Mercy and Merci

I had a dream recently in which I was making a sign that simply read “Merci” in red letters on a white background. I was on a front porch, nailing the sign to a square pillar coated with old and crackling white paint. It was important for the drivers going by on the road in front of the house to be able to read the sign if they looked to their left.

Merci—the French word for “thank you.” As I began to wake, holding onto the dream, I saw the word on the sign as reading “Mercy.” It turns out that the word mercy does come from the old usage of the French merci. The dreaming mind made connections I hadn’t thought about.

Mercy is the bestowing of a kindness that we have no claim to, that we are in no position to repay. Compassionate treatment when the ordinary terms of justice would allow retribution more harsh—this is mercy. Mercy also names the spiritual reward for bestowing this kind of benevolence on others.

So in the modern-day French acknowledgment of a kindness, “thank you” bears traces of humility. It names gratitude not just for the favor, but for the benevolence of a person who has willingly and generously chosen to bestow unearned kindness in their treatment of us. For their mercy upon us.

I didn’t give much thought to the concept of mercy in my younger years. I didn’t consider myself powerful; I wasn’t in a position to bestow mercy. Kindness, yes. Always. But mercy has a different flavor. And I felt, without ever articulating it, that mercy was needed by those who had done something criminal and were in fear of judgment—a dramatic circumstance that seemed far from my ordinary life.

But life brings wrenching changes that we are powerless to avoid, no matter how fervently we employ our favorite tactics to keep ourselves safe. While we make plans and devote ourselves to the things we think we want, loss makes its way to our door. Its power is beyond our control. We need help getting through the hardest things. “Mercy” is the deeply human cry when life blows open our door.

I recall the voices of my elders as they would respond to shocking news. “Lord have mercy,” they would say. Or in the way of my mother, who utters simply and emphatically, “Mercy!”

Life teaches us the humility and wisdom of asking for mercy. We have immense agency in our lives, but we do not have the power or control we want to believe we have.

Yet the other part of what life teaches us is named in mercy’s alter-ego: merci—thank you. Life has a benevolence that sustains us in every moment. We are carried in ways we forget to notice. Our very breath happens when we are paying attention to other things.

There are many ways to name the life-giving force that sustains all of creation—Love, Spirit, Source, God. May we all remember our connection to this Life Force and to one another, as part of the flow of love and mercy and thanks.

Susan Christerson Brown

Claiming and Letting Go

I’m learning that there’s an important discernment to be made about when it’s time to claim something and when it’s time to let it go. Another pair for Ecclesiastes. We do what we can to make things work, to play our part, to live well and care for others, but the outcome is out of our hands. This is true in love and work, art and politics, small projects and major endeavors.  

A photo taken as I was leaving my polling place after voting today

Life teaches us about differentiating between what is and is not our work to do; it accomplishes this by placing people and circumstances firmly outside our control. We can do harm to ourselves and others when we go flinging ourselves against what is. While the deepest desire of our heart can be a guiding star for our lives, our more casual or conditioned wants are a burden. Many of our ideas about how things ought to be bring more pain than guidance.  There’s a difference to discern between acting on our preferences and the right action to take.

Our habits of attention and patterns of emotion narrow our vision and cause us to focus on what distresses us. These habits create thorns that we believe indicate that something is terribly wrong and must be addressed. Our automatic way of moving through the world creates urgent problems to solve, and we believe that if we have agency at all we must solve them. We can’t see or feel anything else until that thorn is removed.

What we don’t realize is that we choose to prick ourselves with those thorns. The pain we put ourselves through is neither necessary nor helpful. We have the power to place our attention somewhere else, and to live differently.

Letting go is the practice that allows us to find out what is essential and what we’ve manufactured through our habits and conditioning. We develop our preferences and expectations over a lifetime, but when we make them a requirement for happiness these inclinations become a prison.

Letting go of who we think other people should be, and what we think should happen, is a lifetime learning project. And life helps us with it, showing us over and over again that people will be who they are and things will happen as they happen.

Our agency doesn’t extend to controlling people or events, yet we do have agency. Acting not from our habitual patterns but from our essential being—the higher, wiser Self who can see clearly what’s needed—is how we can act most effectively for good. Acting from this conscious awareness, rather than being driven by unconscious emotions, is the way to be accurately perceptive, genuinely strong, and truly loving.

