I had the privilege to speak at a friend’s installation this
month in Morganville, NY. It was in a
little white church in a perfect little town with a horse farm across the
road. Many people came to celebrate the
occasion.
When it was my turn, I made my way up to the pulpit and as
always, I stood a little on tip-toe because I am short in height, just about 5
feet, and I looked out at the congregation and smiled and said, “Can everyone see me?” There were smiles back at me and a gentle
chuckle from the group. I continued to share
how I knew this pastor and I read a poem from Billy Collins, one of my favorite
poets.
Afterwards I sat back down and was very relieved that all
went well. You see, I have some
performance anxiety and although I have always been in a public eye, so to
speak, I have always preferred to stand back from an audience. People might think just the opposite of me as
they see me in various public arenas, on the pulpit, the opinion page, and especially now in social media, where I love to share my life
experiences and “chat” with friends and family.
But can “you see me?”
I thought about this comment that got the chuckle and began to hear a
deeper question seeking a deeper meaning.
“Can you really see me?” Do you
know who I am? Do any of us know our sacred
stories? There seems to be fear about
sharing what’s at our core self, and yet I think sometimes that is what is most
important in “seeing” one another. It’s
when I tell my story that you can begin to really see me. And when you tell
your story, I begin to really see you. I
think sometimes that if more of us had this opportunity there wouldn't be so much
anxiety, animosity, or misunderstandings.
And perhaps there would not be so many lonely people in the world.
I think about some of the words from the Billy Collins’ poem
I read:
This is the
best kind of love, I thought,
Without recompense,
without gifts,
Or unkind
words, without suspicion,
Or silence…
(Aimless
Love, in the book, Nine Horses)
