We spoke last time of the importance of our inner journey, its discovery and living according to our inmost self, who we are truly and deeply. The living out of that authentic identity flows into and through our particular gifts, and in response to our concrete life situation.

At the same time, we are exposed, from infancy on, through our society, its culture, the mass media, and the so-called social media, to an image of life, a script or story of who we are and what we should be. I believe that the predominant model goes against our most real self.

The prevalent model of life thinks and acts in terms of what has been called a hierarchical dualism. This worldview divides reality into two opposite poles: such as male and female, mind and matter, human and the natural worlds. It then regards one of these poles as superior, and considers that the superior should dominate the alleged inferior. This attitudes flows into sexism, racism, and environmental degradation. Thomas Berry sums up this situation: “Descartes killed the planet.”

I think that there are fundamental issues here that can be explored in separate reflections. One is an understanding of our identity, not as isolated and separate, but as interconnected, as part of everything that is, as embodied in the universe itself. Another is to come to a realization that the basic orientation of myself and of the universe itself, of which I am a part, is not towards competition and hostility, but toward kindness and compassion.

One approach to our life journey is offered in an early book of the late philosopher, Michael Novak (Ascent of the Mountain, Flight of the Dove: An Invitation to Religious Studies). He speaks of three levels of religion. We may speak today in alternative language, in terms of a living worldview, or a life direction, or a spirituality—that is, in terms of how we feel and see life, and how we live out our lives as a result.

(1) There is first of all, for Novak, our life story itself; the story we tell with our lives. Each one of us, he says, must choose the kind of person he or she will be–an identity. And the real choice that we make comes out, not so much in what we say, but in how we live, our life story. The way we actually live our lives reveals what we really think and value and care about, the identity and purpose our life expresses.

(2) The second level involves coming to an explicit awareness of the story we are living, and taking responsibility for it. This process involves becoming aware of where we are coming from-our mindset and heartset—the taken-for-granted vision and values out of which we think and act. We can then assess these and choose consciously which are genuinely true and valuable as far as we can see them. Along with this growing awareness of our life-story, we can develop a fuller sense that this life story of ours – who we are and where we belong – is in our own hands; and further, that we are responsible for the story our lives tell. We are responsible for finding and living out our true identity.

(3) The third level is coming to see our life story as part of a larger story. We come to see that our own stories are part of a larger story: not only the story of our family, culture, nation, but the story of the human race itself and of the world and earth in which it unfolds, indeed the of whole universe. From a spirituality standpoint, we may see our own story as and lived within or before an unseen divine Presence, an ultimate Source and Goal of lasting meaning.

We recognize that whatever energy, spirit, divinity is behind the whole universe flows within us and through us and encompasses ourselves and all that is. It is described by Teilhard de Chardin and Albert Einstein ultimately as love energy. Our own meaning is one that is discovered not invented; it is part of a wider meaning. Our own identity is part of a wider presence.

Thomas Merton expresses this sense of identity very fully. He says that we find the “real world,” not outside of us but in our own inner ground, in our deepest self. There, he says, we are mysteriously present, not only to ourselves bur to all other persons as well. We are present to the source from which we and all else flows. I once tried to sum up briefly the worldview of Thomas Merton in these words: I and each of us is a unique word uttered with meaning and love from the heart of the universe.

If we see our interconnected identity in this way, what is the next step flowing from this awareness. As we mentioned before, one approach is to ask what are my gifts, what do I have to offer and how and where and to whom do I offer these gifts. Another is to ask what is most needed in our society today and what do I have to offer that situation. As mentioned above, one approach to uncovering these gifts is to try to uncover the script, story, or life direction that we are following presently. We may then ask whether it really resonates with us or whether there is another deeper, truer, script trying to express itself.

At the same time, while it is essential to see what may be our unique contribution to the external world. Most of our lives are lived within a small circle of people we encounter in different ways and in different situations, from those to whom we have a close persona; relationship to those we encounter only in passing, in a store, walking down the street, and the like. In this situation, and in the larger context as well, the key seems to be kindness. The Dalai Lama has said: “My religion is simple. My religion is kindness.” We will explore the essential need of kindness in our next reflection.

