Last week, we spoke of the eyes through which we look at life, where we see from and how we see, beyond what we see. We may view the events of our life with the eyes of hurt, fear, or hostility, or with the eyes of understanding and compassion. With some effort, it is best if we can come to see ourselves, others, and life with a true and deep and caring awareness.

We also noted that when we learn something about ourselves or about life, it is not so much the acquiring of new information, but more the dawning recognition of something we always somehow knew, but for which we did not yet have words or images. Here too it is crucial to find ways of naming that speak to our inmost heart.

To move beyond our present level of seeing and naming, we must be open–open to our own feelings and thoughts, and to new ways of naming both our angle of vision and what lies within our inmost core.

This openness involves listening. Genuine listening involves not merely hearing words on the surface, or inattentively, or simply being quiet long enough to wait our turn to say what we already have in mind. It is striking, as we have cited before, that the opening words of the fifth century Rule of St. Benedict are to listen with the ears of the heart. This would seem to mean to listen from our core or centre, to listen openly, to be willing to be changed by what we hear, to listen not only to the words but to tune in to the person or text behind the words.

In a recent CBC Ideas interview, Benedictine monk, Columba Stewart, who copies digitally ancient manuscripts, had this to say on listening.
“The discipline of listening is now an endangered art. .. .True listening requires attention. And I think the ability to pay attention and to focus is one of the many endangered things in our present-day and our modern culture. … And so the ability to just sit quietly with somebody, or in a larger group, and actually to pay attention to what they’re saying, it’s very difficult not to retreat into our own thoughts.”

And so that ability that counsellors and psychotherapists have had to cultivate — spiritual directors more in my kind of wheelhouse — of being able to really listen, not only to the words of the person but to the things that are unspoken but nonetheless are being communicated in the encounter, I think that’s tremendously important. Whether it’s a spiritual conversation, working on some kind of emotional issue or a psychological issue or functioning in a political context.

One form of listening is to listen to one’s own inmost self. This can be a matter of sitting quietly, whether in our own home or in a natural setting, somewhere we feel is a safe place for us. We can then allow thoughts and feeling to arise, and we may find that one feeling gives way to another, so that gradually what is deepest within us arises to the surface of our awareness.

One approach, used in many meditative practices, is first of all to listen to our breathing, then to physical sensations, and then to feelings. These can be progressive sessions, as illustrated in the meditation DVD by spiritual author, Jack Kornfield. He concludes his presentation with a lovingkindness meditation. It begins with a wish for the well-being of oneself and extends progressively to those near and then far from our own lives.

Spiritual writer, Thomas Merton, speaks of a listening in silence not for a word that breaks the silence, but with a general openness. We may then experience our very selves, so to speak, as a word our of the silence, as an expression of the universe, as valuable, as having a sacred worth and meaning.

Perhaps w may experience, beneath all else, a kind of longing. It may be viewed as a longing for meaning, for a sense of worth and purpose. And it may be accompanied not by a certainty, but by a hope that this longing is not in vain, but reflects what is really true about each one of us. If we are able to listen to our own sacred worth, we are able to hear that worth in others as well.

In listening to another, we may attempt to tune into the person behind their words or other expressions. The anger of a child–or for that matter an adult–may be a covering for a hurt or insecurity.

While it is essential in our contact with another not to allow ourselves to violated in any way, it may call for a listening to the person hidden within the words or gestures. As I have sometimes said, we cannot talk someone into anything, but we can listen people into their own truth.

Correspondingly, when people express themselves from their inmost self, if we are open, we may hear them in our own core as well. I recall once hearing a song in Ukrainian which resonated with deeply felt longing. I asked my mother-in-law what the words meant. She told me that the person was aching for their homeland and sang that they wished to fly there so intensely that they felt like a bird whose wings came off from the intensity of the flight.

The singing of Leonard Cohen or Louis Armstrong seems also to cone from that heart space. There is a science fiction story by John Campbell, Twilight, which tells of the song of a dying civilization, that reflects an aching sadness. The story of Rapunzel tells of her singing from her lonely solitude and that her voice rings out in the forest and touches the heart of a young man.

