In his beautiful poem “Saint Francis and the Sow,” Galway Kinnell wrote:
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing
The lines that struck me upon first reading it were, “Though sometimes it is necessary / to reteach a thing its loveliness…”
How many of us need to relearn that we are lovely and that there is beauty in us? It can be so easy to see the loveliness of a flower and just accept that it is without question. A field of wildflowers or an immaculately tended flower garden can nourish us in ways nothing else can. Yet how seldom do we look at ourselves as something as lovely as the daffodils that William Wordsworth wrote about in his poem? How many of us struggle with identity and self-hood and self-worth?
My younger son was adopted from Ukraine. Though he has been with us nearly five years, he wrestles with his identity. He still sees himself through the lens of his past experience and has trouble accepting that he’s accepted and loved. Since he loves to put together puzzles, I used what he enjoyed doing and understood to give him this analogy:
Picking up a small, not very pretty piece of a puzzle he was working on, I asked him, “Is this the whole puzzle?”
He gave me a look like: Are you crazy? It was obvious to him that it wasn’t the whole puzzle and he told me so.
“Okay,” I continued, “this isn’t the whole puzzle but just a small piece of it, right?” He agreed with me. “This is Ukraine. Now it’s now the whole puzzle but one piece of it. Now it will always be a piece of the puzzle, a part of who you are, but it is not all of who you are and doesn’t define your whole life. Just as this plain, boring looking piece doesn’t define or make up the whole puzzle. If we don’t have this piece, however, we are missing a part of the whole. So it’s important to recognize this, but to not allow it to be our entire focus. There is so much more to the puzzle than this one piece and you have a whole glorious puzzle to put together ahead of you.”
Now this metaphor is one that stays with him, though I remind him of it whenever he gets stuck with his past being his present.
Like many of us, he is being taught that he is beautiful and lovely and of value and worth. Just as Galway Kinnell wrote in his poem, my son will need to be told in “words and touch” that he is.
His past contains so much grief and trauma that it often overshadows the joy and love of his present circumstances. What is happening now is filtered through the lens of his past experience so that it, not what is really occurring, is his reality. My own childhood was not a normal one; though I have come to realize that very people had what can be considered normal. Like my son, I, too, see the world sometimes, not as it is, but through all of the fears, hurts and losses I have experienced. One of the greatest authors on the subject of memory and the past, Marcel Proust, wrote in his monumental In Search of Lost Time, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”
Because so often we don’t see what’s there because we are filtering it through our past experiences. We interpret our circumstances according to how he have done so in the same way that we remember things: not necessarily as they are, but as we remembered them to be. That’s why Proust writes, “My destination is no longer a place, but a new way of seeing.”
To truly see, we must let go of our biases. This can be difficult when grief is so woven into the fabrics of our past through abuse, neglect, trauma, or sexual abuse. How much of how they see the world is through the lens of self, so that, if the self is damaged then one cannot help but view the world as hostile, frightening, dark, or overwhelming. So often how we see ourselves is how we see the world.
We build a self from our stored memories, from the social interactions we’ve had, from the emotions and experiences (positive or negative). Selfhood is created of the symbols of the real and the imagined experiences of our memories. Both the rational and irrational forge this identity and shape how we learn to love or not love, how we trust or fear, how we raise and shape our own children, and struggle with identity according to so many social and cultural factors from social status to economic standing. How hard it is to let go of those things and tell ourselves: You are not what others say you are. You are not what we have or don’t have. Identity is an assemblage of our past: a collage of every joy, sorrow, rejection, success, failure, desire fulfilled or unfulfilled.
In his book The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat And Other Clinical Tales, Oliver Sacks writes, “If we wish to know about a man, we ask ‘what is his story–his real, inmost story?’ – for each of us is a biography, a story. Each of us is a singular narrative, which is constructed, continually, unconsciously, by, through, and in us – through our perceptions, our feelings, our thoughts, our actions; and, not least, our discourse, our spoken narrations. Biologically, physiologically, we are not so different from each other; historically, as narratives – we are each of us unique.”
Our singular narrative shapes how we interact and view others, our circumstances and how we react. Yet, what happens when the trauma of our past has been repressed so that we don’t know that it is shaping our current narratives?
Sacks writes, “To be ourselves we must have ourselves – possess, if need be re-possess, our life-stories. We must “recollect” ourselves, recollect the inner drama, the narrative, of ourselves. A man needs such a narrative, a continuous inner narrative, to maintain his identity, his self.”
That means we have to face the negative, to confront our pasts with all of its wounds and brokenness. We must see that that part of our lives will always make up some of who we are but doesn’t have to define all of who we are.
There’s a scene in the movie The Mission in which the character of Rodrigo Mendoza (played by Robert DeNiro) wants to leave behind his past as a soldier, mercenary and slave trader to become a Jesuit priest. He is made to climb the steep, rocky cliff of a mountain. It’s slippery (as it’s near waterfalls), jagged with rocks, muddy and difficult to navigate. This is made even harder by the fact that tied to him is a net containing his old life (weapons, armor). It is heavy and cumbersome, yet Mendoza continues to attempt climbing. He falls and cuts himself. He slips and struggles.
When he finally gets to the top where Father Gabriel (played by Jeremy Irons) waits with members of the Guaraní tribe (of whom Mendoza has kidnapped many and sold into slavery). Father Gabriel tries to get Mendoza to let go of the things of his past, but he won’t let go of them. Finally, one of the Guaraní comes over with a knife. At first, one thinks this native is going to kill him by cutting his throat (And why shouldn’t he take the life of a man who’d taken so many of his tribe?), but he doesn’t. Instead, the native cuts the ropes tying Mendoza to the net, which causes all of those items from Mendoza’s past to fall back down the cliff and into the river, where it is swept away. Only then does Mendoza begin to sob in release.
It’s a powerful scene of forgiveness and symbolic of how letting go of the burden of our past self can offer us a new life. In that act of cutting Mendoza free, the indigenous man was not only freeing someone who’d been his enemy, but was offering him a new identity of worthy and beauty.
How many cannot see their loveliness because they are stuck carrying the weight of their baggage up an already difficult climb?
Galway Kinnell continues his poem with:
… Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
How deeply moving is it that the poet writes of Saint Francis toughing the sow, telling her “in words and in touch” blessings of every part of the sow (from its earthen snout to its great broken heart). How many people need such a blessing over every part of their self-hood and identity: to have someone bless and tell them they are beautiful?
There is that juxtaposition of this messy, dirty, smelly image of a sow with all of earthiness and slop with the poem’s final words: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
Would it not be easier to face one’s past, no matter how painful, if there was someone there to tell us that we are lovely and loved? That all of us is blessed and beloved?