Many authors suggest that out of still smouldering ashes of an old world order, a new world of greater interdependence, relationship, and openness is slowly being brought to birth. One element is a worldview that moves beyond a dualistic either/or vision to more inclusive vision of both/and. One of its features is not longer viewing light as good and darkness as evil, but seeing in them a complementarity, with darkness having many positive connotations.

One such observation comes from the poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, who writes.
“You darkness, of whom I am born/I love you more than all the fires that limit the world,
…But the darkness embraces everything: … and it is possible a great energy/ is moving near me.
I have faith in nights.”

Darkness is in some ways akin to silence, the absence of light corresponding to the absence of sound. Our truest and most resonant words come out of our silence; and music, as Leopold Stokowski observed, is painted on a canvas of silence. I recall a beloved professor who taught the philosophy of art. He once read a poem in class and was so moved by it that, as he read, tears welled up in his eyes. On one occasion, he also told of visiting a factory where the machines operated incomplete silence, and said that the experience was one of total power or energy.

I recently told of the experience of a friend who left his place in the county, in the middle of winter. He was groping his way towards his car in the enveloping darkness when the moon emerged from behind a cloud and cast a pale light on everything. He recounted how he was overwhelmed by the experience that he was loved. On reflection, you might say that this experience was “grounded” in darkness; that just as meaningful words come out of silence, so also meaningful feelings, images, and relationships come out of darkness. Perhaps we may think of darkness, not merely as the opposite of light, but as the creative source from which light emerges.

A story is told of Winston Churchill that, after supper, with a friend, they retired to the living room where no one spoke for a time. The friend commented that it was surprising that, after so many years of friendship, they had nothing to say to each other. Churchill replied that it was all the more surprising that, despite their lengthy friendship, this was the first time that they were able to be silent together. It has also occurred to me that there is a tremendous difference between being in darkness with someone who hates us and experiencing darkness in the company of someone with whom we share a mutual love.

I have just finished reading a book by Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark. She brings out some of the creative and necessary elements of what are considered the experiences of darkness both in the world outside of ourselves and in our own inner universe. At the outset, before drawing on enriching experiences of darkness, she learned from childhood on that darkness stood for all the things that scared her either because she feared she could not survive them or because she did not want to find out. Later she notes: “I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really only one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.” She then goes on to discuss a variety of creative experiences both of the darkness of the world outside her and of the darkness within.

When I taught a course on folk tales, I was also struck by a few images of darkness. In a lesser known story, The Three Feathers, the youngest son, who is initially regarded as of limited intelligence, turns out to be the wisest. In the quest to succeed the aging king, that is the old dying order, the two older brothers confine their search to the surface. The youngest son finds a trapdoor at his feet and enters into the darkness of the earth. He goes into the dark depth of where he is and of the world around him. There he discovers the wisdom and compassion necessarily for a creative and meaningful life for himself and for others.

The story of Snow White focuses on the powerful attitudes and feelings within oneself, symbolized by the colour red, which stands for the red of love and the red of hate, and the challenge to choose between them. Before arriving at her decision, the young woman must travel through a dark forest. She must enter all the unknown and unexplored regions of her self, and then decide on her basic life direction.

Another image, reflective of Rilke’s words, may be found in the question posed by Albert Einstein. “I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’ This is the first and most basic question all people must answer for themselves.” We may perhaps think of a favourite analogy of mine. When someone speaks openly and vulnerably to us of their joy or sorrow, the challenge is to listen, to hold a place of silence around their words. Yet that silence is not an emptiness but a caring presence. In a similar vein, in response to Einstein’s question, we may hope that the silent darkness that envelopes and permeates the universe may also be thought of in terms of compassion.

As you become aware of all the seeming dark spaces within you and times of darkness that sometimes surround you, may that darkness be the womb of new and fuller life for yourself and for others whom your life touches in some, even anonymous way.

Norman King, August 09, 2021

Last week I mentioned how one author, Elena Lasida, thinks that the old order of things is dying and a new world of greater interdependence, relationship, and openness is yet to be born. She calls for letting go of what is passing and making place for what is yet to emerge.

At the same time, it seems to me that whenever something is falling away, there is at least a tinge of sadness and even perhaps of grief involved–whether what falls away is an image or symbol, an idea or way of thinking, a relationship, a connection with a group or organization. During this time of pandemic, may things have fallen away, and whether and how they will return is uncertain.