We might never choose to do the deep work of this kind of discernment, except that life brings experiences of disappointment, pain, and failure that demand a reexamination of what we thought we knew. Over and over again, life invites us to loosen our grip on who we believe we are and what we believe matters. As we accept this invitation, the world grows larger than the parameters of our preferences. We realize that we don’t always know what’s best for us, and learn to hold less tightly to what we thought we wanted. And in the process, we come to see ourselves as part of a mystery more vast and beautiful than our smaller self could have ever imagined.  

Susan Christerson Brown

Considering a Rule of Life

I’m reading Cynthia Bourgeault’s The Wisdom Way of Knowing, a small book about the teachings that have long helped humanity find connection to the spiritual source of life. We have always been in need of greater wisdom, strength, and guidance than our own devices offer, and these teachings help cultivate a way of life that helps us be receptive to higher knowing. Bourgeault traces the Wisdom teachings that have appeared, gone underground, and reappeared for thousands of years. They have given rise to various religions, tend to fall into the shadow of the very human institutions that arise from the initial religious insight, and continue to find new ways to emerge into human consciousness.

The Benedictine rule of life is one of the practices she names that has come down to us from the Wisdom teachings. Bourgeault anchors her book in the early days of her teaching about spiritual awakening. In an intentional retreat setting, she led a small group in living their version of a Benedictine rule of life. Their days were a rhythm of physical work, prayer and meditation, learning, and rest.

In this retreat setting, among kindred spirits and in a structured rhythm of daily life, they experienced the gift of seeing the unity and the beauty behind this world of ten thousand things. They had a direct experience of this life as a manifestation of the love that is the Source of everything. She attributed their experience to the power of the rule of life, practiced in a devoted community.

Her writing inspired me to experiment with looking at my activities through the lens of a rule of life. Not that I had specifically defined a rule of life for myself, much less expected a mystical perception of reality. But I wanted to try experiencing a day holding a balance of four main areas: physical work and exertion, mental effort and learning, cultivation of space for being receptive to the Divine and becoming a vessel for greater love, and rest. Or in other words, the day’s work for body, mind, and heart, plus rest.

Through this way of looking my time, meditation was not so much a singular practice apart from the day, but rather just one part of the sacredness of the entire day. Even housework, those simple, humble chores necessary but discouragingly endless, took on new dignity as an important part of the day’s rhythm. It helped to see that effort as part of what makes up a full life. The work of the mind, too, as I made notes to prepare for an upcoming meeting, took its place as part of the totality of the day—no more or less than important than any other task. It helped bring a greater sense of ease to my work. Exercise was not so much a chore to check off as an important part of a whole life—like one of the wheels required to keep the cart on the road and moving forward.

I’ve long thought of a rule of life as a burden, something that’s “good for you,” something that you really “ought” to do—like removing sugar from your diet—and just as difficult and grim. Discipline is necessary in all sort of contexts, but the very word suggests living without pleasure or comfort. In a similar way, my unexamined sense of a rule of life has felt to me like the prospect of a house with no pillows.  

What if that isn’t true?

What if a rule of life names what matters most, and establishes a rhythm of life that has space for those things? What if it ushers in a life that’s more joyful and more meaningful? What if instead of a harsh list of things I must do, it honors and elevates those things that are difficult, or boring, or depressing, and makes space for the things that are life-giving? What if it eases the continual low-grade fever of angst about things I have not seen to? What if it helps me see the beauty I’m currently missing?

Some seasons of life are more conducive than others for establishing a rule of life for ourselves. Times of transition when we need a new rhythm for our days, or times of stress when we need the support of a healthy routine, both serve as particular invitations for putting into place a rule of life. Yet even in the ordinary times of our lives, it helps to name what is important and consciously make an effort to incorporate it. The only vehicle for our highest aspirations, our deepest longings, is the concrete way in which we live out our days.

I’m interested in experimenting more with establishing a rule of life. But I’m trying to keep it simple and do-able. I’m asking, “How do I want to cultivate my life through body, mind, and heart?” And, “What does that look like?”

