I have spoken recently of winter as a time of slowing down, resting, doing things we enjoy for their own sake, and listening to the deepest voices within us. I also spoke of disturbing feelings that need to be listened to and named in a safe place, either in solitude or with a trustworthy other. We may then decide whether or not to express them.

In thinking further about winter, I recall the Greek myth of Persephone and the more recent folk tale of Oscar Wilde, The Selfish Giant. In the myth, the young woman, Persephone is wandering through the spring flowers. Suddenly, the earth opens up and she is snatched away by Hades, the king of the underworld, the realm of darkness and death. Her mother, Demeter, the goddess of grain and the harvest, and all growing things, goes into unconsolable mourning. Nothing then grows and it is winter in all the land. Her daughter is finally restored to her and it is once again springtime. Yet Persephone has eaten four pomegranate seeds while in the underworld and so must return there for four months of every year. During that time, her mother, Demeter, once again goes into mourning, and winter again returns for these four months.

At one level, the myth is telling a story about the recurring seasons of the year. It is also a recognition of our inseparable connection as human beings with the world of nature. This is a theme of Karen Armstrong’s recent book, Sacred Nature, Restoring our Ancient Bond with the Natural World.

At the same time, the myth of Persephone also brings out the notion of inner seasons, winters of the heart. It is a time of dormancy and rest certainly, as expressed in the last two weeks. Yet the story also reflects the experiences and feelings of what we may call the winter of grief or sadness or loneliness in our hearts. While these moments are inevitable, the myth of Persephone also suggests that they are seasonal experiences, and need not last forever. As with Persephone, they remain within us and are part of us, but they do not need to imprison us for life.

As early as childhood, yet often in later life as well, we tend to think that what we are feeling at the moment will last forever. I recall, around the age of six, saying to a neighbour child one morning that I would never play with him again. Not surprisingly, we were back playing together that same afternoon.

In the story of The Selfish Giant, the giant chases away the children playing in his garden and builds a wall around that garden so they cannot enter again. Afterwards, it is always winter there. No birds sing and no flowers grow. In effect, the giant builds a wall around himself and excludes all new life. He becomes frozen in a winter of his heart. Only later, when a crack appears in the wall, do the children once again appear. Then flowers bloom again and birds once more start to sing.

Only when we allow cracks in the walls of our heart is new life and new growth, possible. Only then does a wintry heart give way to spring. I think that the story is saying that we can get stuck in our arrogance or grief or sadness, and live behind their walls. Still, even a small crack of openness or vulnerability can herald a new springtime of the heart.

Later in the story, The Selfish Giant, a different experience of winter occurs. “He [the giant] did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.” Once again, I think there is a recurring theme. As part of nature, we are seasonal beings. We need a rhythm of activity and rest, of light and darkness, of involvement and renewal. Thomas Merton has called our modern age one of a violence of over-activity, of doing, with no space for being. Wayne Muller writes, too, that for want of rest, we are losing our way; we are missing the quiet that would give us wisdom.

Seasons of sadness and grief are an inevitable part of life, and may be imagined as a winter of life. But they need not be the whole of life. We may allow ourselves gradually to feel the sorrow, name it, perhaps share it, let it be part of us, but not cling to it. We may then grow into a new joy that flows into gratitude and generosity. I have spoken at times of how our pain may first be felt as a prison that envelopes and encloses us. It may then become an identity that names us or by which we name ourselves. Yet finally, it may evolve into a resource that nourishes us and provides the strength to respond creatively to the events of our lives.

The key insight here is that sorrow is an inevitable part o f life. It is important, in a safe place, to feel and name that sorrow and not cling to it. It is also crucial not to build excluding walls around our pain, but to remain open to new life and growth. If we do so, we may discover a renewed joy and meaning on the other side of sorrow. That openness may be the crack that lets in the light.

May all your joys and sorrows gently clear a path behind all walls and let new light enlighten your life and radiate into our world..

Norman King, February 6, 2023

Last week, I spoke of wintering as a time of slowing down, resting, doing things we enjoy for their own sake. In this time, we may also listen, as Muller puts it, to the still, small voice within us, and touch the inner wisdom the heart.

