A recent podcast on CBC’s Tapestry affirmed that one of the aids to living well in the crisis time of Covid, is to recall each morning things for which we are grateful. The person interviewed was Aisha Ahmad, a professor of political science at the University of Toronto. This gratitude is to concern things in the present, not past experiences currently unavailable. Gratitude may also concern very simple things. Other podcasts have also stressed that gratitude is essential to a fulfilling life.

What strikes me here is that such an approach is not a matter of sentimentality or artificial cheeriness. It is rather a gradually dawning realization that, however painful at times, and however engulfed by sadness, depression, or difficulties, that can seem to cast us into an inescapable prison, it is somehow better to be alive. I recall an interview years ago with an elderly woman who was asked if she minded growing old. Her response, along the same lines, was, “I prefer it to the alternative.”

In a reflection some weeks ago I also touched on the theme of gratitude, and said that the underlying gratitude, that informs all other forms, is a gratefulness for the gift of life. Implied in gratitude is the recognition of a gift. When saying thanks is not a mere formality, but comes freely from within ourselves, it is a recognition that we have received something that was not an obligation, but something freely given. The opposite is seen when a child is demanded to say a thanks he or she does not feel. In that case the child experiences resentment rather than gratefulness, and the person thanked does not feel any value in that forced gesture.

The gratitude that counts, both for the one offering thanks and the one receiving it, is the gratitude freely given from within. It implies not only a gift that might not have been given, but a gift that is valuable. When someone just listens to our pain without answers or advice, or stands by us during a time of stress, or expresses a simple kindness, or befriends us in any way, all of these are gifts which evoke a heartfelt gratitude.

These experiences can reinforce in us the sense that it is good to be alive. They are gifts that affirm the value of the gift of life itself, and can help to foster an underlying sense of gratitude for the gift of life, for being alive. Author Josef Pieper speaks in this vein in books, such as About Love and In Tune with the World. He says that when we celebrate someone’s birthday, we are essentially saying that it is good that this person has been born; it is good that he or she is, exists, and by extension, it is good that everything is. He further adds that when you love someone, you are stating not merely that it is good that they are such and such–clever, useful, or skillful; more profoundly, you are affirming that it is good that he or she is, it is wonderful that they exist. In effect, it is the experience of gratitude that this person is in our life, that we are grateful for their presence in the world and in our world, that it is good to be with this person. The very word “presence” comes form the Latin words prae and ens, literally “being with.”

Among other stories of wondrous birth, The Grimm Brothers’ rendition of Sleeping Beauty offer a similar perspective. While the queen is bathing, a frog scurries out of the water and announces that her wish for a child will be granted. The child is presented not as a creation of the parents, but as a gift that is wanted and cherished. Beyond any sentimentality, the image of the wanted gift contains the two basic convictions: (1) from the outset the child is a distinct, unique, sacred person, entrusted to rather than produced by the parents; (2) as a gift, the child is to be received with gratitude.

This child is every child, including ourselves. Yet, due to limitations and life situations, the extreme of which is forms of abuse, this conviction is never fully achieved and only gradually realized and with struggle. That is why authors such as Richard Rohr insist that our sacred worth and our recognition of that worth must include our shadow side as well, the weaknesses, and flaws found in each of us.

One example, to mention at this point briefly, is forgiveness. With its cognate word, “pardon,” its root has the connotation of giving thoroughly. It suggests that this is perhaps the greatest gift one can give to self or another. It implies that there is a core self distinct from and untouched by anything a person says or does. The opposite presumption is illustrated by an argument in which we bring in something form the past. Here the attack attempts to identify someone with something they have done and from which they can never escape. Forgiveness separates a person from such a deed, and affirms that we are more than and are ultimately untouched by the worst thing that we have ever done or that has been done to us.