Certain parts of the duet from the opera, The Pearl Fishers, seem also to come from and lead into a depth dimension in the soul, to bridge the gap between time and eternity, not as entities but as present experiences, the experience of being totally present rather than merely en route. So too does the climax of the Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber.

What it comes down to, perhaps, is that if we are in touch with our inmost core and are open from that centre, in a safe place, we may tune in to voices in literature and music and art that speak to and name for us what is in our inmost core.

May you be ever more open to the voice of your inmost core and the voices around you that speak from and to that core. And may these experiences enrich your life.

Norman King, August 21, 2022

When I wrote last week about contact with the spirit horses, I was struck both about our inseparable connection with the natural world and the sense that all is in process, moving, changing. Yet this reality fails to be captured in language that is static. It calls to mind an intuition that I had years; that everything can be understood in terms of energy. Body and soul, as they are usually called can be understood in terms of different kinds of energy. The expansion of the universe, the radiating heat of the sun, running on a treadmill or through the woods, our inner thoughts and feelings–all these involve energy, though of quite different kinds.

I once asked a colleague who was a scholar of the philosopher/scientist, Teilhard de Chardin, what was the underlying force in the universe. His response was: love energy. A few years ago, I also came across a letter of scientist, Albert Einstein, to his daughter, which expressed similar thoughts. I’ll quote from that letter here.
“There is an extremely powerful force that, so far, science has not found a formal explanation to. It is a force that includes and    governs all others, and is even behind any phenomenon operating in the universe and has not yet been identified by us. This universal force is LOVE. … This force explains everything and gives meaning to life. This is the variable that we have ignored for too long, maybe because we are afraid of love because it is the only energy in the universe that humans have not learned to drive at will.”

In a Winnie the Pooh story, Piglet asks Pooh: “How do you spell love. Pooh’s answer was: “You don’t spell it, you feel it.” A few other quotations are along the same line.
“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.”
“Sometimes the smallest things take the most room in your heart.”
“What day is it? asked Pooh. “It’s today,” squeaked Piglet. “My favourite day,”said Pooh.
“We’ll be friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?” asked Piglet. “Even longer,” Pooh answered.

These simple words express for me the same thought that love is the most profound energy in the universe. It is a “today” reality, when we are living in the present. It is lasting or “forever” reality, if, perhaps, it is the energy we pour out into the universe when we live and when we die. It is in our heart, in the core of our being, which it expands infinitely, so to speak. And while the most inward reality, it calls for outward expression in our lives, our relationships, our world. The Greek root of the word energy means work, effort, or activity, something that is to be done.

Unfortunately, the word love has been romanticized in an unreal way, often taken as a superficial sentimentality, as something that simply happens to us, that we may fall into or out of, that may come and go without our involvement or decision. If we think in terms of love as energy that flows from within, it is an energy that we can receive, acknowledge, foster, channel, express, and offer beyond ourselves.

My wise seven-year-old godson asked how our love continues when we don’t. I tried to explain that the love we receive and share stays in our heart and passes on to others who pass it on in turn. He added that we breathe the same air and drink the same water as the dinosaurs did. I said that since everything that reaches our heart or core is passed on, it is important to receive and pass on what is good.

The late philosopher, John O’Donohue, has stressed the need to express outwardly what is within us, to make visible or tangible what is unseen within us. “In order to feel real,” he writes, “we need to bring that inner invisible world to expression. Every life needs the possibility of expression.”

I would add that it is essential to be in touch with and aware of what is within us, our deepest core. That core is often submerged beneath a variety of impressions and urges which require solitude and friendship in order to be seen by us. At the same time, we do experience the whole range of human thoughts and emotions, which include hurt, fear, and anger, as well as joy, trust, and peace. It is essential, therefore, to decide which one’s to express or refrain from expressing, and whether to entrust but not unleash certain negative feelings. There is also the matter of how we may express these, orally, in writing, or other forms. Here, too, the image, words, and stories of especially creative persons, the sounds of beautiful music, the images of beautiful paintings, and other works of art, can help us to name and express our own deepest experience.

