We have spoken recently about being at home to ourselves and to one another. We spoke to of loneliness, its forms and challenges. I hope that this Christmas has not been too difficult for you and that you have had some meaningful contact with those you care about and who care about you.

What can prevent us from being present and at home to ourselves and to one another are the defensive walls we build around ourselves. Among these are what might be called the walls of deadness that can stifle the life inside us. In that situation , someone must see beyond these walls to the possibility of new life and call that forth in us. One example is the problem of isolation occasioned by illness, age, or other issues, readily made worse by the pervasive covid virus. Here it can require us or another to see that someone is more than the limitations that imprison them, and to reach caringly beyond them in whatever ways are presently possible. To do so requires that we discern that the sacred worth of a person–including ourselves–is rooted in who we are rather than what we have or do.

Sometimes we even put up walls to our friends, While true friends are able to pass through these walls, it may be advisable to respect these walls, these defences that they may need at one time or another, But we recognize that they are more than such walls. We tune into the person behind these walls and our caring reaches to that person. Sometimes we may help that person to feel, or another may make us feel, that in each other’s presence we do not need any walls, that we are a safe place for each other, because we are valued as who we are.

One reason we build walls around ourselves is because of our fears. Certainly our fears and how we might respond to them is topic of its own. Here we might just say that our experience of limits, weakness, and even wrong, might creates doubts in us about our own worth. It is perhaps this fear that we are of little value that most paralyses us. We need one another to affirm our worth as deeper, more enduring, and unassailable by anything or anyone.

I once suggested that around our core and sacred self are three walls: a wall of hurt, a wall of fear, and a wall of hostility. If we live inside of any of these walls, we tend to hurt ourselves and others. We are, in effect, homeless and lonely, because we are away from ourselves. The challenge is gradually, with one another’s help, to become more and more at home to our inmost self. There is a very striking line from a story by James Joyce. It reads: “Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.” It seems to mean being disconnected, being disconnected from feelings, thoughts, emotions, senses and everything about who we are, as well as from people and the world around us.

The Latin roots of the words “presence” and “absence” are instructive here. ”Presence” comes from the Latin words “prae” and “ens,” and means literally being there, being all there, being  with. “Absence” comes from the Latin words “ab” and”ens,” and means literally being away from, withdrawn or missing.

The positive challenge is to be there from our inmost centre and with all that we are, to ourselves and to another. To be present to ourselves is to be open to all that is within us. It is allowing ourselves to experience every nook and cranny of our being, every tendency, every memory, every action, so as to arrive beneath these to the home place, the sacred core or centre of who we are, beneath all of these. We perhaps best do this through times of gentle silence by ourselves or trusting and open conversation with another.

When we learn to be at home to ourselves, we can be at home to and for another. We do not have walls and fences and barriers that prevent their entry. We are able to provide an uncluttered space and a safe place for another to enter and to be. We offer a space of compassion around another person and we are open to who that person is, without an agenda, and without an agenda that seeks to adjust or mould them, to use them, to meet our alleged and surface needs. That openness to who another is includes an invitation to become who they are and can be.

Genuine presence to another is also an openness to let who that person is affect, modify, change, and even transform who we are. To be truly present to you, I must allow who you are to affect who I am. In effect, I open the doors of my soul to you in trust. The opposite is when I remain closed to who you are, refusing to be shaped by your presence, or else trying to invade your soul from behind the locked doors of my own. I then act from mistrust, and possibly even violate your trust.

In a wider sense, to be present is to be open to life itself, to experience life in all its obscurity, ambiguity, and complexity, and in its gift character and sacredness that is deeper than and encompasses all else. And if we sense that life is vaster and more mysterious than all of our present answers, then we will be open to listen to life, rather than try to shout (or shut) it down.

