Last week I spoke of an inner sacred core that is deeper than all wrongness, even if that core is not unrecognized or is denied or even betrayed in ourselves or another. That inner core may be considered an expression of the universe and of the energy that fuels its unfolding. In that sense, our inner core, our unique self, pushes toward its authentic unfolding. That unfolding, in my perspective, flows not towards ignorance and hostility, but toward understanding and wisdom; toward compassion, love, and justice.

If we look at the unfolding of life within a human being, we see that it unfolds in stages: birth, infancy, childhood, adolescence, adulthood, middle age, and old age. Birth is the emergence of life from inside the womb to life outside the womb. It is a passage from one form of life to another. It is the ending of one form of life and the beginning of another, which may even itself be described as a death and rebirth.

The word, infancy, comes from the Latin, and means literally non-speaking. It is the time of life before language, which is another crucial stage in development. There is a certain excitement and even freedom when a child begins to understand and express him/ herself in language. A new world opens up to the child.

I like to say that, as our life develops, more and more of who we are and of our life comes into our own hands, within a relational and social context. As we gather our life into our hands, we long to place it somewhere where we sense that we belong and that seems worthy of the gift of our self.

I mentioned before that when the child asks, “Where did I come from,?” the child is not looking for a lab report or a biological lecture. He or she wants a story, a story in which they are the main character and welcomed into the group. They want their life story to unfold in a way that provides a sense of worth and belonging. From the beginning, they want a meaningful life story, as do we all.

I said last week, as well, that something is wrong if it puts something to death in one another, and it is right if it brings something to life in one another. This process goes beyond the ending of one stage of life and the beginning of another. Negatively, it is a wounding or taking of life. As a result, the renewing, growing, and healing process is the emergence of new life out of that death. A clear example of bringing to life is to procreate, give birth to, and raise a child with intelligent love. An equally clear example of putting to death is to batter, abuse, or neglect a child. Yet there is a third possibility: to bring the injured child to life, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, artistically, ethically, spiritually. This is to bring to life, even out of the many smaller deaths in the midst of life.

The emergence of new life may be experienced as an awakening, whether to a new day, a new awareness, a new strength, or a renewed hope. It is usually accompanied by a sense of gratitude. A friend from a distant country in which he felt unsafe once said that when he retired at night he was grateful to have seen another day. When he awoke in the morning he was grateful to be able to see a new day. He commented as well that he would not let anyone take away his joy.

In an article on joy in a Homemakers magazine many years ago, its author, Carroll Allen tells how after a long period of inner conflict, she was able “to let go of a negative attitude of mind that seemed stubbornly embedded.” As a result, “slowly a sense of deep relief, then freedom, then joy, began to swell in my heart. I felt delight, awe, wonder, jubilation and an overwhelming thankfulness.”

If we think of the seasons of our life, this new life is like the emergence of spring out of winter. It can be exhilarating to witness a crocus or a snowdrop rise out of the snow. In the ancient Greek story of Narcissus, he sees a reflection of himself as lovable. We might say that he comes to an awareness of his sacred worth. The resulting transformation is expressed by the narcissus flower, which emerges in the spring. With its yellow centre, like the sun, it is a symbol of new light and life, out of the preceding darkness and dormancy.

The experience can be described as a trust in light out of darkness, spring out of winter, life out of death. Theologian Gregory Baum, who directed my dissertation, has written that experiences such as failures, sickness, disappointments, accidents, all remain part of life on this earth. “It is possible,” Baum says,” to fall into situations where life is destroyed. It is possible to have one’s life shattered like a precious vase and despair over ever being able to rebuild it.” Yet, he adds, while these deaths in the midst of life are what we are most afraid of, they contain the gift and call that, out of the fragments left to us after the storm, there remain the conditions for becoming more fully human.
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The underlying sense expressed here is that no matter how long the winters, how dark the nights, there remains the gift of our enduring sacred worth. And with that gift comes the thrust to a lasting hope, and the call to new and renewed life and light.

