Full Writing

Freedom as Gathering and Gift of Self

Full Writing, Ours
Last week, we spoke of imagination as a gateway to freedom. Imagination does so by opening up alternatives, new possibilities, in how we think and feel, in our attitudes and actions, our way of life. Two themes come from this reflection: one is the need for what spiritual writer, Wayne Muller, calls “sabbath time.” The other is the need to expand our understanding of freedom. Today, we will mention briefly the notion of sabbath time and then look at the topic of freedom.
For Muller, sabbath time is a time free from work and other responsibilities, where we can just enjoy being alive. “In Sabbath time,” he writes, “we are valued not for what we have done or accomplished, but simply because we have received the gentle blessing of being miraculously alive.” It is a time we spend on what is good for its own sake, and not just a means to something else. ​“Sabbath, “ he writes, “is more than the absence of work; it is not just a day off, when we catch up on television or errands. It is the presence of something that arises when we consecrate a period of time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, or true. It is time consecrated with our attention, our mindfulness, honouring those quiet forces of grace or spirit that sustain and heal us.”
One common view of freedom, yet mistaken, I believe, is to see freedom as the absence of any commitment and to see others as an obstacle to our freedom. A similar view sees freedom as the ability to do what we feel like as long as we don’t hurt anyone.
Yet what we feel like on the surface might differ considerably from what we truly want from our inmost core. What we feel like on the surface might arise from the latest commercial we have seen on television–such a getting a new cell phone–or the slightest whim that comes into our mind. On a deeper level, the script of what we wish for–such as financial success rather than friendship–may arise from the conditioning of our society. Or it may spring from our need to belong which Gabor Maté says may obscure our deeper need for authenticity.
I like to say that our freedom is as wide as our vision and as deep as our understanding. It may take a long time to discover our deepest longing. I may be hidden beneath the clutter of many strands of conditioning. Psychologist Erich Fromm has written that much of our activity is not really free but driven by compulsion or fear. To be free requires a process of coming to an awareness of the script that we are actually following in our life. This inherited script may even go against our own deepest longing. Until we become aware of that script, we cannot either affirm, modify or change it.
I remember a conversation years ago with a man who had come to the college to teach after serving in a business capacity for a long time. It was a small college where faculty from every discipline met in the lunch room or common room. This man enjoyed being there immensely, and one day, with a tone of sadness, he said to me, “I’ve missed a lot.”
To be in touch with, understand, and be a t home with our inmost self, what Thomas Merton calls our “true self,” requires times of solitude and silence, as well as open conversation with trustworthy friends. We are also aided by exposure to literature, music, painting and other arts. These can put us in touch with our inner self and help to name our deepest experiences.
Writer and activist, Edwina Gately, says that out of darkness and silence she came to see her life work to be with the women of the streets of Chicago. Over time, as a rapport of trust developed, they began to share bits of their life stories with her. Almost all of them had been victims of some form of childhood violence. The positive counterpart is expressed by the monk, Basic Pennington: “If a child always received such totally gratuitous, totally affirming love, the child would grow up to be one of the most beautiful persons this world has known.”
In other words, the intelligent and genuine caring of others enhances, and even to some degree, makes possible our freedom. To the extent that we are assisted in our struggle towards a deep sense of our own worth, we become freer persons. We are gradually freed from being driven to approach others only as needs or threats, rather than as who they and we truly are. We become freed as well from the burden of trying to prove or earn a worth that we do not fee.
The example of Edwina Gately also brings out that the caring that enhances freedom may involve listening from the heart to the stories of others. I recall the words of writer, John Shea, who says that any sorrow can be borne provided a story can be told about it.  And, it should be added, provided there is a caring listener to that story.
What these examples suggest is that our freedom is enabled and developed by the caring of others, expressed often in listening. They also suggest that freedom is itself expressed, not in opposition to others, but in sharing with them. Freedom is at least in some degree fulfilled in sharing our stories and our story with others, in sharing who we are. In this perspective, freedom is the capacity, not to refuse ourselves, but to give ourselves. If understanding can be viewed as the gathering of ourselves into the hands of our awareness, then freedom can be regarded as the gift of our gathered self.
A further thought, noted by theologian Karl Rahner, is that the more we put our whole selves into a decision, the more we are shaped by that commitment, the less reversible it is. While we do shape ourselves by individual choices, our freedom is more fundamentally concerned with the kind of person we become and the direction we give to our lives, Our underlying freedom is less about what we do and more about who we are.
At the same time, we do not become the person we are in isolation, but only in relation to others and the world in which we live. Sam Keen expresses it in these words.  “Everyone has a fascinating story to tell, an autobiographical myth. And when we tell our stories to one another, we, at one and the same time, find the meaning of our lives and are healed from our isolation and loneliness. Strange as it may seem, self-knowledge begins with self-revelation. We don’t know who we are until we hear ourselves speaking the drama of our lives to someone we trust to listen with an open mind and heart.”
We may recall finally 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 or script that is not superficial, naive, warped or destructive, but one that takes into account all our spiritual richness and complexity and depth, as well as our inner wounds and failures  We need a vision of that enables and challenges us to celebrate our joys, to survive our sorrows, to share our lives, and to build our world.
May you become more and more aware of who you truly are and of the sacred worth of who you are., And may you find in friendship and in social outreach meaningful ways to share who you are.

