The deepest thing we have in our human lives
I am beset by uncertainties, but what I want to say is simple, for I am a simple man. I want to ask: Is there anything new under the sun? I want to say: I don’t believe in methods. Can any method, even the best, even ours, be more than poor, thin, schematic and provisional?
For hundreds of thousands of years, there has been some man or woman, some boy or girl, who has been troubled, thoughtful or uneasy (or it may be, triumphant or joyful). And a friend or companion has sat down quietly on the ground close by and listened. And little by little some kind of opening has come, and there has been some sense of a way forward.
That is what interests me: that ancient communion of souls, which sets something free, and is, I think, the deepest thing we have in our human lives.
So I am sceptical of all methods, and of all innovators. Sceptical of roles and professions, sceptical of trainings and institutes, sceptical in particular of fences and systems of control, of certificates and required memberships.
I am sceptical of any intrusion upon the essential privacy of the encounter, the sacred meeting of the one who is listening with the one who is listened to.
I am not sure that it is wise to give any advice at all to the one who is seeking a new path, who is touching something, and feeling for its inner life. Nobody can teach the grass to grow, nor put words in the mouth of the poet. Yet it does seem to me that there are four things which we might bear in mind, when a man or a woman is calling upon us to listen.
The first is that people are far more vulnerable than we may appear. We are in great need of tenderness, of sensitivity and kindness, and a certain delicate unintrusiveness.
And then, the listener must be careful not to get in the way. The movement of life in us is an extremely subtle matter. It is easy to tread unwarily, to trample the living flower before it has a chance to open. We have to listen with respect, no matter who the person may be.
Next, I want to say that every man or woman has a point of view. Each of us looks out at the world from a unique vantage point. We can’t share another’s point of view, but we can imagine it, if we allow ourselves to be open: if our minds are not crowded, and our feelings are accessible to something quite unknown.
And finally, every word or sound we utter, every gesture we make, every image we see, which we may draw or try to describe, is an expression of our point of view. For this reason the listener needs to pay the closest attention to the surface of things.
How is this to be done? It is done in two ways: firstly, by putting into words or gestures of our own the main shape of what we have heard and felt; and secondly, by being alert to what happens next, to how our re-phrasing is received, to what effect it has.
It seems more than probable that these simple things have been known at all times and in all places, though doubtless they have been honoured more in the breach than the observance. For it is very hard to put this teaching into practice, unless one has received it from another. We are passing a golden treasure from hand to hand.