Keren Dibbens-Wyatt's Blog, page 18

106. Sharp and Soft (Juxtaposition 6)

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I often wonder if the beauty of a rose would be quite so beautiful, or seem so soft and serene, if it were not next to sharp and solid thorns, capable of tearing and wounding. The difference between the flower and its protectors is brought into even closer focus by their nearness to one another. Would a rose, by any smoother stem, smell as sweet?

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

105. Outside and Inside (Juxtaposition 5)

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Trapped inside by this illness, I have found my inner world far larger than I could ever have imagined. Sometimes though, stepping out into the world, even into our tiny back garden, the size of “outside” is overwhelming. The sky, particularly, which enables us to envisage freedom wherever we are, is mind-blowingly huge. Feeling now the same way about the vastness of creativity and universe of love and prayer inside of myself, there is some comfort in the smallness of the inside of my house, my bedroom (where I spend 99% of my time) and even of my body, in its reassuring constant confines of size and shape. We are creatures of cell and shell, in lots of ways, and need that boundary between inner and outer worlds.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

104. Hard and Soft (Juxtaposition 4)

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A small blue thing, as Suzanne Vega might sing, sits in my hand, stony against flesh. One is tappable solidity, the other pliable softness. But which is more fragile?

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26 NIV)

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

103. Light and Shadow (Juxtaposition 3)

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Light and its absence create a powerful striping across any subject. How different we look and sometimes feel in the brightness, as opposed to the dark. We long, don’t we, for the cool of shade when we are hot or blinded by the sun, and conversely, for the warmth and comfort of the sunlight, during dull grey days.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

102. Hard and Soft (Juxtaposition 2)

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The grass is greener on the other side when it is next to concrete. How much more alive are the thriving, viriditas, sap-filled spears, than the conveniently flat and dour manmade surface next to them! I love to walk barefoot on the grass, it makes me feel connected to the earth. Concrete feels harsh and either too hot or too cold. Surprisingly, left to their own devices, it would be the grass that would overthrow its oh too solid neighbour.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

101. Extrovert/Introvert (Juxtaposition 1)

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So for the next fortnight we move on to a new aspect of seeing. This is juxtaposition, where putting or finding two things next to one another highlights the difference and gives strength to both. These two muppets couldn’t be more different. Sat side by side, the meekness of Beaker and the energy of Animal become even more powerful. This could be a photo of myself and my husband, for although he is an introvert too, he has been known to play in death metal bands and frequent the odd mosh pit or two, whereas I am rather less adventurous! Fortunately the two of them seem to share a love of poetry.

text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

100. Empathy summary

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I hope you all had a splendid Easter!

We spent Lent looking at one imperative aspect of seeing, which is empathy. I don’t know about you, but I learnt a lot. In turning the tables and looking at an issue or characteristic from the other “side” with compassion as my watchword, I found that it is possible to understand how we all rationalise our own thought patterns and behaviours as morally correct, or at least, justifiable.

Sometimes the different way of thinking from our own has just come about as someone chose a path that branched off from ours somewhere along the line. Or they had an experience that changed their direction, or influenced their view of what is right or wrong. Or they found that they were motivated by something that I was not, or vice versa. Whatever we choose, whatever ethical lines we define ourselves by, we need to firmly believe either that we are the ones who are right, or that we are the ones playing the game well, or, if we are doing something we know is morally questionable, that we are powerless. In other words, we persuade ourselves that we are good, clever, or victims of the rules/culture.

Jesus’ words “They know not what they do,” are crucial. Most of the people who are seeking to feel at peace about feeling or doing something that is not wholesome, use various arguments to sustain their way of life. Most prevalent is, “if I weren’t doing this, someone else would be (and not as well or as kindly as I do)”. And, almost as often, “everyone is doing it, therefore it’s okay”. In some very real ways, we really don’t know that what we are doing has any hurtful repercussions.

One of the hardest things in writing these pieces was beginning with my own voice and not coming back to it after the section of empathy. To let the view that was different from my own have the last word was difficult, but I felt, necessary. To sandwich the other between my own opinion would have stolen its power. I needed to let that person’s voice stand unchallenged. This is maybe what real listening looks like, or holding space. We may not agree, but we can defend the right to be heard.

And then we ended with my looking at a few of my own traits with empathy. This was really helpful, and I’m glad I did it. I feel now that it will be easier to look candidly at my own character in prayer, and to balance that honesty with self-compassion.

So empathy is a hugely important way of seeing. If we cannot empathise with the other outside of ourselves, we will never really be able to contemplate in any worthwhile way.

“Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?”