Norman King, October 24, 2022

Imagination: Gateway to Freedom

Full Writing, Ours
Many years ago, when my children were small, I came across a bookmark that really resonated with me. It was a quotation from Albert Einstein: “Imagination is more important than knowledge.”
It recalled to me the work of Latin American theologian, Rubem Alves. He also stressed the importance of imagination as essential to get beyond the confines of the present socio-economic culture. While I have forgotten much of his writing, I recall one statement: that the most important thing we can do is to teach good literature to children. It develops their imagination to think of many and different possibilities. They don’t regard the present situation as unchangeable reality. In a similar vein, the late Robert Kennedy stated: “Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not.”
Recently, my friend Jane had her then 5-year-old grandson staying with her during the COVID shutdown, while he attended virtual school in the morning. In the afternoon they went exploring in their imagination. Out of these journeys came a recently published collection of poems for children of all ages. At the beginning, they write: “These poems are the record of our travels together into the world of the imagination where anything is possible.” On the back cover is a fascinating reflection on imagination.
“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.”
(This book is available through our website: www.touchingthespirit.ca, or by email: nking@uwindsor.ca)
There is a marvelous children’s story by novelist, Margaret Laurence, called The Olden Days Coat. In the story, 10-year-old Sal is disappointed that she has to spend Christmas at her grandmother’s house, shortly after her grandfather had died. One day there, she explores an old trunk, where she finds a girl’s winter coat. She tries it on and is magically transported into the past where she meets a young girl who turns out to be her grandmother as a child.
Another children’s novel, Tom’s Midnight Garden by Philippa Pierce, also involves a trip to the past. A young boy, Tom, is sent to live for a time with his aunt and uncle. He discovers an old grandfather clock. When the clock strikes thirteen instead of twelve, it opens up into a garden of the past. There he meets and forms a friendship with a young girl who gradually gets older in the course of his many visits.
While both stories involve an imaginary trip to the past, they are a reminder of the profound connection that can exist between children and grandparents. Often the older person will be a storyteller to the younger, and both will venture into the realm of imagination. Both grandparent and child are defined not by jobs or productivity, but by presence. In some ways, both are closer to the mystery in which our lives are enveloped.. I recall once giving a talk at a local hospital. Afterwards I spoke with an older woman who was a nun and a retired nurse, who now did volunteer work at the hospital. She said that that morning she had helped a child to be born and, in the afternoon, assisted at the death of an old man. She said that she was struck at the similarity of the two experiences. They both had a sacred quality about them.
Often in the busyness of life, we can become immersed in what is immediately demanding, and forget for a time what is really important in life. I recall a woman once saying to me that she was too busy having children to really enjoy their presence. There is a song by the late Harry Chapin, called Cat’s in the Cradle. The father and son talk about getting together and spending time with each other, but they never do.
Both the young and the old may be closer to the mystery of life that echoes strongly in birth and death. People like Wayne Muller stress the importance in our life of what he calls “sabbath time.” This is a time when we leave aside for a moment our busy routines and pause to enjoy and reflect upon life, a mystery that carries both joy and sorrow, both gardens and wastelands. Folk tales begin with the words “once upon a time.” These words can take us into the realm of imagination which can shine a gentle light on the mystery of life.
Writer, G. K. Chesterton, says that it was good to be in the folk tale. Immersing oneself in that realm which he calls “elfland,” evoked a sense of gratitude. Gratitude, he adds, is the test of all happiness. Children are grateful when Santa Claus puts in their stockings gifts of toys or sweets. He is grateful as well for the gift of two miraculous legs to put in his stockings.
In the story, The People Could Fly, enslaved people are afflicted terribly by the cruelty of the enslavers. They are still able to rise above these horrors in their imagination. There also they form their plans to escape by the Underground Railroad.  Viktor Frankl, recalls that, even in the horror of the concentration camp, he was able to commune in imagination with his absent wife, as well as the beauty of nature.
Imagination here is certainly an escape from a terrible world. But as we have suggested, it is far more than that. It is the possibility to explore new worlds, whether through story or music or painting and even through daydreaming. It can expand our understanding of self and of life, help us modify our attitudes, alter the script we have been following in our life. By opening up all these possibilities, it not only expands our freedom but can also sustain and develop our hope.
May you ever enrich your own imagination. May you then grow in freedom and hope. And may this growth find expression in compassion for yourself and others who share your life in near or distant ways.
Norman King
October 17, 2022

