from an experience of woundedness that causes us to question our worth. He suggests that this sense comes from the feeling, often not conscious, that we are rejected, that we are not quite acceptable. Frequently, our neediness can lead us to wound others if we try to force them to give us what they cannot give. Our own woundedness may well come from others in the past who have hurt us because they were so needy. Nouwen says that this woundedness is essentially the experience of not being loved.

The underlying issue is that neither we nor anyone else can provide the unconditional, irrevocable love for which there is an insatiable thirst in the human heart and which could affirm unmistakably that we are of worth.

The result is that our sense of worth is always fragile. How can we achieve that conviction, if only partially? A first response is to let go of the expectation that another can provide this need for us. Rather than regard one another as possible answers, we can approach one another as fellow questioners, as fellow seekers.

Another approach is to cultivate a sense of gratitude for our life, and to help one another have experiences of gratitude, however small. Most mornings, for example, I go for a walk in early morning, while it is still a time of winter darkness. At this time, almost everyone who passes, usually on a similar walk, greet each other, with a wave of the hand or a good morning word. It is very simple but refreshing. Sometimes, I encounter a rabbit, or a deer, or even a skunk, all of which evoke a kind of inner smile.

On a grander scale, a friend once told me of his experience at his place in the Point Pelee region. It was mid-winter. and no one else was around. As he shut all lights off before leaving left his place to return to the city, he was immersed in total darkness. He was groping his way to his car, when the moon suddenly appeared from behind a cloud and shed a pale light on everything. He recalled how, at that moment, he had an overwhelming experience that he was loved.

Another friend once told me that she felt a lack of understanding from her parents, but when she was with animals around her rural surroundings, she had an uncanny sense of at-homeness.

One author, Wayne Muller, says that we are often afflicted at once by a more surface need to fit in and a deeper sense of not belonging. Yet, he recalls, by the very fact that we are breathing, we do belong, we are part of the whole ecosystem of the earth, not simply its present, but also its past. It is striking that quiet attention to our breathing is a fundamental form of meditation in both Eastern and Western traditions.

These kind of experiences, brought to our awareness, can evoke a tone of gratitude, a gratefulness that can almost imperceptibly wear away feelings of resentment and hostility. They can move us slowly to a sense that our life is a gift rather than a burden or a mere accident. From here there can unfold over time a recognition that our life is a precious gift to cultivate and share.

This realization, however elusive, and readily lost sight of, can nonetheless, help us develop an understanding that this valuable gift is there from the beginning, before any decision or action that we make and is not dependent on any decision or action. As a result, our sacred worth is not a benefit to acquire or prove, but a gift to accept. As something already there, we need not seek it from someone or something–who cannot confer it anyway. It is rather something to accept and to live by, even when we do not feel it. We may help or even hinder one another in recognizing this worth but cannot give it to or take it away from anyone else, including ourselves.

What all these thoughts come down to is that there are many avenues to develop and maintain a sense of our sacred worth, however elusive and even fragile it may seem. These include a simple attention to our breathing or other forms of meditation in solitude, the experience of the world of nature on this planet earth which is our basic home, simple acts of kindness to one another or more enduring friendships in which we do not expect everything but do share our life journey, and also a participation in struggles for compassion and justice in our wider communities, societies, and world.

May all of you more and more uncover your own gifted and sacred worth, despite–and possibly on occasion through–any of life’s sorrows, and may we always help one another to move more fully towards lives of gratitude and generosity.

Norman King, January 25, 2021

Friendship and Vulnerability

I have been thinking about solitude and friendship, and how they are very much bound up with each other. Solitude means essentially getting in touch with, being at home with all parts of ourselves, both our strengths and limitations, both our light and shadow. At the same time, it means holding on to an underlying conviction of our sacred worth, even if often we cannot feel that worth of we find it threatened. One way of putting this lived awareness is to say that we become vulnerable to ourselves.