~ Henry David Thoreau

 

p.s. for a great illustration of empathy, which, like mine is fictional, but nevertheless powerful, do read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. The section on Jane’s childhood is phenomenally empathetic, both towards her childhood self, and those who do her wrong.

text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017 photo from Pixabay (back to mine from tomorrow I hope!)

99. Sensitive (Empathy, Lent 40)

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It was a very long time before I discovered there was a kind of person called an empath, who took on board other people’s emotions, often bodily. It was also a very long time before I found the term HSP (Highly Sensitive Person). Both these terms have helped me to have a deeper understanding and compassion on the way that I am. Before this validation, I always felt I was odd, stupid, too sensitive and emotional, ridiculous even. But now I know that there are lots of others like me who are attuned to feelings and emotional atmosphere, to the crack of heartbreak in the air, to the words not spoken, to the fear in a look or an almost unseen tremble, who cry easily and painfully for their own wounds and those of others. HSP validation has helped me with who I am in Christ. And this gift (for such it is) has helped me to be a better writer and artist, a better poet, and I hope, a better lover of God. For empathy, love and understanding are linked to creativity and imagination.

Easter Saturday is a good day to indulge those gifts and those tears, and imagine myself sitting in the garden outside Jesus’ tomb, or with the women who loved him, or with the men who had been scattered, each one confused and grieving. The knowledge they will have tomorrow is ours but not yet theirs, and sometimes empathy asks us to sit in the garden with those who do not yet know what we do, and feel their pain.

text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017, photo from Pixabay

N.B.  I’ll be having a day of rest for Easter Sunday. On Monday we’ll be looking back at what we’ve learnt about empathy over the Lenten period, and then we’ll be going back to contemplative photography to go with learning about different ways of seeing.  Happy Easter!

98. Passion (Empathy, Lent 39)

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I’m a passionate soul. If I feel strongly about something I’ll most likely throw myself into it wholeheartedly. This sometimes means I don’t think things through and I run the risk of looking an idiot or getting hurt. The biggest passion in my life is for God. I love him with everything I’ve got. When I was a young Christian I looked an idiot quite a lot. I thought I needed to evangelise everywhere I went and probably bored or just plain embarrassed people. I let God down horribly and had trouble forgiving myself (even though he forgave me in less than a heartbeat). I spouted stupid things I’d been taught as truth for a long time, I was easily led and thought my elders in the church knew what they were doing, and followed their, sometimes equally misplaced, passions.

After decades of sickness, my passion for God is deeper and stronger than it has ever been, and I still say and do stupid things. But the heart of my passion has become wider, more rooted in beauty, creation and prayer. Silence and solitude are the mainstays of my prayer life. Adoring and gratitude are my worship, living a life of prayerful weakness is my evangelism. My earlier exuberance I can have compassion upon. I know that it hasn’t disappeared, just been transformed, much as a thoughtless teenager has become a contemplative middle aged woman. Passion can take many forms, as can the other sort of passion, sharing in the sufferings of Christ. And maybe the more we focus on the cross, as we do today, the more we can be compassionate on our own intense emotions.

text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017 Photo from Pixabay

97. Cowardice (Empathy, Lent 38)

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Today is the day everyone except the women fled from Jesus. Today is the day that he was kissed by a dear friend in betrayal. Today is the day to admit to cowardice, because the best of the best are capable of it. And so, I turn to my own cowardice, which has many facets, and look on it with compassion. I am terrified of getting it wrong and of public speaking, and of great white sharks (and small white sharks, if I’m honest) and yet all that fear does is stand in the way of things.

Yet, fear is a perfectly natural thing to feel. Standing up in front of lots of people, all waiting for you to say something, is terrifying to someone like me who hates being the centre of attention. So, I’m guessing fear and cowardice are not the same thing. What then, is my cowardice, the thing that makes me flee from what I should be doing? The obstacle that turns my stomach to water for selfish, no-good reasons? That would more likely be the voice that says, “Don’t do that for them, they wouldn’t do it for you” or “If you listen to them today they’ll always expect it,” or “If you say that thing you know is true, they will all think you a fool.” So, maybe it makes sense to run (or swim) away from some things, even if it is to save the fight for a better day, as we could argue the male disciples did, but when we are running from the best of ourselves, or the truth, especially God’s truth, or from something that we know is the right thing but will cost us, that is real cowardice. It is hard to have compassion on that, but perhaps we are better off acknowledging our faults and weaknesses, and asking God into them, rather than berating ourselves or blaming and shaming ourselves for our failures.

Perhaps the real price of cowardice is paid when we refuse to look at the unseemly parts of ourselves, so that change cannot happen. Only when we can be compassionate with our own shadows can we be truly merciful with the perceived faults of others.

text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017 photo from memecrunch.com