We might end this reflection with a marvellous indigenous story, the story of the two wolves.
An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice… “Let me tell you a story.”
“I too, at times, have felt great hate for those who have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It’s like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times. “
“It is as if there are two wolves inside me; one is evil and the other is good. One is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended.”
“But…the other wolf… ah! The littlest thing will send him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all of the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing.”
“Sometimes it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit.”
The boy looked intently into his Grandfather’s eyes and asked, “Which one wins, Grandfather?” The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, “The one I feed.”

May you come to experience yourself as a being of the earth and the universe, as called to develop and share your gifts with one another, and to live and act out of love rather than hatred, beginning with a love for yourself–understood as an awareness and living out of your own sacredness.

Norman, July 10, 2025

We have spoken of transforming loneliness into solitude. A further thought on that topic might be helpful. Loneliness is the feeling of being disconnected and separate from closeness with another. It can involve a sense of isolation, a sense that there is no one with whom we can be who we truly are, without defense or pretense.

Solitude involves being in touch with and at home to our inmost, truest self, the beautiful core of who we are. This core self is where we–and where all else–flows from the universe itself, even in our very uniqueness. At our very core, then, we are in touch with, connected with everything else. Brian Swimme, among, others has stressed that we are in fact stardust; that all the materials that form our makeup are from the stars. In a similar way, Wayne Muller has observed that the very fact that we are breathing means that we are part of the whole ecosystem of earth. It means that we do belong and that we are in some profound way connected with all that is.

The 13th century Persian poet, Rumi, captures this truth beautifully: “Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is within you.” A difficulty today is that many people live outside themselves and relate only to the outside of others, so both are lonely. If we are in touch with and live from within ourselves, we can more readily relate to the inwardness of others. We have a sense of connection with others, with the universe, with all that is. Dag Hammarskjold writes in a similarly striking way: “The longest journey is the journey inward to the core of one’s being.”

Yet many authors, and even western culture itself, have fed us a script that we are separate from nature and from others. As a result they have fostered an attitude of fear, and a need to control and dominate, which breeds hostility. Language of the conquest of nature then predominates, rather than an attitude of living within and being part of the natural world. In this sense, we are not placed on this earth but emerge from it as part and expression.

Citing the philosopher Hegel, Gregory Baum observes that, in removing spirit, interiority, from ourselves, our relationships, and the natural world, we have removed a sense of connection and belonging as well. We no longer see our own inwardness, our own relationships to self, others and the world as part of who we are. We tend to see them as something alien as something outside ourselves. They become unknown and possibly threatening. They therefore need to be controlled and dominated, or else they may destroy us. We then live our lives externally and, since we distrust ourselves, we therefore turn to and rely on external authority. Instead of being and becoming fully who we are, we become doers of what we are told from outside.

According to Richard Rohr and others, the key is to get in touch with our own interiority, and to learn to trust the unfolding process of life within ourselves and its outflowing from our inner home.

Thomas Merton also differentiates between the true and the false self. For Merton, the false self is the self of surface whims, opposition to others, and social roles. The surface self is the superficial, busy, compulsive, diversion-seeking self, the self of surface wants, needs and greediness. The separate self is the self seen as apart from and in opposition to others, in competition with them for survival, goods, and gratification. The self of social roles is the self filtered through the slogans, myths, prejudices of a society.

In Merton’s view, the true self is the deepest, inmost self, the inmost centre or core of our being–the heart –a unique, dynamic, spiritual centre, endowed with an irremovable dignity. It is our identity as
as a unique word, or precious gift, flowing from an infinite source, a source that is best depicted in terms of wisdom and compassion. I find the world, he insists, in my own ground, in my deepest self. It is there too that I find “the Life Who dwells and sings within the essence of every creature and in the core of our own souls.”

In sum, our true self is a connected self, a self that is inseparably bound up with others, with the earth, and even the universe. It is best discovered in solitude, in kindness to self and others, and in sharing our unique gifts with the world.

Gabor Mate, in The Myth of Normal, states that we have two fundamental needs: the need for authenticity, and the need for belonging or attachment. For a time, even with the best will, parents may push their children to sacrifice their authenticity in order to be acceptable. While this can lead to many problems, the drive to authenticity remains, and may be awakened again by compassionate self inquiry. In effect, this approach can be translated to mean that our sacred worth remains and can be uncovered, respected, and lived from, by looking into ourselves with kindness.

May you ever more fully learn to uncover and live from the beauty of your inmost heart and home, and see and respond to that beauty in one another. To do so, as Merton insists is to alleviate the greed and cruelty of the world, to make it a home rather than a prison for each of us and for all that is.

