The Howling Hurt of Vulnerability

Not Here by Rumi trans. by Coleman Barks from The Sould of Rumi (Harper One)

There's courage involved if you wantto become truth. There is a broken-

open place in a lover. Where are
those qualities of bravery and sharp
compassion in this group? What's the
use of old and frozen thought? I want
a howling hurt. This is not a treasury
where gold is stored; this is for copper.
We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change. Lukewarm
won't do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by? Not here.

I've been searching for three days now for a good poem about vulnerability.  It was getting late, I was getting tired and so I decided to settle for Rumi when I came across this poem that isn't actually settling at all as it's exactly what I was looking for.  (And really, is going with Rumi ever truly settling?)

I wanted something on vulnerability so I could post the link to this video by sociologist Brene Brown.  Several months ago we used elements of her TED talk on vulnerability as our discussion material for Centering Prayer.  The conversation I thought might last two weeks lasted for two months.  Her talk on the price of invulnerability is just as powerful.  Watching it will be fifteen minutes well spent, I promise.  If you haven't seen her first talk, click the link above and spend another twenty minutes to learn more about her studies on shame, guilt, vulnerability and whole heartedness. 

Listening to the tongues of trees . . .

As You Like It, Act 2, Scene I by William Shakespeare
     Are not these woods
more free from peril than the envious court?
How we feel but the penalty of Adam,
the seasons' difference; as, the icy fang
and churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery:  these are counsellors
that feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
and this our life exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
I would not change it.


I was going to entitle this post "Confessions of a Tree Hugger" yet as I thought about it, it's more a proclamation than a confession.  I hug trees.  I also touch, pat, caress and otherwise fondle trees.  I hesitated writing that because fondle is a word that's so often associated with things sordid and creepy these days.   The original definition, however,  means, "to stroke, handle, or touch something or somebody gently, in a loving or affectionate way."  So in addition to proclaiming I'm a tree hugger in this post, I'm rehabilitating the word fondle. 

I fondle trees.  And how can I not, when I walk in the woods and see their stories written on their bark . . . hardship and disease, uprootedness and brokenness, growth and fecundity . . . the frailty and strength heard in the tongues of trees, as Shakespeare says.   And when I do actually look up or look around long enough to notice this, I am moved to compassion, gratitude,  awe.  So I stop to fondle a tree or two along the path.

I was walking through the park a couple weeks ago and came across this tree. There was something about the way it had split at the base, partially uprooted and toppled, a beauty in its brokenness that made me pause and ponder the story it was telling me.

I daresay many human beings, myself included, tend to keep our stories inside us, the signs of our fragility are buried deep within until something breaks us open and the circles of our lives are made visible, not only to others but also to ourselves. 

This tree spoke to me about perceptions and vulnerability. It reminded me that no matter how strong and deeply rooted I think I may be, the possibility of being toppled is a reality of life that is always there.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity . . . I would not change it."