As mentioned before, I have been particularly moved by the articulation of the meaning of love by  psychologist, Erich Fromm. He stresses that love is an activity. He explains that this is not in the sense of external busyness, which can be merely a matter of being passively driven. Rather it is what proceeds freely from within the person. It is also, he says, a matter of giving. Again this is not in the common view of giving as giving up, which implies loss, but in the sense of an overflow of life within ourselves. It recalls the thought of educator, John Holt, who says that the social virtues are an overflow, that we have enough kindness for others only if we have enough kindness for ourselves.

Fromm goes on to say that such love involves caring for the growth of another, a respect for and response to who they truly are, and an increasing understanding of that person. Yet, he adds, it begins with a concern for the marginalized, for those who do not serve an obvious purpose in our lives. What is essential is to develop our very capacity to love, which we will then bring into practice in any life situation. There is a false tendency that to learn how to love is a matter of finding the right person. That is rather akin to thinking that we will be a great painter if only we find the right thing to paint. The issue is rather one of being or becoming the right person ourselves. To do so means to recognize our own basic worth, as well as that of others, to acknowledge and develop our particular gifts, and to share them with others in the right way and in response to our current life situation.

May you begin or more fully recognize the gifts that you have and the gift that you are, and learn more fully to share who you are and your gifts, and find fulfillment for yourself and others in this sharing.

Norman King, August 01, 2022
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Yesterday, a small group of us had an experience, that was outside of the everyday routine, and resulted in a more relaxed and peaceful time. We went to a spirit horse place that was profoundly influenced by ancient and indigenous experience and wisdom. This event linked with previous reflections on the importance of angle of vision, the eyes through which we look at life. It tied in as well with ways in which we uncover our real self beneath the clutter of life, realize our underlying connectedness and belonging, and find ways to name our experience.

Last time, we spoke of uncovering our true self underneath the images and labels that are imposed from outside. We suggested that if we allow ourselves some time in silent solitude, all kinds of thoughts and images can emerge that, so to speak, cover and hide from ourselves who we are beneath it all. Our surface busyness can push us to go through life without real purpose or even awareness. I recall a Peanuts cartoon where Lucy responds to Linus by saying that she didn’t think we were supposed to accomplish anything in our lives, but just to keep busy.

Another thing that struck me was that while we are bombarded by all sorts of information and often misinformation, by the mass media and the internet, what is important is to uncover the angle of vision, the mindset, the point of view–in effect, the eyes through which we look at everything.

At the same time, another approach to solitude is allow time for the experiences we have take root in ourselves, rather than rush from one thing to another. This busyness leaves everything on the surface, and nothing becomes digested and assimilated so as to become part of us.

At this peaceful place, we were told, among other things, how these spirit horses were almost entirety eliminated. These horses were wild in the sense that they roamed freely for as long as 10,000 years ago, but had an affinity with humans. We spent time with them and they approached us and really liked to be petted, especially around the neck area. Their gentle friendliness was very striking, and fit well with the recognition that they had never been saddled or “broken.” One fascinating happening occurred when the indigenous person struck the drum and chanted. The horses gathered around him. Through our time in this area, another horse also gravitated to a young child who was part of our little group.

It was a tangible experience of connection with and belonging to the natural world. This is a contrast to the common cultural assumption, hopefully one that is waning, that sees humans as are apart from, superior to, and dominant over, our natural environment. It called to mind a favourite expression: we need to come to view the universe not as a collection of objects to dominate, but a community of beings to reverence.

Another thing that struck me was the comment of the indigenous person that their language was one of verbs rather than nouns, that everything was in motion. If I had even a small glimpse of understanding, it called to mind two things that had previously resonated with me. One was that, in a particular western North American language, instead of it being said that the grass is green, it would be said that greening is happening over there. The language was one of movement, of process, rather than something static. I had a similar experience, seeing totem poles at a University of British Columbia museum. It seemed that the figures were in motion, one creature turning into another, reflecting a time before shapes were solidified. Perhaps more than anything else, it illustrated how everything is connected. I recognize that this can be a misunderstanding of the complexity and diversity of these magnificent creations.

