Tears at the heart of things

Last week I wrote about how difficult it can be to listen to the suffering of other people. I also suggested some ways we can become better at that.  

Here's why this matters: bearing witness to suffering, giving a sense of being understood and accepted, is the first - essential – step towards finding hope.

I’d like to go back a couple of thousand years here, to get some help from the Roman poet Virgil, and his epic poem the Aeneid which describes the travels of Aeneas after the Trojan War.  

Stay with me, this will make sense in a minute!

In the first book of the Aeneid, we find Aeneas as a refugee, driven far from his home by the vicious ravages of the Trojan war. He is in Carthage, gazing at a mural in a temple, which depicts battles of the Trojan War and the deaths of many of his friends and countrymen. He is moved to tears, and offers a rousing tribute to his fallen comrades.

In the middle of this, he says: ‘sunt lacrimae rerum’.  

Yes I know, your Latin is probably a bit rusty, but don’t worry……

These three words - sunt lacrimae rerum - have been translated as either ‘there are tears for things’, or else ‘there are tears of things’.  The first version – tears for things - indicates the burdens we have to bear, the frailty of human existence, the ‘shit life syndrome’ people like Darren (who you met last week) experience. The second version – tears of things- indicates that things feel sorrow for our suffering - that in some sense the universe feels our pain.

But of course it isn’t one or the other. It’s both. Virgil is fully aware of the ambiguity and wishes to us to understand both meanings at the same time. 

So does the Irish poet and scholar Seamus Heaney, who translates the phrase as ‘There are tears at the heart of things.’

And this is its richness and power. At that moment when I experience and express compassion for the suffering of the person in the room with me, both senses of sunt lacrimae rerum are simultaneously in play.  They can express pain, distress and suffering, knowing that – from me - they find understanding, compassion and safety. Our meeting place has become, momentarily, a sanctuary.  

Sometimes bearing witness to a person’s suffering in the face of overwhelming life experiences and difficulties, may be all that is possible, or necessary.  

Listening to Darren, behind his angry ranting I hear a lost, lonely, frightened little boy. I want to give him a huge hug and bring him home with me, but I content myself with a friendly smile, a warm handshake, and an agreement to meet again soon.  

 

What’s your experience of bearing witness to suffering? 

Suffering and hope

When we’re caring for someone going through difficult experiences in their life, there are two main things we need to do: acknowledge suffering and offer hope. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m going to explore these two themes in a series of posts over the next few weeks.  

Let's start with acknowledging suffering.

Suffering may be expressed in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins: No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief/More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder ring […..] O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall/ Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. 

Or in the paintings of Francis Bacon – currently on exhibition in Tate Liverpool - portraying his subjects ‘enclosed in the wretched glass capsule of the human individual’.

Or in the expression of collective suffering when (as WB Yeats puts it) ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’:  be it the continuing effects of the Iraq war or the migration forced by political turmoil in Syria and Libya.

Or in the bristling, frustrated anguish of 19 year old Darren, piercings through lip, nose and eyebrows, scarring up both arms, who tells me about parental separation, fostering and sexual abuse, bullying in school; and how booze keeps him from feeling too much but leads to fights with friends, nightclub doorman and police. His only comfort is beating the hell out of his drum kit in the middle of the night.  He doesn’t think he’ll live much longer, and I fear he may be right. 

 

The first thing we need to do is to listen. In the words of the British psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion, we should be listening ‘without memory or desire’: when we listen with memory, we are intent on making the speaker part of an old agenda; when we listen with desire we are intent on making them part of a new one.

To listen purely, to just listen, is the most valuable thing. But it is also the most difficult thing. I don’t know about you, but I often find it exhausting, debilitating, to give my full attention to the suffering of others.

We often find ways to protect ourselves – to distance ourselves - from the full emotional impact of what our patients are trying to tell us. A bit of me doesn’t want to hear what Darren is telling me – it’s too raw, too real, too painful.   

But we can do better.

Ronald Epstein recommends that we turn toward suffering: actively seek to recognise it, become curious about the person’s experience, and intentionally become more present and engaged. 

What help me to turn toward suffering are daily mindfulness meditation, my weekly 5k parkruns, and being able to discuss knotty problems with my wise wife Sue.