In times of quiet solitude, however, the whole range of feelings may arise, including disturbing feelings, like anger, sadness, futility. I have spoken before of allowing ourselves to feel our feelings, whatever they are, in a safe place. This safe place may be by ourselves or with a trusted and trustworthy friend
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It is also important to attempt to name our feelings accurately, whatever they are. Yet we also must realize that we need not act on them. A decision must intervene between feeling and naming our feelings, and acting on them. At a moment of frustration, for example, it is not good to lash out at whoever is near at hand. Again we may note the difference between entrusting and inflicting our feelings.

I have also said that we should not talk to ourselves other than we would talk to a hurt or angry child on our best day. This approach involves the recognition that kindness to ourselves is essential. At the same time, it acknowledges our limitations and mistakes and wrongs. We can do so if we recognize that we are not our mistakes, but more than our mistakes. This is an awareness of a sacred core of worth beneath all else in us; a core that always remains. It is sense of an enduring worth that alone enables us to admit any wrongs and to struggle with them. Otherwise to admit them is too threatening.

The Vietnamese monk. Thich Nhat Hanh, who recently died at 95 years, invited people to picture people who were cruel to them as they might have been as a child of 5 or 6 years. He asked them to think of a time before they became mean-spirited. To do so led themn to a less hostile and a more understanding and compassionate response.

I have recently been reading a book by psychologist, Susan David, called Emotional Agility. She makes a similar comment. She writes: “I often advise my clients that a good way to become more accepting and compassionate toward yourself is to look back at the child you once were.” She adds that we had no choice in the matter of parents or conditions. “The next step,” she adds, “is to think of yourself as the hurt child you once were, running up to you, the adult you now are. .. You would first take that young upset child in your arms and comfort her. Why should you treat the adult you less compassionate?”

In many folk tales, such as Sleeping Beauty, the child is presented as a gift. This is not a sentimental image, but expresses the conviction that the child is not merely a product of the parents owned by them, but a distinct person entrusted to them. It also affirms that this child is a gift to be received with gratitude. That is unfortunately not the experience of far too many children. In Sleeping Beauty, the curse of the thirteenth “wise” woman and the failure of the king to avoid her curse is a recognition that sorrow and difficulty are an inevitable part of life. The story also implies that these do not take away the gift character of life. It is important to acknowledge the sorrows and wrongs of life and their presence within oneself. Yet life is still best lived with an undertone of gratitude that flows into a compassion and generosity that includes oneself and flows outwardly to others.

There is a beautiful little book called The Twelve Gifts of Birth by Charlene Costanzo. It mentions these gifts as strength, beauty, courage, compassion, hope, joy, talent, imagination, reverence, wisdom, love, and faith. For each of these, she expresses a wish. For compassion, for example, she writes: “May you be gentle with yourself and others. May you forgive those who hurt you and yourself when you make a mistake.”

May you always be in touch with all your feelings. May you always be in tune with the inner child within you. May you always speak to that child with compassion. May you have the wisdom to know when or when not to express or entrust your feelings, and act according.

Norman King, January 30, 2023

Last week we talked of the need for solitude, quiet time by oneself, in which we approach ourselves with kindness and compassion, that may then extend outwardly. The weather in Southern Ontario in the last several days has called to mind the poem and song, In the Bleak Midwinter. The poem speaks of a time in which the mystery of life is found in simple realities that touch and call forth a response from the heart.

This reflection in turn reminded me of an interview with author Katherine May on her book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. She speaks of wintering as a time of slowing down, resting, retreating. She recalls that plants and animals do not fight the winter, but prepare and adapt for it. For us, she says, it is a time for withdrawing from the usual busyness, even frantic pace, of so much of life. “It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting you house in order. Doing these deeply unfashionable things—slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting—is a radical act now, but it’s essential.”

She goes on to say that life has a cyclical quality about it, that it has seasons, and that sadness is also and inseparable part of life. It is not a matter of wallowing in misery, but recognizing that sorrow is part of life, and becoming comfortable with it. Rather than trying to escape from sorrow or talk others out of it, we may be most helpful by making space in ourselves for others’ sadness as well as our own.