Longing for Meaning, for Home

Full Writing, Ours
We have spoken lately of the inseparable joy and sorrow, fear and love, labour and rest, darkness and light that are bound up with every human life. We have also referred to the images of eternal rest and perpetual light which ancient peoples used to express their longing for meaning and fulfillment. We have also mentioned that one element in grief is the felt experience of incompleteness–of a life, a relationship, even a conversation. Each person who enters lovingly into out life holds a place that no other can occupy. When they depart, that space remains empty, except for the love that remains there. The key theme is that the degree to the person is loved, the greater the loss. Yet memories may turn from pain to gratitude and even joy.
I think that at the root of felt incompleteness, arising from the contradictions of life and the whole spectrum of feelings, there is a profound longing, a yearning for a something more. This thought is echoed in the words of theologian Daniel McGuire:
      Persons look at themselves and the world around them. They see the bird in flight, the rose in bloom, the infant blessing us   with smiles, and they utter the primal expression of religious consciousness: ‘There is more to this than meets the eye.’ The religious inference is that deep down in things there is a creative presence, a directing force, that underlies the complexities and the beauties of our setting.
This longing seems ever present, even if unnoticed, and arises from the deepest level within us. Sometimes the busyness of our lives may cover it over for a time. Or we may expect that the next thing we acquire, the next relationship we form, or the next adventure we undertake, will relieve this inner ache. Yet we may then hear a piece of beautiful music, or be visited by an undefined sadness, or notice how swiftly our days are passing. Then once again we feel that inner longing. As I once expressed it, we go through life with a question that reaches farther than any answer we receive, and with a yearning that reaches further than anything we attain or receive. There remains always an unanswered question and an unstilled longing. As one writer put it, our hopes are always more than can come true, our demands on life are always larger than life is willing to give.
Theologian, Karl Rahner comments that we ourselves and all persons, things, and institutions we encounter are finite—that is, limited, fragile, perishable, contingent.  And we are drawn from our inmost core to reach out, consciously and freely, for something more than, beyond the finite, an outreach for  “the infinite.” The deepest dimension of all human experience, Rahner says, is a hunger for the infinite. From the inmost core of our being, we are drawn to reach beyond all that is finite for the infinite.
In more concrete terms, we are looking for something somewhere over the rainbow. We are seeking a beauty beyond the storms of life; a home beyond any we presently experience. Perhaps this is what Plato the philosopher intimated when he spoke of the world of ideas of which the physical world is just a copy. The beauty, truth, and goodness, the lasting home of our longing, is somehow suggested by our experience but not contained by that experience.
These thoughts are very elusive. But they recall the example of the child asking the question of where he or she came from. The child is not seeking a technical answer, but a story, a story in which he or she is the main character and is welcomed into the family or, hopefully a caring group. The child is really asking, we suggested: “Am I important and do I belong?”
This appears to be a question that remains always beneath the surface of our lives. It suggests that our infinite longing may be expressed as longing that the story of our life be a good story, That is to say, a story in which we have a sacred worth and a lasting belonging and purpose. It is a longing for a life of enduring meaning. As we have said, we cannot prove such a worth, but only discover a worth already there, as did Narcissus. This discovery implies a recognition of that worth as a gift. It is something always there, As such, it evokes a sense of gratitude for what is, rather than a desperate and futile attempt to prove a worth that ever appears absent. Often it is a caring or caring others that treat us a having an intrinsic value that makes possible this discovery.
Another image comes from an understanding of compassion. Compassion might be understood as a caring space around another’s pain or suffering. That space is empty in the sense that it is free of the caring person’s own clutter, empty of their persona agenda, preconceived thought, or advice. It is simply a being with, a being present to another.
An analogy to Plato’s approach is perhaps found in the Jewish mystical tradition, the Kabbalah. Susan Cain, in Bittersweet, describes it this way. “In the beginning all of creation was a vessel filled with divine light. It broke apart and now shards of holiness are strewn all around us. … Our task is simple–to bend down, dig them out, pick them up. And in so doing, to perceive that light can emerge from darkness, death gives way to rebirth.”
This story suggests to me is that the light we seek is beyond all the shards. Yet our concrete response is to the shards. We recognizing both the infiniteness of our longing and regard the shards as our glimpse of that infiniteness. We express our respect for the sacredness of life–as a gift beyond all seizing–in our striving to be compassionate and just. We do so through our response to concrete persons and situations in our actual life circumstances.
In a similar vein, but with a different image, theologian Karl Rahner notes that if we persist in remaining silent for a tine, we may notice that everything is as if suffused by a nameless remoteness, as if surrounded by what sense like emptiness. He then suggests that we may trust the emptiness; it is not nothingness. Perhaps we may envision the universe as pervaded and enveloped by an underlying unseen energy, whose thrust is towards compassion.
These words seem somewhat stammering and elusive. Yet the core is simple. Life is certainly ambiguous and mysterious. Perhaps all that counts is to hold fast to the sacredness of persons and of all reality, and to try to embody that conviction and hope ever more fully in our concrete lives. That is perhaps the essence of our longing and our path to home.
Norman King
October 09, 2022

