“There is a place in us where we have never been wounded.” These words of Meister Eckhart really resonate with me. This is the heart place, the home place, the place of our inmost core, our sacred self. It can also be described as the place of wholeness, which Helen Keller describes as the place of happiness. Tal Ben-Shahar suggests that this wholeness/happiness has five components, indicated by the acronym SPIRE: spiritual, physical, intellectual, relational, and emotional.

Other expressions of solitude may nudge us gently toward that place within where we have never been wounded. These can include reading thoughtfully something that resonates with us, such as, perhaps, the writings of Richard Rohr or Thich Nhat Hanh. Another avenue is to focus on a word or phrase that expresses the openness or deep longing of our spirit. Variations of this form are called prayer of the heart or centering prayer. Other pathways include becoming attuned to our sensations or feelings, without judgment; focusing on a candle or other object; sitting beside a stream or waterfall and simply listening to the sound.

There are also instances where our breathing becomes conscious. One interesting experience I recall is being at a higher altitude, at Mt. Edith Cavell in the Canadian Rockies and Pike’s Peak in Colorado. In these places, the air is thinner and the breath is initially a little more laboured. I became vividly aware that I was breathing and that it was good to breathe. Accompanying this sensation may be the sense that while we are breathing, we are alive, that it is good to be alive, and that we are grateful for the gift of life. When this reality is experienced deeply, it includes, at least implicitly, an undertone of gratitude–rather than resentment–for our life; a sense of the worth of our life, and that life itself is a wonderful gift.

Listening to beautiful music can also be a pathway to our inner core. I have really appreciated Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber and Nella Fanstasia sung by Sarah Brightman. Both are available on Youtube. The beautiful, repetitive refrains of the music of Taizé may lead us gently into the silence of our own heart. I have often repeated the words of Eva Rockett in an issue of Homemakers magazine, many years ago. She affirms that the beauty of music may reach behind all our defences and touch the core of the condensed self.

Another approach I recently came across is to become aware of our thought patterns. These can influence how we feel and act. The fundamental conviction I have mentioned repeatedly is the sacred worth or value of our very self. At the same time, I have mentioned that we may often speak to ourselves in very harsh, judgmental, and negative terms. These are ways we would never talk to a close friend. When we notice this negative self talk, we might pause, and think: What if instead we stopped and asked ourselves how we would think and how we would speak to ourselves, if we started from the conviction of our intrinsic worth. Instead of moving from the thought that “I am no good because…,” we start from the presumption that “I am of sacred worth, therefore …”

This may be a question of halting a years-old, and possibly unconscious pattern, and introducing a new approach. We may not feel that worth, but we begin to act from that centre. When we truly listen to another, we acknowledge where they are at the time, and how they are presently feeling. We need not agree with them or want them to remain in that space. But in recognizing their present reality, we are affirming their worth as the deeper reality, This is the basis for creative growth. Instead of trying to move them directly to a different place, we try to listen them into their own truth. We try simply to foster the process of their attuning to the place within themselves where they have never been wounded. Perhaps we may begin more and more to listen ourselves into our sacred worth, to become more at home there, and to live more and more from our true home, our heart space.

Perhaps we may conclude with our words from the last reflection. Our journey into the silence and solitude of our heart may pass through the whole spectrum of feelings. Yet beneath these may be uncovered and emerge to awareness our inner core, in its beauty and sacredness. We may then–though not without reversals and new beginnings–gradually live more and more from that centre, and discern and respond to its presence in all we encounter.

May you more and more become attuned to your sacred core, find there your home, and live from there.
And may you then become more fully at home to, and a home for others whose life path crosses your own.
Norman King May 12, 2023

I recently listened to a podcast interview with Dr. Tal Ben-Shahar, conducted by Mel Robbins. His area of study is positive psychology and happiness. He offers Helen Keller’s view that happiness is wholeness. He holds that happiness is something that ensues a meaningful life. To pursue happiness directly results in failure. He uses an acronym to name the essential ingredients of a happy life: SPIRE. These letters stand for: Spiritual, Physical, Intellectual, Relational, and Emotional. I thought it might be useful to explore these topics in a few reflections.

