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March 29, 2007

Memento Mori

                                                          PERSONAL HISTORY

                                     MEMENTO MORI

                                   "The port from which I set out was the port of my loneliness."

                                                                            - Henry James

Preface

It is nearly thirty years since I wrote a book about my parents and the extraordinarily different families and personal histories from which they came [A Love in Shadow, New York: W.W. Norton, 1978].  I had made a conscious decision at that time to tell their stories as truthfully as I could, and to venture as modestly as possible into the realm of autobiography.

One of the book’s more perspicacious reviewers, Geoffrey Wolff, recognized the fault line in that choice. In revealing little of my own experience, my memories of my own childhood with (and without) my parents, I revealed less of them. This brief essay, then, is an experiment in remediation, a rebalancing of a chapter of my personal book. I write now, as I did then, particularly for my children, that they may know better a part of their own histories.

Each of those children, now adults, two with children of their own, have asked me for memories of my parents, particularly of the grandfather they never knew, around whose legacy an ominous and beguiling cloud still lingers. So much of that memory is gone, casualty of time and trauma. What remains is part of my truth, my story, even as I have inevitably reshaped it through the years, even as it has become difficult to separate the real memories from the stories of others, from the photographs into which I have poured so much of my hunger. For those reasons and others of which I speak here, he must always be the father I barely knew. My children only knew him through the fragments of my telling, and have wondered about his shadowed gifts to me, and through me, to themselves. I did not write or speak much of my loss of him when they were young.

My parents met on Franklin D. Roosevelt’s campaign train in the autumn of 1932, and immediately fell in love. Both were married to others at the time, though separated from their spouses. On that train they were not successful in hiding their liaison from the press corps of which my father was a member.  Had the story of their affair broken, it is just conceivable that the campaign, and perhaps the course of history, would have taken a lurch. Or so, much later, I liked to imagine.

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March 28, 2007

Sabbath 2 - Reflections on a Parable

The following reflections and retelling - reimagining - of a familiar story are drawn from one of a series of talks shared in the winter and spring of 2007 with staff and patients at Modum Bad, a psychiatric hospital, retreat center and learning community in Vikersund, Norway.

I discovered Modum Bad in 2005, and returned for a second extended time as a consultant in February 2007. Of course I've learned more than I've taught. My first impressions of Modum Bad, gathered after a first leisurely visit in 2005, are gathered in an informal essay on Modum Bad's website. I am revising and extending that essay for publication later in 2007, Modum Bad's 50th anniversary year -  in fact,  its 150th anniversary year, as it began as a healing spa in 1857. Modum Bad means The Baths at Modum, gathered around St. Olavs Kilde, St. Olav's Spring. My own retelling of Jesus's parable owes a great deal to the translation and commentary of Stephen Mitchell in his Gospel According to Jesus Christ (2001).

The story I retell here is the last and longest of three parables of Jesus recounted in Luke's gospel. The thread they share is that of losing and finding and rejoicing in the renewal or life-redeeming experience. It is a tale of critical turning in life's journey. The theme of turning – a cycle of loss, of tender, halting discovery, and of redemption – is a central one in the history of the human psyche and soul, in the generations that gave us birth, in our Judeo-Christian tradition. The movement is that from life to death to rebirth.

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March 27, 2007

Sabbath as consciousness, practice, relationship and journey

Adapted from a talk given at Modum Bad, a remarkable psychiatric hospital and learning center in Vikersund, Norway.

The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.

        Galway Kinnell, “St. Francis and the Sow”

Preamble

We need conceptions of healing and renewal that embrace the whole human being. We need conceptions of human being and of physical and emotional health that embrace human experience more fully than we are accustomed to imagine. Such exploration requires an expansion of our accustomed ways of knowing, our practical epistemology.

In that adventure there are several paths to follow, some worn by many feet, some freshly made.  The one suggested and illustrated here echoes the values upon which Modum Bad was founded. It may be appropriate, in this 50th anniversary year, to assess their significance and their presence in our midst today.

Re-imagining

Whatever one's healthy, toxic or nominal religious history and convictions about religious practice and belief, the experience of suffering, recovery and renewal is usefully conceived integrally as spiritual journey as well as psychological transformation. Human development and spiritual development are one story, one path, not two. Psyche and soul are descriptive of the same reality (they are, after all, the same words in the original Greek).

In this inquiry it is useful to turn to religious thought and practice with a fresh eye free of jaundice. These days, in the thin air of secular ascendancy, such wisdom is more often latent than manifest. Its relevance to a re-visioning or re-imagination of human development, suffering, healing and clinical practice, can hardly be taken for granted.

We may have to formulate a new language to quicken our hearts and minds. To do that responsibly and with care, we should start with a re-examination and reinterpretation of the old language. Such language will be unfamiliar to some, and may seem dauntingly archaic to others, irrelevant to our current challenges of growing, healing and living well with one another and with our patients.

The old wisdom, however, stands ready to be reawakened and drawn into our daily lives—even those of us determinedly secular in our sense of the world. We have only to suspend disbelief and imagine anew the stories and songs, the rituals and symbols, the praxis of religious life. We will need to contemplate and re-imagine words and concepts we have known and to which we may have become averse – God, soul, prayer, the sacred and the profane, ministry, the cycle of life, death and rebirth or resurrection, holiness and redemption, immanence and transcendence.

Such words, for most of us, have not lost their emotional potency, however much we have set them aside. Re-visioning can offer us – and those for whom we bear responsibility – freedom from constraint and a shedding of armor – relief, awakening and inspiration.

Re-imagining can be demanding, and may ask of us a full measure of empathic compassion – first toward ourselves. We shall have to shed at least some – and perhaps many – of our preconceptions and habits, and bring only our full presence—body, mind, heart and soul.

Let’s say that soul is the whole—our embracing integrity, our most capacious and harmonious identity, never fully manifest in consciousness. The instruments of soul are imagination and memory, soul’s emotional tone typically one of pathos and joy. In our partial awareness of soul we yearn (Senshucht is the manifold German word) for the wholeness that is already ours. We might say, then, that soul at once embodies and searches for presence. It is both dwelling and seeking.

The Norwegian word for pastoral counseling is sjelesorg, soul-work, soul healing. It should describe psychotherapy as an integrated whole.

For what, for who does soul long? For what do we engage in soul-work?  For relief from suffering. To be seen and known. For reconciliation. For joy. For wholeness. For home among "all creatures great and small."

Consider the remarks of UCLA psychiatrist and neurobiologist Dan Siegel:

Elucidating the links between the physical brain and the processes of the mind has shed light on the deepest nature of the self. When we examine the deep layers of our neural selves, we come to glimpse not only the roots of our mental and social lives, but the essential reality of our selves as part of an integrated whole across the span of time.

It may be that our work as human beings is not only to seek meaning and satisfaction in our lives and to dedicate ourselves to alleviating suffering in others but to be a part of a larger effort to bring integration and healing into the many layers of our interconnections with each other.

As we explore and incorporate the many domains of integration, what seems to evolve naturally is the sense of being connected to a larger whole, something more than just our bodily defined sense of self in this time we call our "life." This [integration] enables us to become more fully aware of our interconnected belonging as we, in Albert Einstein’s words, "widen our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.


The experience of Sabbbath: an example of re-imagining

The word “Sabbath” may evoke vague memories of onerous obligation and inconvenience. In all but a few marginal instances, Sabbath remains in Christian practice a small stub of its former self. We must dig deeper into the layers if we are to find suggestive meaning and value for our everyday lives.

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