In effect, the reality of forgiveness, perhaps most difficultly offered to our own self, asserts that there is a sacred core self, an inmost home, that always remains, even if unacknowledged. It proclaims that the gift that we are, the life we have received, is thoroughly given, that it is a lasting gift that can never be lost or destroyed. As a result, it is also a call to gratitude for this gift, even in the midst of sorrows. And it is a call to recognize and honour that gift in self and others, human and non human, in appropriate ways.

In this perspective, it is a possibility and a challenge to live a life infused with gratitude, flowing into generosity. This life direction may be followed with a full awareness of the many forms of suffering, yet contained within the beauty of life.

May you all come more and more to experience yourself, your life, and all life as a wondrous gift. A gift to accept with gratitude, cultivate with care, share with one another, and contribute to a just society on our planetary home.

Norman King, May 3, 2021

Albert Einstein has said that imagination is more important than knowledge. Liberation theologian, Rubem Alves, has written that the most important thing we can do for children is to teach them literature. To do so is to awaken their imagination to the possibility of alternatives, rather than regard the status quo as definitive, and so, in the future, to be able to work for creative change. Imagination is expressed in the arts: in story and drama, in music, in painting and sculpture, and in small ways in many activities of everyday life. We have already expressed the importance of image and story in a variety of ways. This week we will add a few more thoughts on this theme.

In an interview with Krista Tippett for the On Being program, Brian Doerries, artistic director and author, spoke of his reasons for presenting ancient Greek tragedy to a variety of modern audiences. He observes that the ancient Greeks developed this form of storytelling to “communalize trauma,” to help people realize that they are not alone here and now or even across time. These stories, especially when enacted, can help people to grapple honestly and with dignity with present wounds and longings, and to realize that we are not the only people to have felt this isolated or alone or betrayed.

At the same time, he adds, we may realize, as the character Oedipus did, that we may tend to inflict on others the pain that has been inflicted on us, perhaps even in early childhood. “But what I’ve seen,” Doerries concludes, “is people discovering that by telling their story and sharing their narrative, no matter how hard it may be, they are helping other people, and in helping other people, they’re healing themselves.”

His observations remind me of the words of Richard Rohr that suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. They also recall the conviction of John Shea that any sorrow can be born provided a story can be told about it. Sam Keen, in Your Mythic Journey (both the book and the video presentation), reflects a similar perspective. “”By telling our story, we remember our past, invent our present, and envision our future. By sharing our story, we overcome loneliness, learn compassion, and achieve community with kindred souls. … 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.”

What emerges from the above references is the conviction that we may often be trapped unknowingly in our own unrecognized pain and without awareness tend to inflict it upon others. What we can experience in a play or story or other art form is a naming of our own experience. This awakening can at once make us aware that do indeed have unfaced sorrow and that we have inflicted it upon others. At the same time, it can make us aware as well that we are not isolated in our suffering, that it is shared in some way by everyone we meet and all strangers, and can evoke at least the beginning of compassion for others. In the words of Henri Nouwen, we can become “wounded healers.”

As suggested, one path to self-discovery and healing is to name our experience.  Yet we can perhaps do so most profoundly and fully by telling our story to a respectfully aware and caring other; and correspondingly by listening in a similar way to another’s story. this experience can happen in a continuous way in friendship, which I have sometimes described  as the sharing of uniqueness.  We may discuss friendship more fully on another occasion. Here we might just mention that a key element in friendship is open and trusting conversation. After such shared speaking, there is at once a tendency at once to absorb quietly this experience and to be aware of the unique personhood of the other. In this sense, vulnerable conversation pushes both towards solitude and compassion; and to a realization at once of the uniqueness of each person and of the common humanity shared by all.

Similar thoughts are expressed by Karen Armstrong in her book, Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life. Reflecting on Sophocles Oedipus plays, and Oedipus’ own transformation through suffering, she comments: “Tragic drama reminds us of the role that art can play in expanding our sympathies.” “Imagination,” she insists, “is crucial to the compassionate life. … Art calls us to recognize our pain and aspirations and to open our minds to others. Art helps us–as it helped the Greeks–to realize that we are not alone; everyone else is suffering too. … Our pain, therefore can become an education in compassion.”