May you always hold on to the conviction of your own sacredness, even when you cannot feel it. May you always uncover an enduring sense of hope, a movement towards light, and a dawning glimpse of new life, no matter your circumstances at the present time.

Norman King, April 17, 2023
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Last week, I quoted Wayne Muller’s as saying that we must be careful how we name ourselves. That naming will shape our lives for good or ill. He adds that, regardless of our life’s experience, “there is a potent inner luminosity that is never extinguished and that is alive in us in this instant.” To describe our fundamental, spiritual nature, he concludes: “we must look deeper, to where words do not come easily, to where essential truths are uncovered more easily with poetry and prayer, with quiet, with music and dance, with loving embrace of things beloved, with prayer and meditation.”

I have stressed throughout these reflections that it is essential to be in touch with and allow ourselves to feel all our feelings, even the difficult ones, but in a safe place. Yet there is the person beneath the feelings, who is more than and not reducible to these feelings. An essential task is to name that deeper self, that core identity, and to feel it as sacred, as having an inner or intrinsic worth. This worth goes with being the person we are. It is there from the beginning, and so has a gift character. It can be lost sight of, but not lost. It can be betrayed, but not destroyed. It remains as an impulse and challenge to be in touch with and live from that worth in self and others.

At the same time, from many sources, from family to culture, we can be given the impression that something is wrong with us. It can be conveyed not only that we have done something wrong, but that we are wrong; not only that we make mistakes, but that we are a mistake. This experience is commonly labelled as shame.

San Keen has written that the task of a lifetime is to change the unconscious myth for a conscious autobiography. We might reword that expression to say that the task of a lifetime is first to let go of the script of unworthiness. Then, behind that inherited or imposed script, to uncover and follow the script of our own sacred worth, of our true identity from within.

As an example we might note that one of the strongest way to score points in an argument is to drag in something out of the past. Someone can say to us that some weeks or even years ago, we did such and such that was very harmful. If that is something that we have done, we cannot refute it. What is really being said, however, is much deeper and more insidious. It is saying that what we have done in the past has trapped us forever. It is inescapable, it is forever part of us, it defines who we are.

Forgiveness expresses the opposite reality. To forgive a past wrong is to say that we are not reduced to that wrong, but are more than that wrong. That wrong is distinct from who we are, it does not define who we are. As a result, we are not trapped in that wrong, but can move beyond it. As I have said before, we are more than the worst thing that we have ever done, or that has been done to us. In this context to forgive someone–or ourselves–is to free someone from the burden of the past, and so, the subsequent dread of the future, so that we can live creatively in the present.

This is simply another way of saying that our sacredness is deeper than our wrongness. In fact, any wrong we do or that is one to us, can be described precisely as a violation of our sacredness. But it cannot destroy that sacred worth. In this perspective, something is wrong not because it breaks a law, but because it breaks a person, because it violates or goes against the worth or dignity of that person. In fact, it is the conviction of our sacred worth, so hard to feel at times, that allows us to admit any wrongs and to struggle to grow beyond them.

In a similar vein, to forgive another need not imply denying the wrong done not even establish a relationship with them. It is to let go over the hold their script has on us. Otherwise we remain forever linked to their script, often by hatred. Their past becomes our future. As has been said, the first victim of hatred is the one who hates.
The challenge is let go of any toxic links, and to discover our own authentic script from within. It is to realize, perhaps anew, a sacred worth, deeper than all else. It is to uncover our basic orientation to wisdom and compassion. It begins with a compassionate understanding of ourselves which gradually extends in wider and wider circle. It takes into account all our feelings, and even our betrayals, but as contained within and undergirded by our sacred worth.

May you respond to all the challenges of life, but with a deeper awareness of your sacred worth and in accordance with your authentic script.