The basic form of friendship, and of all form of creative caring for another is presence. It is being with another. Built upon that, but never replacing it, are the particular gifts with a person is endowed and has developed with the help of caring others, as well as the concrete situation and circumstances within which we find ourselves. We respond to one another first of all with who we are, then in terms of our gifts, and then in terms of what is appropriate to the situation. Josef Pieper in his book, About Love, says that before and more than the qualities that another person may have, the basic experience of love is that it is good that the other person  is, and that it is good to be with that person.

In terms of the idea of presence, openness, to life itself, perhaps what is crucial is to follow our deepest longings while recognizing our limitations, to be true to our own inmost truth while receiving the deepest truth of others. Rather than try to fit others–and life–into our present level of thought, feeling, and action, we are challenged to remain ever open, with an openness to be transformed by life, and by the mystery at the heart of life.

May you find a peaceful home within yourself and in one another that allows your life to unfold from within freely with awareness and compassion for yourself and others,

Norman King, December 28, 2020

It was suggested to me that during this time of increased and prolonged isolation, that words about loneliness and ways to respond to it might be helpful. Certainly nothing can replace physical presence, simply being with someone next to us, for hugs and/or conversation. Yet notes, phone calls, and even text messages or use of the so-called social media can be helpful. At the same time, many people do not have access to these forms, other than phone calls or letters. Sometimes, too, as persons get more and more isolated through sickness or even just the aging process, it can become harder to reach out. It requires someone else to take the initiative and reach in. Kindness, even when met with resistance, can always be helpful.

Many years ago, a young woman in class told of how she took her dog to long term care homes and to prisons. Her dog was always welcoming and friendly to whomever she met. On prisoner remarked how the dog did not know he had a criminal record and was in no way offset by that fact. Another sad case occurred when an elderly woman who obviously wanted to pet the dog refused to do so. The young woman realized that this person had virtually no choice in her institutional situation, no capacity to say no. This occasion was virtually the only one in which she could exercise a right to refuse. The incident highlighted the need for the possibility of decision-making, even in situations of confinement. It also illustrated the need for companionship, for affection, for closeness, that is essential to all of us.

A number of years ago, a colleague and I published an article on spirituality and chronic illness which noted some needs and concerns arising from illness, accident, or disability. One result is increasing isolation and the deep-seated loneliness it can occasion. Continued care for personal hygiene, good grooming, and personal appearance are helpful to maintain a person’s sense of self-respect and dignity. This effort can help people who are confined both to reach out and also to feel more comfortable in allowing others to approach them.

The diminishing of activity caused by physical limitations is also a cause of difficulty. Today it is more and more widespread because of the continuing incidence of Covid 19. Here it is important to provide those who are confined with possible outreach activities. It may be helpful to send notes and cards to others, to make telephone calls, to write emails or messages, or even to work on sudoku or word puzzles. A powerful example is that of the late Stephen Hawking, who continued his scientific work and communication through a voice synthesizer.

More profoundly, a change in mindset is called for. In recent decades there has bee n a growing tendency to regard ourselves as human “havings” and human “doings” rather than human “beings.” there is a tendency to forget that the greatest gift we have to offer one another is our presence. It is not what we have or do but who we are that counts the most. I recall that, some thirty years ago, as I sat with my dying mother, the expression came to mind: :Don’t just stand there, do something.” It struck me that, in this situation, the opposite is true. “Don’t just do something, stand there.” In other words, simply be there with the person. Don’t just flee into busyness.

This last thought brings to mind that we are essentially relational beings. Who we are is very much bound up with who we are with. Our sense of identity is very much bound up with our relationship with others. We discover who we are and our sacred worth especially from those who care about us and about whom we care. As we mentioned in discussing the story of Snow White, while we cannot see ourselves with our own eyes, we are best “mirrored” to ourselves by someone who intelligently and deeply cares for us. And we too can provide such a mirror for someone we care about. As a result, continuing contact and communication that comes from our core rather than our surface is crucial, in whatever forms are possible in this time of isolation.