Rest and Light

Full Writing, Ours
Along with Leonard Cohen, one of my favourite singers has been Louis Armstrong. In the past few days, I listened to again and played in class his recording of That Lucky Old Sun. In his voice there is both a feeling of longing and of hope. At the same time, he tells of his struggles with work and family life. These are also, at least implicitly, bound up with his love and concern for his family.“ Fuss with my woman, toil for my kids/ Sweat till I’m wrinkled and gray/ While that lucky old sun has nothin’ to do/ But roll around heaven all day.”
Another image, expressed in That Lucky Old Sun, is that of light. In a time before electricity, people’s lives were profoundly affected by the alternating rhythm of day and night, light and darkness. I remember a friend who lived in a dangerous situation commenting that when he awoke in the morning, his immediate feeling was gratitude. He was grateful that he had lived to see the dawning of another day. Another person jokingly remarked that if he awoke in the morning and did not see flowers, he got up.
The words themselves, and their situation in a song, express the theme of transforming sorrow into beauty. They reflect the both/and of life, the inseparability of love and fear, joy and sorrow, light and darkness. Containing these words in the beauty of music or the unity of a story is a concrete way of saying that they are meaningful. They express the conviction and hope that there is a lasting worth and purpose to every life. Sorrow and pain do not take away that meaning, but are somehow encompassed within it. At the same time, there are moments in life that make it difficult to feel that value.
The imaginative context of toilsome struggle and utter darkness certainly questions everything. Yet they draw forth the profound human yearnings of hope for lasting meaning. This context leads perhaps to their calling forth for a rest that lasts and a light that endures. One verse of That Lucky Old Sun asks: “Show me that river/ Take me across/ Wash all my troubles away/ Like that lucky old sun, give me nothing to do/ But roll around heaven all day.” The image is one of crossing to a new land, a new life, where the accumulated silt of the dark winters of our lives are washed away. It recalls the image of our longing for “somewhere over the rainbow,” for new light and life after the storms of our life.
I find fascinating some of the images that express the fulfillment of the longing that pervades a human life. Two predominant images are the ancient ones of rest and light. In terms of rest, the laboriousness of much of ancient life, as well as the stress levels of contemporary life, make the image of a time and place of rest something desirable. Aside from the image of laying someone to rest, funeral rituals have expressed a hope for eternal rest. In Latin the term used is requiem aeternam. And the music and ritual that accompany a funeral are called a “requiem.” I have found John Rutter’s Requiem a beautiful rendition of this theme.
The image of rest expresses the notion of a release from the striving, the longing, the hurt, the failures, all the wearying things that go to make up the struggling, wrestling, coping character of life–a rest from life’s labours, so to speak.  In his book, Sabbath, Wayne Muller emphasizes the need of time where, “we are valued not for what we have done or accomplished, but simply because we have received the gentle blessing of being miraculously alive. … [where] “the sweet womb of sacred rest enfolds us, heals and restores us.” He adds:
“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.”