Norman King
April 10, 2023

Last week I spoke about living from the inside out. This is the journey inward, to be in touch with our inmost self, who we truly are. Then it is the journey outward, finding a way to express that self in words, actions, and way of life. Of course, it is essential to see ourselves not as an isolated self-contained entity, but as a relational, communal and social being. When we speak to another, for example, it should be not be an inflicting of our issues on another, but a sharing and even entrusting aspects of our thoughts, feelings, etc., to another. It is best done within a listening context, within a tuning in to another. The one to whom we speak should affect what we say and how we say it.

A further aspect of this process is to discern who we are beneath our thoughts and feelings, who is the “I” that has these. There is a tendency in our society either to deny certain feelings or to unleash them thoughtlessly. As Richard Rohr has said so perceptively, suffering that is not transformed is transmitted. As mentioned before, there is also the need to allow ourselves to feel all our feelings, but in a safe place. This can be by ourselves, or as shared with a trustworthy other person. Following this step, it is important to attempt to name our feelings as truthfully and accurately as possible. For example, grief may be looked upon as the experience of a deeply felt incompleteness, made permanent by separation or death. In another instance, an unfaced fear or anxiety may lie behind much external arrogance or domination..

A further direction, I believe, is the task of not identifying with our thoughts or feelings, not seeing them as our identity, as who we are. I recall, in teaching, a common reaction of a student to a low mark on a test or assignment. Often they might say, “I’m no good.” Instead of saying to themselves that in one particular part of a course, within a whole program, and within a rather small part of a total lifetime, things did not go as well as expected, as hoped for, or as possible. This is an instance of how, for a time at least, the person’s identity was linked to one incident.

The question them becomes, if we detach our identity from one particular feeling, then who is the person who has, but is not reducible to, that feeling. Feelings are layered, and as we allow ourselves to feel one feeling, another may emerge beneath it. The second feeling may be at least a little closer to the person beneath all the feelings. The many feelings may then come to be seen as separate from the identity of the one beneath and behind them. We are more than and deeper than whatever feelings we have. They tend to shift and pass away, but a core self remains, who need not be trapped in any such feelings.

Another approach is to ask who is the speaker that names us with that feeling. On the societal level, there is a tendency to impose an identity, and make our sense of worth depend on externals–our possessions, our prestige, our power. Much advertising seems to suggest that we need to hide who we are beneath these externals. It suggests that we need to cover up who we are and, consequently, implies that who we are is of little value, so that it needs a disguise.

The question then becomes what we can lose without losing our self. In a class many years ago, an elderly woman told how she and her husband came home one evening to see their house totally engulfed in flames. All their possessions, including family heirlooms and photographs, were destroyed. As they stood there weeping, they said simply but with a profound love: “At least we still have each other.” All externals can be lost, but who we are and the love that flows from who we are remains.

I recall as well a radio program from years ago, named at that time with the non-inclusive title, Man Alive. A woman was interviewed who had been born with several physical issues and who was later disfigured by a fire. She had since acquired a graduate degree in psychology and worked as a counsellor. Her striking words were: “I am not what you see.” None of us is what is seen on the outside. The exception may be when the inner radiance finds some outward expression. I remember seeing a photograph of a 100-year old Inuit woman. While she had wrinkles on wrinkles, there was no other way to describe her except as beautiful.

These examples reflect what I have said week after week. Beneath all else, even if we or others fail to see it, or even if we deny or betray that worth in self or others, there is the fundamental core of value or sacredness that ever remains. It has the quality of a gift insofar as it goes with being a child of the universe, a human being, and a unique person. The challenge is to recognize and name all else within and around us, yet to see our identity in that sacred core self, and to try to leave its imprint in ever widening circles radiating from that core self

Wayne Muller stresses that we must be careful how we name ourselves. If we think we are fragile and broken, we will live a fragile and broken life. If we believe we are strong and wise, we will live with enthusiasm and courage. The way we name ourselves colours the way we live. He adds: “I am certain these names reveal little of our true nature. Beneath the stories, beneath the diagnoses, these are all children of spirit, beings fully equipped with inner voices of strength and wisdom, intimations of grace and light. … Regardless of the shape of the sorrow or victory or grief or ecstasy we have been given, there is a potent inner luminosity that is never extinguished and that is alive in us in this instant.”