Freeing the Form in the Stone

Michelangelo described the process of creating his magnificent sculptures as a matter of seeing the form within the marble and then removing everything that didn’t belong. With this lens on the process, Michelangelo didn’t so much create David as reveal him by chiseling away the block in which he was encased.

Michelangelo placed his talent in service to the image he was given. Through his inner vision he engaged with a reality not yet manifest in physical form. He gave it his attention, recognized its value, and worked to bring that vision into the material world. The profound beauty of the sculptures he created gives credence to his way of working.

Our more ordinary creations may not reach the stature of Michelangelo’s David, but being guided by the end product that we envision makes bringing something new into the world—writing, teaching, decorating, cooking, or any other creative endeavor—feels a little more manageable. A guiding vision makes it easier to recognize what does not belong, and to chip it away.

In the King Arthur legends, the sword of kingship is encased in stone, and only the true king can draw it out. In these stories, what lies embedded in the stone is a true identity, revealed not by chipping away the stone but by extracting the sword. That is another way of describing the challenge for each of us—finding the connection to our own true heart and our own true calling so that we can claim and wield the sword of our unique power and agency.

Like Michelangelo’s freeing of the form within the marble, the symbolism of extracting the sword points to a way of freeing the essential beauty of our soul. Our potential, our creativity, our ability to love, often lies hidden within the hard stone that we’ve learned to use for protection. As life unfolds, we find out more about who we really are and learn to let go of the things that get in the way. In the process, we bring our long-obscured form into the light.  

It would be great to have a clear vision of that final form, but that is not clear to me. Nonetheless, I am getting clearer on the patterns that do not serve me, and I’m working on letting them go. In that way, I’m chipping away at what doesn’t belong.

Through it all, I trust that there is some higher wisdom, a knowing that is not fully conscious but which urges us in the direction of wholeness. I try to stay attuned to this lifegiving movement, known by many names: the Higher Self, the Higher Mind, the Divine Wisdom, the Light, the Truth, the Ground of Being, the North Star, Divine Guidance, the Life Force, the Tao, God.

Whatever we call it, I believe that this loving and life-affirming presence does see the essential form that’s possible for each of us. It offers us guidance and direction for chiseling away what does not serve, and setting free what is encased in stone.

Susan Christerson Brown

The Impact of the Aspens

This fall I visited Denver and the iconic Rocky Mountains for the first time. I knew to anticipate a difference from the familiar green rolling ridges and limestone cliffs of the Appalachians. But the mind’s expectations hardly prepare body and soul for the encounter.

Depending on weather conditions, the mountains are a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t backdrop beyond the Denver skyline. The changeable visibility might offer a view of distant snow-capped mountains, or the entire range can be obscured by clouds and smog. We were fortunate to have a clear day heading west out of the city on I70.

Even the foothills are jagged and rough, desolate brown on some slopes and filled with evergreens on others. My ears popped as we drove up the steep inclines into the mountains.

White-barked trees with golden leaves began to appear. They glowed as if lit from within, growing in clusters. Aspens. They’re all connected, I learned. Each sends out roots that can grow into new saplings. These were families of trees.

What a gift to see the aspens in their October glory. From a distance, they make threads of light among the dark firs on the mountainsides. The bright lines and pockets of color are like the Japanese art of kitsugi, repairing cracked pottery with liquid gold—brightening, elevating, and making unique the piece that has been broken.

Up close, the aspens shimmer in the breeze with a gathering, rising sound like tumbling water or the sudden flight of a tree full of birds. The leaves are golden coins winking in the sunlight, like the glittering disks of a thousand jeweled belly dancers, held aloft on slender white branches.

There were valleys filled with these trees, like huge golden pools surrounded by mountainsides of deep green. We passed the exit to Golden, Colorado, named for this exquisite swath of color. I no longer think only of beer when I hear that name.

Seeing the aspens comes at a price for an unacclimated lowlander. The body’s strength drains out like water at 11,000 feet. The low ache of a brain in need of oxygen, the effortful thought, the necessary slow pace of movement, the fluttering heart, all mark how it feels to move through these heights.