I recall that, many years ago, someone very dear to me said: “I don’t want advice or answers, I just want you to listen.” I think that we are drawn to maintain walls before another when we sense that letting them down can open ourselves to invasion by the judgment of another whose impulse to fix us can override their desire to care for us. We may ourselves also push another to feel the need for defensive walls against us.

Henry Nouwen has said that the real friend is not the person with the answers but the person who sticks it out with you when there are no answers. We might add that the real friend does not need to give answers but to be present to us in a way that helps us and perhaps even challenges us to discover our own answers, or at least our own path from within, and who sustains us to follow that path. Along similar lines, I have said before that we cannot talk someone into anything, into our viewpoint, but we can listen someone into their own truth. I recall giving a talk one time when the people present were really listening, and the thought came to me: “I hope what I am saying is really true, I owe it to the quality of their listening.”

Years ago, I came across a striking article on friendship by a William Sadler, He sees friendship as a form of love that, if genuine, involves sharing one’s life, in the sense of one’s inner aliveness, especially through intimate conversation. But it is a sharing that does not absorb another, but that affirms and sustains the unique identity, integrity, and growth of each person.

I would add that friendship involves sharing our story with another, not only the outer events, but how they are lived and felt from inside. It involves gradually telling and sharing our inner story, our strength and vulnerability. It involves listening to the story of another, receiving their joy and sorrow, with an openness and a depth that reaches deeper than any pain and encompasses that pain in caring hands.

Out of this experience comes the conviction, felt with an undercurrent of gratitude, that it is good to be alive, to be here, to be with you. In this process I discover myself, I discover you, and I glimpse the truth that a similar depth and beauty is present in every human being, no matter how masked or even betrayed. Hence friendship pushes toward solitude as the sinking in of life experience, and towards compassion and social justice as the recognition and honouring of the sacredness of every human being.

May you come always ever closer to being at home with yourself and with others, in such a way that a sense of worth and gratitude may gently envelop any sorrow that burdens your life.

Norman King, January 18, 2021

We spoke previously of the challenge of loneliness and how it can be made more difficult and painful from the isolation that results from the current pandemic. This situation invites us to reach out in whatever ways possible to make contact with one another. It also calls us to recognize that, for a variety of reasons, many people can become more withdrawn and unable to reach out, and need others to reach in to them.

At the same time a counterpart to and response to loneliness is what may be called solitude. 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.

We have also mentioned the contrast between homelessness and homefulness with ourselves. It is easy to live on the outskirts of our lives, immersed in busyness and externals, and endlessly striving to meet the expectations of others or our society. This approach only increases our loneliness, our experience of being an absentee landlord in our own home.

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 helpful and yet possibly at first unnerving question is: “Where do you live?” We can ask this question beyond the immediate sense of our street or city location. In a conversation with my son at the age of seven, he spoke of the world inside us in terms of different towns. He spoke of happy town and excitement town and the like, with examples for each. I asked him if there was anything further, and he said that way, way at the back was love town. I suggested to him that as long as we know that there is a love town we will be alright even if we cannot always be there, but are for a time in lonely town or angry town.

This story may helpful for asking in which town we live. Is it lonely town or the town of fear or hostility or anxiety or hope or love. Do we move among different towns, or are we stuck, so to speak, in one of them. In what town would we like to make our home, and how do we get there? What is the deepest place in us, and are we there seldom or often.

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 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 seldom there. And it is our real home.

One writer, Gordon Cosby, extending it beyond experiences of quiet time by ourselves, puts it this way: “In our deepest beings we are all contemplatives. We glimpse what this means in times when we surrendered ourselves to a piece of work and the hours seems as moments. We are contemplatives when we are absorbed by an experience of love, beauty, wonder, grief, or when we are able to be present to something or someone with the totality of ourselves. “

Erich Fromm, in his book on the meaning of love, The Art of Loving, says that our common notion of activity involves doing something external to ourselves. He says that such busyness may come from being driven, whether by anxiety, greed, insecurity and the like. Being truly active means that, whatever we do, including sitting quietly, comes freely from within ourselves, not compelled from without. He later adds that genuine communication with another also depends upon its flowing freely from within.

