The gift of vulnerability: Opening the door for others to be real and for us all to get free

“As soon as we feel at home in our own house, discover the dark corners as well as the light spots, the closed doors as well as the drafty rooms, our confusion will evaporate, our anxiety will diminish, and we will become capable of creative work. The key word here is articulation. The man who can articulate the movements of his inner life, who can give names to his varied experiences, need no longer be a victim of himself, but is able slowly and consistently to remove the obstacles that prevent the spirit from entering.”

These are the words of Henri J.M. Nouwen, priest, professor and author of The Wounded Healer, a book I read as part of my Buddhist chaplaincy training and which ring true on many levels when it comes to the infinite connecting humanising value of acknowledging, honouring and moving through the parts of ourselves touched and scarred by life’s inevitable blows.  

Nouwen talks about the importance of community as a place that can be, when grounded in trust, a place for transformative “mutual confession”, something that I’m acutely aware of as a student and practitioner of reflective practice, and as a facilitator of the same.

His point about articulation is particularly resonant, as it relates to the creative agency we can reclaim when we engage in writing as a process of unearthing and reframing the stories and the ideas about ourselves that we might have been living with and felt pricked and prodded by.

This is why I often describe this kind of writing – when it is part of compassionate reflective inquiry – as a profoundly empowering practice, because with our words, we touch back into the places that might hurt, grate or grind, and in doing so, by tending to those thoughts, emotions and experiences, we take back the power of our narratives.

It's not that we necessarily set out to uproot those past experiences when we write, but they cannot help but re-emerge, because our histories are carried through in our bones, our hearts, our perceptions and our relationships – who we are is shaped by where we’ve been and what we’ve been through.

That was then, and it’s often also still a part of our now.

Changing the storyline

One of the most transformative aspects of writing as a practice of deep personal reflection occurs when we accept the invitation to be honest with ourselves, about ourselves.

Recently in class, one student in the writing community I consider it an honour and an unrivalled pleasure to lead, described this as the gift of vulnerability, after a series of shares in which people opened up with their words and in doing so, let other people really see them, hear them and connect with the highs and lows that are art of being a whole human being.

It’s a simple and simply profound way into the wisdom of our hearts, of our darkness, which holds so much insight once we find a way in. As Nouwen intimates, darkness isn’t something to be feared, but a portal into a deeper understanding that casts our awareness wider.

Exploring what lies within in the privacy of our notebooks gives us the freedom and the unfiltered space to honestly encounter the parts of our histories, our selves, that may have been buried or cast aside out of fear, shame, or safeguarding, or any other emotional response to an experience we may not have been able, ready, equipped or supported to process at the time.

When we come to the page and begin writing freely, guided as we are in reflective practice by a prompt that invites us to go in whatever direction the mind takes us, we often find ourselves back in places, experiences and feelings that come up as the mind calls us to tend and attend.

When we write our way into those seemingly dark places, and more often than not, find our way into and out of the wisdom of our dark sides – which is to say, our unseen and shadowy parts – we gift ourselves the chance to unpack and process, and thereby reframe our narratives.

In doing so, we can break through and break free of the stories that might have shaped us but which aren’t true anymore. Maybe they never were, but we carried them as though they were.

Works in process

It doesn’t always come easy. My own notebooks are full of stumbling towards and not always but sometimes finding a bit of illumination.

And that’s natural, it’s all part of the process – something we’re reminded of when those honest encounters are voiced in non-judgemental, kind-hearted and open-minded company, where we listen as generously as we give.

Such was the case in this particular class, where one person’s brave and open reflection of having never felt enough, opened the door for others to share their own parallel but different experiences of struggling to accept themselves, the impact of not being accepted by others, of hiding in smallness, and more similar but different experiences.

Nouwen again:

“Many people suffer because of the false supposition on which they have based their lives. That supposition is that there should be no fear or loneliness, no confusion or doubt. But these sufferings can only be dealt with creatively when they are understood as wounds integral to our human condition…

“…a shared pain is no longer paralyzing but mobilizing, when understood as a way to liberation. When we become aware that we do not have to escape our pains, but that we can mobilize them into a common search for life, those very pains are transformed from expressions of despair into signs of hope.”

Sharing from the heart

I don’t often write when I teach, at least not at the same time, because my attention is on holding space for others. The reason I choose certain poems, books or writers for class though is because I’ve sat with those words myself and felt what they have to offer, which inspires me to share them more widely.

So of course, thoughts come. The energy of this particular recent class was such that I felt called to put pen to my own paper in response to a prompt inspired by Philip William George’s poem, Battle Won is Lost, where the couplets of each stanza begin with the words, “They said,” and “I said”.

And it helps sometimes, to show I practice what I teach, especially when it comes to sharing openly, and when what’s come up might feel so raw that someone needs to open the door to doing so, or follow in the footsteps of others and carry the momentum that guides us onward, inward, beyond.

Below is my own response, because the fact is, people will always have something to say about something, everything and nothing that has to have a consequence for us unless we choose.

And we can always choose a different response, to integrate the darkness, even if it’s belatedly, if at the time of whatever was said, we felt the knock or the blow of harsh, insensitive or inadvertently prickly words that wounded – but don’t have to forever tar our sense of self... 

And now an inquiry and an invitation

I've had several requests and inquiries about co-creating a writing group that would meet regularly to practice what we often do in these seasonal offerings of mine albeit on a more consistent basis, by way of nurturing a supportive space, working with inspirational prompts, giving voice to our words on paper and in community, listening deeply, sharing from the heart, and opening up to our own and receiving each other's wisdom.

I'm feeling drawn to set something up, likely a monthly online group. If this piques your interest, or if you have in mind a need that a group might help to meet, please do let me know. If you're not already signed up to my other newsletter, through which I specifically share new classes, offerings and invitations, you could sign up to that and be sure to stay informed as and when things emerge.

'Til next time, take care, Aliya x