Physical energy and mental agility grow cloudy in the high mountains, at least in the short time when I was there. I didn’t so much claim an experience as submit to it. It was an encounter: with power, with beauty, with vastness, and even with desolation. We watched a storm gather on the side of a mountain, and found ourselves peppered with snow-encased hailstones on a mountain pass. Temperatures dropped, the sun came and went. A huge ranch spread over a barren-looking plateau seemed to me an image of loneliness. I can still see the woman in boots and jeans unlatching a wide metal gate, the driver’s door of her pickup standing open—and feel her dignity and grit. 

I felt the absence of how familiar terrain cushions our journey through this world. The enormity of the landscape jarred me awake, wide-eyed, as I took in what I could. The mountains inspired awe, and demanded a gathering of one’s own strength to meet them. They evoked humility, effortlessly demonstrating that life is more than I can imagine.

I’m grateful for every part of experiencing the mountains, but it’s the aspens that make me smile. Their gorgeous, golden color amidst the rugged landscape was a kind of generosity. Their inviting shimmer was like the gift of hospitality—a gift shared by those who welcomed us into their homes at the end of the day as well. Beauty and delight touch the heart when we’re traveling unfamiliar territory.

I want to remember the power of connection that I saw in the aspens, and the impact it makes on the landscape. I want to remember that I have the chance to foster that kind of community, beauty, and hospitality in the life I live. And I want to remember how much it matters.

Susan Christerson Brown

Presence without Answers

In my mom’s new electronic photo frame, images from across the decades show up in delightfully unexpected order. Our family keeps it interesting by continually sending new pictures—some recent and some from the past. Yesterday the display showed a fabulous picture of my dad from the late 1950s. He was in his mid-twenties, leaning against his Chevy and looking like he was going to own the world. Then a recent picture of my thirty-six-year-old son came into view. Stretched out on the floor with his baby daughter, his face expressed a more mature kind of optimism. He showed the peace, strength, and love I knew from my father, years after that youthful snapshot.

Seeing the younger generation at a later stage of life suspended my usual sense of the passing of years. It bent time to see the grandson older than his grandpa. The daughter who would be me was not yet born; in that juxtaposition of photos my baby granddaughter was older than I was!

There’s a rare and treasured picture of four generations of mothers and daughters in our family taken when I was a baby. My mother is now about the age of the great-grandmother who seemed ancient when I was young. Somehow, I’m now in the role of grandmother. Decades after that picture was taken (and still many years ago) I took my place in a different photo of four generations, posing on the porch of the same house. I can still hear the ringing metallic creak of that screen door swinging open—a sound that announced love and welcome, remaining constant through all the changes from childhood into my years as a young mother. In this front porch snapshot my daughter was five or six, and my grandmother had become her great-grandmother. My mom in the photo is a little younger than I am now. How can this be? As with so many before me, I understand my elders better with each passing year.

My beloved grandparents passed on long ago. Recently I’ve lost my dad. A friend says one of the gifts of grief is the appreciation of what’s here, of our time with each other, and how much it matters. How brief it is. Another gift is the perspective on what has real weight and what doesn’t. It helps us see difficulties as the passing circumstances they are. It can remind us not to fritter away our energy and attention on things that don’t really matter.

Ironically, it takes a long time to understand how short life is. For much of my life the years seemed to extend far in front of me, and I took them for granted. But it’s not just the brevity of life that we’re slow to appreciate. There is also the mystery and gift at work through the living of our days. We have access to the Source of life, but it usually takes a long time to wake up to that reality.

Regardless of whether we’re awake to it, the Life Force moves and animates us in amazing ways. What unfolds is glorious. Looking back from a distance is like watching time-lapse photography of a flower bloom. In those earlier years I thought that living a life was my own doing. Now I know that my actions were more a matter of Life moving through me. Sometimes I was in the flow, sometimes I resisted it. On my best days, I showed up fully for what unfolded. I responded to the ways Spirit nudged me forward. Am I doing that now? I hope so.

One thing I know is that life is short, and I don’t want to miss out on it by not being present. As I experience time bending, connecting the generations, I see the fleeting beauty of the time that I have. I want to savor it, or at least show up fully for it. And I’ve learned that engaging in some kind of creative work helps.