She concludes: “When I started to feel the drag of winter, I began to treat myself … with kindness and love. I assumed my needs were reasonable and that my feelings were signals of something important. I kept myself well fed, and I made sure I was getting enough sleep. I took myself for walks in the fresh air and spent time doing things that soothed me.”

One way of expressing wintering, is to ask ourselves what constitutes a warm blanket for us in chilly times– whether eating a favourite snack, listening to a piece of beautiful music, going for a walk, taking a nap, reading a novel, calling a friend–activities in which we are not simply doing, but being.

Wayne Muller has a wonderful book called Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest and Delight. He says that in the relentless busyness of modern life, we have lost the rhythm between work and rest, and because we do not rest, we lose our way, often in frantic overactivity. Conversely: “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.”

He then adds: “These are the useless things that grow in time: to walk without purpose to no place in particular, where we are astonished by the textured bark of an oak. To notice the colour red showing itself for the first time in the maple in the fall. To see animals in the shape of clouds, to walk in clover. To fall into an unexpected conversation with a stranger, and find something delicious and unbidden take shape. To taste the orange we eat, the juice on the chin, the pulp between teeth. To take a deep sigh, an exhale followed by a listening silence. To allow a recollection of a moment with a loved one, a feeling of how our life has evolved. To give thanks for a single step upon the earth. To give thanks for any blessing, previously unnoticed; the gentle brush of a hand on a lover’s body, the sweet surrender of sleep in the afternoon.”

May you find a time for restfulness and kindness in your life, time for things that are for their own sake and that nourish your soul. And may the gentle caring for yourself overflow into compassion for one another.

Norman King, January 23, 2023.

In the last reflection, I suggested that our worth cannot be lost only if it is inseparable from who we are. It is insecure and mistaken if it is sought in possessions or dominating power. I also suggested that we uncover this sense of worth through solitude, friendship, and social responsibility.

Social pressure, however unwittingly, impels us not to trust the unfolding of life from within us, but to conform to stimuli and demands from outside. Our own experience of limitations, weakness, and mortality, allows that social ethos to hook into our anxiety and trap us.

Time alone, especially in silence, is essential to becoming free within and uncovering a sense of sacred worth. Yet, the fear that what is deepest within is empty or wrong, impels us to flee from ourselves. Many years ago, spiritual writer, Henri Nouwen, commented on this fear. “There are two silences,” he writes, “one is frightening and the other is peaceful. For many, silence is threatening. They don’t know what to do with it. … We have become alienated from silence. … If a person is invited to exchange this noise (i.e., radio, television, cell phone, etc.), it is often a frightening proposal.”

Yet, he adds, “still more is the achievement of inner silence, a silence of the heart. … It seems that a person who is caught up in all that noise has lost touch with his own inner self. The questions which are asked from within go unanswered. The unsure feelings are not cleared up and the tangled desires are not straightened out, the confusing emotions are not understood. All that remains is a chaotic tumble of feelings which have never had a chance to be cured because the person constantly let himself or herself be distracted by a world demanding all their attention.”

Theologian, Karl Rahner, expresses a similar view: “Have the courage to be alone,…to endure your own company for a time.” We may then find a path to self-awareness and self-worth. The words of Nouwen are worth quoting again. “To be calm and quiet all by yourself is hardly the same as sleeping. In fact, it means being fully awake and following with close attention every move going on inside you. … Perhaps there will be much fear and uncertainty when we first come upon this ‘unfamiliar terrain,’ but slowly and surely we begin to see developing an order and a familiarity which summon our longing to stay home.”

“With this new confidence,” he writes, “we recapture our own life afresh from within. Along with this new knowledge of our ‘inner space’ where feelings of love and hate, tenderness and pain, forgiveness and greed are separated, strengthened or reformed, there emerges the mastery of the gentle hand. . .whereby a person once again becomes master over their own house. … If we do not shun silence, all this is possible. But it is not easy. Noise from the outside keeps demanding our attention and restlessness from within keeps stirring up our anxiety. … But the promise of this silence is that new life can be born.”

These words express that if we do find the courage to be alone, many thoughts and feelings may come to the surface of our awareness. Even if they may be disturbing, we may simply allow ourselves to feel them, notice them without judgment, and attend to them or let them be for a time. Then we may find that there is a place within us, which Nouwen calls home. It is deeper than all that rustles on the surface of our lives.