A different, though, related approach is offered by physician Gabor Mate (The Myth of Normal). He says that every human being has a true, genuine, authentic self. Yet the failure to experience unconditional loving acceptance, to have that basic worth affirmed by family or society, causes a wound to the emotional being, the psyche, the soul. It disconnects us from our true self. Healing is the process of re-connection, of movement to wholeness. As in the story of Narcissus, the pathway to wholeness is the discovery of an image of ourselves as lovable, that is, as having a sacred worth. Susan Cain, in Bittersweet, elaborates that the key to fulfillment is learning to love who you are–something which is unconditional and unceasing–rather than just what you have done.
In this context, I think that the meaning of rest is not just ceasing from activity, from keeping busy,  which is often a form of escapism. It is rather resting comfortably in who we are. This includes a recognition of limitations, tendencies, faults, yet the conviction that who we are is deeper than and finally untouched by all of these.
Darkness has been associated with the unknown, with fear and danger. Light has been said to dispel the darkness. Spring is a time of lengthening days, a time of more light, and a time when new life emerges again from the darkness of winter. In some stories, light marks the beginning of creation. Enlightenment marks the dawning of a new and fuller awareness. Besides speaking of eternal rest, the early liturgies also spoke of “lux perpetua,” perpetual light. In this context, the image expresses the hope for a light and warmth that dispel fear, overcome betrayal and brokenness, and convey vision and awareness.
Along with enduring hope, are united love and beauty. The ancient Greek story of Orpheus and Eurydice suggests that love and beauty belong together. The experience of what is beautiful draws us out of ourselves but in a non-possessive way. It invites us not to grasp but to be grasped by, to be overwhelmed by the beauty of an instrument, a voice, a human soul. Perhaps only a love that is not grasping, only a love that sees and responds to the beauty of a person, is truly mature and fully life-giving.
As in Leonard Cohen’s song, we all have cracks of vulnerability, grief, and sorrow, It is perhaps in these cracks that the light of hope, love, and meaning gets in. And perhaps these cracks allow a glimpse of the sacred and beautiful self that lies beneath and is untouched by all the trials of life.
Norman King
October 02, 2022

The Cracks Where the Light Gets in

Full Writing, Ours

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

 

Embracing All the Seasons of Life

Full Writing, Ours

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

Transforming Sorrow into Beauty

Full Writing, Ours

Last week, we mentioned the story, The Wizard of Oz. It illustrates how the longing for understanding (scarecrow), love (tin man), and courage (lion), are to be discovered and developed within oneself. In the story, they first expect that someone, the wizard, will confer these qualities magically from outside. The searchers discover that this is a false hope. The seeds of these qualities are already present within them. They just need to be developed in response to their experiences.

I think that this story illustrates a common mistake. We tend to look for magical answers and solutions. In part, this is related to the thought that there should be no pain or sorrow in life, and that we can escape them. A profound change can occur if we recognize that every life is a blend both of joy and sorrow, in varying degrees. We can then expect times of sadness or pain as an inevitable part of life. We can also recognize that quick fixes or running from ourselves will not work. Any short-term relief will be quickly followed by a letdown.