As I have said before, I believe that at the core of our being, we are a self of sacred worth. This heart is our hearth, our true home. Yet surrounding this core is what may be called a wall of hurt, then fear, then hostility. Through the arts, as well as through meditation, friendship, social involvement, and the like, we may come to be more and more in touch with and live from this inner centre, and respond to that centre in others, rather than live from our own and others hurt, fear, and hostility.

May you all have a safe journey to that inner sanctuary of your true self, and find there a home for yourself And others.

Norman King, April 26, 2021

In last week’s reflection, we noted the weariness that afflicts so many of us as a result of a prolonged pandemic which leaves an uncertain future. We also referred to many sources which maintain that out of this form of death new life may emerge.

A story I read many years ago, Hope for the Flowers, by Trina Paulus, echoes a similar theme. It uses the image of the lowly caterpillar who creeps upon the ground only to emerges as a beautiful butterfly who soars in the air. It is a story of hope, in which life moves through a seeming death to a new and fuller life.

A fascinating review of this book is offered by author, Deepak Chopra. In part, he writes. “In Trina Paulus’ book, Hope for the Flowers, two caterpillars get caught up in the fallacy of competition and struggle to reach the top of a caterpillars pile. By journey’s end, however, they learn that their true nature, and that of every other caterpillar is not one of winning and being at the top, but of going within and emerging as beautiful butterflies who were born to soar. Like the caterpillars in that tale, very early on in our lives, we may have received messages that we must compete in order to succeed. … There seemingly must always emerge winners and losers, … with only so much glory, love, money and other resources to go around. …This response creates separation which pulls us away from the natural flow of the universe.

“The truth is that abundance exists all around us, in nature, in our local grocery stores, in the deep love of our friends and family – everywhere in the universe. In going within and connecting with the true self, we find it easier to understand this and appreciate what we already have. … From this place of gratitude, we invite our egos to step aside and we feel a greater kinship with everyone and everything around us. … We experience a new way of being, choosing to see the world as an abundant place with room enough for all to express their unique talents and succeed. Here, we step into, and embrace unity, peace and infinite abundance.”

Theologian and sociologist, Gregory Baum, expresses a similar view. He writes vividly that human life can be shattered–by failures, sickness, disappointments, accidents, and the like. “It is possible, “ he observes, “to have one’s life shattered like a precious vase and despair over ever being able to rebuild it. … These deaths in the midst of life are what we are most afraid of. “ Yet, he continues, even in these conditions there remains a summons to new life, that out of the fragments left to us after the storm, there remains the possibility of becoming more human.

In two films, one a fictionalized account, Awakenings, and the other a documentary, Alive Inside, people who have been withdrawn for a long time, suddenly awaken to who they have been, one through a drug and the other through familiar music. While the emergence is brief, it is an illustration of a constant theme in the arts, spirituality, and religion, that new life is possible, even out of situations of great loss and suffering.

The theme for our times is one of gratitude for the past and hope for the future, while living as fully, creatively, and responsibly in the present. None of the heaviness of feelings is denied but they are not given the final word on our story, they do not become the dominant theme in our life script. The theme becomes a hope for life even out of the many deaths in the midst of life. Inseparable from this underlying attitude is a sense of gratitude for the gift of life, a sense of the sacred worth of our own life, and a responsibility for honouring that life within ourselves, and gradually extending our compassion for others, and to our participation in whatever way possible in the fashioning of a more just society.

May every experience of inner sorrow or loss you experience become the birthplace of new life and hope which issue in a renewed gratitude for life and a deepening compassion for ourselves and one another.
Norman King, April 18, 2021

The time of Easter and the season of spring is intended to be an awakening from the dormancy of winter. Yet in the midst of an unrelenting pandemic, it seems that a season of weariness continues, with a time of relief uncertain. While the situation affects many people in different ways, there seems to be a pervasive fatigue, a tiredness that lingers, an uncertainty about the time and kind of outcome, a sense of isolation, and an edginess with one another. All of these factors are like a weight upon us that wears us down.