What helps you turn toward suffering?   

 

Next time - the first steps in offering hope.

 

 

 

Yes country and western music does hold the meaning of life

After a long pause, a message from Sue:

 

 

I’m listening to Vince Gill- look at us. Also I was checking on the blog and realised there had been a bit of a hiatus in chapters  And realised how the  two probably mirrored life since Chris’ accident 2years ago.

 

But to get back to Vince. To make it easier I’ve cleverly added the words to the blog, well arranged for them to be added.  On the surface it’s a lovely tale of happy ever after. 

Look at us after all these years together
Look at us after all that we've been through
Look at us still leaning on each other
If you wanna see how true love should be then just look at us.

Look at you still pretty as a picture
Look at me still crazy over you
Look at us still believing in forever
If you wanna see how true love should be then just look at us.

In a hundred years from now
I know without a doubt
They'll all look back and wonder
How we made it all work out.

Chances are we'll go down in history
When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us.

Chances are we'll go down in history

When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us.

When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us...

 

But it says more than that.  “After all  that we’ve been through”  No ones’ life is without its ups and downs.  Some much more down than up.  I was on holiday in Crete recently.  Looking at the beautiful Aegean Sea I couldn’t help but think of the refugees who experience it in such a different way. 
 

Still leaning on each other – that’s what it’s all about. Sometimes one leaning more than the other, and the leant-on wondering if they’ll need a prop to help them not fall over! 

 And it’s important that we do recognise when extra props are essential.  Different for everyone.  Maybe friends, medical help, prayer, meditation.  There’s always something however leant on or nearly down we feel. Useful to keep a list of them in your head when time are good so not so much effort to recall when times aren’t so good.  “Here’s one I prepared earlier” we can think to ourselves' ringing a friend to ask for help

  How we made it all work out.  Not just by taking advice from country and western songs although I probably can offer a song for every one of life eventualities.  By working at it.  Doing what’s needed at the time.  Not dismissing the little changes we can make. Since back from my holiday I’ve got involved in MerseyAid, mainly sorting donated clothes for refugees.  And getting Chris not to work too hard is still a work in progress!

 

So that’s life care of the country scene!

 

PS  The Dance by Garth Brooks.  Tells us we have to take a chance on life.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.  But you’ll never know till you try.

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance

In praise of uncertainty

All too often, I plan my life away. I make arrangements way ahead, work out what I’m going to be doing weeks or months in advance. It gives me a sense of security, the impression that I’m in control of my life. And when things go wrong - or seem to go wrong – then it’s all about how to fix it. What can I do right now, straightaway, to make it better?

There’s also a strong sense of that when I’m in my GP surgery. People come to see me with problems, often hugely distressing problems. It feels like it’s my job to help to fix them – in just 10 minutes.

And when I’m working as a researcher, there’s continual pressure to come up with quick answers and solutions.

But, let’s just hold on a minute…… Perhaps that’s not always the best way to go.     

Being uncertain, not being sure, not rushing to make my mind up: perhaps that has some advantages.

‘Negative capability’ is the term created by the poet John Keats. In a letter to his brothers in 1817, he writes about how achievement is linked with the capacity of ‘being in uncertainties. Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’

The Irish poet Aubrey de Vere speaks for ‘the doubt of one who would rather walk in mystery than in false lights, who awaits that he may win, and who prefers the broken fragments of truth to the imposing completeness of a delusion’.

 

This is important not just in poetry (or in research), but in life, particularly when we are facing our own distress, or the distress of others.

Maybe we don’t need to try to work everything out so quickly. Maybe it’s better to wait, to reflect, to allow events to unfold for a while. Maybe it’s better to let the mysterious or doubtful remain just that, rather than rushing to conclusions that may be false, or making decisions that could turn out to be damaging.

As Beth Rushing says, there is ‘hope, and truth, and beauty in the practice of negative capability, in listening patiently, having a certain level of comfort with uncertainty, and in recognizing that what appears to be given, is not necessarily so’. For the psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion, it’s about listening ‘without memory or desire’.

We do well to cultivate our ability to tolerate the pain and confusion of not knowing - rather than imposing our ready-made certainties on ambiguous situations or challenges.

