In the last while, we have spoken of the difference between life scripts we inherit from without and our true story from within. We have also spoken of memory as the process not so much of recalling past events, but of remembering who we are. It is a process of uncovering our true story. It can also be described as a process of returning home to ourselves.

We have also spoken of imagination as exploring alternative possibilities beyond a seeming prison of inherited, status quo, scripts. One of the possibilities is to uncover our own inmost story. This awareness involves unveiling our identity beneath seemingly encrusted layers of inherited, often negative messages about ourselves. It is also, as a result, an uncovering of a life direction, a script, that does reflect and embody our core identity.

Certainly, it may mean departing from inherited, or even inflicted scripts, (however much they may have arisen out of genuine concern), Yet it is also a relational story, since our lives are inseparably bound up with others. It may then move towards relating to one another as we and they truly are, not as one projected image to another. It may move towards becoming, so to speak, a relation between persons rather than impersonators.

Yet beneath these layers that may protect or hide, yet also express, our inner self, there is an immense longing. It is the experience from our deepest core that reaches for something more, beyond where we are now. It may be imaged as a longing for somewhere over the rainbow, a somewhere that is elusive, mysterious, and felt rather than known. It may be described perhaps as a longing for meaning, for wholeness, for home. It may be a longing to come home to our heart, our core, and from there become a home to others.

As Dag Hammarskjold has written, this is a long journey. “The longest journey is the journey inwards, of one who has chosen his or her destiny, who has started upon the quest for the source of their being.” The myths and folk tales also speak of this journey. Odysseus wanders for many years in solitude and through many dangers before arriving home to his beloved Penelope. In a moving passage near the end of his journey home, Odysseus is welcomed to a banquet where a blind poet sings. The poet’s song strikes to the heart of Odysseus and moves hin to tears, because it is the song that names his very life. It certainly calls to mind a similar song by Roberta Flack, Killing Me Softly with His Song, echoed in the following words: “Strumming my pain with his fingers/ Singing my life with his words/ Killing me softly with his song.”

The folk tale tradition makes concrete this inner journey home by the image of the dark forest. Hansel and Gretel must pass through such a forest until they are guided by the singing of a beautiful bird. The forest stands for all the dark, unknown, unexplored shadowy regions of the self before their encounter in the bird the underlying beauty of their true voice and song. They are then able to share their inner riches with others, as indicated by the discovery of hidden jewels. Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood also make a perilous journey through forests. There they encounter the powerful feelings and tendencies of “red” side of life. Only as they pass through these experiences of loss and conflict are they able to love from deeply within.

Gordon Cosby, described as a pastor, mentor, and social activist, speaks similarly of facing and naming the darkness within us, “crying out the grief that has marked us and too often been covered over. “ He adds, however: “The journey to your own quiet centre is long and arduous. … But one day you will touch the Silence and understand and exclaim .. how little were my labours compared with the great peace I have found”

Perhaps, too, tears provide an image of this quest for home. It is remarkable that, beyond mere surface emotions, tears well up within us at moments not only of great sorrow but also of great joy. The same physical expression appears to express opposite experiences. Yet they may unveil more profoundly that there is a place within us that is deeper than, prior to the separation of joy and sorrow, and gathers them into the unity of our heart. An interesting expression of this thought is found in a song All things New, by Elaine Hagenberg. Its words, in part, are as follows: “Light after darkness, gain after loss, Strength after weakness, … Sweet after bitter, hope after fears, Home after wandering, … Sight after mystery, sun after rain, Joy after sorrow, peace after pain; Near after distant, gleam after gloom, Love aftеr loneliness.”

Tears are a form of water, and water is many things in human experience. Water is the turbulent sea that swallows us up and the restful waters that restore our soul. It is the flood that lays waste the land and the irrigation that sustains its crops. It is the fury of the storm that always frightens and the beauty of the rainbow that always surprises with joy. Water is our home in the womb before birth, the perspiration of our labour, and the tears of our deep feelings. Water is both death and life to human beings. If we are drowning, water tastes of death; if we are thirsting, water tastes of life. Water symbolizes all that may threaten to engulf us or swallow us up. Water also symbolizes all that assuages the thirsts at the core of our being, and all that renews and restores us. Our tears are perhaps the container of our inmost feelings.