Thomas Merton recalls that we live in a society that allows us to be distracted and avoid our own company for 24 hours a day. Elsewhere, in a journal, The Sign of Jonas, he mentions his own experience of inner turmoil, along with the uncovering of inner peace and stillness within, that was more real and lasting. He tells of experiencing a kind of terror within, “a slow submarine earthquake.” Yet beneath it all, he discovered a deep happiness that was real and permanent. “It penetrated to the depths below consciousness, and, in all storms, in all fears, in the deepest darkness, it was always unchangeably there.”

Certainly, Merton’s experience, both in its joy and sorrow, was more profound than we are likely to experience. At the same time, he gives us the assurance that if we do in fact allow our lives to be infused by solitude, we may uncover a sacred identity, an inner awareness and strength, that is deeper than all else, and in fact is unshakable. It may not always or even often be felt. But we may sense its presence, beneath “the slings and arrows,” the “earthquakes” of life.

Perhaps I most felt this sense–or at least a longing to feel it–in connection with my younger brother, Mike. He died at twenty-six years of age from heart failure, the result of a condition he had since birth. I believe his value and the value of his brief life, came from who he was. Some fifteen years later, at a spontaneous writing workshop, I wrote a poem about my final visit with him. I ended the poem with these words. “Perhaps your death and my sorrow/ and your friendship and mine/ and all the sorrows and friendships since that time/ will lead a path behind the walls/ and free the child within.”

May you also discover the child within, the home within, the sacred core of who you are, deeper than and never found or lost by what you do, or what you have. May your time alone become a place of coming home to your true self. May the silence of your own heart also lead you to uncover your connection with others, the natural world, the earth, and the universe itself.

Norman King, January 16, 2023

I have often spoken of the importance of recognizing our identity and sacred worth as present from the beginning, as inseparable from who we are. In that sense it is a truth uncovered from within. It may also be described as a gift that is always there, and that can neither be gained nor lost. Yet we can fail to recognize that sacred worth in ourselves or in others. We can even violate or betray it in ourselves or others.

A problem in our society is that it tends to convey to us that we are human “havings.” Our worth is not seen as intrinsic, as within us, but as something to be acquired from outside by gaining possessions, and by gaining power over others. Our value is not given, but achieved, and achieved only at the expense of others. It is not seen as something already given and shared with others.

Such a view implies a profound insecurity. If my worth comes from outside myself, it can readily be lost. And so I have to maintain that, if someone is poor, it is their own fault. I fall into a pattern of blame rather than kindness. I also tend to be protective and even violent, since I need to protect what I have, or I will lose not just my possessions but my very self, which is identified with my possessions.. I become unfree and dominated by this need.

This view is in contradiction to the major religious traditions of the world, in their root origins at least. It is also in contradiction to the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which grounds everything in what it calls the inherent dignity of each human being.

I just recently begin reading an older book by spiritual writer, Richard Rohr, called Simplicity, the Freedom of Letting Go, and was struck by his wording of these issues. He writes:

We live in a society that places great importance upon external signs of success and importance … on the distinctiveness of our cars, clothes, and dwellings. We tend to be preoccupied with being ‘one up’ on others, We have great difficulty in finding our value from within. In a materialistic society we have projected our sense of worth onto things. That is why we find it’s hard to rediscover our souls in ourselves. …

We live in an affluent society that’s always expecting more, wanting, more, and believes it has more coming to it. But the more we project the soul’s longing on to things, the more things disappoint us. Happiness is an inside job, and when we expect to find it outside ourselves, it is always a disappointment.,,,

When the soul is projected outward, we have less time for love, because we turn other people into articles for consumption too…. Ultimately we do the same thing to our own souls: we stand, as it were, outside ourselves and pass judgment on ourselves. Are we valuable or aren’t we? Are we right or wrong? But as we judge ourselves, we also tear ourselves apart…. If we don’t live from within our own centre, then we’ll go spinning around things…. Our real value depends on what we are and not what we do.