The challenge is to acknowledge the pain. We can, in a safe place, even allow ourselves to feel it.
Then we can, at least over time, transform our sorrow. Author, Susan Cain, in her book, Bittersweet, has commented that the most beautiful music contains or even springs from an experience of sadness. It is also out of her loneliness that Rapunzel sings beautifully and her voice may ring throughout the forest of our hearts, as it does for the young prince. Medieval mystic, Mechtilde of Magdeburg, says that when her loneliness becomes too great, she takes it to her friends.

In The Wizard of Oz, a storm and tornado breaks out on the farm where Dorothy lives. It carries her away to a strange new land. The theme song of the film is Over the Rainbow. (I find the most haunting version to be that of Eva Cassidy.) The storms of life can be followed by rainbows. It is often on the other side of the sorrows of life that its meaning and beauty can be discovered. This transition is wonderfully illustrated by the transition in the film from black and white to colour.

In life, as in The Wizard of Oz, the challenge is to go through and beyond the storm, and find new life. It is to find life even in the midst of the many deaths in the midst of life – the times of darkness, unknown forces, confusion, upset. Yet within them dwell the longing and hope that sense there is something beyond these storms.

Susan Cain’s book brings out that joy and sorrow, light and darkness, bitter and sweet, life and death are inseparably bound up with one another, and are an integral part of life. We have often cited Richard Rohr’s words that suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. Cain says similarly that if we don’t acknowledge our own heartache, we can end up inflicting it on others through abuse, domination, or neglect. But if we realize that every person experiences loss and suffering, we can become kind and compassionate to one another.

In the story, The Secret Garden, and its film version, the outer garden parallels the inner garden of the heart. Archie’s wife has died in the garden and so he locks it up and at the same time locks up the garden of his heart. His niece, Mary, who has been orphaned, arrives to live at his house, Through her vitality and love, she gradually opens up both the outer garden and the garden of his heart. The love that results in loss and sadness that become a prison is also the love that is the path out of that prison.

Our life journey, over the rainbow, involves the journey inward and the journey outward. These are inseparable and while they involve our unique self, they are not merely solitary. They also involve others, community, earth, and the universe. This journey, especially in its inward dimension, is beautifully expressed by Dag Hammarskjold, former UN Secretary General, in his book, Markings. His outer journey and its tragic ending in an airplane crash are quite evident. Only with his journal does his inner journey appear and shed light on our inner journey as well. He writes:

“The longest journey is the journey inwards, of him who has chosen his destiny, who has started upon the quest for the source of his being.” “I don’t know who or what put the question, I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone – or Something – and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore, my life in self-sacrifice had a goal.”

Our yes to life is an expression of a meaning deeper than tragedy. It is an expression of hope beyond all sorrow. When she was three years old, my daughter had a pillow and sheet with the theme of Noah and the ark. More than anything else, it featured a rainbow. One time, when Lorraine and I were away for a day, we had a young nurse stay with the children. As it turned out, while we were en route with a friend to the Shaw Playhouse at Niagara on the Lake, a fierce storm broke out. Some trees on our street were toppled, including one that fell on our car and a branch that crashed through our dining room window. It was a really frightening experience for the children. Afterwards, for a bedtime story, I told a revised version of Noah and the ark, with a storm rather than a flood. For several evenings, Mary asked for this story and it always ended with the same routine. I would have to ask her if there would ever be another storm like that. She would reply, “No.” I would then ask her how she knew, And she would answer, “The sign is the rainbow.”

She was, in fact, using the story to interpret her storm experience and to reassure herself that this frightening experience would not happen again. It was an example of how we do see our life as a story and use the stories to which we are exposed to interpret our own story. In a slightly wider framework, I would say that, while there may be many storms in our life, there may remain the underlying hope that these be followed by rainbows. A marvellous illustration is found in the original film, Fantasia. The drawings that accompany Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony show the dark storm giving way to a radiant sunshine.

The subtitle of Susan Cain’s book is “how sorrow and longing make us whole.” She says in the introduction as well that the heart of her book is”transforming pain into creativity, transcendence, and love.”

Many all the storms in your life be followed by rainbows. May you always find the keys to the garden of your heart. May all your sorrows be transformed into meaning and beauty that give worth and purpose to your life.

Norman King, September 11, 2022
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