The explanation of the feather also resonated strongly.. One side, we were told, is smooth, while the other is rough, illustrating both the joys and sorrows, the good times and difficult periods, that we all experience throughout our lives. It was, for me, an instance both of an understanding of life itself and of the interconnectedness of everything. It calls to mind the words of scientist Brian Swimme, that the stars are our ancestors. It also reminds me of the words, attributed to 19th century Chief Seattle, that all living creatures share the same breath, that the earth does not belong to humans but humans to the earth, and that whatever we do to the earth we do to ourselves.

There is a folk tale in the Grimm Brothers collection called The Three Feathers. In this story, an aging king wishes to decide which of his three sons is to inherit the kingdom. He blows three feathers into the air and the sons are each to follow the feather to complete a task. One feather blows east, another west, and that of the youngest son, regarded as not too bright, simply falls to the ground at his feet. As I interpret this story, the feathers as part of the bird, stand for our “highest”aspirations, but only at a small or beginning stage, as simple, barely perceptible nudgings.

The feather falling to the ground, suggests that what we are looking or longing for is right before us, and that it is a matter of becoming present to where we are. Instead of going off in all directions, we need to be present in depth, to make the journey inward. The youngest son notices a trapdoor in the earth, opens it, and the story unfolds. True renewal of life comes from attending to our own inner spirit and its longings, from realizing the relational dimension of everything and the interconnection of all that is, and from a sense of responsibility to all these connections.

Among other things, what may emerge from the encounter with other, especially more rooted cultures, is, hopefully, an openness to allow them to modify and expand our own horizons, to offer more creative ways to name our experience, and to provide a deeper sense of connection with all who share the same breath with us.

May you learn to trust your own experience, to be aided in naming it truthfully and in depth, and in all things to become more aware and convinced of your own worth, and your belonging to this earth, and to experience the friendship that reinforces both of these.

Norman King
July 24, 2022

Last week, we spoke of our need to belong, and that it is a need to belong in our very uniqueness, not merely our of conformity or in terms of projecting an image that we feel is acceptable. Yet the discovery of our authentic self is a slow and gradual process, and it can be both hindered and helped by one another.

It seems that we tend to inherit the image of ourselves and the script of our lives from those who play predominate roles in our early life. Sometimes, almost unintentionally, one child in the family is regarded as the star, so to speak, and the others grow up in his or her shadow. Sometimes, the problems, the wounds, and the addictions of a parent can lead the child to feel that he or she is unwanted or at least a nuisance. Yet there is in each person a protest against such labelling and a deep longing for a sense of worth by being valued.

There is also the cultural impact which seems to project a model of success in financial terms, and readily to divide society into a few winners and many losers. At the same time, when people are asked who has meant the most to them in their lives, their answer usually falls within the realm of kindness, caring, support, and the like. I once inquired of a class who they regarded as heroes or heroines. The most common answer was their grandmother. The common thread was this was someone who had struggled with and overcome adversity and who genuinely loved them.

It would seem that the path to discovery of our true or authentic self involves at once a gradual uncovering of who we are beneath the layers of labels that have been attached to us from outside, and the experience of caring relationships that at once provide a safe place for us and convince us that who we really are is worthwhile.

Philosopher John Smith writes that only gradually does a child learn to distinguish himself or herself from the persons and things around them and come to a sense of self. Yet this process will always involve some element of wounding that is only gradually and never completely overcome. Dag Hammarskjold has termed this discovery of our inmost self, the core of our being. Philosopher, John O’Donohue puts it: “May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you intimately with the rhythm of the universe.”

Spiritual writer, Thomas Merton, speaks of this journey as going from the true to the false self. It involves moving beyond staying on the superficial surface of life, seeing ourselves only in opposition to others, and blindly accepting the slogans, myths, prejudices and ideologies of society. This unexamined worldview leas=ds a person to see life chiefly through the eyes of desire, fear, and hostility.

