No human is foreign to pain. And I am not talking about the kind of pain that touches us in our flesh. Although the pain in our flesh can affect us both emotionally and psychological, there is this pain that comes from the sheer fact that we are human. It is the pain of healthy people. It brushes us at the edges of our hearts; it gazes at us through every turn and detour we make, like a sentinel keeping watch at the threshold of our heart.
The pain I am talking about can be very subtle that we barely notice it, yet it accompanies us everywhere we go. Each person’s pain is unique. It commingles with heart aches and the itches we feel inside resulting from our inadequacy to love properly or the feeling of not being welcome. It mingles with our fears – both named and unnamed—the hurts, the insecurities, the frustrations, the heart-breaks. This pain conundrum upon which reposes the totality of our existence – our culture, our past, our unique history.
The tears that flow from the pain of being human are sacred tears. They are unique to each individual. Gaining consciousness of this vital aspect of being human, that is, made to dwell in pain is essential in our being with others. Pain is beautiful because it reminds us of our finitude and calls us to hope, to value life as a gift. The pain in our flesh discovers us to our weakness and opens a path towards compassion where love and communion become real. This sense of finitude, we welcomed, can become the stirring drive towards the acceptance of others with care and magnanimity.
I once asked a friend what she would do in the face of someone dying from a terminal disease. She looked at me, and then looked down at her toe, then back at me again. I knew she was looking for words. She was looking for an answer, words of healing—but she was helpless. At last, she said, “nothing.” And I’d say nothing also. In face of another’s pain, words might not be adequate. Yes, because only that person and that person alone can feel the depth of his or her suffering. We can only participate through a presence of love and sharing. Words can be hurtful sometimes, just like silence can be wounding also. The experience of pain in our lives should lead us to treat pain in another person with a lot of discretion, respect and compassion.
If you have dwelt properly in your pain, only then can you understand the symphony of the pain in another person. The sad thing in this world is that most of us deny our pain. Most of us take flights from it and live in our illusory isle. Most of us are afraid to talk to ourselves. You gain a lot of understanding by stepping into the realm of your suffering, embracing your own fragility and drawing strength flowing from the open pores left by pain. If you have understood the nature of the pain through which your humanity and character is sculpted, then you are free to embrace others living their experience of pain.
The pain I am talking about can be very subtle that we barely notice it, yet it accompanies us everywhere we go. Each person’s pain is unique. It commingles with heart aches and the itches we feel inside resulting from our inadequacy to love properly or the feeling of not being welcome. It mingles with our fears – both named and unnamed—the hurts, the insecurities, the frustrations, the heart-breaks. This pain conundrum upon which reposes the totality of our existence – our culture, our past, our unique history.
The tears that flow from the pain of being human are sacred tears. They are unique to each individual. Gaining consciousness of this vital aspect of being human, that is, made to dwell in pain is essential in our being with others. Pain is beautiful because it reminds us of our finitude and calls us to hope, to value life as a gift. The pain in our flesh discovers us to our weakness and opens a path towards compassion where love and communion become real. This sense of finitude, we welcomed, can become the stirring drive towards the acceptance of others with care and magnanimity.
I once asked a friend what she would do in the face of someone dying from a terminal disease. She looked at me, and then looked down at her toe, then back at me again. I knew she was looking for words. She was looking for an answer, words of healing—but she was helpless. At last, she said, “nothing.” And I’d say nothing also. In face of another’s pain, words might not be adequate. Yes, because only that person and that person alone can feel the depth of his or her suffering. We can only participate through a presence of love and sharing. Words can be hurtful sometimes, just like silence can be wounding also. The experience of pain in our lives should lead us to treat pain in another person with a lot of discretion, respect and compassion.
If you have dwelt properly in your pain, only then can you understand the symphony of the pain in another person. The sad thing in this world is that most of us deny our pain. Most of us take flights from it and live in our illusory isle. Most of us are afraid to talk to ourselves. You gain a lot of understanding by stepping into the realm of your suffering, embracing your own fragility and drawing strength flowing from the open pores left by pain. If you have understood the nature of the pain through which your humanity and character is sculpted, then you are free to embrace others living their experience of pain.
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