I was very moved to read some years ago author Wayne Muller’s reflection on sadness. He mentions that during a silent retreat he uncovered a deep sadness within himself. At first he considered a possible source. “Where was this sadness coming from? Was it from my childhood? Was it the hurt I had absorbed from all those who had suffered? Was it something larger–was I feeling the pain of the whole world? Perhaps it was all of these, what Buddhists call ‘the tender heart of awakening.’

After a time, however, it seemed important only to acknowledge this deep ache, and to remain in the silence. Then, he says, “I began to sense something beneath even the sorrow. 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 adds that this inner voice was always there, always a guide to what was right and true, even when unnoticed or unheeded. “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.”

His thoughts echo the often expressed reflection that we are more and deeper than our sadness, losses, pain, mistakes, or wrongs. A simple experience of the natural world, of music, or of a gesture of kindness, can bring us home.

Akin to sadness, and often accompanied by sadness is grief. It occurred to me that grief is not just the experience of loss, but the experience of incompleteness. But it is an incompleteness that is tangibly felt. Every situation and every relationship has within it an element of incompleteness. No matter how fulfilling an experience is, there remains beneath the surface an unstilled longing. This need not be seen as negative, but simply a recognition that new growth, new life is always possible. I recall an occasion where a day was spent in a natural setting around Montmorency Falls near Quebec City. On returning, we listened to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, which seemed to name perfectly that afternoon’s adventure. At the same time as being fully immersed in and present to the music, there was also a sense of its movement, its passing, which meant it would come to an end.

On another more sorrowful occasion, I recall saying goodbye to Mike, my younger brother, at the hospital. I had to tear myself away because of a vivid sense that this was the last time that I would see him. It turned out to be true, and on learning one week later of his death, I had the powerful feeling that there had been an interruption of a conversation that could not be resumed. That has since struck me as a metaphor for grief and perhaps for life: an interrupted conversation. Perhaps it is the feeling of an incompleteness that is rendered permanent, that cannot be taken up again.

I have been struck by how the common practice of a meal following a funeral is in fact an integral part of the ritual. I think that a good ritual is an enactment in brief or in miniature of something that may take years to embody. One dimension is saying goodbye, taking leave of the person who has died. The second dimension, expressed in the shared meal, is the entry into a new life, no longer as the partner or friend of that person. It is the slow, sometimes painful process, of letting go of what has been, and an opening to something different, something new, which at first may seem very daunting, but may turn out to have some very positive dimensions as well.

It seems that life itself is a series of endings and beginnings, even from the time of birth, which ends life in the womb and offers an entry into life in a vast new world. An essential dimension of this process appears to be a letting go of what has been with its seeming securities, and an openness to new ways of feeling, imagining, thinking, acting, and living. Often there is a struggle involved between clinging to what has been and opening to what is emerging, between security and growth.
In this process, often aided by intelligently caring others, it may be a case of letting go of what has been presented from without, and learning to trust what is emerging from within. One personal experience in my twenties was that all I had been taught was not necessarily true or untrue, but had become unreal, and that gut level convictions had to arise from within.

May you learn ever more to trust the process of life unfolding within you and find caring others who support and assist in this process.

I recently heard an interesting interview, on the CBC Ideas podcast, with.George Monbio, a writer for The Guardian newspaper, who has published a book, Out of the Wreckage: A New Politics for an Age of Crisis.

“Here are some of the things I try to fight: environmental destruction, undemocratic power, corruption, deception of the public, injustice, inequality and the misallocation of resources, waste, denial, the libertarianism which grants freedom to the powerful at the expense of the powerless, undisclosed interests, complacency,”

To move in a more equitable direction, he says, we need a new story. I would add that we need a new script at the back of our minds, new eyes through which we look at life. He speaks of going beyond a “toxic individualism” to a story based on the idea of community, an awareness that at a deeper level, we are a social, cooperative, and empathic species. What is crucial is to create communities of belonging, where people feel listened to and that their voice counts.