May you be in tune with all your feelings, aware of the quality of your relationships, discerning of the identity imposed by the societal culture. Yet may you know ever more deeply the sacred core of who you truly are. And may your find ever more ways to live from and share that core with others and our world.

Norman King
April 03, 2023

Last week I spoke of trusting the unfolding process of life from within ourselves. With the help of others, as well as story, music, and other arts, this process involves uncovering and living from our inner core, our heart, out true home. It lies beneath all the accumulated layers added on by others and by our life experience itself.

Miriam Therese Winter expresses this perspective eloquently. She says that home is a metaphor, and it means to live from the inside out. It is to live from that place within us “where the truth of ourselves and all of creation unobtrusively dwells.” She relates this understanding to music, which flows from the inside into the universe of silences and sounds, an “external revelation of inward reality.”

The same could be said of story and poetry. These express in words what is felt within. One such expression is from the 13th century poet Rumi: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” These words suggest to me that our inner place precedes and goes beyond all moral judgements. Or rather, we really come to know people when we sense and respond to the inner person, rather than being stuck at the level of outer words or actions. We respond to the person beyond the words or actions. We respond to who the person is, rather than what they have, say, or do. In other words, we enter the “home,” the home space of another and allow them entry into our home.

Another aspect of Rumi’s thought seems to be that it is a question of going beyond our present thoughts on good and evil to a deeper awareness. I would suggest that we may come to think that something is wrong, not because it breaks a law, but because it breaks a person. Conversely, we may think that something is right, not because it follows the rules, but because it affirms the worth of person. To put it in a slightly different way, we are more than the worst thing that we have ever done or the worst thing that has ever been done to us. Our sacredness is deeper than any brokenness. This inner sacred core, rather than our fears or hostilities, is what calls for outer expression,.

We have suggested before that life is a blend of joy and sorrow, bitter and sweet, light and darkness. Life is a both/and, not an either/or. It is a broken hallelujah or a glory hallelujah despite experiences that arises out of trouble. It is within this context, that we are challenged to find both authentic inner meaning and its outer expression.

While acknowledging and naming the hurt, fear, hostility, and even betrayal that are within us, there is a profound difference between inflicting them upon another or entrusting them to another. In the one case the other person becomes simply a target for unresolved and perhaps unfaced issues. In the latter instance, it is a sharing with another the struggles and vulnerabilities of our life, as an act of trust and caring, and an effort to face and grow from these challenges.

There are times when an outward expression may be a path inward for ourselves or others. One of the most rewarding experiences I have had in teaching came when an adult student told me: “You put into words what I always somehow knew but didn’t know how to say.” Sometimes a creative outward expression can name, unveil, and express what is most interior.

This experience may materialize through conversation, but also through story, music, painting, or other art form. Rumi says: “Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” In another place, he writes: “I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.” A favourite expression of mine is found in the song, Anthem, by Leonard Cohen. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

May you be more and more in touch with the inner light within you, and live from that light, that home place within you, and may you be able more and more to share that place with others, and contribute to a new society in which the sacred light of everyone is not extinguished but able to shine forth.

Norman King, March 27, 2023

To continue the reflections of the last few weeks. I would like to recall an expression that has resonated with me for many years. It is to trust the unfolding process of life within us.

To do so require a number of things. It involves becoming present to and aware of our inner core, our heart, our centre. This has to be uncovered behind all the accumulated layers added on by others and by our life experience itself. As Richard Rohr puts, it involves getting to who we truly are behind our thoughts, feelings, and self-image, with which we may easily identify ourselves. This is the inner journey to the source of our being, as Dag Hammarskjold words it in Markings. It is the journey to uncover our inmost home and live from there. It is to be at home to ourselves so that we can be at home to one another.

