In his novel, The Shoes of the Fisherman, Morris West tells the story of Ukrainian Archbishop Kiril Lakota, who is set free after two decades as a political prisoner in Siberia. Kiril is sent to Rome, where the ailing Pope makes him a Cardinal. The world (set in the 1980s) is in a state of crisis--a famine in China is exacerbated by US restrictions on Chinese trade and the ongoing Chinese-Soviet feud. When the Pontiff dies, Lakota--after several ballots--is elected Pope. In the book, the new Pope,
Kiril I, is often plagued by self-doubt, by his years in prison, and by this strange world he knows so little about.
There is one telling conversation, between two of Kiril's advisers.
"What did His Holiness have to say about that?"
"He has a soft heart. The danger is that it may be too soft for the good of the church."
"He has suffered more than we. Perhaps he has more right to trust his heart than we have."
I get it.
Really. I do.
But if we're honest, this whole soft heart routine can give us nothing but headaches. Because we all KNOW that in the midst of navigating the heart's uneven terrain (through grief, infatuation, loss, devotion, sadness, passion, eagerness, waiting, longing, perseverance, sorrow, ardor, emotion), the life we REALLY DESERVE is passing us by. (We have been inculcated with the need to associate all matters of the heart with life's unpleasantness, or potential hurt. And if our life has any unpleasantness, we didn't deserve it!)
Lord only knows where we swallowed this disquieting notion that life always begins, after. (I remember one attendee--in the first week of a Beginning Again session--in the throws of a roller-coaster of emotions, saying to me, "So, am I healed yet? How many more weeks can this possibly take?")
We live in a world that (turning the Rumi quote on its head), has sold bewilderment and has bought (more like mortgaged) cleverness. The heck with unresolved circumstances, or sacrifice, or love gone awry, or self-doubt. We will figure it out (with explanations or facts, even if we have to make them up).
Or, we will tough it out. Which is convenient, because we live in a world that rewards toughness.
Don't get me wrong. Resiliency is not only a good thing, but also an indispensable attribute. And it is one quality that makes us profoundly human.
But here's the deal: Our resiliency does not come from adding more to the armor we wear meant to keep life from hurting us.
When Harold Kushner's son was tragically killed, a friend, meaning to console Kushner, told him that he could rise above the pain, and move past it. Kushner writes, "But I believed that it was supposed to hurt. In the same way that dead cells, our hair and fingernails, feel no pain when they are cut but living cells bleed and hurt, so I believe that spiritually dead souls can be cut into, separated from other souls, and not feel pain. But living, sensitive souls are easily hurt. I don't like being hurt...
but when I protect myself against the danger of loss by teaching myself not to care, not let anyone get too close to me, I lose part of my soul. If we believe that in order for life to be good, we have to avoid pain, the danger is that we will become so good at not feeling pain that we will learn not to feel anything not joy, not love, not hope, not awe. We will be emotionally anesthetized." (
When All You've Ever Wanted Isn't Enough)
Here's the sticky wicket: Fullness of life is not about protecting myself from life, but from letting (or allowing) more of life in.
No. It is not easy to give up our current measurements of success.
No. It is not easy to give up our sense of "control."
But, if we do--just for a moment--we may find ourselves (in the words of Henry Miller) living aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.
I am a sucker for infomercials. (I know, I need to go to a 12-step group. It's a problem. Which is also why I watched the Super Bowl for the commercials.) So, this week I watched an infomercial that promised, "if miracles don't happen in your life in 90 days, send it (the product) back for a full refund." I guess they didn't know about Albert Einstein's observation,
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
Yes. Miracles do happen... whether I purchase or add or incorporate anything else into my life.
This life.
Saw a wonderful t-shirt the other day:
Hey
you and I
are going to have
a big
love affair
and it won't work
but somewhere in
the middle
my god, we tried
What does it mean? To see with our heart?
For starters, when we see with our heart we don't give in to fear.
I read an NPR story about how Stephanie Disney (audiologist at the Commission for Children with Special Health Care Needs) met her (then 2-and-a-half-year-old) daughter, Rudy.
Disney recalls, "my heart recognized her immediately."
In the story, Disney says, "I am the whitest of white women, and my daughter is some indefinable combination of all that is beautiful from at least three races: curly dark hair, petite features, freckles, a golden tan skin tone, one blue eye and one brown. If her race had only one name, it would be perfection. I understand that everyone wants love and acceptance. And these are such rare gifts, that when people see them freely demonstrated, they are compelled to seek the source. Recently, Rudy surprised me when a white-haired lady, standing right beside us, asked if I was her mother. Rudy threw the lady a disbelieving glance and said, 'Well, she helps me with multiplication, fixes my hair, kisses me and we both have freckles on our noses; who else could she be?'"
When we see with our heart, we know that, regardless of our differences, we are on this journey together.
I love the gospel story of the Good Samaritan. He stopped for the man in ditch. Why? Because he knew what it was like to be wounded too.
You see, once we are open...
...to having our stereotypes contradicted,
...to giving up our expectations and demands,
...to embracing our brokenness,
...we find "There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter." (Mother Teresa)
When we see with our heart, we are grounded. We are conscious---present---no longer numbed (by distraction, or elucidation or the addition of whatever it is that we need for the life we deserve).
Yesterday, my day began with the weight of worry.
On my morning walk, I watched a doe and two fawns, standing 30 feet away, on the edge of the forest. The mother and one fawn stand on one side of my driveway. The second fawn, on the opposite, waits for me to pass. I look into the liquid-ebony eyes of the fawn. She (he) stands, frozen, camouflaged by the forest understory. They are still, for quite some time, and watching me, wondering, I suppose, what all the fuss is about. I can tell you that I am mesmerized, and delighted, nonetheless. And there is something about wonder and awe that lessens the weight of worry.
On the pathway back to my house I see the shoots of Iris Reticulata, the first of our garden season... miniature iris, regal purple, just out of the ground and looking like exquisite nib pens. I stop, kneel, and pay homage. And I remember Jim Harrison's great line; Paying attention is only game in town. And I know that to pay attention you must be present. And to be present, it helps to see with a soft heart.