For Merton, the journey to the true self follows the path of a contemplative solitude. This is not a matter of probing into ourselves with a kind of psychological pliars, but becoming still so that what is at the depths of ourselves may rise to the surface of our awareness. As an example, if we are at a waterfront and churn up the sand with a stick, everything becomes cloudy. If we and the water become perfectly still, there is a clarity that allows the depth to be seen. We can embark on this journey if we have the recognition or at least the firm hope in the underlying worth or sacred value of who we truly are beneath this clutter. I once tried to sum up Merton’s vison in these words: “I am a unique word uttered with meaning and love from the heart of the universe.”

Besides a temporary withdrawal into solitude, nourished by silence, reflective reading, a walk in a natural setting, or the like, another path to awareness of our sacred identity and self, is friendship or encounter. I very much like the wording offered by philosopher. Sam Keen. “When we tell our stories to one another, we, at one and the same time, find the meaning of our lives and are healed from our isolation and loneliness. … We don’t know who we are until we hear ourselves speaking the drama of our lives to someone we trust to listen with an open mind and heart.”

William Sadler also holds that “genuine conversation between friends is perhaps the highest form of interpersonal communication.” As friendship develops with sensitivity, openness, and trust, we learn to share our deepest experiences, convictions, questions, and concerns. In the process, we discover who we are as well, and deepen our sense of self-worth. Psychologist Erich Fromm also stresses that what is most important is not what is talked about, but where it is spoken from. What is crucial is that persons “communicate with each other from the center 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 essence of their existence, that they are one with each other by being one with themselves, rather than by fleeing from themselves.”

May each of you, in the silence of your heart and in the closeness to another, discover the secret of who you truly are, in your sacred worth, and have a deep sense of your own belonging and purpose.

Norman King, July 18, 2022

Last week we referred to Gabor Mate, who says that the need to belong, especially in a child, can, at least for a time, override his or her need for authenticity. Erich Fromm has written similarly that the deepest need of a human being is to overcome separateness, without sacrificing one’s uniqueness.

In an early work, Jean Vanier wrote that it is in having our inner being structured by someone who loves us, that we have a sense of belonging that enables us to discover our own uniqueness. “A person who has never known a close true relationship with another,” he writes, “cannot live in harmony with others, looking peacefully at the universe, loving generosity and an ideal and all that is beautiful. … The core of their being has not been structured by the presence of someone who said, `You are precious to me. You are mysterious to me. I love you.’”

Yet the desire to belong, and to belong as we authentically are, remains. It may assert itself in a vague feeling that something is missing. It may also find a negative expression in an attempt to avoid all hurt, or in an anger that lashes out at a world that we feel has let us down or betrayed us. What is helpful then is to encounter someone who tunes in respectfully who we are beneath all the surface noise. This is one form of listening someone into their own truth.

While never complete, a sense of belonging is really only experienced when we belong in our uniqueness, not merely through conformity to expectations, or in the seemingly acceptable image we project. The positive aspect is reflected in the answer to the child’s question, “Where did I come from?” The most helpful answer is a story, like the cabbage patch tale, in which the child is the main character and welcomed into the family. If true, the child is told that they are valuable and that they belong, and, precisely that they belong in their very uniqueness.

Cellist, Pablo Casals, in his nineties, said that we must teach children not merely a bunch of facts, but the marvel of their existence. In his words, “You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. … And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.”

From a slightly different angle, Thomas Merton points out: “It is at once our loneliness and our dignity to have an incommunicable personality that is ours, ours alone, and no one else’s. … and the more each individual develops and discovers the secret resources of his or her own incommunicable personality, the more they can contribute to the life and weal of the whole. … If I cannot distinguish myself from the mass of other persons, I will never be able to love and respect other persons as I ought. … I will never discover what I have to gi ve them, and never allow them to give me what they ought.”

Merton is suggesting that I need to have a genuine sense of my own uniqueness in order to have a real sense of belonging. He goes further to consider that an essential part of belonging is to give of and from that sacred, unique self, and to allow and invite others to do the same.

It is a very gradual process by which we come to an awareness of our distinct self, only over time and with experience of life, do we come more and more into our own hands. As we do, we feel more and more the longing to place ourselves somewhere where we feel we belong and where we can be and do something worthwhile. This is the process of the gathering and gift of self.