From a different angle, I also heard an interview with a socially active nun, Simone Campbell, who was centrally involved in the “Nuns on the Bus” social justice project. She has written a book called Hunger for Hope. She insists that in order to see clearly and to struggle beyond the blindness or lack of vision caused by prejudices and fears, we need a contemplative dimension to our lives.

This approach reminds me of the poet, Rilke, who challenges us to seek the depths of things and to go into ourselves and explore the depths from which our life flows. Any answers, he insists can only be uncovered by our inner most feelings and our most private hours. If we do so, we will gradually deepen our understanding of life.

At the same time, Simone Campbell insists that it is essential to be grounded in community, one that at once sustains us and which has enough imagination to help us see the way forward. Like Monbiot, she also considers, in a slightly different way, that change comes through storytelling, especially the stories of suffering of ordinary people. Listening deeply to the stories of people leads to a sense of empathy and connection, and suggests a way forward. Henri Nouwen has also written that being vulnerable to another, where possible, lead to friendship and community, and that, out of this very presence, directions to follow and steps to take become clearer.

Out of all of this I would add that a sense of community, an experience of community, is perhaps one of the most difficult things to find today. Here a few thoughts come to mind. Perhaps solitude and friendship are the first routes to follow. There are many forms of and pathways to solitude. One is the practice of meditation, which itself can take many forms depending upon what is the best fit for ourselves. It can be the simple repetition of a word or phrase that helps slowly to clear our mind of its incessant clutter, or a brief expression that sums up something of who we are or of our deepest and most authentic longing. Another, that I particularly appreciate, is to read something, perhaps from Rilke or Rumi, or any number of sources that speak to the heart. Listening to beautiful music, going for a walk in a natural setting, sitting before a flickering candle or even a tank of swimming fish, are a few of the many possibilities.

Solitude differs from loneliness. Solitude is a quiet inner opening up, exploration, and awareness of the inner world. Loneliness is a feeling of isolation, of not belonging. As one student expressed it so well years ago, loneliness is the feeling that there is no one with whom you can be yourself without defence or pretence.

Friendship does not take away the loneliness that is part of the human condition, but it shares that loneliness, and to feel more comfortable with it. William Sadler wrote an article many years ago in which he speaks of friendship as the mutually enriching sharing of experiences, most profoundly through open conversation. In such conversation, we feel free to express ourselves with openness and vulnerability, without fear of rejection. My favourite description is that of Henri Nouwen who says that the real friend is not the person with the answers but the one who sticks it out with you when there are no answers

Perhaps friendship may be considered the bridge to community; from thinking in terms of “I” to thinking in terms of “we.” It involves an enhanced recognition of personhood as including myself and extending beyond myself to a friend and eventually to all individuals. From all I have read, there are two essential ingredients of community: the first is a place of belonging to and the second is a place of outreach from. Monbiot speaks of grassroots community, a place where one’s voice is heard and where it counts. And where then people decide collectively what is best for all. Simone Campbell speaks of her community of nuns as providing both home and challenge. Henri Nouwen writes of finding a true home, not in academic circles, but in a community of intellectually challenged people.
The base communities that evolved in Latin America and South Africa are further examples.

An interview a few years ago spoke of finding community through contact with people of like mind and heart, who share something of one’s vision and values. This contact may be through Zoom these days, or by email or telephone, as well as through some form of personal contact and gathering. There may also be circles if friends or a number of contacts relating to various dimension of our lives. The key element is to find a home, a place where we do have a sense that we do belong, a sense that not just what we say or do, but who we are, is valued and heard, and that we have something to offer.

In a wider context, scientist Brian Swimme says that the stars are our ancestors, that all the elements that are in our makeup come from the stars, that billions of years of an unfolding universe have resulted in us. One friend found a more immediate sense of belonging, less in her family than in the animals that surrounded her. The French Poet, Baudelaire, has said that all through life we walk through forests of living things that shower wisdom and compassion upon us. Writer Wayne Muller has stressed that, by the very fact that we are breathing, we are part of a whole ecosystem, and so we do belong. We do not have to prove it, only somehow experience it.

All in all, a basic need is to find a place of belonging, a place of home. It can be in our own heart, in the heart of another in friendship, in some kind of community, in story, music., and other arts, in an identity as earthlings, as part of a vast cosmos. And from that home, we are drawn to set out in openness, in compassion, in justice.