And by resting in uncertainty, we allow space for something new, something transformative, to emerge.

Breathing Space

I’m doing a lot of meditating these days, with the help of Headspace.  Twenty minutes or so, every morning, sitting in my favourite chair.  Often with a dog curled up near me.

The focus of the exercise is very much on my breathing. Not trying to alter it, or breathe in any particular way. Just observing it. Noticing each time I breathe in and out, how my chest moves out and in, the rise and fall of my belly. How each breath is always just a little bit different from the next one. Some are quicker, some slower; some are deeper, some shallower.  The pauses between the breaths: how the pause after the out-breath is usually longer than the pause after the in-breath. A wisp of air on my upper lip.

Maybe counting each breath, one in, two out, three in, four out…..up to ten, then starting over again. Or maybe not, maybe just letting each breath come and go. Resting my attention on the breath. Observing, watching, noticing, witnessing, all in a relaxed sort of way. Nothing too intense.

Sometimes it feels like I’m sitting on the sea shore, watching the waves coming in to land on the beach. They keep on rolling. They are endlessly different, and endlessly fascinating.  And you don’t have to do anything about waves. They just happen.

You might think it is boring, but it isn’t. It’s gentle, kind and enjoyable. I often find I’m smiling quietly to myself.  

It’s important, in a subtle, understated sort of a way. It creates more space for me. It puts other things, my everyday busyness and concerns, into perspective. And if I do get hassled during the day, I can take a few seconds out, just to breathe. I’m finding all those things I have to do, somehow may not be as important, as urgent, as serious or as worrying as I thought they were going to be.  

So making time for breathing now, creates more breathing space during the rest of the day.  Seems like a good deal to me!  

Curiosity

My curiosity is returning.  For quite a few months after my accident I was just plodding along, getting by, not thinking very much about anything new or different. But now, as my brain heals itself, I find I am beginning to look around me again, and starting to wonder about things.

It feels great! 

When I say curiosity, I mean the eagerness and desire to find out about new things. I mean inquisitiveness, an interest in strange and different experiences, a sense of excitement at finding the unexpected.  I mean asking questions that start with “Why…..?”, “What if…..?” or “I wonder whether…..?”

We are all born with a sense of curiosity. Just watch any baby or small child looking around, eager to explore and try something new.

The Greek philosopher Aristotle told us ‘All men by nature desire to know’.  Without it we would never learn anything, never develop our potential.  Albert Einstein said ‘I have no special talent, I am only passionately curious’.

And it turns out that curiosity is good for our mental health, our wellbeing. 

The American psychologist Barbara Fredrickson reminds us how important our positive emotions are, because they increase our range of thoughts and actions. Curiosity sparks the urge to explore. Joy sparks the urge to play.  Contentment sparks the urge to savour and integrate. Love sparks a recurring cycle of each of these urges within safe, close relationships.

Broadening our minds in these ways, through exploration, play, savouring or integrating, promotes discovery of new and creative actions, ideas and social networks. These in turn build up our personal resources and provide lasting reserves for us to draw on if life gets difficult again.  

Curiosity is effective against fear of the different, the unknown. And it’s a much healthier (though sadly less common) response to the different than prejudice.

Alexander von Humboldt was a brilliant, but very anxious 19^th century German explorer.  He overcame his fear and worries by unceasing curiosity. He made discoveries in an unparalleled range of sciences from botany to geography.  He used his curiosity to break down the barriers of prejudice and increase his enjoyment of life.  He was a pioneer of global thinking, whose reward was to feel in touch with the entire earth. 

You know the old saying ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?  Well, if you look into its origins, it turns out to be just the opposite. The original saying was ‘Care killed the cat’, where the word ‘care’ means worry, sorrow or sadness. 

So we should turn this upside down, and say ‘Curiosity cured the cat’. 

I wonder what you’re wondering about just now.

A bubble of joy

Our local community centre is closed for the summer, so we’re holding our Monday evening tai chi class in my back garden.    

A dozen of us, working our way through the movements.

I’m barefoot, feeling the soft grass and firm ground beneath. The threat of rain has passed and the sun is warming my face. The wind comes up, gusting towards me through the wooden arch by the pond, resonating in the trees overhead.

A bubble of joy swells from my belly, up into my head.