A further observation is that unless we have a sense of worth from the simple fact that we are, we are always in fear that we do not have any worth or that it can be lost, just as our possessions can be lost. In a book entitled Escape from Freedom, psychologist Erich Fromm writes that greed arises from an insatiable emptiness within that we are never able to fill with things or power. “Greed has no satiation point,” he writes, “since its consummation does not fill the inner emptiness, boredom, loneliness, and depression it is meant to overcome.” “Well-being is possible to the degree to which one is open, responsive, sensitive, awake, empty….Well-being means, finally, to be and to experience one’s self in the act of being, not in having, preserving, coveting, using.” “Selfish persons are incapable of loving others, but they are not capable of loving themselves either.”

The deepest fear is ultimately the fear that we are worthless and/or that there is something inherently wrong with us. It is often accompanied by a restless search for something or someone outside of us to somehow convey that worth. That worth is then illusory and easily lost because we approach things and persons as possessions. And all possessions are precarious and can be lost.

Only if we come to a sense that our worth is always already there, that it is intrinsic to us. Only then can we have a sense that it cannot be lost or taken away. And if it cannot be lost, then it need not be viewed as a possession to be defended.

Yet our experience of limitations, wounds, mortality, and even betrayals, can be a challenge to that sense of worth. I have suggested that recognition of that worth as gift, given with our very self, flows into gratitude and generosity. Similarly the challenges to that worth invite us to trust in its presence even when we cannot feel it.

The question arises as to how we may discover that worth in self, others, and the whole non-human world. It our sacred worth is intrinsic, always there from the beginning and throughout our lives, it is a question of uncovering it. Once again the suggestion is in three interrelated ways: through silent solitude, friendship, and social responsibility.

Solitude involves, in Hammarskjold’s words the longest journey, the journey inward to the core of our being. Here it is a question of coming in touch with our core, essence, soul, inmost self. This is the gradual realization that this core is not reducible to but deeper than and other than our thoughts, feelings, beliefs, or experiences. Various forms of meditation, reflective reading, solitary walks, and the like are possible pathways here.

Friendship involves a mutual and gradual journey to each other’s centre. It can be a caring recognition and affirmation of that worth. Philosopher Josef Pieper, in his book, About Love, writes that love is the confirmation of another. It is the affirmation, not that it is good that he or she is this or that, clever, witty, etc., but that he or she is, that it is good that this person exists. Such friendship does not confer that sacred worth but affirms it, and helps a person come to a realization of that worth.

Social responsibility follows the same lines. It is an attempt, in whatever ways are possible to the individual, to contribute to moving a group, community, society, or culture, in the direction of establishing conditions where the worth of persons is recognized. It can take the simple form of sending cards for Amnesty International on behalf of prisoners of conscience. It can also involve meditative practices which facilitate deeper awareness and connectedness, as in Buddhist mindfulness or Taizé prayer.

In any event, we may follow whatever personal pathway is most conducive for each of us–in order to tune in to who we most truly are, to others who share our lives in some way, and to the unfolding process of life itself.

Norman King, January 07, 2023

Last week, I spoke of trust: trust in the process of unfolding life within ourselves, trust in an intelligently caring other, and trust in life and the meaningfulness of life itself. This latter includes a trust in the universe as meaningful, as unfolding in the direction of wisdom and compassion. The basic implication of this conviction is the challenge to become ourselves trustworthy persons. Underlying this whole process is an at least implicit experience of life, not as a tragic accident or a cruel fate, but as a valuable gift. This experience gives rise to an undertone of gratitude, rather than resentment. This gratefulness flows naturally into a generosity of spirit, rather than a spirit of fear or hostility.

Many years ago, I attended a conference which included a talk by David Steindl-Rast, who is at once a Benedictine Monk, a Zen Buddhist master, and a clinical psychologist. He looked at and commented on the roots of the words “obedience” and “absurdity.” Obedience comes from the Latin roots ob and audire, which means to listen truly and deeply. Absurdity comes from the Latin roots ab and surdum, which means totally deaf. He explained that our orientation to life is either one of tuning into its meaning at each given moment, or being utterly deaf to such meaning, unable to discover any meaning to life.