In this spiralling journey from and to home, what seems essential is a sense of our own worth, as a precious and sacred gift, given into our own hands. Yet it is a gift not just to ourselves, but also to others. The challenge may be to gradually discover or uncover who we are, what are our gifts, what we have to offer, and how we may come to live our that sacredness for ourselves and others in this present time and place.

May your own life journey be rewarding and fulfilling for yourselves and for all who come within the circle of your light.

Norman King. July 19, 2021

Forgiveness as Recognition of Sacredness Deeper than Brokenness

Near the end of last week’s reflection, we added this paragraph. Solitude (understood as being quietly open to our inner depths), compassion for ourselves and extending to others, and authentic love relationships are inseparable. But this is a slowly growing, always incomplete, process, with many setbacks, disappointments, and even regrets. These call for gentle patience with ourselves. Our sacred worth is a gift that can never be lost, that goes with our very existence, and is not dependent on any “success.”

Perhaps it may be helpful at this time to add a few words on the topic of forgiveness, beginning with forgiveness of oneself. This is a reality that is commonly understood in terms of a surface sentimentality rather than a slow and often difficult process, both in regard to ourselves and towards others.

The underlying theme that runs through each of our weekly reflections is that each of us is a being of immense worth. Our basic life challenge is to feel, honour, cherish that worth in ourselves and in others, especially in face of the wounds and betrayals of life. In this perspective, there is a worth, value, sacredness, and beauty in each of us that neither we nor anyone else can take away. We can fail to see it, deny it, betray or violate it in self or others, but it always remains. And there is a hope, a thrust, a pull in each of us to move beyond our wounds, our wrongs, our betrayals; and to move towards forgiveness, healing, wholeness, and reconciliation.

We all have experiences of the limitations of the human condition. We sometimes refer to these as our Achilles heel. In Greek mythology, Achilles’ goddess mother dipped him in water as an infant to make him invulnerable, but held him by the heel. Later, his death resulted from an arrow that pierced his heel. The textbook that I used spoke of Achilles heel as the “human condition,”understood in its points of weakness and vulnerability. These are sometimes felt as something wrong with us, as detracting from our worth.

In my limited experience with mentally challenged children, a constant refrain I heard was, “I can’t do anything right,” and I made every effort to counter that image. Jean Vanier has written extensively about this issue. Henri Nouwen, after teaching at prestigious universities and authoring many books, came to find a real home and a place of genuine caring, at such a residence. A social work friend once related that one of her deepest communications was through eye contact with someone who was confined to bed and could not speak, walk, or take care of most basic needs.

These examples illustrate that it is essential both to acknowledge our areas of weakness that are part of our human condition, but to come to a realization that they are not a fault or wrong, and that they do not detract from our underlying worth, or from the contributions we may make to one another and to our world.

Another experience is that of falling short of expectations and ideals. Here an unfortunate tendency is to contrast where we are now with such ideals, and then to use them as a club to beat ourselves with. I think that a more helpful approach is to begin where we are as something valuable and to see ideals as a good direction to move towards. One example might be the decision to begin piano lessons. We might hear a recording of the famous Canadian pianist, Glen Gould, judge ourselves in comparison, and then give up. Or we might start to learn this art and see his artistry as a direction to move towards, even if we always remain far from that level. It is a question of seeing ideals, not as a tool of condemnation, but simply as a good direction to move towards.

A third experience is that of being hurt or wronged at the hands of another or others. If it is severe, this wounding can at first be like a prison that engulfs or walls us in with no seeming possibility of escape. Gradually it can become more of an identity, seeing ourselves essentially as someone who has suffered this injury. Finally however, it can become a resource. An outstanding example here is psychiatrist and author, Viktor Frankl, who endured four years in a concentration camp. Some time afterwards, he wrote, a person realizes that they have suffered a horrific experience and somehow survived. They recognize that there is a tremendous inner strength within them that gives them confidence and courage.

The notion of forgiveness in this context does not mean that we need to deny or minimize the wrongness that has been experienced. Nor do we need to retain or reestablish any contact with that person. What I think that it does mean is that we do need to let go of any hold that person has on us, to move beyond seeing ourselves only as a victim of that person, and to move gradually beyond the tendency to hatred. I believe it is an indigenous saying that to hate someone is to take poison and hope the other person dies. To remain bound to a past injury means that another’s past becomes our future. Instead, we need to uncover or discover anew our own sacred identity, our own authentic story or script from within.