Last time, we used the story of Rapunzel to illustrate how loneliness transformed into solitude can find expression in beauty, such as in the song of Rapunzel. The beauty of the song echoes the beauty of her soul, heart, or spirit. It is this beauty that can also touch the heart of another, and evoke a response from that place in us that has never been wounded, as Eckhart has written. John Keats concludes his poem, Ode to a Grecian Urn, with the words, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

What seems to be conveyed here is the beauty of music, as well as that of all the arts, and of nature. These in turn are a reflection of the beauty of the human heart. More than that, they are an avenue to the heart of a person. If we are open, it can reach beyond all our defences and wounds to the beauty of the person hidden or hiding behind them. It is a way of saying that our identity is in our sacred beauty, not in our wounds.

Yet in the story of Rapunzel, it is only after he passes through pain, loss, and struggle, that the young man is able to come to see truly and to be healed. In the story of Sleeping Beauty, the young man must also pass through a hedge of thorns at the right time and with the right motives, not in a grasping or aggressive way. His response is evoked by someone who is sleeping. It is called forth, it seems, by who someone is, not by what they have or do. The beauty that is in each of us, and by which call forth the beauty in one another, is deeper than, yet may be hidden behind the thorns of hurt, fear, or hostility.

In another poem, Ode to a Nightingale, Keats appears to contrast the beauty of the bird’s song with the awareness of the brevity of life. His poem raises a perennial question: Does the reality of death take a way the meaning of life?

Susan Cain offers a response in a thoughtful book, Bitter-Sweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole. “Bittersweet is about the recognition of the both/and of life–that light and dark, birth and death, bitter and sweet, are forever paired. We need both to accept that reality and also in some way transcend it. This is our inmost longing which can be seen as a longing for home. …We need to transform the sorrows of life into something that nourishes the soul, otherwise we will inflict them on others. She concludes: “This idea–of transforming pain into creativity, transcendence, and love–is the heart of this book.”

She refers to the music of Leonard Cohen as an example. Two lines of his songs come to mind: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” He also sings of a “cold and lonely hallelujah.” A black spiritual echoes the same words: “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Glory, Hallelujah.” The thought here is that light can emerge from darkness, joy can flow from sorrow. As Viktor Frankl maintained, our life can be meaningful, no matter what the circumstances.

Cain concludes: “We’re drawn to the sublime domains, like music, art, and medicine, not only because they’re beautiful and healing, but also because they’re a manifestation of love, or divinity, or whatever you want to call it. … These are just manifestations of the perfect and beautiful world, of the people we long to be with, the place we want to be. … We’ve come into this world with a sense of exile from our true home, that we feel the pain of separation from the state in which we loved and were loved beyond measure, and that the sweet pain of longing helps us return there, We crave beauty because it reminds us of that home, it calls us to that journey.”

I recall a conversation with an elderly volunteer guide at Canterbury cathedral in England. He commented on the defacement and destruction of statues in this cathedral in an earlier century. No religion that destroys and fails to honour beauty can be authentic was his conviction. That conviction, I believe, applies also to the beauty of persons.

Perhaps, as John Keats understood, the fundamental and deepest truth about life is beauty. It is the beauty of the universe that shine through in the beauty of a sunset. It is the beauty of a song or a painting. It is the beauty of the light that shines through in the crack in everything. It is the beauty of a person that ever remains, however obscured by hurt or fear or hostility. It is the beauty of the place in each of us that has never been wounded. It is the beauty of home when we unveil it within ourselves or with another.

May you have today and every day an experience of beauty that calls you home to the beauty of your own soul, to the beauty of others, and to the beauty of earth and the universe. And may that experience reinforce your underlying sense of hope and increase your compassion for yourself and others.

I have been speaking lately of attuning to our heart space, our true home, our authentic self. And I suggested that this path may lead through and beneath a whole variety of feelings, some of which may be initially disturbing. I also suggested that attention to breathing, and other forms of meditation, reflection, reading, and listening to beautiful music may also be helpful. Such solitude is distinct from the loneliness that afflicts so many people today.

