How strange that the nature of life is change, yet the nature of human beings is to resist change.
And how ironic that the difficult times we fear might ruin us,
are the very ones that can break us open and help us blossom into who we were meant to be.
Elisabeth Lesser, Broken Open
Ultimately, any attempt at finding deeper meaning in our life which avoids the messy parts of our personality or our history – or which is afraid of the truth hidden in our deeper emotions – will leave us open to ongoing issues that will sabotage our real contentment. It is not only by ascending that we find greater happiness, but also by descending.
One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light,
but by making the darkness conscious.
Jung
Exister, c’est changer; changer, c’est mûrir; mûrir,c’est se créer sans cesse.
To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating yourself without ceasing.
Henri-Louis Bergson, French Philosopher.
The seed of suffering in you may be strong,
but don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.
Thich Nhat Hahn
I was recently away on retreat in Massachusetts and noticed that, as it has before, travelling stimulated the senses and moved the mind to notice new things – or things with fresh eyes. I was reflecting on this as I passed through different airports, when I always find that impressions are more intense. Or it could be that I am more open. Because it seems to me that being in airports and travelling is an exercise in “who I am” and identity, an experience in which the normal containers in which I act, and am perceived by others, gets moved around and suspended for a while, until I land and get back into reasonably familiar places, like hotels, and into roles and routines that I can determine myself. In the airport I find myself in a space where I am not – and nobody else really is – “at home”: everything is fluid, my identity reduced to that of a person-in-movement, defined only by passport and boarding card. The normal familiar people, places and roles that hold my life together are not around. And mostly I find it a very open, stimulating experience.
So I emerged from a flight, through the scrutiny of passport control and various checks, to stand with the others to wait for that other comforting element of my identity to slot back into place, the suitcase. Opposite me were two small twin brothers, travelling with their parents. They were lively and excited, and for the first moment my mind labelled the delighted sounds they were making as “too much noise”. However, soon their excitement focused on the conveyor belt and each tumbling-down piece of luggage brought cheers of surprise and delight. Not just the first one, but the tenth and the twentieth brought gasps of amazement and amusement as they waited for their one to arrive. It was very funny to see their faces and their wonder at the technology, seeing it probably for the first time.
And it struck me how much wonder we lose at the things which happen everyday, simply out of force of habit or being in a hurry. Now, I am not saying that we should get back to a condition where routine things, like the operation of a conveyor belt, fills us with surprise and awe each time we see them. It is simply not possible to get back into that fresh state. But it did impress on me that we miss so much, either out of familiarity, or due to the wariness with which we approach strange situations, or maybe because of the fact that life has betrayed and hurt us and we have learned not to open our hearts. Thus, sadly, the innocence, openness and wonder of children is not normally our everyday mode of relating to things.
Thankfully from time to time something new, or something of beauty, comes along and cuts through the habitual mind and the defensive heart. Like this American Robin which I saw foraging for food every morning as I sat on a bench after breakfast in rural Massachusetts. I have been an amateur birdwatcher since my childhood, so seeing a new species is always interesting. And the movement of this bird – although called a robin in homage to its redbreast – reminded me of the European thrush with which I am more familiar. It appeared each morning, always timid, searching for worms with some success. So this hesitant bird, which for some reason has evolved to be wary and cautious, became my companion for the days of retreat, and its tender vulnerability helped me to see with new eyes and a more open heart.
Maybe this is the key. Moments of beauty and changes from fixed patterns open the heart, making it gentle and vulnerable. But not only the beautiful or the surprising. It struck me that I should be also be open to the arrival of unexpected difficulties or to upsets in life, as moments which challenge the habitual, and force new ways of thinking. They too come to visit me, maybe to stir me up and allow me see where I am stuck. Where I have gotten too much into a routine. In some ways, life will never cease to provide me with occasions for growth if I can just be awake to what is presented. I do not have to go out of my way to seek them. I just have to have fresh eyes that can see.
The early Church Fathers had a simple way of expressing our struggle. They taught that each of us has two hearts, two souls:
In each person, they affirmed, there is a small, petty heart, a pusilla anima. This is the heart that we operate out of when we are not at our best. This is the heart within which we feel our wounds and our distance from others. This is the heart within which are chronically irritated and angry, the heart within which we feel the unfairness of life, the heart within which we sense others as a threat, the heart within which we feel envy and bitterness, and the heart within which greed, lust, and selfishness break through. This too is the heart that wants to set itself apart from and above others.
But the Church Fathers taught that inside of each of us there was also another heart, a magna anima, a huge, deep, big, generous, and noble heart. This is the heart we operate out of when we are at our best. This is the heart within which we feel empathy and compassion. This is the heart within which we are enflamed with noble ideals. Inside each of us, sadly often buried under suffocating wounds that keep if far from the surface, lies the heart of a saint, bursting to get out.
Not everything can be fixed or cured, but it should be named correctly. Nowhere is this more important than in how we name both the size and the struggles of the human heart. We are not petty souls who occasionally do noble things. We are rather noble souls who, sadly, occasionally do petty things.
Ron Rolheiser, The Size of our Hearts
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