At the same time, the world of nature around us is reawakening. Crocuses, hyacinths, daffodils and narcissus are emerging in full colour, and the days are a little warner. In some ways, this renewal may both sadden us because it seems difficult to experience it on our own lives. Yet it may also give us hope that renewal, if not imminent for us, is not too far away. Perhaps it may be helpful to dwell a little on times of reawakening.

The folk tales and myths operate at many levels, one of which is the cycle of seasons. In the story of Sleeping Beauty, the hedge of thorns gives way to the awakening the rose. In the myth of Narcissus, the flower with the sun at its centre emerges after a seeming death. In the myth of Demeter and Persephone, the return of the young woman from the underworld gives rise to the harvest. In Oscar Wilde’s more modern foktale, The Selfish Giant, it is the entry of the children, the new life, through cracks in the wall that ushers in a new springtime of flowers. I once saw a striking time-lapse photography film of flowers awakening, with Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, as background music. It gave a solid impression of the inner strength of unfolding life. My son, Bill, added these thoughts on The Selfish Giant. “Children represent a sense of wonder, new life, and beauty, that the giant has not experienced in some time. An awakening of the giant’s inner child allows him once again to see the beauty and wonder of life.”

What is remarkable in these stories is that the reawakening, the newness of life, the time of transition, is preceded by a time of loss or sorrow. Whether thorn, watery depths, the underworld, or walls–all of these signal a kind of death, an ending, that precedes a new birth or a new beginning.

While many of us feel a mood of prolonged winter, these stories, as well as the cycle of seasons themselves, and the teachings of many religions, see this darkness as a prelude to light and invite as to move at least tentatively n the direction of hope.

In this vein, the 13th century Persian poet, Rumi, writes: “Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.”

A marvellous example of this process is found in the story, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and captured as well in the 1993 film, and in the later musical. In the film, two main characters have experienced a wrenching death, Mary, a young girl, has recently lost both parents, and Archie, her uncle, has lost his wife, Lily, ten years previously. In his grief, her Archie has closed and locked the garden–both the outer garden where Lily died and the inner garden of his heart. In doing so, he has closed himself to life, reflected in the sickness of his son, Colin, and the deadness of the entire household.

Mary’s feisty anger, on the other hand is an indication not only of her hurt, but also of her struggle for life. The garden of her heart is still open to the possibility of new life, but it needs cultivation and support. She senses that the locked garden is the key, and with the help of her young friend, Dickon, and the robin he has tamed, discovers the door and the key to the outer garden, and everything unfolds from there.

Assisted by Dickon, Mary enters the outer garden, and , though overgrown, still has the roots, ready to spring again more fully into life. In the process, she is getting in touch with te secret garden of her own heart, her own inner core, and finding and fostering the life that is already there.

Gradually they awaken Archie’s son, Colin, from the deadness that has been imposed upon him, reflected in his gradual process of standing, walking, and running. He has in fact entered the secret garden of his heart and discovered and opened himself to the life and let it flower in love. Finally, Archie himself, who, at the beginning of The Secret Garden , has not only locked the outer garden, but also the inner garden of his heart. At the end, the love he had for Lily is unlocked and begins to flower in Colin and Mary.

Like the words of Rumi, The Secret Garden suggests that if we pass through the sufferings, betrayals, and deaths, that are part of life, and into the secret garden of our heart, we will discover the seeds of new life that flourish in wisdom and love, and move towards a fuller and richer meaning, one that finds expression in an ever expanding outreach in justice and compassion. While this approach does include resistance to hurt and injustice done to self and others, and may exclude or end some personal relationships, it always contains a recognition of the secret garden, the inner core of sacredness of the other person or persons, and the hope that they may discover and live according to that sacredness.