While addressing this kind of loneliness, and only in connection with doing so, it is also important gradually to realize that there is also an underlying loneliness that comes from our human condition itself. Paradoxically, recognizing and living with this reality can be a source of creativity and meaningful relationships.

The story of Rapunzel provides a wonderful example. She is initially isolated in a nearly inaccessible tower. Yet, we are told, out of her loneliness she sings and the beauty of her voice rings throughout the forest. There it reaches and touches the heart of a young man who then seeks and succeeds in meeting her, only to be cruelly separated. If our loneliness can lead us to be in touch with and to express our inmost self, as Rapunzel does in singing, it can make possible an authentic relationship with others. The story ends with a marvellous insight. Rapunzel rushes to embrace her husband from whom she has been separated and who has wandered blindly through the forest. He hears her singing once again and stumbles into her presence. Two of her tears fall on his eyes and restore their sight. Our own wounds, creatively bo9rne, can be a source of vision and healing for others.

Clark Moustakas wrote an extremely insight ful book, simply entitled, Loneliness. Here are a few of his thoughts.
“Loneliness is a condition of human life, an experience of being human which enables the individual to sustain, extend, and deepen his or her humanity. .. [Yet despite its pain, fear or terror, loneliness] brings into awareness new dimensions of self, new beauty, new power for human compassion, and a reverence for the precious nature of each breathing moment. … I have concluded that loneliness is within life itself, and that all creations in some way spring from solitude, meditation, and isolation. … In loneliness persons commune with themselves and come to grips with their own being. They discover life, who they are, what they really want, the meaning of their existence, the true nature of their relations with others. …Within pain and isolation and loneliness, one can find courage and hope and what is brave and lovely and true in life.”

May you learn evermore to be in touch with and at home to yourself, and to express yourself more and more creatively, and gradually deepen and enhance your relationship with all whose lives intersect with your own.
Norman King, December 21, 2020.

I thought that this week I would look at a story that came to mind, that we have often discussed in class. It’s called The Gift. What brought this story to mind was the reflection on silence and sacred space, as well as some of your responses. That silence, hopefully, filters gradually through the many layers of self until we experience our core self as gift, as meaningful word out of the infinite silence enveloping all that is. And we may experience ourselves as called to provide that same sacred space around one another, a space that may seem empty, yet is filled with compassion. This experience is perhaps often crowded out by the hassles of life. We need not feel guilty about that, just grateful if its occasionally emerges.

The story of The Gift is just a few lines long.
In one seat on the bus a wispy old man sat holding a bunch of fresh flowers. Across the aisle was a young woman whose eyes came back again and again to the man’s flowers. The time came for the old man to get off. Impulsively he handed the flowers to the young woman,. “I can see you love the flowers,” he explained, “and I think my wife would like for you to have them. I’ll tell her I gave them to you.” She accepted the flowers, then watched the old man get off the bus and walk through the gate of a small cemetery.

It is like a parable in that the last line evokes surprise and sheds light on the whole preceding narrative. There is no conversation in the story until the old man offers the young woman the flowers. His words come out of his silence, yet also his awareness of the young woman’s appreciation of the flowers. Silence fosters awareness and it is out of such silence that may come more meaningful words.

The gift he gives is most concretely the flowers, but even more so all that they contain. As we discover, they contain the love he has shared with his late wife. They reveal something about the old man as well: the love he has shared with his wife does not end with her death; his loss and grief have not embittered him and diminished his capacity to love. Yet this love is not confined to his wife; it is not an exclusive but an expansive reality. It is not a possession but a living quality within him. Because the capacity to love that he has learned remains in his heart and continues to grow, he shares it with the young woman.

He offers the flowers and then leaves. His love remains, embodied in the flowers, but he does not. This is a simple expression of a genuine love, one that is not possessive or greedy or overly needy. Perhaps that is something we never learn or achieve completely and perhaps only approach on the other side of life’s sorrows.

