Last week, I spoke of trust: trust in the process of unfolding life within ourselves, trust in an intelligently caring other, and trust in life and the meaningfulness of life itself. This latter includes a trust in the universe as meaningful, as unfolding in the direction of wisdom and compassion. The basic implication of this conviction is the challenge to become ourselves trustworthy persons. Underlying this whole process is an at least implicit experience of life, not as a tragic accident or a cruel fate, but as a valuable gift. This experience gives rise to an undertone of gratitude, rather than resentment. This gratefulness flows naturally into a generosity of spirit, rather than a spirit of fear or hostility.

Many years ago, I attended a conference which included a talk by David Steindl-Rast, who is at once a Benedictine Monk, a Zen Buddhist master, and a clinical psychologist. He looked at and commented on the roots of the words “obedience” and “absurdity.” Obedience comes from the Latin roots ob and audire, which means to listen truly and deeply. Absurdity comes from the Latin roots ab and surdum, which means totally deaf. He explained that our orientation to life is either one of tuning into its meaning at each given moment, or being utterly deaf to such meaning, unable to discover any meaning to life.

This view reflects the perspective of Karl Rahner and others, that our fundamental life choice is either a trust in the enduring meaningfulness of life–its lasting worth and purpose–or despair over its ultimate futility. At the same time, they add that the approach to discover, or perhaps better to uncover, such meaning, is to listen, to tune in with awareness, rather than close ourselves off. In effect the choice is to build totally encasing walls that block off all light or sound of meaning, or to allow the cracks that allow light and sound to get in.

The key, then, seems to be to listen. Alfred Tomatis, the listening specialist, has distinguished between hearing and listening. Hearing is the passive reception of sound while listening is the active participation in what we hear. We may have good hearing, but poor listening. While Tomatis’ work has a more scientific basis, it is also a reflection of the opening words of the sixth century Rule of St. Benedict, which invites us to listen with the ears of the heart. This is a question of listening with openness rather than closing our ears. It is a listening with an openness to be changed by what we hear, rather than being closed to any transformation.

There is a marvellous Peanuts cartoon in which Lucy is chasing Charlie Brown and yelling :”I’ll pound you, Charlie Brown.” He replies to her that if we small children cannot solve our small problems without resorting to violence, how do we expect the larger world problems to be solved. She then punches him and says to a friend, “I had to hit him, he was beginning to make sense.” In other words, closing our ears, that is, closing our minds and hearts, refusing to listen to someone, results in violence. Along similar lines, Lorraine once commented on the New Testament story of Peter cutting off a servant’s ear, by saying that violence causes deafness. In Steindl-Rast’s approach, “absurdity” is deafness of the heart.

In light of our reflection on trust, to find meaning in life, a sense of worth, belonging, and purpose, implies a threefold listening, a threefold tuning in with openness. It implies a listening to our own inmost core, listening to one another from the heart, and tuning in to the sound of the universe. A parallel example is found in the ancient Greek myth of Tiresias the blind seer and of Oedipus who becomes physically blinded. It occurs as well as in the later poet, John Milton, who becomes blind, as does King Lear in the Shakespearian play. In all these cases, physical blindness is an image of the transition from seeing the externals only, to seeing, that is, understanding, from the heart, It is coming to a wisdom that seems inseparable, in some degree, from suffering.

I recall a radio interview I did many years ago, when the interviewer was intent on focusing on either the adherence to or reaction against external authority. He became very angry when I suggested that whether we follow or disagree with such authority, we are equally responsible for our personal decision, and that we cannot deflect our responsibility for our decision in either case. This is one example of how anger readily results from hearing something to which we are unwilling to listen.

Listening to oneself is a dimension of solitude, in which we allow what is deeply within to rise to the surface of our awareness. It is a matter of feeling all of our feelings, then letting go of them, as if letting them float away. What is deepest can then emerge, our sacred core, which I believe, orients us, more than anything else, towards understanding and compassion, wisdom and love,.