This view reflects the perspective of Karl Rahner and others, that our fundamental life choice is either a trust in the enduring meaningfulness of life–its lasting worth and purpose–or despair over its ultimate futility. At the same time, they add that the approach to discover, or perhaps better to uncover, such meaning, is to listen, to tune in with awareness, rather than close ourselves off. In effect the choice is to build totally encasing walls that block off all light or sound of meaning, or to allow the cracks that allow light and sound to get in.

The key, then, seems to be to listen. Alfred Tomatis, the listening specialist, has distinguished between hearing and listening. Hearing is the passive reception of sound while listening is the active participation in what we hear. We may have good hearing, but poor listening. While Tomatis’ work has a more scientific basis, it is also a reflection of the opening words of the sixth century Rule of St. Benedict, which invites us to listen with the ears of the heart. This is a question of listening with openness rather than closing our ears. It is a listening with an openness to be changed by what we hear, rather than being closed to any transformation.

There is a marvellous Peanuts cartoon in which Lucy is chasing Charlie Brown and yelling :”I’ll pound you, Charlie Brown.” He replies to her that if we small children cannot solve our small problems without resorting to violence, how do we expect the larger world problems to be solved. She then punches him and says to a friend, “I had to hit him, he was beginning to make sense.” In other words, closing our ears, that is, closing our minds and hearts, refusing to listen to someone, results in violence. Along similar lines, Lorraine once commented on the New Testament story of Peter cutting off a servant’s ear, by saying that violence causes deafness. In Steindl-Rast’s approach, “absurdity” is deafness of the heart.

In light of our reflection on trust, to find meaning in life, a sense of worth, belonging, and purpose, implies a threefold listening, a threefold tuning in with openness. It implies a listening to our own inmost core, listening to one another from the heart, and tuning in to the sound of the universe. A parallel example is found in the ancient Greek myth of Tiresias the blind seer and of Oedipus who becomes physically blinded. It occurs as well as in the later poet, John Milton, who becomes blind, as does King Lear in the Shakespearian play. In all these cases, physical blindness is an image of the transition from seeing the externals only, to seeing, that is, understanding, from the heart, It is coming to a wisdom that seems inseparable, in some degree, from suffering.

I recall a radio interview I did many years ago, when the interviewer was intent on focusing on either the adherence to or reaction against external authority. He became very angry when I suggested that whether we follow or disagree with such authority, we are equally responsible for our personal decision, and that we cannot deflect our responsibility for our decision in either case. This is one example of how anger readily results from hearing something to which we are unwilling to listen.

Listening to oneself is a dimension of solitude, in which we allow what is deeply within to rise to the surface of our awareness. It is a matter of feeling all of our feelings, then letting go of them, as if letting them float away. What is deepest can then emerge, our sacred core, which I believe, orients us, more than anything else, towards understanding and compassion, wisdom and love,.

One form of reaching this awareness gradually is just the most basic form of meditation, simply to pay attention to our breath. I have noted before that in many languages, the words, breath, wind, and spirit are the same word. They suggest that our spirit is our core self, and our spirit is also what we live and breathe by. It is the vision and values we actually live. It is the script we actually follow in our life story.

One Eastern form of meditation suggests the repetition of the sound om/aum, which is sometimes thought of as the sound of the universe. It is the creative energy from which all flows. The ancient Greeks talked of the music of the spheres, the idea that the universe is singing. In all ancient monastic traditions, there is also a form of chant which reflects a similar view. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, the creative energy is found in Aislin the lion, who sings creation into being.

One aspect may well be that to echo the sound energy of the universe is to come into harmony with all that is, to be a truthful reflection of reality. It is to listen to and embody the truth of life. In our view, we are such a reflection and embodiment, when we move in the direction of truth and love, wisdom and compassion. An interesting corollary is that it is through music and story and the other arts, as well as silence, that we are best able to hear the sound of the universe, that we are most able to come in touch with our own heart. It is perhaps our heart, our inmost core, that flows from the universe, as does all else. To be in touch with that core, to pursue the journey within, is perhaps to experience at once our own sacred uniqueness, our connection with the sacred uniqueness of all else, and our origin in the communion of all beings that is the universe.

May you come more and more to listen to you own heart and its sacredness, and discover the sacredness and interconnectedness of all that is, and live in harmony with its music.

Norman King, December 19, 2022
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