Bill also added these thoughts on The Secret Garden. “As a garden, a person may also be overgrown in some sense. Yet with care and compassion their roots are able to generate new life. After Colin has been closeted for many years, he is able to be outside and witness the life and beauty in the garden. This experience awakens his sense of hope and allows him to find new life in himself, expressed in his new found ability to walk and even to run.”

May any hardship or sorrow you are experiencing now give way to a new and deeper understanding and caring that enriches your own heart and the hearts of those whose lives touch upon your own.

Norman King, April 12, 2021

One year ago now, our world as we knew it turned upside down and we are all still living with the uncertainty, anxiety and sadness that a pandemic world has brought us.

Familiar places no longer feel familiar to us. Businesses are shuttered- some forever. Grabbing a pizza or meeting friends for a coffee is no longer a matter of just choosing a time to meet up . Meetings of any kind with friends and even our relatives have been reduced to as few as 5 people depending on covid statistics. Our cities are now being referred to mostly by their current colour code indicating the level of virus cases currently active.

We have, no doubt , all reached or surpassed our tolerance for Netflix movie watching and either crocheted or knitted the comparable distance to the city closest to where we live. Most certainly, we have all cleaned and decluttered until we have thrown out or donated entire wardrobes, kitchen gadgets etc. to organizations that most certainly will benefit.

Yet, in the midst of lockdowns and uncertainty around vaccines and safety in groups, there is a certain part of us deeper than any surface pandemic effects may reach. While we may not feel always that we are responding to the challenges of this past year’s outer space in the best way possible, we all are learning something about our inner space. And while we may not even want or feel a need to discuss this space with others, this space may have become a place we have perhaps become aware of for the first time or found ourselves visiting with more frequency.

In any case, if we give ourselves to responding to these visits with true discernment and awareness while our outward journey has been temporarily interrupted, we may , at least in part, be grateful that such a catastrophic event may be providing us with a gentle opportunity to tap in to our more inward journey- a place that is deeper than any sadness, hurt, wound or uncertainty that the current outside circumstances bring. It is a place that does not remove our struggles , our losses or our sadness, uncertainties or vulnerabilities, but rather may help us find the strength to respond to them in ways that may be helpful and truly meaningful.

Dag Hammarskjold, former Secretary General of the United Nations once said “ the longest journey is the journey inward.” It is the task of a lifetime and perhaps a small reason to be grateful in these difficult and trying times.

Jane Ripley,  April 07, 2021

We have spoken previously of story, both in terms of our own story and the stories to which we are exposed from childhood on, whether from family, school, culture, nation, or wider forms of literature. We also added that our own lives follow initially a script and self-image we have inherited. Only gradually do we become aware of that image and script, and are able either to re-affirm it as truly our own or to change it if it is untrue to our deepest self.

What is really crucial is to have an understanding of ourselves and a script that does help us to see ourselves and life truthfully and in depth, and to live out our personal, relational, and societal life accordingly. We need images and stories that are not superficial, naive, warped or destructive, but that take into account all our spiritual richness and complexity and depth, as well as our inner wounds and failures.

We need a vision of life (a script, story) that enables and challenges us to celebrate our joys, to survive our sorrows, to share our lives, and to build our world. And while taking into account all this complexity, that vision needs to affirm, as the basis of all else, our own sacred worth and the sacredness of all else (even when conflict and opposition are involved).

A point to add here is that the deepest truths about life are best, and even only, expressed in images, symbols, and stories. The truth of a story concerns not so much the facts of the story–whether or not it actually happened. It concerns more deeply the vision of life the story contains: the picture of what a human being is and what life really means; the picture of self and nature and history and the transcendent that comes through the story. Scholar, John Dominc Crossan expresses the thought bluntly. “My point, once again, is not that those ancient people told literal stories and we are now smart enough to take them symbolically, but that they told them symbolically and we are now dumb enough to take them literally.”