One form of reaching this awareness gradually is just the most basic form of meditation, simply to pay attention to our breath. I have noted before that in many languages, the words, breath, wind, and spirit are the same word. They suggest that our spirit is our core self, and our spirit is also what we live and breathe by. It is the vision and values we actually live. It is the script we actually follow in our life story.

One Eastern form of meditation suggests the repetition of the sound om/aum, which is sometimes thought of as the sound of the universe. It is the creative energy from which all flows. The ancient Greeks talked of the music of the spheres, the idea that the universe is singing. In all ancient monastic traditions, there is also a form of chant which reflects a similar view. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, the creative energy is found in Aislin the lion, who sings creation into being.

One aspect may well be that to echo the sound energy of the universe is to come into harmony with all that is, to be a truthful reflection of reality. It is to listen to and embody the truth of life. In our view, we are such a reflection and embodiment, when we move in the direction of truth and love, wisdom and compassion. An interesting corollary is that it is through music and story and the other arts, as well as silence, that we are best able to hear the sound of the universe, that we are most able to come in touch with our own heart. It is perhaps our heart, our inmost core, that flows from the universe, as does all else. To be in touch with that core, to pursue the journey within, is perhaps to experience at once our own sacred uniqueness, our connection with the sacred uniqueness of all else, and our origin in the communion of all beings that is the universe.

May you come more and more to listen to you own heart and its sacredness, and discover the sacredness and interconnectedness of all that is, and live in harmony with its music.

Norman King, December 19, 2022
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I have spoken of kindness, friendship, and love as involving an openness and vulnerability. We open our heart, our core, both to reach out and to let another in. This vulnerability carries the risk of receiving a vulnus, a wounding or hurt. In the song, Some Say Love, this thought is forcefully expressed. “It’s the heart, afraid of breaking, that never, learns to dance. It’s the dream, afraid of waking, that never, takes the chance. It’s the one, who won’t be taken, who cannot, seem to give. And the soul, afraid of dying, that never, learns to live.”

Openness is essential to growth. Walls built from hurt, fear, and hostility do not allow cracks that permit the light of new life, growth, healing, or love enter or escape. Sometimes it can be a simple act of kindness, a persistent caring that glimpses behind defensive walls, or even pain that startles us to awareness that permits light to penetrate.

At the same time, there is a need for some sense of safety before we are able to open ourselves. Many years ago, a person who was a close friend at the time, told me that I was a safe place for her. That expression really resonated with me, and I have thought of what is a safe place, both for ourselves and others.

Two contrasting messages we sometimes wrestle with for ourselves and our children are:: “I don’t want you to get hurt,” and “I want you to grow.” These are often implied in our responses to life events. In the story of Sleeping Beauty, for example, the king cannot prevent his daughter from experiencing her own pain. Nor can we prevent ourselves from experiencing the pain that is an inevitable part of life. Yet we can help ourselves and others get through and beyond that pain by being a safe place for such feelings

We can be a safe place for ourselves by finding a quiet place where we can allow our feelings, whatever they are, to be felt. To do so requires a certain level of awareness. A helpful realization is that within every human being is found the whole range of human feelings, such as from despair to despair, from fear to love, etc. While these are all present within us, different feelings may arise at different times, depending upon our childhood experiences, our relationships, our life situation, and much else. We may view all these feelings, especially the more difficult ones as visitors, but not let them have the run of the house. In other words, it is important to acknowledge their presence, without judging ourselves for them. At the same time, it is equally important to recognize that we do not have to act upon them.