In thinking of this topic, I am drawn to another story, which I have perhaps mentioned frequently, the story of Rapunzel. Among other things, the story tells of the prince who climbs the tower with the aid of Rapunzel’s hair, only to find himself on this occasion confronted by the witch. She tells him that he will never see her again. In his despair, he leaps out of the tower. He does not die, but falls among thorns which pierce his eyes and blind him. He then wanders about, lonely and lost, and barely surviving on roots and edible plants.

These images suggest that when we lose someone close to us, the loneliness that follows can take away our vision and leave us utterly lost and in survival mode. Such blinding loneliness can also come from lack of meaningful contact as well as from loss.

Earlier in the story, we are given a portrait of Rapunzel, alone in the tower, who sings out of her loneliness. The beauty of her singing rings out throughout the forest and reaches and attracts the young prince. The image suggests that in the solitude, even if lonely, a person is able to return to the core of themselves. What emerges from that core is beautiful, illustrated by the music of her voice. This image suggests, in turn, that the core of the person is beautiful. The place within that has never been wounded is beautiful. We are more than any hurts received or even inflicted.

It is not an outer image, not a projection of the defensive ego, that is able to reach another and build community, but it is who we are and the expression of who we are. Perhaps all too often relationships remain an exchange of outer images and not a sharing of persons. A genuine communication in depth, in the words of Erich Fromm, “is possible only if each person experiences himself or herself from the centre of their being.” Such communication does not take a way the loneliness that is part of the human condition, but shares that loneliness. It takes away the debilitating forms of loneliness that corrodes the soul. As medieval mystic Mechtilde of Magdeburg puts it: “When my loneliness becomes too great, I take it to my friends.”

The loneliness that comes from loss or separation, from transitional periods in our lives, from enforced isolation, or lack of connection, can be alleviated by even slight contacts. Recent studies have shown that even a brief contact, if sincere, can enhance our experience of life. Such gestures may include a brief comment to a stranger in a bank, a supermarket, or a waiting line, or a small kindness to someone.

Dr. Ben-Shahar comments that the greatest threat to happiness is loneliness, which has become nearly epidemic in our time. As a corrective, the Dalai Lama observes that if you want both yourself and others to be happy, practice compassion. I have suggested before compassion may be understood as a respectful, and never condescending response to another person who is experiencing some kind of pain or suffering. I have also suggested that to do so requires a sense of our own worth, so that we may approach another as they are and not in terms of a need or a threat. Compassion also requires a sense of our own vulnerability, so that we can identity or see ourselves with another who is in pain.

Clark Moustakis, who has written extensively on the loneliness that is part of the human condition. I might add that the recognition and acceptance and being with of this inescapable loneliness can lead to a creative solitude. In Moustakas words, it can “bring into awareness new dimensions of self, new beauty, new power for human compassion, and a reverence for the precious nature of each breathing moment.” Persons may then “discover life, who they are, what they really want, the meaning of their existence, the true nature of their relations with others. … Loneliness paves the way to healing, to true compassion, to intimate bonds with all living creatures and all aspects of nature and the universe.”

Blaise Pascal, a 17th century scholar has written: “All of humanity’s problems stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room alone.”

In her book, Bitter-Sweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole, Susan Cain, writes: “Bittersweet is about the recognition of the both/and of life–that light and dark, birth and death, bitter and sweet, are forever paired. We need both to accept that reality and also in some way transcend it. This is our inmost longing which can be seen as a longing for home.” We need to transform the sorrows of life into something that nourishes the soul, otherwise we will inflict them on others. She concludes: “This idea–of transforming pain into creativity, transcendence, and love–is the heart of this book.”

In other words, a certain painfulness is an inescapable part of every life. Happiness and a meaningful life do not demand a lack of suffering. They do require an overcoming of unnecessary isolation, self-pity, self-rejection, comparison with others, and inflicting pain on others. They also require clinging to a sense of self-worth even if not felt, and developing compassion for self and others. It involves not denying the pain of life, but not identifying with it, yet seeking to learn and grow from it. We may perhaps entrust it to caring and trustworthy others. And we may ourselves be the caring and trustworthy person to whom another may entrust their own sorrow. I really appreciate the words of Henri Nouwen that the true friend is not the person with the answers, but the one who sticks it ou with you when there are no answers.

May you more and more feel at home to and accept and cherish your core self. And may you be more and more present and a home to those who, in some way, great or small, share your life.
Norman King

Last week, I suggested that our inmost longing for truth and beauty, goodness and love, is best grounded in an underlying sense of gratitude. This is gratitude for the gift of self, of others, and for life itself, all of which have an enduring sacred worth.