A good example is the verse by Rumi, the 13th century Persian poet. “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” He is apparently not talking about a specific physical place, but more of a way in which we can be present to one another. Instead of asking where is that place “out there,” we might inquire where is that place “in there.” What place within us goes beyond judging one another to trying to encounter someone in their home place, in their true self, behind and deeper than their or our thoughts, feelings, wounds, prejudices, and all else. Occasionally, if we are open, we may sense that inner place in another by a word or a glance or a simple gesture.

A good understanding of our inner world emerged once in a conversation with my son at the age of seven. He spoke of the world inside us in terms of different towns. He spoke of happy town and excitement town and the like, with examples for each. I asked him if there was anything further, and he said that way, way at the back was love town. I suggested to him that as long as we know that there is a love town we will be alright even if we cannot always be there, but are for a time in lonely town or angry town.

In this light, when we wish to embody in words the deepest things in our life, we tend to use images rather than plain matter-of-fact statements, because images say more and they say it better. When the poet, Robert Frost, exclaims, “I took the road less travelled by and that has made all the difference,” he is contrasting approaches to life rather than comparing highways. In the Shakespearean play, King Lear struggles to express the immense pain that his own folly and the treachery of his two oldest daughters have brought him, before spending his last days peacefully with his beloved youngest daughter. He does not simply say that he is hurting, that he has undergone a traumatic experience, or that he needs to seek psychological counselling. He proclaims: “I am bound upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears do scald like molten lead.” Once again, this is a vivid expression of the suffering that can afflict a human life and can expand our own understanding.

The story of Echo in Greek mythology tells of a young woman whose punishment is that she can only repeat what she hears. On one level it is an imaginative reflection on the experience of an echo in which a sound comes back to us until it gradually fades away. At a deeper level, the story suggests that we must find our own voice from within, beyond merely echoing what we hear from without. To do so is to make our own contribution to life. Not to do so is to fade away and to die within. In the words of Thomas Merton, contemplative writer, if we do not speak from our true self discovered in solitude, our speech will merely secrete clichés.

The story, familiar to many, of the Prodigal Son is not merely factual information about a lost young man. It suggests rather that even if we sever basic bonds, throw away our gifts, lose our way, and destroy much of the life that is within us, it is still not too late. We may begin at least to glimpse something deeper within us. And another caring person may recall us to our deepest self, beneath all wounds. In the face of the sometimes daunting experience of mistakes in life, the story calls us to remember that our sacred worth is deeper than and not destroyed by any brokenness and wrongness.

In effect, to understand ourselves, one another, and life’s meaning, we need the help of images and stories that affirm a deeper underlying worth which includes an awareness of our shadow self. I recall after reading a number of novels of Margaret Laurence that all her character are flawed, but that she likes them.

May you all find an image of yourself, your core self and your whole self, and a script to live by, one that allows for the shadows that fall across your life, yet affirms your underlying sacredness.

Norman King, April 5, 2021

Perhaps we might add a few more words on the experience of beauty. I looked up an interview with the late John O’Donohue, an Irish poet and philosopher, on the On Being program.

He recalls the words of Blaise Pascal, a 17th century French thinker, that we should always keep something beautiful in our mind. Beauty can help us endure great bleakness because it is resilient and life-affirming, it helps create more life that is worthwhile. He also cites Meister Eckhardt, a medieval German mystic, who held that “there is a place in the soul that neither time nor space nor any created thing can touch.” O’Donohue comments that our identity is not equivalent to our biography and that there is a place in us where we have never been wounded, where there is still a sureness, a seamlessness, a confidence, and a tranquility. And beauty, as well as spirituality and love allow us now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.

Beauty in words, music and the other arts, as well as the world of nature, can remind us of this immense interiority within us and awaken us to that inner sanctuary and the vast resources there. This is not a luxury but a necessity. He adds that we can know about another person but not know what it’s like inside that person. Yet we also have an immense capacity to reawaken in each other the profound ability to be with and to be close to each other.