This journey also involves learning to recognize that our unique inner core is like a nucleus that unfolds from within into our qualities and gifts, as well as our limitations. It also unfolds in a continuous dialogue with others, the world around us, and our life circumstances.

This journey also involves trusting that inner core. To do so we must come to experience that core as trustworthy, as worthy of trust because it is worthy. This is a recognition that we are of worth, of value, sacred. This can be a difficult process because we are often taught from many sources that we should mistrust ourselves. Much advertising seems to tells us that our worth lies in externals, in appearance and possessions. These are presented as if to give us worth or to conceal our unworthiness. The core of religious traditions (as well as the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights), speak of the inherent dignity of human beings. Yet all too often, we are given the impression that something is wrong at our very core, and so we must mistrust ourselves and follow rules imposed from outside.

Certainly these pressures have more complexity and even ambiguity than presented here. Yet not only getting in touch with but trusting our inner core is essential. Then it becomes a matter of trusting its unfolding process as well. Many authors have expressed the conviction that the universe, at its deepest level unfolds in the direction of compassion and cooperation rather than competition. The Dalai Lama has also said that if you others to be happy, practice compassion; and if you want to be happy yourself, practice compassion. Of course, it seems to be a very slow process to uncover our truest and inmost self beneath the clutter of years. That is why Richard Rohr, psychologist Robert Hillman, musician James Jordan, and many others speak of the importance of letting go, of emptying.

One illustration comes from the process of listening to another. In order to tune in to another speaking to us, to hear the person behind the words, it is essential to let go of our own agendas, our own baggage, so as to make space for another. I think one image of compassion is the empty, clutter-free, but caring space we offer around another’s pain or sorrow and to the person beneath them. It is a struggle to do so. And it is also a struggle to tune in to our own sacred core and unfold from there rather than the clutter of our insecurities, fears, and hostilities.

To do so, of course, requires an image, a script, a story that is life-giving for self and others, that includes the whole range of human experience, all the seasons of life. This we may get from silence and solitude, from friendship, from story, music, painting, and other arts, as I have often said.

Theologian Theodore Steeman wrote these words many years ago. “I think that the best moments of our lives are when we do not feel closed upon ourselves or concerned about ourselves and we see life as a task before us, when we are aware that self-concern hinders honesty. These are the moments when we know that life is good, embedded in a mystery of goodness and love and that we have to make our own lives such messages of goodness and love.”

One striking example of this kind of transformation is found in the story. All the Years of Her Life, by Canadian author, Morley Callaghan. The story brings out the transformation of the young son from irresponsible child to a more wise and compassionate adult, both by the experience of his mother achieving pardon for him and from seeing the cost of her action and her vulnerability. It ends with the words: “He watched his mother and he never spoke, but at that moment his youth seemed to be over; he knew all the years of her life by the way her hand trembled as she raised the cup to her lips. It seemed to him that this was the first time he had ever looked upon his mother.”

Sometimes it is another person simply, by who they are, who calls us to a new awareness, that allows us to see, or rather, be more in touch with something deeper in ourselves. We are then able to move further in our journey to our own heart or core, and experience its more authentic call. It is not the surface clutter or the distorted images that are to be trusted, but the deeper centre of ourselves.

I like to say that we are more than the worst thing that has been done to us, and we are more than the worst thing we have done. It is this “more” that I believe we need to uncover, trust, and follow.

May you find your journey to your true self, your true core, your true home. May you trust its unfolding from within. And may your life unfold from that sacred place in ways that are life-giving for yourself, for those who share your life, and for the society and world in which you live out your life.

Norman King, March 20, 2023

This week’s reflection is presented by friend, colleague, and co-author, Jane Ripley. It is a followup to the last few weeks. We have just published a children’s story. The Rainbow Tear. It is a modern folktale that, like all folktales, offers images to explore the whole range of human feelings. If you wish to order a copy of this book, please contact nking@uwindsor.ca

The focus of the past few reflections has centred around the aspect of home; that is, finding a core space within us that allows us to speak and act from our authentic voice (our sacred core). To reach that core may be aided by friendship, solitude, music and other art forms, to name but a few. When we may be, metaphorically speaking, “at home” to ourselves, we may then be “at home” to and for one another.

