A Letter to Henri

11/9/2020

My dearest Henri, 

I begin this letter to you feeling the weight of the season on my spirit. Depression is a cruel and silent monster. And still, dear friend, I am compelled to write to you from this place of melancholy. I pray that your words may rise to meet this moment on my journey. 

“Dear friend, being the Beloved is the origin and the fulfillment of the life of the Spirit.”

What i hear in your words, is that to be “Beloved” — to be “fulfilled” — does not mean perpetual enjoyment, comfort, or satisfaction. When I arrive at my spiritual place, which as I am writing is this imaginary divine dialogue, and I arrive in a space of melancholy, and you raise your glass and call me Beloved. You do not require that I lighten my mood, or feign a false sense of self. Simply, you allow my Beloved-ness to be blue. 

You say “From the moment we claim the truth of being Beloved, we are faced with the call to become who we are.” I want to yell back at you Henri, “WHAT IF YOU DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU ARE” and I feel you quietly hold my hand. You look at me in the eyes and tell me : We are called to become who we are, it is not a matter of knowing. When we journey down the spiral staircases of the inner levels of our spiritual selves, we are not seeking knowledge. Rather, it is through the process of the journey that we experience what it means to Become the Beloved. : But Henri, what comfort does it give me to know that there is no end goal. Everything I’ve been taught about who I am supposed to be is enveloped within a stoic Capricine enterprise. Which is ironic because I am not even a Capricorn. 

And yet the truth still remains. Who we are and who we are called to be are both Beloved. That which marks us as divinely blessed through interconnections with Spirit and the Universe right Henri? “Becoming the Beloved is the great spiritual journey we have to make.” I hear you. Becoming the Beloved calls us out of self deprecation, while also refusing to perform niceties or false confidence. 

Henri you tell me: You are undone today, and still you are beloved. You could barely make it out of bed today, and still you are beloved. You are at the end of a rope, unsure of the path unfolding, afraid to try and step for fear of falling, and still you are beloved. 

I hear in your words a powerful meditation on “And Still.” When all is lost and there is no path before us, we are met with the phrase “and still.” “And still” speaks of perseverance, of resilience, of remaining and of withstanding, it is not so simply eradicated, and yet not so impervious that it refuses to be affected. “And still” acknowledges, accepts, comes to terms with, lets the dust settle, and still offers an open ended hope. 

When the sun does let herself fall

 behind the mountain’s edge.  

To  lay to sleep upon the seas, 

And still, she finds my pledge.. 

From across the bay I  follow. 

Through mist, and fog, and steam. 

The sun’s forgotten lullaby. 

And still, she tries to sing. 

She sings a silver lining, 

Upon every storm cloud frame. 

A spoon shaped tear desire

And still, her candle’s flame. 

So I crossed the acer ocean. 

saline tears the sandy edge. 

I climbed her shadowed mountain. 

And still,  she rests her head. 

Her candle flame it glitters 

from within her earthen home. 

I call to her from somber paths

And still, she retreats alone. 

I ask  her light to guide me;

to unfold the path before. 

She hides her candle in her face.

And still, she shuts the door. 

I wait and wait and wait

for her  one true revelation . 

To hear her sad sweet melody. 

And still, she refrains illumination. 

In writing this poem, I am met with this character of the Sun that reverses the traditional and esoteric Western interpretations of the Sun. She is not a masculinist revealer. She is not energizing or full of joy and life. Rather, I am met by a sun of mystery. One who descends to sleep, and from this darkened landscape sings a lullaby of invitation. She is not a hospitable spirit. And Henri, I am delighted by its quiet rhymes. It reads to me like a Dolly Parton’s cover of “Silver Dagger” and other bluegrass mountain songs. 

I find myself curious in the wake of writing this poem. Of your words on prayer. Henri, you write:

“Prayer doesn’t mean that you have loving, tender feelings as you listen to God’s voice. Sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t. Prayer is a discipline. Discipline means to create boundaries around our meeting with God… You go back to the place of solitude with God and claim who you are.” 

The wisdom of your words Henri are mirrored in my poem. Prayer is a discipline, much like formal poetry.  This poem sets boundaries around the meeting of the narrator and the Sun through it’s form. And as you remind us that to claim who we are, one must return back to “the place of solitude with God” so too does the narrator journey to the Sun’s retreat for the sake of something revelatory. And yet the sun refrains from sharing her gifts. Where I find hope in the repetition of “And Still.” For “and still” is a phrase of continuation. Even as the sun evades, and hides, and refrains, the “and still” sends the reader to a place of return, of reminder, even when that which is reminded is not something of joviality or comfort. 

I will end this letter Henri by answering a question you posed in your book on Spiritual Direction. 

In two sentences answer the question : Who am I? 

I am slow to action, and quick to anxiety. I am Beloved, and in turmoil over that reality. 

I know that sentiment all too well.

And still, with love, 

Nathan