When he thinks of the word “beauty,” what comes to mind as well are some of the faces of those he loves, beautiful landscapes he knows, or acts of kindness by caring people. He thinks too of music and poetry and comments that music is what language would love to be if it could.

Finally, he refers to the etymology of the word, “threshold,” which comes from “threshing, ”the separation of the grain from the husk. When we cross a new threshold worthily, we heal the patterns of repetition in which we had been stuck, and we cross into a new and fuller ground, a kind of homecoming to who we truly are and can be. And beauty has an essential role in our unfolding life.

The theme of the essential need for beauty is illustrated in many of the familiar folk tales. In Hansel and Gretel, for example, while wandering through the forest, lost and hungry and afraid, the children come upon a snow white bird, and stop to listen to its beautiful singing. Birds stand for the higher aspirations of a human being. Iin the story, by gathering up the bread crumbs that Hansel has left as a trail, the birds prevent the retreat to previous securities, and lead to the witch’s house where they overcome their fears and discover hidden jewels. In effect, I think that the story is saying that beyond our need for survival and security, beyond our fears, lies our longing and need for beauty, both in the world of nature and the arts (singing bird) and in our own inner self (hidden treasures).

In te story of Jack and the Beanstalk, the young man’s maturing process involves a journey of climbing to a new land where he gathers gold coins, a hen that lays golden eggs, and a singing harp. Once again, besides money and an ongoing source of income, there is the need for beauty, symbolized in the singing harp. All of these challenges involve some form of struggle.

Finally, the story of Sleeping Beauty reminds us that our own inner beauty may lie beyond a hedge of thorns, all the prickly parts of ourselves, so to speak. And that beauty needs to be awakened in us, perhaps initially by the caring of others.

On a more personal note, I recall a conversation a long time ago in which someone told me of certain events in their life that were truly horrific. At the same time, in the midst of hearing about these terrible experiences. I had an overwhelming sense of the inner beauty of this person. It calls to mind the conviction of John O’Donohue that there is an inner sanctuary within us that no wound can ever reach.

On another occasion, after attending a conference in a distant city, I met with a relative, and for whatever reason, there was a sense of incredible closeness that included a tangible experience of the inner beauty of this person. Though many years have passed since that time, the felt memory of that experience and a sense of connection still remains.

As we said last week, in the experience of beauty, whether in a piece of music, a story, a work of art, or a person, it seems that we sense that it is good that this beauty exists. It is like a gift that enriches our spirit if we are open to it. We are also drawn us out of ourselves towards that beauty without grasping, it allows us to glimpse another way of seeing all of life, and challenges us to expand our heart and become like what we see or hear.

The experience of beauty can reach behind our defenses and into and through our wounds and hurts, and have a healing effect upon us. Perhaps the experience of beauty can put us in touch with what is at the heart of life, a presence and power of beauty that enriches our soul and calls to our spirit, a power of the healing that reaches deeper than and unveils our wounds, in the very process of healing them.

Norman King, March 29, 2021

On my walk this past week, I listened to a podcast from the CBC Tapestry program, which stressed the importance of words, both in terms of the healing or and wounding effect that they can have, our responsibility for our own words and something of their impact. The interview was with Malcolm Guite, a poet, Anglican priest, former fellow of Girton College, Cambridge. He stressed that the way a person speaks shapes who they are at a very elemental level, At the same time, the way we speak is itself born out of the way we hear and the way we read. As a result, he adds: “We really need to soak ourselves in rich language.”

He refers to the words of Irish poet and Nobel laureate, Seamus Heaney, who holds that the only way to respond to grief is through beauty : “The greater the weight of grief a line [of poetry] is asked to bear, the more beautifully and musically sprung the line must be.” His words reflect those of an article on beauty that appeared many years ago in Homemakers magazine. “The beauty of music seems to come to us from a vast spiritual reservoir and to reach behind all our defences and touches the core of the condensed self.”