Yet as the Hansel and Gretel story expresses in the characters of the stepmother and the witch, sometimes the emerging of the self happens in a wounding context. It can be one of rejection which can push us to become clinging–to sacrifice our uniqueness in order to belong. Or it can be one of smothering which can push us always to keep our distance, and so never to belong. In either case, it can be hurtful in a way that can make us wonder about our own worth, as well as our ability to relate creatively to others and the world around us. In its most negative expression, it can lead us to withdraw in a crippling fear or to lash out in a destructive anger. Ideally, with the help of one another, we can live and respond out of a sense of our own worth and that of those we encounter, even when differ from or are in opposition to them. Hopefully, however, there will be many occasions of connection in mind and heart, and in friendship.

It does seem the there is in us a deep longing that the self that comes into our hands is a valuable self, and that there is somewhere we can belong and somewhere to give ourselves.. The pain of feeling that we are worthless or of little worth and belong nowhere is terrible. That experience is reflected in the Beatles songs, Nowhere Man and Eleanor Rigby. The image of someone “wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door,” is a vivid example of an unsuccessful attempt to find belonging by sacrificing uniqueness, where both are lost. A similar example came from a woman who was exploring the possibility of attending university. She spoke to me after an early class and said with an immense sadness, “I don’t think I belong here.”

All our reflections have been based on the assumption of our sacred worth, and ways we may come to experience that worth in ourselves and others. A key element in the recognition of that sacred worth is the realization that it is not taken away by the limitations and wounds that are part of every human life, whether gently or more harshly.

While it is especially through encounter with caring human beings that we may discover that sense of authentic worth and belonging, several authors have pointed out that we may realize something of that sense of belonging from the natural world. By the very fact that we are breathing, we are part of and so belong to the whole ecosystem of our earthly home. Thomas Berry, who has referred to himself as an ecologian–a philospher or theologian of the earth–speaks of the whole universe as a community of beings. Theologian, Elizabeth Johnson, invites us to see our relationship to the earth not in terms of domination from without, but in terms of kinship from within, something of which we are a part, not apart.

The voice of longing and hope always remains, as the Pandora myth suggests, It is a hope that calls from deeply within us and sings out the conviction that our longing for worth and belonging is not in vain It expresses the profound reality of our sacred value, a value shared by all other persons and realities. It invites us to realize that we have something to give flowing from who we are. It is our presence and our gifts as they find themselves in our present life-situation. And it blends with the recognition that the world of persons and things around us, though wounded as well, is worthy of the gift of who we are and its many dimensions.

Norman King, July 10, 2022

Last week we suggested that we can experience gratitude for life, for our own life as well as for the lives of those who are meaningfully present in our lives, and even for life itself. Such gratitude is possible even amid the inevitable pains of life. I recall the words of theologian and storyteller, John Shea: “Any sorrow can be borne provided as story can be told about it.” I have since heard a similar quotation by Danish author Karen Blixen (whose pseudonym is Isak Dinesen). “All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.”

A favourite example of this view is found in the Shakesperian play, Romeo and Juliet. If we encountered this story of two deaths of teenagers in a newspaper, it would be horrific. But in the play, that is to say, the Shakesperian story, it is something beautiful and therefore meaningful. The opposite is found in the play, Waiting for Godot, which in effect is a non-story, and used to convey a sense of meaninglessness.

We have often said that we do tend to picture our life as a story, that it follows certain script. That script may be operative in our lives without our being consciously aware of it. Sometimes a severe illness, the loss of someone dear, or any tragic event, may call into question or even undermine that script, and we look for a new story to make sense of the events of our lives. Or else, we may even fall into despair. Gregory Baum, the late theologian and refugee from Nazi persecution, wrote that his flight from Germany led him to search for a vision of life that could outlast tragedy.

I believe that it is crucial to come to a script, to a vision that does help us to see ourselves and life truthfully and in depth, and to live accordingly. We need images and stories that enable and challenge us to celebrate our joys, survive our sorrows, share our lives, and build our world. We need a vision that, while acknowledging our wounds, nonetheless affirms our own sacred worth and the sacredness of all else.