To expand on the notion of how to reach this core of one’s being and then to act from that core, it may be helpful to explore the notion of “script.”We all have a script, or story that we follow and even, at times, that we may wish to shed. First, however, it is important to acknowledge that we do indeed have a unique personal script. That script, says Sam Keen, is a story that in large part has been given to us from, or influenced by patterns imposed by people that have been closest to us. Especially in childhood, but often beyond, Keen says we take or inherit ways of being, fears, attitudes and the like from parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, and so on. These become part of what he calls, our unconscious autobiography. We assume impressions, choices, decision making processes that do not necessarily reflect the core of who we are or would like to become.

As has been suggested in past weeks, the process of what Katherine May calls “wintering” (that is, a slowing of our busyness, with time for reflection and contemplation) is a step in the process of becoming more engaged in our own authentic script.

Medical Mission Sister, Miriam Therese Winter has a wonderful observation that may be helpful as we move in the direction of authenticity. She says that not only does all humanity hold a particular personal script, but that all that is within the universe has a script, a story. In every story, and at whatever point in that story, there is also a “back story.” We all have a story of our own and one that arises from a story that precedes it. This notion, she says, applies to our greater universe story as well. Science confirms a universe story that is the back story, she says, to the biblical account of the creation story.

Winter goes on to say that putting our back story into our current story means that even a familiar myth that we have carried or embraced can be revisited and made new. I believe this is the gift of each new breath. In each breath there is a turn around time, that is, a moment when we neither take in nor let out the breath. It is such a short moment in time that we are not likely even to be aware of it. And yet, in that moment, all we have taken in may be gathered into our own being and given back outwardly as we exhale. What I believe this means in metaphorical terms, is that each new moment in our story may be shared from what that breath has taken in, then where that breath has rested, and finally what we allow or choose to breathe out.

In each new breath, we may take in love, kindness, hostility, anger–the whole range of human emotions and, in that moment before exhaling, we make a decision as to what to release into the next moments of our personal story and, even, in some sense, to our universal story. Our awareness of this turn around time in its reality and its greater philosophical essence, contributes to both stories. We therefore need to be awake to the breath (in Latin, spiritus, meaning at once breath, wind, and spirit), so that we may create a life-giving spirit to and for both stories. Being awake is the essence of a spirituality that is willing to change/grow, hold on/let go, and to embrace the both/and of life.

Miriam Therese Winter says that we are people of the story, a story that encompasses ourselves, each other, the planet and the universe. While we need time in “wintering” to process our story in the quiet and calm, Winter reminds us that the universe is unpredictable and that spirit is not so active in quiet and calm as in restless chaos.

And so, along with caring others on our journey, may we learn to embrace, learn from and wonder at our joys and moments of peace and tranquility, but also from our questions, uncertainties, and even struggles that are part of the unfolding of our own life stories and beyond.

Jane Ripley, March 12, 2023

Last week, I suggested that our true home is the place of our authentic personal voice. This is the voice that comes from our inmost core, from our sacred worth. It involves our tuning into the meaning and beauty of life. This awareness encompasses life in its both/and dimensions, its light and darkness, its holy and broken hallelujah. We may be helped to listen to and speak from this inner voice through solitude, friendship, and the arts. When we are in touch with and at home to who we truly are, we can then be at home to one another.

One approach is to explore the image of our life as a story. We inherit the script from family, culture, nationality, etc. The challenge is to uncover our own voice, our own story. This story may align with or differ from the inherited story.