Creating calls forth our best self. It asks only that we show up and engage. In making art, or taking it in, we engage with Presence. Art doesn’t provide us with answers; it doesn’t have to. Its job is to be present. It invites us to attend to what’s real, and to experience how reality shows up in the beauty that passes away. It helps us hold the questions, and to allow life, whatever it brings, to flow through us.  

Like a Rothko painting, art can be a doorway into a temple. Engaging with art creates a still point in a turning world, the axis mundi that makes an opening for eternity.

Susan Christerson Brown

Courage and Tenderness

It takes some courage to take on what’s new, to try something new, to live into what’s new. Right now it takes courage to keep going through the rumbling storms into the new year. Marion Gilbert observes that this new year will be what every new year is: a continuation. That’s helpful. Remembering that a new year doesn’t arrive fully formed makes meeting it feel less daunting.

At the same time, a continuation brings a lot of old baggage. The heavy realities we carry forward weigh on what’s to come. I think of Jacob Marley’s chain, forged link by link. Bracing ourselves to endure its weight requires one particular kind of courage; allowing ourselves to release what’s not needed is another.

The long endurance that the COVID era requires is a new place to be. We’re having to dig deep for the extended perseverance it takes. Our reservoir of everyday coping strategies ran dry long ago, and we need the kind of spiritual sustenance that cannot be generated by force of will. It’s a fresh challenge, or at least a deepening one, to find those wells of replenishment and to continue dealing with the crucible of our current time.

However we characterize it, this malaise is not just our individual experience. Talking to one another makes it clear that we’re experiencing this collectively. At the same time, when the positivity rate is at record levels in Kentucky and people still can’t be bothered to wear a mask, it’s easier to see the divisions than to feel like we’re in this together. But that’s exactly why it troubles me to see bare-faced shoppers: I know we really are in it together. I pray for anyone who needs a hospital bed anytime soon.

Because I tend to look toward the positive aspects of things, something in me wants to resist saying that we’re in a hard place. I’d rather focus on finding some good that comes from all of this. But as the challenges go on and on there is simply no avoiding how difficult these days are, even for those of us not suffering on the front lines of public contact and health care.

In a recent column, David Brooks points out that Americans are driving less but deaths from traffic accidents are up. Belligerent behavior in hospitals, schools, and in public is on the rise. Substance abuse and overdose deaths are increasing. We’re giving less to charity.

Perhaps healing begins with acknowledging the truth of this painful era. There’s a kind of surrender that comes with looking directly at how things are, showing compassion for ourselves and others as we make our way through it. This kind of surrender is not the same as giving up. It’s more a matter of being honest about the condition we’re in.

Naming what’s real honors the loss we’re all experiencing. Acknowledging the painful realities that we’re trying to cope with brings a tenderness to how I move through the world. The vulnerability and fragility that I sense in myself and others feels both sad and true. It slows me down, and makes me appreciate the genuine moments of beauty and hope.

The courage to abide with what’s true makes us more receptive to what our ego would otherwise dismiss. It helps us to pay attention, to see what we would otherwise overlook, to be truly present. The tenderness evoked by these times helps us appreciate the beauty of caring for one another, of connecting with one another. It shows us how we need each other. Bringing presence to one another makes things better.

Tenderness helps me notice and appreciate the moments of beauty and connection that permeate every single day. Beauty is spiritual sustenance, and even sweeter when shared. As we honor what is true, we can help heal this world by bringing our attention to what is beautiful, sharing it with others, and enjoying those moments together.

Susan Christerson Brown

Illumination

For a few minutes in the early morning, the angle of light from the sun, the tree line out back, the frame of a particular window and doorway, all align perfectly to send a shard of light across the kitchen counter. It illuminates a simple notepad I keep there. This narrow pointer of sunlight travels through the house from another room—an alignment that happens only around the summer solstice.

I’m still learning the light in this house and across this bit of land. Even now as I write, the changing angle of light illuminates a small brass nail on the oak floor. It must have fallen there, unnoticed, in a recent round of hanging art on the wall. For a moment the nail is easy to see, though when the light changes it will disappear again.