A fourth and perhaps most deadly experience is that of violating or betraying another. I recall a vivid dream as a teenager. In this dream, I had killed someone. It was accompanied by a terrible feeling that I had done something that could never be undone and from which I could never escape. It took over an hour after waking to realize that it had not happened. Yet a new realization is that we are more not only that than the worst thing that has happened to us, but also more than the worst thing we have ever done.

This is the theme of the well known story of the prodigal son. The son abandons all his previous life lines and comes to a dead end half starved among pigs. He returns home full of remorse yet is welcomed with love not judgment. The story suggests that no matter how far we stray, or how lost we are, or how dead we become inside, we still remain a beloved son or daughter. There is nothing we can do to destroy our worth. Our sacredness is deeper than any wrongness.

In this view, forgiveness of oneself, forgiveness of another, or forgiveness from another, means essentially an affirmation of worth beyond and deeper than any wrong or betrayal, a sacredness that is deeper than any brokenness. It implies a freeing from the burden of the past and the dread of the future in order to live freely and creatively in the present.

In sum, I need not fear or run from my own pain, wounds, and betrayals–or those of others–because I am more than these. I am a sacred someone, a unique word uttered with meaning and love from the heart of the universe. Indeed, I will know fear, uncertainty, sorrow, but I will know more than these. In the silence of my own heart and in the caring of others, I will also rediscover joy and compassion, and especially a hope that is deeper than all of these and remains ever the seed of new life.”

May the wounds that you have felt and even those you continue to feel, and even those that you have caused, become in you a pathway to a greater depth of spirit, a fuller compassion of heart, and a healing and renewal of life, for yourselves, and for all who come within the circle of your light.

Norman King, July 11, 2021

Many themes have emerged in the last few weeks, and some of these might be given further reflection: wounds and healing; authenticity and belonging; the residue and continuing impact of previous painful experiences; the awareness and experience of our deepest and layered feelings; the difference between acknowledging and naming our feelings within ourselves, and inflicting them on others; the importance of finding a safe place in our own heart, or the heart of a trusted other for our dawning awareness; and beneath and encompassing all these dimensions, the ever-challenged conviction of the enduring sacredness of each of us and of all that is. Related themes that are worth exploring are those of fear and forgiveness, which may be approached in new ways.

In speaking of addiction, Gabor Mate writes: “At the core of every addiction is an emptiness based on abject fear.” He elaborates that this fear involves a dread of the present moment and an attempt to run from the burden of the past and the fear of the future. This predicament can result from a lack of tangibly felt caring in childhood or beyond. I have previously spoken of forgiveness as freeing someone–perhaps especially ourselves–from the burden of the past and the dread of the future, so that we may live fully and creatively in the present.

Many years ago I came across similar words from Jena Vanier in an early writing of his, says that a person who has never known a close true relationship with another “cannot live in harmony with others, looking peacefully at the universe, loving generosity and an ideal and all that is beautiful.” He will be anguished and frustrated, because “the core of his or her 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 all these authors maintain that this painful situation is not necessarily a permanent prison. Our deepest tendency and longing for authenticity, caring, and hope, flowing from a sense of worth, always remain and can emerge at any time in a person’s life. In the word of Mate, “compassionate self-inquiry,” a kindness towards ourselves, in solitude and through the genuine caring of others, can provide a foundation for healing and growth.

One author who speaks profoundly of solitude and love is Rainer Maria Rilke, whom we have often quoted. He speaks of living our questions over a longer period of time rather than settling for instant answers that do not really satisfy. Perhaps we can also speak of discovering or uncovering our deepest longing, which may sometimes be obscured by settling for a “quick fix.”

One path to this uncovering is solitude, which can at first seem daunting but gradually becomes a persistent need. Rilke advises us to go into that deep place within from which our life flows. A few further thoughts of Rilke may be valuable here. He says that we are made of longing, and that to be with our our more painful experiences may accomplish considerable growth in us. He calls us to “trust the great and indelible solitude” at work in us. “ Love your solitude,” he writes, “and bear the pain of it without self-pity, … [and] be glad that you are growing,” This solitude is also inseparable from compassion for others and for meaningful relationships. “Love life in the form that is not your own, and be kind to all the people who are afraid of their aloneness.” “More authentic love [is] the love which consists of two solitudes which border, protect, and greet each other.” Elsewhere he adds: “Friends can be compared to dance and music. … Friends must be the ends and not the means.”