One example is found in Shakespeare’s play, Romeo & Juliet. It would be absolutely horrifying if it were encountered as a newspaper report of a tragic mistake that resulted in two teenage suicides. But in the language of Shakespeare, while it certainly does convey a sense of sadness, loss, and tragedy, it also has a great warmth and beauty as well. Tragic events are put into a beautiful container which gives them a meaning or discerns a meaning in them that would otherwise be absent. As writer on story, John Shea puts it, “Any sorrow can be borne if a story can be told about it.”

Such words of Guite and others call to mind an expression I heard as a child, which I have since realized is utterly false. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.” Words can in fact undermine and wound a person even more than a physical assault. They can also heal immensely. Jane and I have often raised the question of whether our words come from our surface noise or from our deepest silence. It is these latter words that can have the most profound effect.

What the above observations indicate our profound need to experience what is truly beautiful. Whether our experience of beauty is in a piece of music, a work of art, a sculpture, a story, a poem, or a building, “we touch the deepest meaning of being human” (in the words of author, Frederick Streng). We may sense that it is good that such beauty exists. It is like a gift enriching our spirit, and drawing us out of ourselves towards it, allowing us to glimpse another way of seeing life, and challenging us to expand our mind and heart. As the above reference to grief expresses, the experience of beauty, can have a power of healing that reaches deeper than any of our wounds and sorrows. It may indeed make us aware of these in the very process of healing them.

I may mention here two favourite examples. Yousuf Karsh, the photographer, for example, tells a marvelous story in connection with his portrait of the exiled Spanish cellist, Pablo Casals. In an ancient French Abbey where the photograph was taken, session took place. Casals sat in a chair in the grotto and played the music of Bach. Karsh was so moved by the beauty of the music that he could not for a time attend to photography. Then, he took a picture of Casals from behind. “I have never photographed anyone, before or since, with his back to the camera–but it seemed to me just right. For me, the bare room conveys the loneliness of the artist, at the pinnacle of his art, and also the loneliness of the exile.” Years later when this portrait was on exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, an elderly gentleman would come each day and stand before it for a period of time. The curator finally approached and asked why he did so. To which the man replied, “Hush–can’t you see, I am listening to the music!”

A second example comes from the story of Beauty and the Beast. In the story, a young woman is initially held captive by a seeming monster, yet one who radiates kindness. After a time, she realizes that she loves him deeply, and once declared, her love transforms him back into a handsome prince. One element of the4 story is the transforming power of love. Yet the underlying truth of the story is that the deepest beauty is at first found in the “Beast,.” and that the beauty of his soul which flows into his love creates the deeper transformation. Writer G. K. Chesterton, has a striking comment on this story. Its lesson, he says, is that something must be loved before it is loveable.

Finally, Group of Seven artist, Lawren Harris, writes: “In the inner place where true artists create there exists a pure child. To recognize this is to recognize beauty as a living, abiding, presence completely untouchable by all the devices of human beings, such as moral codes, creeds, intellectual analysis, games and clichés, the acquisitive instinct, or lust for anything whatsoever.”

The experience of beauty may be contrasted with the experience of something or even someone as property. What is regarded as property is something to be acquired, owned, and used and disposed of at will. It is taken into ourselves and possessed. The experience of beauty in music, art, or nature speaks to a deeper, quieter, more centred place within ourselves. Beauty can reach into our inmost heart, yet at the same time draw us to reach out from that centre, not to possess, but to admire and appreciate, and even to be transformed by it.

Perhaps one of the most transforming experiences is to glimpse something of the inner beauty of another human being. It is perhaps most often felt in a situation of mutual vulnerability and openness. Yousef Karsh once remarked that everyone has a public face, which is like a mask that conceals their true self. He adds that if you engage the subject of a portrait in meaningful conversation, at some point their soul shines through. It is then that you must take the picture.

May each of you come in touch with your own inner beauty. And may you also have the occasion to reveal that beauty in situations of mutual trustworthiness. And may you more and more come to experience the beauty in the world of nature and the arts and in one another.

Norman King, March 21, 2021