In an article, “The Story the Child Keeps,” inner city educator, Richard Lewis, says that children are often given the impression that education is just a matter of returning correct answers. From television commercials, they are told that the purpose of life is to acquire things. At the same time, the pervasive violence of the programs instills the sense that life is dangerous and frightening. He adds that many children can pass an entire childhood without ever realizing that they have an inward life.

He goes on to say that it is important to encourage children to find and tell their own stories. He suggested that they simply tell about a visit to their grandmother, or talk about their walk to school, or any experience. As they do so, they sense that their mind has the inward ability to understand who we are as well as the nature of the world we inhabit. They learn that it is from the inside of ourselves that they are able to grasp and create their story. They are then able to be open to and enriched by other stories.

In a similar way, Irish scholar, Mary Congren, says that it is essential to find ways to nourish the spirit. In her work with women, she says that is crucial to hear them into speech. This task involves listening to their stories. Once again, this thought recalls the issue of uncovering our inmost voice and expressing the story within that voice, the story that voice tells.

Theologian, Tad Guzie, has written that some experiences enter our awareness and are significant, even life-shaping. These lived experiences are most basically retold in the form of a story. Storytelling, he claims, is the most basic way of naming an experience. I would add that telling our story to a trustworthy and caring other is an indispensable part of this process. As Mary Congren intimates, we may listen someone into their own truth, their own authentic script, their true story from within.

Philosopher, Sam Keen, also suggests that we discover our inmost voice, our true story, by telling it to a trusted other. He writes: “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. … 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.”

Guzie says further that we also need for our personal stories to become part of a larger story. This larger story interprets and gives meaning to our personal story. The challenge is to find a larger story that is not misleading or destructive. The play Death of a Salesman and the novel Something Happened both portray the devastating effects of the external success script.

Every story contains a way of looking at life. A good life story is one that takes into account the whole range of our life experiences. It enables us to celebrate our joys, survive our sorrows, share our life, and help build our society. One example is this brief story called The Gift.
“In one seat on the bus, a wispy old man sat holding a bunch of fresh flowers. Across the aisle was a young woman whose eyes came back again and again to the man’s flowers. The time came for the old man to get off. Impulsively he handed the flowers to the young woman,. “I can see you love the flowers,” he explained, “and I think my wife would like for you to have them. I’ll tell her I gave them to you.” She accepted the flowers, then watched the old man get off the bus and walk through the gate of a small cemetery.”

In only a few words, this is a story of love and loss, two underlying life experiences. They are symbolized by the flowers which express at once the beauty and brevity of life, as well as the love which gives it meaning. The story further suggests that love grows and life is enriched, not by hoarding it, or being imprisoned by its pain, but by sharing that life and love. Its vision runs counter to myths of greed, possessiveness, and domination.

What these stories suggest is that it is crucial to uncover the script that we are following, however blindly, and to listen to our own inner voice and the script that longs to unfold authentically from within. In the words of Sam Keen: “The task of a life is to exchange the unconscious myth (script) for a conscious autobiography.”

We are assisted in this task by stories–and other art forms–that take into account the whole range of human experience, its joys and sorrows, yet with an undertone of hope.

May you learn to uncover your own authentic voice, and the story it longs to live out. And may you give voice to that story to trusted friends, and share it in a life-giving way with a wider community.

Last week, I spoke of our inner journey as a journey home, a journey to the core of our being. This core is a point of sacred worth. It can be seen also as the centre, the inmost self from which all within us flows and into which all is gathered. It is a place deeper than yet inclusive of the both/and of life, the joy and sorrow, the fear and trust, the light and darkness.

The challenge is to recognize the both/and of life, to live from and to that core. To do so is to be at home with ourselves, in all our dimensions as well as our unity. It is to be a whole person with many dimensions and gifts. If we are at home to ourselves, we may then be at home with others as well, comfortable with their sorrow as well as their joy. We can be present to ourselves and to others in their pain and sadness, and not simply avoiding others or trying to cheer them up. It is not a matter of wallowing in hurt or engaging in condescending pity. It is recognizing what Susan Cain calls the “bittersweet” of life. She see it transformed into the beauty of the songs of Leonard Cohen. In these the hallelujah remains, despite the presence of the cold and broken. The familiar spiritual also follows the line that “nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” with the words, “glory, hallelujah.”