As mentioned with regard to the story, Where the Wild Things Are, there are wild things in all of us–our powerful feelings, especially those we have labelled negative–that threaten to swallow us up and carry us away. Max stares into the wild things, tames them, and becomes their king. In other words, once we recognize and face these feelings, they may remain within us, lose their hold on us. While they may indicate where we are within ourselves at present, they but do not tell us what to do, and we do not have to act upon them. We are then in a safe place to feel them. We can do so without condemning ourselves for having them, without pretending they are not there, or without unleashing them indiscriminately and in a hurtful way upon others. We may recognize that to allow our feelings to be felt and named does not mean we have to act on them. This awareness can be a safe place for all our feelings.

Others may also provide a safe place for us, especially if they allow us to express our feelings to them without blaming or attacking us, or telling us that we should not feel this way. For our part, as well, it is a matter of entrusting our feelings, our thoughts and concerns, without unleashing them. To do so requires at once a trust on our part and a trustworthiness on the part of another. It is a trustworthiness coupled with caring that creates a mutual safe place for us. I have often said that we cannot talk another into anything, but we can listen then into their own truth. If we have someone to whom we can entrust our feelings, we may come to uncover certain feelings, be able to name them honestly, and possibly discover their roots. We may then decide how to respond–rather than react–to them.

To be genuinely listened to, or to listen from the heart to another, may convey a profound sense of being understood. If someone is acknowledged as who they are and that who they are is valuable, that caring recognition provides a safe place. Such caring expressed in listening with understanding allows us to entrust safely where we are at present, to entrust any of our thoughts and feelings, whether what is bothering or upsetting us, or what brings us joy.

What it comes down to is that there is an underlying sacred worth in each of us. It is deeper than anything that we feel at any given moment. Even the most difficult feelings do not take away that worth. That recognition, or at least the striving to that recognition in self and others, provides a safe place for ourselves and for one another, first to feel, and then to decide a course of action, that honours that sacredness.

May you find a safe place within yourself and within a caring other to feel and name all your feelings, joyful and sorrowful. And may you come more and more to act according to a sense of your own sacred worth and the worth of others worth as deeper than all else.

Norman King, December 5, 2022.

Last week, we spoke of kindness as an essential quality of a fulfilling life, beginning with kindness to ourselves and extending to those near to us, and even to those we meet only casually or on occasion. It implies both a sense of connection to others, who are somehow kin, as the very word suggests, and a sense of our own and others vulnerability. We referred to the story of The Selfish Giant, which suggests that we must have cracks in the walls we may have built around us. Only then can children–kinder–enter. Only then, that is, can new thoughts, new images, new feelings, new life enter, and bring renewal or springtime to our lives.

Leonard Cohen’s famous line from his song Anthem says: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” It seems that the beauty of his songs is forged in a crucible of sorrow. Perhaps its meaning is that if our sorrows are felt, acknowledged, named, and not inflicted on others, they can be transformed into creativity, compassion, and even gratitude. They can be transformed into a Hallelujah, however cold and lonely its origins.

The Hebrew Song of Songs has this marvellous line, “You have wounded my heart.” The Latin words are “vulnerasti cor meum.”It can be translated, not as an injury inflicted on us, but as an openness that allows another to reach our core. The Latin root of vulnerability, vulnus, means wound, and the word vulnerability literally means able to be wounded, able to be hurt. When we allow cracks in the defensive walls around us, we are open to new life, but also to the possibility being hurt. Acts of kindness, given and received, are cracks in our defensiveness that allow light to enter and shine forth.

When we open ourselves to our own vulnerability, we can allow the light of feeling and understanding to uncover what is within us. The light of compassion is the light that can envelop our feelings and allow us to see these feelings most clearly, even the difficult ones. There is a tendency to judge certain feelings as unacceptable, and either to condemn ourselves for having them or to pretend that they are not there. If we understand that these feeling just are, that they are not a judgment on us, and that we may or may not decide to act upon them, we can approach ourselves with more compassion.

In the experience of grief, for example, surprising feelings, such as anger, may arise and arise unexpectedly. And the message to get over it and get on with our life is often conveyed. To shed the light of compassion on our feelings is to recognize them, without considering them good or bad, to see that they are part of but not all of who we are. We may say, for instance, that we feel angry, rather than we are angry. Sharon Salzberg, writer and meditation teacher, suggests that when we experience feelings that are difficult, we should consider them as visitors, but not give them the run of the house.

