Are you bringing your whole self?

When have you brought your whole self into a readiness to listen?

Earlier this year I had the delight of setting aside a whole blessed day to attend a poetry-writing retreat. We sat in chairs in the alternating heat and cold of dappled sunlight, a bunch of semi-reticent amateurs. Many were in the retiree- or even mother-of-retireee-age group, along with that rare soul on sabbatical (me) and the few holy fools brave enough to stop everything for six hours to listen.

Our able guide, ​Krissy Kludt​, led us gently into the day with exercises like “describe where you are” and “describe a photograph you’ve selected.” As she told us from Parker Palmer's words, “The soul is a deer—you approach it playfully and tenderly.” But by afternoon I found myself sent into the woods alone, opening an envelope in which were printed like secret detective mission instructions the words, “List all the things that have ended.” And so I sat in the woods for a while to listen to my heart speak of death and decay.

When we returned to read our scribblings together around tables, I ended up beside my friend Susie who I knew from way back years ago when we were in a church group where a wise elder told us “tears are a gift.” We were soon weeping, so we recalled that wisdom together, and also recalled the time years ago when Susie had made her closet into a writing studio, so desperate was she for a quiet place to listen.

Then our bold leader said, “Now we’re going to list our fears.” I leaned to Susie and whispered, “She doesn’t mess around, does she?,” which sent us into paroxysms of giggles like school children at the back of the room.

But we did write about death and we did list our fears. We did it because in that dappled sunshine beside people who shared a willingness to listen for the divine, the mundane, or the blessed intermingling of the two, we had found a welcome place for our whole selves. I wrote things I had no idea were in me—a poem about the photos on the backs of magazine clippings, a poem about why I despise day lilies, and a poem about sending my graduating senior into the world singing. “Our poems know more than we do, and if we listen, they will teach us,” Krissy read to us from Madeleine L’Engle. We listened to ourselves and to our poems and to each other with an openness that drew honesty like water up a siphon.

Why is it so rare that we come together honestly as humans? So often we bring our cringing, shameful, tiptoeing selves or our bitter preachy selves. We approach each other like prickly anemones or pincher-snapping crabs.

But you know what I mean. You’ve been there. Remember? Remember what it’s like to bring your whole self to a room, your soft jelly sensitive soul and tender blossoming heart? Would you find time this week to practice bringing your whole self? Try it—claim fifteen minutes to write yourself a poem, an hour to meet an old friend, a courageous moment in a meeting, or whatever you can do today to bring your whole self into a posture of honest listening.

I'm grateful for your courage.