Besides being expressive of love, flowers also represent the inseparable beauty and brevity of life, as well as its continuous renewal. After a relatively short time flowers fade, but also contain the seeds of their own renewal. The old man has known both the beauty and the brevity of life and love, its joy and its sorrow. With the flowers, he passes that experience along to the young woman, and in the process experiences as well something of its renewal.

Perhaps it is when the man walks into the cemetery that the young woman realizes the extent of the old man’s gift. With the flowers, she receives the love of the old man, and even that of his late wife who would have wanted her to receive them.

Many people have not received the love that would be called for by their sacredness, even in their childhood. And no one person can give that degree of love to another. Still where people lack a tangible expression of love, it can then be very difficult to realize their own sacred worth. There can be an ongoing struggle with self-doubt and even self-rejection, often without conscious awareness. Yet sometimes a surprise gesture, a token of kindness, the beauty of a flower, the colour of a sunset, or the words or melody of a song, can move us to a glimpse and a gentle stirring of hope that pushes in the direction of our own sacred worth.

The basic gift in the story is the reminder and call to awaken to a grateful awareness that life itself–and our own unique life–is a gift, that it combines joy and sorrow, and that it best unfolds within a context of love; a love that is at once deeply personal, yet moves expansively and non possessively in ever widening circles.

May you all realize more fully your own sacred worth. May you experience the caring from a loved one, a gesture of kindness, the world of music or other arts, or the world of nature, and much else, that makes your sacred worth more tangibly real and secure for you.

Norman King, November 2, 2020

Recently, I shared a few thoughts on the struggle to move towards a sense of our own sacred worth, which often comes up against our tendency to self-rejection. I referred to stories from the New Testament, with a brief reference to the stories of Narcissus and Sleeping Beauty.

Many of these stories arose within the context of a patriarchal tradition which took for granted that men are superior to women, that women must be in some ways subordinate to men, and that they are suitable only for certain types of work in home or society. Rosemary Ruether makes what is for me a very helpful distinction. She says that, while these stories are inescapably sexist, they have also wrestled with issues of life and death, and we can separate this wrestling from their limited context.

What this approach suggests to me is that we can look at these stories with new eyes. We can explore them from a standpoint of the fundamental equality of all persons yet the uniqueness of each one. We can affirm our common sacred humanity yet respect the diversity in which it is clothed. Within this new angle of vision, we can them explore and accept what they can tell us about what it is to be human and the meaning of our lives. They can help us to live our questions.

In the story of Narcissus, for example, we can look at the situation portrayed by Echo. In the story, perhaps originally suggested by actual echoes, the young woman, Echo, is condemned never to initiate a conversation but only to repeat, to“echo” what she hears. The story suggests that we must discover and speak from our own voice, not just echo the voice of others, of our society, our family, our friends, our nation, or the strangers who pass through our lives. If we do not find and live from our true inner voice, the voice of our sacredness, we will fade away and die. That is, we will never discover and live from what Thomas Merton calls our true self. We will become an impersonator rather than the person we truly are. And among the voices we hear, and perhaps repeat or parrot for most of our life, there is the quiet voice that calls us beloved daughter or son, the voice of our gifted sacredness, and that is the voice to listen to, tune into, and live from. Only then can we become free and fully alive for ourselves and others. We do this, I believe, through a blend of solitude, friendship, and social involvement.

The story of the young man, Narcissus, is perhaps likewise drawn from the experience of the life cycle of a flower by that name. In the story, Narcissus flees from any closeness until one day he sees his reflection in a pond of water, falls in love with it, and yet cannot embrace it. In one version, he falls into the pond and emerges only as narcissus flower whose gold centre stretches toward the sun.