In Fromm’s words: “Love is possible only if two persons communicate with each other from the centre of their existence, hence if each of them experiences themselves from the centre of their existence. …Even whether there is harmony or conflict, joy or sadness, is secondary to the fundamental fact that two people experience themselves from the centre of their existence, that they are one with each other by being one with themselves, rather than fleeing from themselves.”

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. We can speak more of friendship in future reflections but leave things here at this point. May you find your true home within yourselves and live there and from there, and become more and more a home for one another.

Norman King, January 11, 2021

T. S. Eliot has written: The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

The beginning of a new calendar year, near the beginning of winter also marks the time when the days begin to get longer and we move towards new life, in the sense of the renewal which comes with springtime. For thousands of years, people’s lives had been structured by the rotation of the seasons. It was a time of endings and new beginnings, just as plants and flowers whose endings also release the seeds of new life and growth

Yet as Eliot observes and as The Wizard of Oz expresses, a new beginning is always a return home. Yet that return is at once the same the same and different, because we are also both the same and different. We are changed, however imperceptibly, by the living out of our lives and by the experiences they contain. At the same time, we may move more and more beyond the surface of life, marked by externals and busyness. We may then discover different parts and dimensions of ourselves that have previously remained unknown to us.

The folk tales portray these discoveries of parts of ourselves as meeting with strangers, both helpers and threats. In The Wizard of Oz, the scarecrow, the tin man, and the lion represent the wisdom, love, and courage that is already within us, yet still to be discovered. The good and evil witches represent the creative or life-giving and the destructive or death-dealing forces with us. The challenge is to recognize and be in touch with all these dimensions, without either denying our sacred worth or unleashing harm on ourselves or others.

To return home, to find a new starting place, and make a new beginning, is to become aware of all these dimensions and tendencies and qualities that are part of who we are. It is to become at home with all that we are, both our strengths and our limitations. It is also to find in friendship a place in another’s heart where we can be at once safe and vulnerable, where we can be at home both to ourselves and to one another. It is out of this raw material, so to speak, that we are to fashion our lives into a creative work of art.

On Sunday, I listened to a podcast from the On Being program, accessible on U.S. public radio and on host Krista Tippett’s website: www.onbeing.org. It was an interview with Gaelynn Lea, who has a brittle bone disease that has left her small and in a wheel chair, but able to excel in playing the fiddle held like a cello. She commented that the present commercial society attempts to make people feel inadequate about themselves, so that they will that lead them closer to an artificial ideal. She adds: “And you just make the bar unattainable enough so that people will keep striving after it and never really be satisfied with who they are, so they’ll spend tons of money.”
This approach reflects the thought that we have been given the image of people, of ourselves, as human “havings” rather than human “beings.” As a result, we are always drawn to look outside ourselves, and so never to be at home with ourselves, Always to be homeless in our own lives.

When, with one another’s help, we can come to be at home to all that is within us, and grow into a sense of our sacred worth, that embraces all of us , “warts and all,” we will at times come to be at peace with ourselves and with one another.

The experience of solitude and of friendship are pathways to this homefulness. And it is reflected also in the story of Rumpelstiltzkin. These are topics we may speak about in future weeks. For now, I’ll just mention that Rumpelstiltzkin does express the basic challenge of life: to spin straw into gold. I see its meaning as the challenge accept our lives which may seem brief and passing like straw, and to fashion them into gold, into a lasting work of art, by how we weave our life story. In an age of machinery and possessions, the story utters a profound reminder: “Something living is more precious than all the gold in the world.”

May you come to experience and live more fully the preciousness of your own lives.

Norman King, January 4, 2021