Last week, in my final Children’s Literature class, we looked at the wonderfully amusing story, Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. It is an excellent example of understanding and responding to feelings. The boy, Max, dresses in a wolf costume and makes lots of mischief. He is called a wild thing and sent to his room without supper. His room is transformed into a wild forest and he sails across to where the wilds things are, tames them, and becomes their king. But then “Max the king of all the wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all” He returns to his room and find his supper waiting for him, and it is still warm.

Using food imagery, the story suggests that there are wild things in all of us–our powerful feelings, especially those we have labelled negative–that threaten to swallow us up and carry us away. Yet the wolf costume suggests that, though very real, these are not what is deepest in us. They are part of us, but not all of us. Max stares into the wild things, tames them, and becomes their king. In other words, once we recognize and face these feelings, they lose their hold on us and are contained within us. The end of the story suggests that it is in the context of love that these are best contained. This thought is expressed in the presence of a hot meal. Instead of being devoured by negative feelings, we are able to share a meal in love.

The ability to see requires light; it requires cracks where the light gets in. Many stories contrast the light that sees outwardly and the inner light that sees to the heart of things. It is remarkable that, in Greek mythology, the famous seer, Tiresias, who unveils the truth to Oedipus, is blind. So too is the poet who sings the story of Odysseus’ life in a way that causes his soul to groan. It is only after he becomes blind that Oedipus moves beyond a more surface cleverness to a depth of wisdom that emerges from suffering and flows into love. King Lear as well sees wisely with the eyes of the heart only after he is blinded. Only then does he realize and return the love of his daughter, Cordelia, the whose name means heart.

These stories suggest that the inner light of seeing from and with the heart requires that we move beyond externals, beyond mere looking outside for direction and answers. Rather we need to look within. This is not a matter of probing from without with, as it were, a pair of psychological pliers. Rather it is a matter of allowing cracks in our heart, a matter of allowing what is already within to emerge to the light of awareness–thoughts, feelings, images alike. It is letting our depth of sacredness emerge behind any walls of hurt, fear, or hostility. It is like the still waters that allow the clarity of its depths to be seen.

Our inmost core need not be seen as a blind alley or dead end. Rather it may be understood as the place where we emerge in our uniqueness and sacredness from the universe and whatever is within, behind and beyond the universe. It is the thrust that impels us to unfold, to grow, and to flower in wisdom and compassion. Certainly the cracks of openness that allow light to flow in and out are also cracks of vulnerability where wounds are possible. Yet is seems that, unless the hurt is totally overwhelming, our sorrows may be transformed into pathways to en-lighten-ment. They can be cracks that allow more light for ourselves and others.

May allow the sorrows and joys you experience allow more light of worth and purpose, of hope and love, to shine in your own life and reflect warmly on others who share our own life in ways large or small.

Norman King, November 28, 2022

I was very struck lately by Susan Cain’s observation that Darwin has been readily misinterpreted. She notes that perhaps his view is better understood, not as survival of the fittest, but as survival of the kindest. Very shortly before her death, writer June Callwood stated simply: “I believe in kindness.” She says it can be shown in very simple things, such as holding the door open for someone. The Dalai Lama has also said: “My religion is simple. My religion is kindness.” This view also calls to mind Einstein’s words to his daughter that the underlying energy of the universe and the source of its meaning, is love.

Two notable books on kindness have appeared in recent years. One is simply titled On Kindness, by Barbara Taylor and Adam Phillips. The other, yet to appear, is The Keys to Kindness by Claudia Hammond. I heard an interview with her on this book. She says that kindness is at the heart of human relationships, and there is more kindness in the world than we realize. Receiving kindness contributes to the well-being of others and even more to our own well-being.“Behaving compassionately improves the lives of others. It also improves our own lives. There are measurable boosts to health, both mental and physical. Behaving kindly can act as a buffer against burnout and stress,and improve our well being. It can bring us happiness. It can even help us to live longer.”