As in a reinterpretation of the story of Pandora’s Box, all the joys and sorrows of life, the contradictions of experience, may be contained within hope. And we might add, contained within and ultimately rooted in caring, compassion, and love.

May all the tears of joy and sorrow in you life flow into your heart, heal and transform you, and give you a living awareness of your own sacredness and that of all of life. And may they flow from you heart into a world so in need of your unique caring.

Norman King, November 7, 2022

Last week we mentioned the importance of discovering what we have called a true story–a true image of who we are and a worthwhile script to follow in living out our life. We need a story that takes into account all our spiritual richness and complexity and depth, as well as our inner wounds and failures. At the root of it all would be the our ineradicable sacred worth and our connection with all that is.

We might distinguish here between our true story and our inherited script. Our true story would be the unfolding of our life according to who we are in our inmost self. Our inherited script would be what we have been told we are from childhood on by family, school, culture, society, etc. What can happen is that we lose sight of who we truly are, we forget who we truly are.

In an article on folktales as rooted in the experience of wonder, G. K. Chesterton 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 common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awe-filled instant we remember that we forget. …

These words suggest that memory is far more than recalling past events, it is really recalling to our mind and spirit, who we truly are. In the thought of Gabor Maté, it is tuning in to our need for authenticity that has been obscured by our need to belong. This need leads us to set aside our authentic self in order to make ourselves seemingly acceptable to others.

An example is found in the well-known the story of the prodigal son, A young man, after securing his future inheritance, squanders it completely. He then arrives at the end of the line in his life after having followed a false script. He then remembers that it once was better. He feels he has lost his family position, but thinks that he might get a servant’s job with his father. Yet, on his return, his father greets him as his beloved son, despite his time of lostness. The story suggests that our sacredness is deeper than and not obliterated by any wrongness. Our true self is not lost, even if we fail to see it or even violate it. Yet sometimes it needs a caring other to help us get in touch with and see our worth and our true identity.

Memory is not then just related to past facts but to our present identity. We might remember a task of memorization required in our schooling, possibly especially in the daunting challenge of studying for exams. It is interesting, however, that one expression for such an activity is to learn and know something “by heart.” There is also a song by Eva Cassidy called I Know You by Heart, and part of a verse reads: “I see your sweet smile/ Shine through the darkness/ It’s line is etched in my memory/ So I’d know you by heart.”

The term heart here refers to the core (from the Latin word for heart, cor) or inmost centre of our being. If we understand something or someone in our heart, that person or event is so deeply rooted in us that they remain always in our awareness, at least in the background. They are ready to be drawn upon at any time. They that they remain an integral part of us, and shape who we are and who we are becoming.

When we remember something of this kind, the feeling level of what is recalled, whether joyful or painful, is also a part of this memory. If we hear a song, for example, that we associate with a particular time or place or person, we feel again what we felt at that time. The memory is not just a return to a past situation but is its experience anew in the present. The same experience may occur if we look at a photograph that evokes our connections with those whose lives are or have been intertwined with our own

In both these cases, memory is not just a remote connection with something long gone, but more of a tuning in to our identity. It is a bringing forth not just what we have done or has been done to us, but a calling forth of who we are.

May you always remember, may you always know by heart, who you truly are in you inmost sacred self. And may you find in your heart the core of who you are and all those who have entered into your heart and remain there always.

Norman King, October 24, 2022

“The world of the imagination is a a place where we can create adventures where always we are free to travel, make friends, explore our universe, and free to become whatever we choose. In our imagination, we are free to cry, to laugh, to ponder, to hope, to dream. Whether adults or children, wonder and joy our ours to see, hear, feel, respond to, and share these magical moments.