In other words, solitude (understood as being quietly open to our inner depths), compassion for ourselves and extending to others, and authentic love relationships are inseparable. But this is a slowly growing, always incomplete, process, with many setbacks, disappointments, and even regrets. These call for gentle patience with ourselves. Our sacred worth is a gift that can never be lost, that goes with our very existence, and is not dependent on any “success.”

What so many authors seem to stress is the need to allow ourselves to be in touch with and feel all our feelings, both those that are joyful and those that are sorrowful. The challenge then is to acknowledge them rather than wrestle with them, to notice them but let then be. It is important too to be able to name then, to find images and words that tell truthfully what they are. Here we may be helped by exposure to story, film, painting, and other works of art that give true voice to what is within us. Then we may decide whether or not to express them, and how to do so; whether to do so to ourselves alone, to entrust them to a friend, or to give some them some more public form, as do people like Rilke and Nouwen. Such expression, I believe, should always be done with awareness and consideration. It should never be just an unconscious unleashing, that may readily hurt ourselves and others. In Mate’s words, they flow best from compassionate self-inquiry.

May you always experience your worth and your hope as deeper than and encompassing of all your sorrows. And may you find others who can share in some way in your own journey towards healing and wholeness.

Norman King, July 04, 2021

After sending out our last weekly reflection on healing, I heard an interview with Gabor Mate, that had a real resonance with me, a sense that he was speaking truthfully. Gabor is a physician, specializing in the treatment of addictions and is also an insightful author. He said that the word trauma is often used more superficially to apply simply to an upset. In its deeper sense it refers to a wound that reaches within us and is often rooted in childhood hurt. Addiction, he holds, is the result of some deep hurt and is the attempt to escape that hurt. It is not a character flaw but something unfree. The Latin word for wound is vulnus from which our word ‘vulnerable’ derives. It means literally able to be wounded. This fragility, he says, is part of our nature and cannot be escaped. At the same time, he maintains that no human being is ever beyond redemption, and the possibility of renewal exists as long as life exists.

The path toward healing, in his view, is compassionate self-inquiry. “Along with our ability to feel our own pain go our best hopes for healing, dignity, and love.” It is a matter of gradually becoming aware of the ebb and flow of emotions and thought patterns without reacting to them.

We have spoken of this approach before. The image I have is of quietly noticing our thoughts and feelings as they arise almost as if we notice a cloud passing by, without engaging or struggling with it, but just being aware of it. Our feelings appear to be layered, and as we allow ourselves to feel the immediate feeling it seems to give way and allow another feeling beneath it to emerge. For Mate, in this mindful process, we can become aware of the difference between feelings that arise in response to the immediate situation and those that arise from unconscious patterns rooted in previous pain and the fear it caused.

These comments recall the remarks of Morton Kelsey.
“Detachment from habitual, unthinking activity is part of the process of growing up. … Only in silence … does self-knowledge begin. … We are afraid of the pain that has been locked deep in our hearts. … Out of silence disturbing emotions often come to the surface which are difficult to control.. … In the silence one can allow the feelings to arise, disconnected from their ordinary targets in the outer world, and learn to deal with the depth of the psyche directly. … “As our feelings and personal responses to the world are taken down, examined, and brought into relationship with the rest of our being and the Centre of Meaning, we have a chance of directing our reactions.”

In my perspective, there is a difference between recognizing our feelings and unleashing them. Our feelings can tell us where we are at a particular moment, but not what to do with them. Our freedom lies not so much in the feelings that arise within us, but in how we respond to them. In a similar vein, out of his concentration camp experiences, psychiatrist and author Viktor Frankl wrote that: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

Frankl goes further to situate our freedom in our response to any life situation. “The last of the human freedoms is: to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way. “ He added that these choices would determine whether you would give in to forces that threatened to rob you of your very self, your inner freedom, or maintain your inner freedom and dignity. In a statement I found striking, Frank has also written: “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.”