The root of the word kindness is kin, which expresses a connection to another person or persons. It is also cognate with the word kind, as in kindergarten, and it means child. And of course children most obviously depend upon others, and are among the most vulnerable members of our society. In fact, Taylor and Phillips define kindness as the ability to bear the vulnerability of others, and therefore of oneself. They add that the pleasure of kindness is that it connects us with others, but it also makes us aware of our own and other people’s vulnerability.

Awareness both of our connection to others and our vulnerability is something that is often denied in our culture. Our society stresses being independent, antagonistic to, and in competition with one another. It suggests that we need to asset ourselves at the expense of one another. Yet the loneliness, occasioned more visibly by the pandemic, reminds us of our need for connection, as does the threat posed by climate change. If we have some degree of awareness, we are certainly aware of our interdependence upon one another and upon the earth itself. The isolation caused by Covid also reminds us of the importance for our overall well-being of the casual contacts that have occurred in the once normal routine of everyday life.

As a colleague once said, we need only to look at our navel to realize that we are not self created. If we wish to assert total independence we may stop eating, drinking, and breathing. These are all activities that are not private but are relations with the world around us, upon which our very life depends.

A wonderful example is offered in the folk tale written by Oscar Wilde, The Selfish Giant. After returning home, the giant finds many children playing in his garden. He becomes enraged, chases them away, and builds a wall around the garden to keep everyone out. The result is that no flowers grow, no birds sing, and it is always winter, with icy winds. Some time later, the giant hears a bird singing and notices some flowers growing. He sees that children have crept back in to play in the garden through cracks that have appeared in the wall. He then realizes what has happened. He has a complete change of heart, and welcomes and plays with the children for the rest of his life.

As the children re-enter the garden through crack in its wall, it is once again springtime. The change in weather from winter to spring indicates that the children bring new life to the giant. This story suggests that unless we have cracks in the walls of defensiveness, cracks of vulnerability, so that children can come through–that is, new life, new thoughts, new images–then we shall remain bleak and cold and dark and desolate inside. We tear down rather than build our walls through creative, life-giving, generous, even sacrificial compassion, caring, and love. And a key ingredient is simple acts of kindness to ourselves and others.

It is striking that Taylor and Phillips define kindness as the ability to bear our own and others vulnerability. Perhaps acts of kindness, however small, require us to open our heart, both to flow outwards and to receive within. It may well be that kindness implies the recognition that we are incomplete, that we need one another, that we are invariably connected. Such openness always implies the possibility of being hurt. Yet to be closed always ensures the our lives are ever in winter, ever in a season of lovelessness, even of fear and anger. Possibly turning to kindness, aside from its assistance to well-being, is a step towards openness to deeper connection, to learning the greater openness of love. And beyond intimacy, it is a step in extending that caring in wider and wider circles.

Along these lines, Erich Fromm, in The Art of Loving, writes that the love implies a character development of the whole person that is then brought into bear in any relationship. He adds that only in the love of those who do not serve a purpose does love begin to unfold. He cites the ancient categories of the widow, the orphan, and the stranger. In today’s world, we might add all those who are marginalized in any way. It may well be that kindness, extended in simple acts, to those near and far, including ourselves, may be the path to the wisdom and compassion that sees the universe as a community of subjects to respect–and sees ourselves as part of and responsible to and for that community. Educator, John Holt, holds that integral to this process is a sense of connection with and therefore kindness to ourselves. We have enough kindness and compassion for others, he says, only if we have enough kindness for ourselves.

May you more and more have enough kindness for yourself, and extend it gradually to those near and far. And may you make whatever contribution you can to creating a world where interdependence and connectedness are recognized, and where kindness and compassion are honoured.