One example of this recognition is found in the physiological reality of tears. They flow in times of both acute sorrow and overwhelming joy. This is perhaps an indication that both tears flow from the same source within us. Another example is found in the conversation between trusted friends. We may readily move between laughing and crying, between levity and depth, without hardly noticing the transition. It seems there is a place in us deeper than the separation of apparently contradictory feelings, and into which they are gathered..

It seems as well that beautiful music has a certain poignancy to it. Their beauty heals, delights, and enriches us. At the same time it touches our aching longing that has a tinge of sadness to it. I recall on one occasion spending the day in the woods around Montmorency Falls near Quebec City. Later that day, we listened to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, which seemed to name that experience perfectly. Even while totally immersed in the experience of nature and the exquisite music, I was aware of the passing nature of both. It was an experience both of the beauty and brevity of life. The both/and of life were present and even transcended by what was beautiful.

One way of expressing this thought is to consider the voice that comes from our inmost core, from our true home. This would be the voice of our true self, our authentic voice. It would be the voice we hear and speak from when we our in touch with our sacred worth. It would be the voice we hear when we are aware of the both/and, the light and darkness of life, yet the meaningfulness that encompasses them all.

Often the voices we hear–and that perhaps we listen to but should not do so–are the voices which push us to conform in order to be accepted, which push us to external success, which call us to be perpetually busy, to acquire things, to live from outside. These may be the voices that call us a failure, that tell us that we are not good enough. They may even be internal voices that yet push us to run from ourselves for fear of what we may find within.

Yet if we sit quietly, we may hear our authentic voice, the voice beneath all the distracting clutter and clamour. Wayne Muller speaks of this voice in his book, Sabbath. When we consecrate a time to listen to the still, small voices, we remember the root of inner wisdom that makes work fruitful. We remember from where we are most deeply nourished, and see more clearly the shape and texture of the people and things before us. He calls to “consecrate a period of time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, or true.” and to honour “ quiet forces of grace or spirit that sustain and heal us.”

We may listen to that sacred authentic voice in times spent quietly by ourselves. We may tune in to that voice when it is echoed in a story, a work of art, a piece of music, a walk in a natural setting. We may discover it in time spent with a friend when we are valued for who we are, not just what we do or accomplish.

In another book, How Then Shall We live?, Wayne Muller speaks further of this voice. He asks: “What is our song? How do we name ourselves? Which word, when we speak it, reveals what is most deeply true about this inner voice, our deepest heart, our fundamental nature? He then offers a response he uncovered during a silent retreat.
Then it got quieter than ever. … I could feel a place inside, below all my names, my stories, my injuries, my sadness–a place that lived in my breath. I did not know what to call it but it had a voice, a way of speaking to me about what was true, what was right. And along with this voice came a presence, an indescribable sense of well-being that reminded me that whatever pain or sorrow I would be given, there was something inside strong enough to bear the weight of it. It would rise to meet whatever I was given. It would teach me what to do. …Neither my pain nor my confusion can stop the relentless companionship of this true and faithful voice. Something more vital, strong and true lies embedded deep within me. Sometimes I barely see it, can’t quite touch it. Then I experience a starry night, a forest after a rain, a loving embrace, a strain of sweet and perfect melody–and that is all it takes to remind me who I am: a spirit, alive, and whole. It helps me remember my nature, hear my name.

The challenge is to come home, to tune in to this inner voice of our sacredness, and to let it unfold in compassion for ourselves and others, with a sense of who we are beneath all the voices that clutter our lives.

May you listen ever more fuller your authentic inner voice, the voice of your true home, the voice of your sacred worth. And may you listen with more compassion for yourself, tune in more fully to the true voice of others. And my you uncover and share ever more generously your many gifts.