In a talk given in Windsor some years ago, Mate said that from the beginning there are two forces within a person the drive to belonging and the drive to authenticity. Often the drive to belong, especially in childhood, can override the drive to authenticity, because of our dependency upon others for our safety, our basic needs and even our survival. Yet the drive to authenticity remains and it can reassert itself and be followed later on in a person’s life. I think that this need not be a dramatic and frightening decision, but a gradual dawning awareness that slowly shapes our thought and feeling, and then flows into decision and action. We can gradually, often with the help of others, grow into who we truly are, beyond who we might have been told we are.

I would add that this process of dawning self-awareness and freedom from fear-based compulsions rooted in the past, requires a safe place. That safe place can be in solitude in a physical place where we feel secure and undisturbed. It can also be in the caring presence of another with whom trust is possible.

Author Henri Nouwen maintains that vulnerability, in the sense of being able to be open, with all that we are, to another, is the basis of genuine relationship and community. These observations bring to mind our reflection on the two meanings of the breaking of our heart, that of deep hurt and that of opening up. They also suggest that sometimes the path to opening up can be the experience of hurt. But it may be a gradual unfolding process, in the safe place of our own heart or the heart of a respectfully caring other.

May any wounds you have undergone give way to a healing and wholeness that brings joy to your life, satisfaction to your relationships, and a little more meaning to our world.

We have spoken of the breaking of our heart in the two senses of deep hurt and of opening up, and how one can sometimes lead to another. There is a fascinating expression from the Song of Songs or the Song of Solomon as it is sometimes called. The words are: “You have wounded my heart.” It is also translated as you have captured or stolen or enchanted my heart. In the ancient language, heart was considered the source of thought, feeling, and decision. In that light, a basic question can be phrased as: Who or what has pierced to the core of who we are and has helped to shape who we are at our deepest level.

This influence can be both positive and negative. It can reinforce or hinder our sense of worth. It can both heal and wound us. Many, many years ago, when I was working at a residential treatment home for pre-adolescent and adolescent girls, I used to stay for supper and chat with different groups of them. On one occasion, a girl of 13 uttered a profound statement that has remained with me. She said that all of the children there had been wounded by their past, and that they had to learn to live with their wounds. It seems to me that in some ways, small or large, we have all been wounded by our life experiences. The challenge is to recognize these hurts and to move toward healing and reaffirming a sense of sacred worth.

I have always been fascinated by the roots of words. The word heal in English is also essentially the same as the words, whole, health, hale, hail, and hello. The word therapy comes from the Greek and means to heal, The word sane comes from the Latin and means health. In this sense, to heal means to move toward health and wholeness of the whole person. This seems to be a gradual process, at once moving from our deepest self outward, it is also assisted by caring others who see the hidden wholeness beneath any areas of brokenness that is also part of who we are.

Years ago, a colleague and I published an article on chronic care. We raised and answered positively the question: Can one be a whole person in a broken body? This was more than an academic question since I grew up with a younger brother who was born with a serious heart condition, yet had a marvellous personality, and died at the age of 26. I also still have scars on the side of my head–the only part still covered by hair :)–from being hit by a truck at age six. I think that the core or heart of us, our inmost self, is untouched by any wounds as well as the shadow part of ourselves. Through reflection, reading, exercise, friendship and much else, we can become more in touch with this inner self and have a sense of its sacred worth. Others can also help foster the movement toward healing and wholeness within us.

In an article on compassion, Henri Nouwen writes that sometimes people may not be cured of illness or injury in the narrow sense, but they may be changed simply by having experienced compassion, care, and concern in a very deep and meaningful way. He says that the people in our life who are the most meaningful are not the ones who offered all sorts of advice, suggestions, or recommendations. The real friend is not the person with the solution, but the one who sticks it out with you even though there is no solution. He adds that to be compassionate is to believe that it is worthwhile to be with a person even when we cannot do anything specific or see results.

This process of growth and healing may perhaps best be seen in terms of presence, presence to ourselves and to one another. We might also speak of coming home to ourselves and to one another.
This thought is reflected in the famous lines of T. S. Eliot. “We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

May you discover within yourself your own hidden wholeness, and receive and give help on the path to healing, wholeness, and home, to those whose lives intersect with your own.

Norman King, June 20, 2021.