I am making a home inside myself. A shelter
of kindness where everything
is forgiven, everything allowed—a quiet patch
of sunlight to stretch out without hurry,
where all that has been banished
and buried is welcomed, spoken, listened to—released.
A fiercely friendly place I can claim as my very own.
I am throwing arms open
to the whole of myself—especially the fearful,
fault-finding, falling apart, unfinished parts, knowing
every seed and weed, every drop
of rain, has made the soil richer.
I will light a candle, pour a hot cup of tea, gather
around the warmth of my own blazing fire. I will howl
if I want to, knowing this flame can burn through
any perceived problem, any prescribed perfectionism,
any lying limitation, every heavy thing.
I am making a home inside myself
where grace blooms in grand and glorious
abundance, a shelter of kindness that grows
all the truest things.
I whisper hallelujah to the friendly
sky. Watch now as I burst into blossom.
‘The Most Important Thing’
Julia Fehrenbacher
Experiments conducted by French psychologist Anne Balif revealed that if you ask a child to draw their house, you are, ‘asking him to reveal the deepest dream shelter he has found for his happiness. If he is happy, he will succeed in drawing a snug, protected house which is well built on deeply-rooted foundations.’ I am a great believer in the power of the expressive arts to reveal not just this kind of happy home, but also to reveal my inner state. I often find myself writing or painting to work out what it is I’m feeling. Often I cannot put a name to it, but am aware of a morass of unnamed yearning and longing.
Making room for building ‘a shelter of kindness’ within, as Fehrenbacher’s poem above urges, is to make room for building a personal sanctuary. One where I can be at home to myself – all of myself. One where even the parts of myself which are the most uncomfortable, ugly, unkind and lumpen, can find a corner where they can feel welcomed and heard.
This kind of visualisation of the ‘radical hospitality’ that I need to practice with the awkward and welcome parts of me within, helps me also remember to extend the same compassion outwards. (Although normally that’s the other way round, as I find self-compassion far, far harder to practice).
Such compassion arises out of listening, whether to the news or to a dear friend weeping into their coffee. As Rachel Naomi Remen, Professor of Integrative Medicine, remarks, “Our listening creates a sanctuary for the homeless parts within another person… when we listen generously, they can hear the truth in themselves, often for the first time.”
Shelter becomes sanctuary when I am prepared to stay and listen: to listen to the parts of myself that yearn, to listen to the parts of my neighbour who need support, to listen to the parts of the world that need aid. Although practically I may be unable to do anything, try experience has taught me that often, all I need to do is to be, to keep faith with people, to just ‘stay in there’ with others, to demonstrate they are not alone, no matter how deep their grief and suffering.
This ‘withness’ is, to use an old-fashioned word, to practice abiding. The God-Who-Comes is the God-Who-Stays, and is the God-who-Asks me to come, to stay with, to shelter in, Them.
(Listen to this simple version of the hymn by William Monk, ‘Abide With Me’ sung by the King’s Singers.)
Abide with me: fast falls the eventide;
the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away.
Change and decay in all around I see.
O thou who changest not, abide with me.
I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who like thyself my guide and strength can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me.
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless,
ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes.
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee;
in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
listen with. Canon R10. (f5.6 1/80 ISO 100.)
image into ikon 