This week I read David Whyte’s “The House of Belonging.” There’s a subtle trinity in this poem—of wholeness in oneself, belonging, and connection. Whyte’s words embody a peace that comes from knowing that even in solitariness, he’s not alone. His sense of belonging comes from the connection of the soul to its source, to the mystery and beauty of all things, and to life itself. This connection to life is a connection to his own depths. It imbues every interaction with meaning and vitality. The sense of belonging that arises from this deep presence connects him to his home and the “housely angels” that dwell there. The feeling of belonging also connects him to those he loves, whom he welcomes into his home and his life. Belonging fosters an open heart, where others can belong.

Whyte is describing a moment of transcendence when he can see how his life is connected to a greater reality. Sometimes we can see the connection; sometimes we can’t. The golden threads that link our lives to the divine and to one another only show up when the light is just right. In the holy moments when we are most alive, these sacred threads of connection are illuminated. They show us the beauty of our lives. We see them in the light of a poem, a conversation, a loving touch, an image, a ritual, a prayer, a moment of beauty, or countless other ways.

We so easily lose sight of those golden threads. The light shifts, and the sense of wholeness and belonging that they bring seems to disappear. We forget that we’re connected; we lose track of how much our lives matter. It’s an illusion, of course. The golden threads remain as surely as that brass nail on the wooden floor, hidden in plain sight.

Walk on this earth with bare feet, connected to the ground, feeling for the sharp edges, the prick of the nail’s point. Watch for a new angle of light, revealing what is right there, the truth in plain sight that we’re finally able to see.

Susan Christerson Brown

Attending to What Matters

A strong thunderstorm blew through the neighborhood a few days ago. It felled a massive maple tree that had offered shade on my regular walking route for years. But I’m just a newcomer. That maple had been part of the landscape for generations.

The huge tree seemed solid and enduring. The strength and stability amassed during all its years of growth appeared unassailable. But the power of the storm revealed otherwise. Its heartwood was rotten, and the appearance of strength belied the tree’s ill health.

The house beneath the tree was spared, fortunately, because of the direction of the wind. When the trunk splintered several feet above ground, it fell toward the street. Had it toppled in the other direction it would have crashed through the roof.

Now that the broken remains of the trunk are exposed to the light, it’s easy to see that the tree should have been removed years ago. But it would have been difficult to muster the will to remove such a magnificent presence. The branches offered welcome shade in the summer and glorious foliage in the fall. There must have been signs that the tree was unhealthy, though I certainly didn’t notice. It’s easy to let such things go for another week, another season, another year. Surely it will be ok a little longer. Until it isn’t.

Was it unimaginable that such a tree would violently break? Certainly not, though apparently the owner of the property didn’t see this coming. Or didn’t want to.

One of our most powerful resources is our attention. Where we direct our attention influences how we use our energy. “Where attention goes, energy flows.” What we pay attention to, and what we ignore, shapes our lives. We can choose what we will attend to, or allow our attention to be directed by longtime habits of thought, emotion, and behavior, along with the urgencies of daily life.

Internally, the things we habitually focus on (and ignore) compel us to keep repeating the same old patterns. Externally, all kinds of voices clamor for a foothold in our minds. Our wiser self knows what we need to pay attention to, but it takes real effort to hold on to that awareness. We need some kind of daily practice to stay connected to what our best self knows.  

When we’re not paying attention to our lives, we miss what’s really going on. We overlook the new growth asking to be cultivated, and ignore the danger of familiar but rotten practices whose time is finished.  

In order to be present to our lives we must be present to ourselves. There is no clarity about what’s happening in our interactions with others or in the events of our days unless we’re also aware of what’s going on within. Attending to our inner self allows us to see more clearly and respond more effectively to what’s happening in the world. It makes us less susceptible to manipulation, and frees us from the patterns that confine us.

Life is all about change. It’s easy to miss those changes unless we can be fully present, receptive to what’s really going on. Bringing our attention to what’s happening in this moment, rather than getting caught in our familiar thoughts and emotions, allows us to see what’s in front of us more clearly.

Maybe there’s something we need to do differently. Maybe there are aspects of how we live that were once solid but now need to be removed. Showing up fully, with the courage to pay attention, is an act of love. It’s when we’re truly present that we can perceive accurately, respond appropriately, and do what needs to be done.