In an insightful interpretation by Thomas Moore, the story is about how we will flee from intimacy, we will not let ourselves be truly loved, and we will inflict hurt on others, unless and until we discover an image ourselves as lovable. The fear of rejection, the fear that we are not enough, leads us to try to fashion an image of ourselves to project to others. This image of what we regard as acceptable becomes a wall behind which we hide. It is a wall of fear which readily becomes a wall of hostility. If we become silent enough we can begin to listen to the voice of our sacredness. Or it can be conveyed to us by another who senses that sacred self beneath these walls.

We then undergo a process of death and rebirth. We die to, that is, let go of the layered images of self that have lived behind walls of fear and hostility, and allow our sacred self to emerge into the light of day. We learn to trust where it is safe and appropriate, and allow ourselves and intelligently trustworthy others to experience our vulnerability. This is not a once and for all experience, but a process that is continually undergone, as the cycles of the season.

Gabor Mate, a physician who helps people recover themselves after childhood trauma or addictions, says that from the beginning of our lives we are drawn both toward authenticity and attachment. Often, however, the need for acceptance leads us, even unknowingly, to sacrifice our authenticity. Yet, he insists, it is never too late to rediscover and live our authenticity. I would add that genuine belonging is not fitting in by presenting an acceptable image of ourselves. It is belonging in our uniqueness–which is perhaps a good understanding of friendship.

In sum, we can look at these stories from the standpoint of our unique sacredness, our shared and equal humanity, and our enriching diversity. And we can ask, what do they tell us about discovering and growing into and sharing our unique personhood and common humanity. And they tell us that we are beings of worth, although it is only on the other side of sorrow and struggle that we can discover and live from our sacred authentic self. Yet as we do so, we will gradually become more free, truthful, trustworthy, loving, and just persons.

Norman King

In a well known expression, Richard Rohr says that suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. The challenge is to acknowledge our own pain rather than inflict it on others. If we are able to become attuned to our own sacred core, deeper than and not overcome by any sorrow, we can move gradually from a genuine self-acceptance and self-caring to a concern for others, those nearest to us, and then those more distant.

Wayne Muller also stresses that there is a certain amount of pain in everyone’s life, sometimes great and sometimes small, like a wind that either blows gently or roars through a persons’s life. Gordon Cosby also adds that most of us have an a great deal of unfaced suffering in our histories that has to be looked at and worked through.

What they all stress is that we are able to face our own pain and not have to run from ourselves and the pain that lives within us. Despite our initial fear and reluctance, if we do so, if we allow our sadness to open our hearts, we will find within us a greater freedom and peace, a fuller sense of who we truly are, deeper than any sorrow, We will find, as Rohr says, that they become sacred wounds rather than disfiguring scars, And we will be freed from becoming cynical and bitter, and from needing to scapegoat others and export to them our unresolved hurt. We can also then become, in Henri Nouwen’s terms, a wounded healer to one another.

I would add that what is often helpful is to entrust our sorrow to a trustworthy other. This is a matter not of inflicting or imposing it upon another as an attack, but rather offering it to another as a gift behind which is our very self. As I have often said as well, it is important that such recognition be in a safe place, which may be a time quietly and non-judgmentally by ourselves as well as with an intelligently caring other. And the naming of such experience can be through image, story, music or other art form.

Of course, there is a whole spectrum of experiences, of joy and love, peace and hope. These are also good to name and entrust. Many years ago, I said that we are transformed by what we let affect us deeply. I think that this means to allow ourselves to experience and come to awareness of all the different dimensions within ourselves. Yet it also suggests that in terms of influences from without that we not be open to everything outside us where there is a choice. This can include something as simple as avoiding listening to too many newscasts to to deciding not to expose ourselves to contacts or relationships that have a toxic impact on us.

Within this framework it seems most meaningful to experience deeply, to name our experience, and to share our experience. And if we realize that our own experience is limited, we may also allow our experience to be enriched and expanded by the named experience of others. Again, perhaps the best naming can come from the images, stories, music, painting, sculpture, architecture, and other art forms, as well as philosophical traditions, and these within as well as outside of religious traditions.

Norman King