Last week, using the image of tears, we suggested that there is a place within us that is deeper than the separation of thoughts and feelings into opposite like joy and sorrow, fear and hope and the like. And it is this same place that is able to contain all these feelings within an underlying sense of hope and even of love. We also added that there is in us an immense longing, a longing for meaning, for wholeness for home, to come home to our heart, our core, and from there be a home to one another.

Last week in my children’s literature class, we discussed the story, The Secret Garden. The story also portrays characters trapped in loss that has closed their hearts, yet still with a simmering longing that remains and is still to be uncovered. In the end, a healing love is awakened. The two main characters are ten year old Mary Lennox and her uncle Archie Craven. Mary has recently lost both parents, and Archie, her uncle, had lost his wife, Lily, ten years previously. In his grief, Archie has closed and locked the garden–both the outer garden which Lily loved, 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 his entire household.

Assisted by the boy, Dickon, who is at home in the natural world, Mary enters the outer garden, where she uncovers the dead leaves and debris, and discovers the roots of life that are still alive and ready to spring more fully to life. She also plants the seeds of new life. In effect, she is getting in touch with the 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  life and let it flower in friendship. Archie’s encounter with his now healthy son reawakens Archie’s own heart and the love that has been implicitly there and now reaches out freely towards his son, Colin, and his niece, Mary. The tears that flow in these scenes express not only the pain and longing inherent in life but also the love that awakens and flourishes, and gives new and fuller meaning to that life.

There is factually no garden within our heart, but the story is truthful as it recounts the slow transition from paralyzing grief to renewed love. In the same class, we looked at the stories of Winnie the Pooh and Pumpkin Soup, which also illustrate the difference between fact and truth. Certainly the portrayal of animals in these stories is not factual. But they do embody, in an accessible and safe way, the truth of our profound need for food, friendship, and beauty. These are reflected in the making of soup, the playing and singing of music, and the endurance of friendship despite a few hassles.

Within a context of imagination, wonder, and magic, stories such as these bring out what Susan Cain calls the bittersweet character of our experience of life. They not only recognize that joy and sorrow, and all the “both/ands” are present in all our experience. They also help us to name that experience. When we wish to convey our deepest experience, we can capture it best, though still in a limited way, not be mere flat statements, but by images and stories. Robert Frost tells us: “I took the road less travelled by and that has made all the difference.” He is speaking of choosing his direction in life, not about changing highways. In Robert Munsch’s story, Love You Forever, the woman says to her son at various stages in his life, and, later the son says to his elderly mother, “I’ll love your forever.” They are not talking about time on a clock, but about the enduring quality of their love.

A favourite expression is from Winnie the Pooh. Of their friendship, Piglet says to Pooh.: “We’ll be friends forever won’t we, Pooh,” asked piglet. “Even longer,” Pooh answered.. This comment is less about a length of time and more about the quality of the friendship, which is unbreakable, and therefore reliable and trustworthy. It teaches theses qualities to children. At the same time, it gives an assurance of stability in relationships.

Looked at from the eyes of the heart, stories such as these bring out the sacred worth of every human life and of all that is. They also acknowledge the interconnection of all that is. To experience further the gift character of everything is to evoke an underlying sense of gratitude. It is also a call to honour that sacred worth in ourselves and in all that is, and also to act with awareness of the interconnectedness of all that is.

May you come more and more to experience your own and others sacred worth, to live with an underlying sense of gratitude for this gift, to feel at home in this universe, and to respond to others and to life with a sense of generosity, compassion, and justice.

Norman King, November 14, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Norman King, November 7, 2022

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

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

In an article on folktales as rooted in the experience of wonder, G. K. Chesterton writes.
These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water. …
We have all read … the story of the man who has forgotten his name. This man … cannot remember who he is. Well, everyone is that person in the story. …We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awe-filled instant we remember that we forget. …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Norman King, October 24, 2022