The Greek myth of Pandora has had many interpretations. She is frequently portrayed as a female figure who is the occasion of all human ills. Perhaps a clue to an earlier and deeper meaning is found in her very name, which means all the gifts or the gift of everything. Her name would suggest an inclusion of all that brings joy to life as well as its inevitable sorrows. Yet embracing all of these is the gift of hope. A script or story that contains all the elements of life, however complex and ambiguous, may yet be a life filled with hope.

The story of Pandora, then, suggests that it is possible to trust in the meaningfulness of life despite the sorrow that is built into it. It is possible to live our lives with an underlying sense of hope, even though many individual hopes may be dashed. An undertone of gratitude for the gift of life, its value and meaning, is compatible with the pain it may contain.

Spiritual writer Thomas Merton puts it this way (paraphrased in inclusive language): “No matter how ruined a person and their world may be, and no matter how terrible a person’s despair may become, as long as they continue to be a human being, their very humanity continues to tell them life has a meaning. … Our life, as individual persons and as members of a perplexed and struggling race, provokes us with evidence that it must have meaning. Part of this meaning still escapes us. Yet our purpose in life is to discover this meaning, and live according to it.”

Perhaps we might say that the challenge is to discover a script that provides meaning to the full complexity and depth of life; a script that enables us to trust in that meaning, and as a result to live with an undercurrent of gratitude that flows into generosity and compassion.

Such gratitude must come freely from within, and so requires the solitude that allows us to get in touch with our inner self and also the friendship that also allows us to realize further and share that gratitude. A simple yet probably familiar example is found in a situation where a parent tells a child to say thank you to another adult. Where it is commanded but not felt by the child, the word may be said grudgingly. It is not felt by the recipient, who may find the situation quite awkward. Genuine gratitude comes only freely and from within. I recall that at another time and place, I had the privilege of introducing two friends to each other. They later married and I was invited to an attended the wedding. The groom expressed a simple and heartfelt thanks for the introduction and I was deeply moved by its genuineness.

Physician and author, Gabor Mate, offers an interesting and, I find, perceptive approach to this issue. He says that we have two fundamental needs the need for authenticity and the need for belonging. What frequently happens in childhood is that the two needs conflict and that the child feels that he or she is forced to forsake authenticity in order to find acceptance. In that case, we end up with the belief that, if we are authentic, we will be rejected. Yet the impulse to authenticity and to healthy attachment still remain and are ready to assert themselves. Once again the challenge, through silence and solitude, and through caring friendship, and exposure to story, music, and the other arts, is to discover and live from our real, inner self. To do so is to find gratefulness and meaning.

May you come to experience who you are as valuable and sacred. May you become freer to share that self with others. And may your life be permeated with a gratitude which flows to and from a sense of meaning, a recognition of who you are, where you belong, and what you can live for.

As a postscript, here is a reworking of the story of Pandora by myself and my six year old godson, Aidan.

Pandora’s Box, as retold by Aidan and Norm.
Once upon a time, there was a lovely young woman named Pandora. Her name means all the gifts, and she was endowed with all the gifts that any person could want. She had a beautiful box that she kept unlocked by her side for a long time.

One day she thought that it was time to open the box. So she called all the people she knew and even many that she did not yet know. She gathered them all around her and brought out the beautiful box.

She then carefully and gently inserted the gold key and turned it. The lock clicked open. She slowly lifted the lid, And out came all kinds of creatures, some beautiful, and a few others not so. Out flew joy and peace, wisdom and courage, truth and justice, compassion and strength. But then came fear and hurt, sadness and anger. And finally hope and love.

The people were confused. They recognized all the feelings but did not know how they fit together. Then hope spoke. “Sometimes you will feel afraid, and sometimes you will be sad or angry. But I will always be with you if you turn to me. And I will help you in difficult times.”

Then love spoke. “You will sometimes feel lonely and lost, but turn to me and I will walk with you. I will lead you to people who will care for you. And I will help you to care for people too. Then I will be like the box that contains everything in something beautiful.

And you will know that the box is life. It contains everything, It contains all the feelings. But it is a beautiful box, and it will always be open.

Norman King, Sunday, July 03, 2022