Susan Christerson Brown

The Enneagram and Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a balm that restores our hearts and our relationships. Sometimes we experience pain, sometimes we inflict it upon others. The healing power of forgiveness is part of living a full and abundant life.

We can learn to give and receive forgiveness when we learn to see ourselves and others with more clarity, and less judgment. Engaging with forgiveness depends on bringing compassionate presence to what hurts—to our own wounds as well as the wounds of others.

When we’ve been hurt we need to respond, and our emotions give us energy and information about what to do. But when chronic anger and pain take over, they drain our life force. Keeping the old story of those episodes going requires a lot of energy and claims much of our attention. Ruminating and replaying is a response to being harmed that can cause us further injury. It’s like continuing to pump a spinning top. Perpetuating that circular movement is mesmerizing, and there’s a satisfying sense of balance from seeing the world spin ‘round and ‘round that same axis even if it doesn’t get us anywhere.

Learning to recognize such unhelpful patterns allows us to break free of them. The Enneagram is the best way I know for making our way along that path. It helps us become aware of our blind spots, and to appreciate the motivations behind the actions of other people in our lives. Learning to recognize our habitual patterns of thought, emotion, and behavior allows us to notice when they’re taking over, pause instead of automatically reacting, and allow whatever arises in us without being driven into our habitual behavior. These intentional actions create the space for choosing our response rather than reacting automatically.  Our patterns can keep us stuck; relaxing them allows us to see more clearly and respond more effectively.

The Enneagram teaches that we rely on three basic kinds of intelligence—mental, physical, and emotional. All three of these centers of awareness inform our ability to give and receive forgiveness.

In our mental awareness we hold onto particular ways of remembering and interpreting our experience. Our patterns of thought (including our critical, judging minds) influence how we understand our lives and where we focus our attention.

Physically, we carry not only bodily injuries but emotional traumas. They are stored in the tissues of the body and embedded in our nervous system. It affects what we find ourselves doing, as well as our physical health.

In our heart we carry the emotional pain and distress of what happened. When the pain is too much, we harden our hearts to avoid feeling it. This cuts us off from feeling connected to life and to other people.  

This mental, emotional, and spiritual suffering becomes chronic tension in the body, which blocks our life energy, distorts our ability to see clearly, and causes further injury. These maladies are eased as we grow beyond them and find ourselves able to forgive.

But trying to forgive too quickly, avoiding the pain of what happened, is more of a spiritual bypass than authentic, healing forgiveness. There is often something to be grieved in the process of forgiveness. To forgive because we think we should is the act of an ego determined to do the right thing. Forgiveness is more like finding out that we can release what we once believed held us tightly in its grip.

When we can forgive, we stop magnifying the wrong. We stop giving the one who wronged us so much power.

Forgiveness grows naturally as we develop compassion and understanding. Forgiveness is not an act of egoic will; it’s an opening of the heart that allows forgiveness to unfold. When we’re trying to manage our lives according to the defenses and fears of the ego, we aren’t able to extend forgiveness—to others or to ourselves. As we relax the type patterns of the ego, we make space for a genuine sense of connection and trust and belonging. The simple practice of bringing our attention to what we’re grateful for helps in making that shift.

C. G. Jung observed that we don’t so much solve our problems as outgrow them. This can include our ability to offer or receive forgiveness.

Forgiveness does not condone the wrong. Forgiveness does not say it’s ok, or that it didn’t matter. Forgiveness acknowledges the harm and grieves its cost. It means finding a place to stand apart from the emotion and pain. Forgiveness involves holding our suffering with the stronger, wiser, and more loving arms of our higher Self. Or put another way, allowing our hurting self to be held in the loving arms of God.

When we experience how much more we are than our wounded selves, we have a chance to see how the other person is more than the wounding agent. In offering forgiveness we see the other person with the eyes of compassion; we see them as more than an agent of pain. When we are the ones who cause the wounds, we learn to show ourselves that same compassion; we hold tenderly our own suffering as well as that of others.

Either way, we see the damage that results when we’re caught in our own drama, flailing in a way that vectors pain. We can ground ourselves in the truth that our life is bigger than this difficult part of our story, and we can let that top spin down.

Susan Christerson Brown