The term “whole” itself is related to the words health, heal, hale, holy, and even hello. The Latin word for whole, integer, finds its English counterpart in the word integrity. The opposite is “broken,” which means damaged, divided into parts, or fractured (also from the Latin). This root suggests that happiness involves an integration which holds together in harmony all the various dimensions of our human nature. At the same time, in an article co-authored many years ago, we raised the question of whether one can be a whole person in a broken body. The conclusion was that it was possible, often with the help of intelligently caring and trustworthy others. In other words, wholeness, integrity, authenticity is possible, and is only possible if it is compatible with the inseparable limitations, sorrows, pains, losses, and mistakes found within every human life.

These thoughts lead naturally into the first component of happiness, the spiritual. This element may include religion, but not necessarily. Theologian Diarmid O’Murchu, in Reclaiming Spirituality, suggests that preceding, informing, and going beyond specific religious beliefs, is the human longing for deeper meaning. Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl has also claimed that the longing for meaning is the deepest drive of the human being, a view expressed as well by theologian, Karl Rahner.

This longing for meaning may be understood to comprise three dimensions, a sense of worth, a sense of belonging, and a sense of purpose. The journey toward meaning would seem as a result to involve as well three elements: the practice of solitude and meditation; the experience of friendship and compassion; and the sense that we are part of, and called from within, to give ourselves to something beyond and greater than ourselves.

For today, let’s look at the first element: solitude and meditation. Meister Eckhart, the 13th century mystic has written: “There is a place in the soul that neither time nor space nor any created thing can touch. … There is a place in the soul where you’ve never been wounded.” The purpose of solitude and meditation is to get to, to return to that space, that Thomas Merton calls “the secret beauty” of our heart. This has been the guiding principle of all my thinking and feeling: that there is a sacred worth and value, to each and every person, and to all that is. It is our home space, our underlying identity. It is never proven, but only discovered, or rather uncovered.

One of the pathways to uncover this place is through breathing meditation. This practice is common to both Eastern and Western traditions. It involves essentially three steps: first simply sit quietly and pay attention to our breathing, its inhale, pause, and exhale, and how it feels. Before long our mind will wander into all kinds of thoughts–the second step. Finally as we notice this distraction, we simply return our attention to the breath. This process will repeat itself continually. Those who write about this practice, such as the Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Nath Hanh, speak of this practice as allowing us to become more fully present in all our activities. His book, The Miracle of Mindfulness, was written to help social workers be more mindful and so more helpful to those they assisted in their work.

James Finlay has a wonderful comment on this practice: “As we sit, though nothing happens, there is a subtle parting of a curtain.” a clarity and awareness may surface. Wayne Muller echoes a similar thought. He tells of a week long silent retreat, where a deep feeling of sadness emerged. Yet he stayed with the silence, and writes about it.
I could feel a place inside, below all my names, my stories, my injuries, my sadness–a place that lived in my breath. …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.

In the silence of solitude, then, we may become attuned to our own inner voice, the voice that, so to speak, is behind and in our breath. It is the expression of our inmost self, our sacred self, our authentic self, our heart or core self. It is the place where we have never been wounded.

Yet there are places above that inmost self where we have been wounded. There are voices other than the voice of our sacredness. And as we sit in silence, we may first hear these other voices: the voices of criticism, of judgment, of rejection and the like. And there is also the whole spectrum of feelings that each of us experience in some way, including the negative or troubling feelings, such as anger, frustration, bitterness, and the like.

As we have frequently said, the challenge is to recognize these feelings, without either identifying with them or unleashing them indiscriminately. Buddhist teacher, Sharon Salzberg, suggests that we regard these as visitors, but not give them the run of the house. They do belong to us, but they are not who we are most deeply. Anglican author, Morton Kelsey, clarifies the process of recognition and response to these feelings..
Out of silence disturbing emotions often come to the surface which are difficult to control. They can range from vague apprehension to terror and panic, or they may vary from bitterness and indignation to aggressive hatred and rage.. … 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. … 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.

In this process, we may be able gradually to uncover the outer, sometimes disturbing layers. Behind these, we may become more and more attuned to and in touch with our core self, our authentic self, our true home. We may then, more and more, learn to live from and return to that soul self. Of course the ambiguities and struggles of life always remain and assert themselves. But they may gradually become visitors and not permanent residents.

