On the sacred mountain of Haleakala, a lone silversword, 1982.
My
friend, Henri Nouwen biographer Michael Ford, asked me to write something about
Henri, his affinity for Vincent van Gogh, and loneliness, as he prepares to
write a book about Henri and loneliness.
Loneliness
is the wilderness for the writer, the artist, and the contemplative. Writing,
creativity, and prayer are not ways out of the wilderness, but a way to make
the wilderness blossom, to turn the ache of feeling lonely to a fulfilling
solitude, transforming “lone” to “alone,” derived from joining the words
“all-one.”
French
existentialist and novelist Albert Camus wrote a book of short stories, The Exile and the Kingdom, stories
contrasting being alone and being with others. I’ll never forget the Algerian
woman who leaves her husband’s bedside in the middle of the night to ascend to
the roof and commune alone with the stars.
The
story pertinent here is about an artist whose work makes him famous, acquiring
admirers and students alike until he can’t work anymore—that is, until he finds
a hidden attic in which to rediscover his art in solitude.
In
his prolific and often profound letters to his brother Theo, Vincent van Gogh writes
sometimes of his loneliness, while tending the fire in his hearth should a passerby
stop to be warmed by its glow. His paintings became a way of offering himself
to others, his “sermons,” as he once called them, that he hoped would have the
same consoling effect that the Christian religion once offered. “While I sit
here lonely,” Vincent wrote, “My work perhaps speaks to a friend.”
A
theme or strand of loneliness wove its way into every one of Henri’s “letters
to Theo,” his dozens of books on the spiritual life. A desperate extrovert,
Henri nonetheless needed times of exile to hone his craft as writer and contemplative.
His most severe exile, a time away from his community nursing a heart broken at
the ending of a promising relationship, arguably produced his most profound,
most simple, and most heartfelt spiritual treatise, The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey through Anguish to Freedom.
Henri’s
loneliness spoke to my own. Upon hearing a tape of a lecture on loneliness for
his class, I enrolled in the course, the notes of which became Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the
Spiritual Life. The movements were from loneliness to solitude, from
hostility to hospitality, and from illusion to prayer. Of all his books, Henri
later observed, this was closest to his lived Christian experience.
When
I write, create, and pray, my loneliness is transformed, my exile becomes
community, my wilderness blossoms and communion is possible.
My
writing is talking to a friend, making conversation, or a stranger, breaking
the ice. My creativity is imagination let loose, hopefully to entertain as well
as to encourage. My prayer is recognizing and enjoying God’s presence and
remembering people I care about as well as those I should care about.
Jesus
taught love, compassion, mercy, and gratitude as ways of transforming our
wilderness. Reaching out to one another is the way to the kingdom, the
commonwealth of God.
“Pray
with me,” he urged his disciples in Gethsemane.
“Stay
with us,” the Emmaus disciples urged their fellow traveler.
“Stay
with me,” the haunting cry of a popular song goes, explaining “Guess it’s true,
I’m not good at a one-night stand.”
That’s
true of all of us, even God.
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This image of Van Gogh will stay with me for a long while: “While I sit here lonely,” Vincent wrote, “My work perhaps speaks to a friend.” He never knew how many friends visited after his death.
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