We have spoken before of the both/and, the bitter/sweet of life, and suggested that life is a wondrous gift, even though it sometimes hurts. I recently heard a podcast in which a person sustained a sense of that gratefulness even though his son had died because of a medical mistake. To have had his son for 21 years was a gift that outweighed his premature death. I also had a younger brother who died at 26 owing to a heart defect incurred at birth. The wrenching sadness of his death remains. Yet the lasting impact of who he was and its shaping of my thinking and attitudes is an invaluable gift. Again, in Leonard Cohen’s famous words: There is a crack in everything, and that’s how the light gets in.

From this perspective, I developed a model for interpreting experience, related to the Grimm Brothers story, The Old Man and His Grandson. The four-year-old child in the story sees how his parents treat his grandfather for spilling some of his food, and send him from the table to eat behind the stove. The child makes them see the hurtful effect of their treatment. As a result, the young couple are moved from seeing the grandfather as a nuisance to be reluctantly tolerated, to recognizing him as a valuable person to be cherished. As a result of seeing him in a new way, they began to treat him differently. A new way of seeing was given to them and a new way of acting was called from them. This experience–and I would suggest–every experience involves a gift and call.

The story suggests a further dimension to every experience. If they had continued to treat him dismissively, they would have killed something of his spirit. By welcoming him positively, they would have enriched his final days. In effect, the gift and call concerns the choice of either bringing something to life or putting something to death in ourselves or others. An obvious sense of bringing to life is to procreate and love a child. An equally apparent sense of putting to death is to abuse, reject or neglect a child. A still more profound possibility is to bring that suffering child to life, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, artistically, spiritually, or in any way.

In this light we may approach every experience–although certainly the more crucial or deeper ones–as involving the gift and task to bring something to life, even out of the many deaths in the midst of life. It is to let the light enter all the cracks in life.

I would suggest further that every story contains a certain way of looking at life, yet may be open to different interpretations. In his retelling of the story of Pandora, for example, the ancient Greek poet, Hesiod, appears to blame women for all the evils of the world. In his version, Pandora is given a jar and told not to open it until her wedding day. When she opens it beforehand, she releases all the ills, and shuts it in time only to keep hope inside.

From a different perspective, however, the name Pandora means all the gifts or the gift of everything. In this context, it can express all that is given with human life both pleasant and painful, the bitter and the sweet. It can also suggest that, while life contains both positive and negative elements, it remains a gift, and can be received with gratitude. The same thought is expressed that life can be lived with hope. There is also the undertone of humour, in the sense that, when the injunction is given not to open the jar immediately, we know that it will be opened. Humour contains a sense of hope if it has the form of being able to laugh gently at oneself (rather than derisively at others).

This ambiguity of life leaves us with a question as to how we interpret it–as a glass half full or half empty. Expressed differently, the question becomes what story we tell around any experience. The philosopher, Gabriel Marcel, told how, as we was travelling by train to deliver a lecture, he discovered that his wife had forgotten to include the talk in his brief case. His first reaction was not annoyance or concern, but a sense of sadness that she would feel badly about it. At this level of growth, his instinctive response was compassion.

Sometimes an event that is initially viewed one way comes to be seen differently at a later date. I am not sure how I responded to my experience at the age six of being hit by a truck. I do recall my response after I was released from the hospital and allowed to get out of bed after a few days at home. I took a few steps and fell over. I remember an acute sense of anxiety at being unable to walk right away. Years later, as I looked back on this experience, I realized that I had a profound experience both of the precariousness and the preciousness of life. That understanding was profoundly reinforced by the friendship with my younger brother, who I mentioned above,was born with a chronic heart condition that led to his death at the age of 26.

The challenge here, as spoken of often before, is to uncover and then possibly change the script which we have inherited, grown up with, or even forged on our own. One script I would suggest–easier in theory than practice–is the precious worth of life as a sacred gift and call to bring something to life within us and around us, even out of the many deaths in the midst of life. It is the script of compassion and generosity. It is a story of an unfolding of life that involves insight, hope, and love. The story of Pandora reinforces that life is a valuable gift even though it involves pain.

May you discover a script, a life story that unveils your own worth and that of others; and may it become a life-giving tale of wisdom and compassion.

Norman King, June 11, 2023