The journey into silence may pass through the whole spectrum of feelings. Yet beneath these may be uncovered and emerge to awareness our inner core, in its beauty and sacredness. We may then–though not without reversals and new beginnings–gradually live more and more from that centre, and discern and respond to its presence in all we encounter.

In the silence of your heart, may you more and more uncover and live from your inmost secret self, and experience the happiness of being truly at home to your self and others.

A FEW THOUGHTS ON MEMORY
I think that memory is not just a recalling of some past event. It is more fundamentally remembering who we are. In this sense, memory is a tuning in to who we are in our heart, our core. It is a coming home to our own sacred self. Ever moreso, it is a making presence of all those whom we have allowed to enter our heart or who have given us entry to their own heart.

As an example, when we hear a piece of music connected with a particular time, place or person, we not only think of that situation, but we go there. We feel again what we felt then. The earlier experience remains present within us, and the music can bring it back to the surface of our awareness and feeling.

Something similar happens when someone close to us dies or is separated from us. This is someone who has entered our heart, who has become part of who we are. At first, any memories of that person readily make us feel the pain of their loss. As we allow our grief to unfold within us, a subtle change takes place. Some of these memories may now bring joy and gratitude, as exquisite and even humourous experiences arise to the surface of our thought and feeling. The presence and love of that person remains in our heart, and gradually transcends our sorrow at their loss. Who we are, then, includes all those who have entered into our heart, our core, and who have shaped and remain a part of who we are.

I recall the devastating and aching sorrow that came with the death of my younger brother at the age of 26. Yet the unshakable bond that developed between us is one of the most grateful experiences of my life. Since that event of so many years ago, I came to realize that my social involvements have, in large part, been concerned with children. They seem to be an outreach to all the younger brothers of this world who are in some form of pain.

In a favourite essay, “The Logic of Elfland,” G.K. Chesterton tells us that one role of the arts is to remind us of who we are. He first speaks of folk tales as rooted in the experience of wonder, and writes;” These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water. … We have all read … the story of the man who has forgotten his name. This man … cannot remember who he is. Well, everyone is that person in the story. …We have all forgotten what we really are. … All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awe-filled instant we remember that we forget. …”

In this light, the challenge appears to be to remember who we truly are beneath the accretions of life that have led to forgetfulness, to forgetting our truest and deepest self, and perhaps also those who have remained within our heart..

The story of the Prodigal Son adds another dimension. The younger son requests then and squanders his inherit. He ends up half starved among a group of pigs, an image of utter desolation. The path to his healing begins with memory, a realization that his earlier situation was better. But he does not remember far enough. It is only when the father treats him as a beloved son that he himself recognizes his own deepest reality as a beloved son. When he does so, he comes alive to who he truly is.

I think this story contains two basic insights. First, other individuals and our society may lead us to forget who we are, our true self. Yet another caring person can see and call us to remember our true self. Secondly, the basic truth of who we are is that we are a beloved son or daughter, that is, a being of intrinsic worth, In brief the story is saying that no matter how far we stray, no matter how lost we become, or no matter how dead we are inside, we remain that beloved person, a being of sacred worth.

A similar thought is echoed by Meister Eckhart, a thirteenth century mystic.“There is a place in the soul that neither time nor space nor any created thing can touch. … There is a place in the soul where you’ve never been wounded.” We may have wandered far from this place. Yet it which always remains and is accessible. Our challenge is to recover or uncover this place as our true home.

In sum, in this approach, memory concerns most fundamentally who we are, and who we are in relationship to others whose lives are most fully intertwined with our own. It may gradually extend to the wider communities and world. It concerns remembering our own and others worth, and gradually living a life based on that sacredness in self, in others, and eventually in all that is. It is, in effect, a life based on love received and given, and one that gradually radiates outwards, in wider and wider circles, to embrace all that is. Such a life is truly memorable and meaningful.

May you come more and more to be in touch with your own inmost core, to recognize its sacred worth and beauty, and to honour that sacredness in yourself and others. May you more and more live according to that worth, in yourself, in others who have entered your heart and remain there, and ever-widening circles to embrace every human being and all that is. And may you thereby fashion a memorable life whose presence radiates through the universe.