     “Our hope is that these poems will awaken your spirit and fill you with gratitude and joy for the experiences that await you in your imagination.”

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

Last week we mentioned that our life includes both joys and sorrows, winters and springs, darkness and light, storms and rainbows. It is important to acknowledge that our lives contain these contradictory experiences, and to try to name them truthfully. The challenge is to transform sadness and longing into beauty. With Leonard Cohen, whatever loneliness and brokenness we experience, it is always possible to sing Hallelujah. These may be the cracks where the light get in. Yet it certainly may take some working through, and the support of wisely caring others.

Richard Rohr reminds us, too, that any sorrow that is not transformed will be transmitted. It will be inflicted on others rather than entrusted to them.

This past week, I attended a presentation on grief which named and responded to some common cultural assumptions about grief that can have limiting and harmful effects. The presentation also brought out some creative ways to work through the grieving process rather than suggesting that we deny our real feelings or simply “get over it.”

I recall the words of a friend of Thomas Merton, spiritual writer, after Merton’s untimely, accidental death at the age of 53. The friend said that Merton’s death left a hole that would never be filled. To me, this remark says something about each person we come to know and love and who knows and loves us. Each one holds a unique place in our heart that no one else can occupy or replace. If we lose a copy of a book, it can be replaced. But if we have underlined that book and written notes in it, that particular copy becomes irreplaceable. The same is true of someone who has written words on our heart.

At t he same time, there is a process of transformation that can occur. In the early stages of grief, the memories we have may sting as we recall them. Later, they may be recalled with joy. On Thursday, I heard a fascinating talk and discussion with author, Lawrence Hill. He answered a question concerning the difficulty of writing about situations of suffering, cruelty, or injustice. He responded that, while it is difficult, these same characters also had counterbalancing experiences of joy and love and the like. He mentioned that the main character in The Book of Negroes is first introduced as an elderly woman. This portrayal indicates that she has endured and transcended any sorrows that have filled her life. As a result, these are held within a container of hope.

As our re-interpretation of the story of Pandora suggests, all the losses and sorrows of life are best held within a container of hope and love. This is the light that gets into the cracks of pain in our life. It is interesting that the sharing of bread involves its breaking. Our openness to the totality of life can include both the opening of our arms in a gesture of embrace. It can also be a process of breaking open that leaves us vulnerable yet ready to receive. As in The Selfish Giant, it may be through the cracks of vulnerability in our lives that new life can flow in and out.

There is a children’s story by Margaret Laurence, called The Olden Days Coat, which I find magical. In the story, ten-year-old Sal is disappointed when she and her parents spend Christmas at her grandmother’s house, instead of at her usual home, as they did before her grandfather died. In order to pass the time, Sal explores the contents of an old trunk. While searching through old photographs, she comes across a little girl’s winter coat, tries it on, and finds herself transported into the past. There she meets and makes a connection with her grandmother who shows her a box carved with a butterfly. This beautiful little box then becomes her present-day gift.

This story certainly reflects the unique connection between grandparents and grandchildren. It also suggests that gifts received continue to be shared over generations. Perhaps, more than anything, it shows how love, concretely expressed, may be transmitted across generations. Whenever anyone enters our heart, they remain there and become part of who we are. They are then shared with anyone who comes to share our heart. As in the story, however, it may take some time for us to realize this truth.

We spoke earlier of grieving. Perhaps the integration and transcending of grieving means that we allow our heart to be enlarged and opened by all who have entered in a caring way. We then share that legacy with all who in some way come to share our heart. In a somewhat similar way, writer of spirituality, Ron Rollheiser, says that we best remember those who have died by developing in ourselves their best qualities, even the simplest.

May you come to experience a heart open to all that is contained with the gift of life, and share it in a compassionate way with all those who in some way come within the circle of your light

Norman King, September 25, 2022

Last week we referred to the stories, The Wizard of Oz and The Secret Garden. The first story especially illustrates how there are storms in our life, but they may be followed by rainbows. To follow the rainbow, we must not rely on magical resources from outside, but discover and draw on our own inner gifts and resources. That is how we journey to our home on the other side of the rainbow.

The Secret Garden brings out the inseparability of the outer garden of the events of our life and the inner garden of our heart. Rather than attempting to close off our hearts to pain or sorrow, we need to allow then to be open and vulnerable, though certainly in the safe place of our own solitude or in the safe place of a caring other.

The Selfish Giant, a modern folktale by Oscar Wilde likewise brings out that if we build walls around ourselves, it will always be winter in our hearts and no birds will sing. If we break down our walls, we can allow new life to flow within and without, even in a playful way. This conviction is illustrated by the children. They come in through cracks in the walls and winter turns to spring, darkness to light.

This story reminds me as well of Leonard Cohen’s famous line from his song, Anthem: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” In Hallelujah, he sings of a lonely and a broken hallelujah. These words would seem to acknowledge the sorrow and limits of life. Yet they are followed by a movement beyond to gratitude for the gift of life, a celebration of that life, and spirit of generosity. It is possible to trust our longing for home, which lies on the other side of the rainbow which follows the storm.

In the story of Snow White, the growing child is faced with a choice represented by the colour red and the two queens. The colour red stands for the powerful and even contradictory feelings. The two queens represent the red of love and the red of hatred. Snow White experiences both tendencies within herself, as we all do. As she grows–in the Grimm Brothers story rather than the film version–Snow White she faces a choice between the red of love and the red of hate.

In the story of The Two Wolves, the child tells his grandfather of similar feelings. He says that it is as if two wolves are fighting within himself, the wolf of love and the wolf of hate. He asks his grandfather which one wins. The grandfather responds that it is the one he feeds. The grandfather also acknowledges the presence of both strong feelings within himself and the struggle between them: “I too, at times, have felt great hate for those who have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It’s like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times.”

These stories recall the expression of Richard Rohr that suffering–and we might add the powerful negative tendencies and feelings–are either transformed or transmitted. It recalls also our distinction between inflicting our negative feelings on others and entrusting them to a caring other.

In the story, Snow White is tricked into tasting the red side of the apple. In effect, she tastes the red side of life, that is, the whole variety of powerful emotions. To do so is to undergo a kind of death, an ending of one stage of life. In the story, she is then encased in a glass coffin. Like the wall which surrounds the selfish giant, in her glass case, she becomes inaccessible. Only when the glass encasing her is cracked open does she emerge to a new life. The story suggests that it is only love which is able at once to acknowledge the cracks in life—all that is painful—yet hold them together in a caring heart. It is essential to taste life fully, yet not to poison, but to nourish self and others in the process.

Writer Katherine May, speaks along similar lines in her book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. She says that “wintering as a metaphor for those phases in our life when we feel frozen out or unable to make the next step, and that that can come at any time, in any season, in any weather.” She suggests that when we are in a dark place, we need to ask what it can teach us. She notes that we are uncomfortable with sadness. And our instinct is to try to move others out of that state immediately. But that can feel a lot like being told that our feelings aren’t acceptable and that our state of being isn’t acceptable. It is more helpful to make space for their sadness, to open up a space that their sadness is acknowledged and validated.

The Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone stresses as well the seasons of winter and spring in our hearts as well as in the weather. Winter is linked with a time of loss, desolation, and mourning and desolation. Spring is a time of new life, joy, and connection. Both seasons are a part of life. My godson, Aidan and I reworked the story of Pandora, whose name means “all the gifts.” It suggests that while sorrow and suffering are an inescapable part of life, life still remains a wondrous and sacred gift. And it is best contained within hope and love.

May all the storms in your life give rise to rainbows. May you acknowledge the presence of all feelings within yourself without ceasing to be grateful for your life. And may you find caring others to whom to entrust all your feelings.

Norman King
September 18, 2022