Well said Alessa

“Ultimately, I don’t think feeling insignificant is all bad.” I agree

Smaller then small AND Bigger then big

Hi Anita
“Something for me to understand. how?” Using Richards words – “No, so you can participate in it”

When does understanding become wisdom?

What does a hurt feeling feel like? The space between emotion to feeling to a measurement, label, judgment… as thin as a breath. I wonder if we even notice how quickly and subtly we move from raw experience to interpretation, deciding good and bad… Yet its the breath thin space where mindfulness lives…

“Without love, do what you will, be as clever as you like, you will solve nothing.” – A criticism of Krishnamurti who was himself accused of being too clever with his words and paradoxically path to love was though negation, Emptiness, Kenosis, silence the undoing of words – what I think of as non measurement.

In the space between emotion and feeling were feelings hurt? No one that knows me would think me clever though as I have expressed before I have been accused me a lacking feeling, that my communication style and personalty type is lacking, away to avoid feeling… I don’t disagree, sadly its a core part of who I am. A trigger where I fill the space with a suspicion I’m not suited for relationship, something I fear my history confirms.

Funny when I saw this topic the first thing I wrote was a warning to myself, that any discussion into insignificance would only stir up existential angst and likely not end well.

Anita

“Eight-plus billion people on this planet, each existing within the width of a breath”—but how many truly love and are loved in return?
I suspect all eight billion wonder… then I hear a voice whisper, who am I to ask of life such a thing?

Love as a temporal measurement and experience is always going to fall short. My feeling was that Richard, along with Jung, Campbell, Buddha Krishnamurti, was that what is significant is experience itself. To participate. That from the perspective of Life, participation in all its forms is Love. That from which we arrive and return.

Love that exists beyond the ticking of clocks; it’s felt in echoes, in the imprint it leaves, in the ways it changes us. A single moment of real connection can reverberate through a lifetime.

But that isn’t what being looking for, or behind the question of significance and pain such questions bring. The real question isn’t just about love itself, but about the weight it carries—the longing, the ache, the quiet desperation for significance in the face of impermanence. Love, when examined too closely revealing all the spaces where we’ve been wounded, all the unanswered questions left behind by the loves that did not stay or did not fulfill. Maybe it’s less about defining love and more about reckoning with what it leaves behind—the imprints, the shadows, the moments that haunt or heal. Love isn’t always gentle, but it’s always significant.

I recall the days the excitement, the fire, the bliss of being possessed by love. There’s something intoxicating about those early moments— the unfiltered passion, the consuming energy, the way love feels like it’s overtaken every inch of you, a kind of surrender, a beautiful chaos that colors everything in a different light (even if only the idea of love)…. until… the clock ticks… and we measure…

One of the blessing of getting older is the discovery of being able to love without a desire to process or be processed. A love that doesn’t demand, doesn’t consume, but simply exists in its own quiet strength. Can it be enough? What are we to do if it not…

Each day, each moment I hear, from myself, from everyone, all 8 billion voices… the cry, see me, know me, love me… the suffering that connects all… what are we to do? Bigger then big, smaller then small, what are we to do?

That cry—so vast, yet so intimate — the heartbeat of existence. Beneath the layers of ambition, fear, and longing, the universal plea: witness me, understand me, love me.

We suffer because we are bound to one another, woven into the same fragile, aching fabric of humanity. It’s overwhelming, both the enormity of it and the crushing smallness of a single life within it. And yet, the answer, though elusive, might not be grand or complicated.

Maybe it starts in the smallest acts offering presence, kindness, truly seeing another. Maybe it’s in allowing ourselves to be seen in return. If love and suffering are the unifying forces, then perhaps the response isn’t in solving or escaping, but in choosing, choosing to love, to reach, to acknowledge.

None of us can bear the weight of eight billion cries, but each of us can ease one, if only for a moment. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Hi Anita

“I would never think of strength in surrender“. Recognizing I think that Transcendence involves a experience of surrender as a act of strength and not one of giving up, but that the line between to two is a thin one.

I recall something Jung said about someone needing a healthy ego before they can surrender (let go/flow) ones ego. A healthy ego having the strength to trust and surrender itself to life as it is. A notion that I ‘know’ as a Truth yet continue to struggle with.

Sometimes I imagine how a Maple tree surrenders to the wind… a light breeze bringing its leafs to a flutter and caressing its bark. How good that must feel. Even the stronger winds that tests the trees roots an branches ability to flex and bend must feel good. I imagine that the tree knows the wind will sometimes be to strong for it, that no amount of bending will prevent a loss of branches and eventually one day bring the tree down. I imagine sometimes the tree feeling the loss of a branch and watching as it lays on the ground then witnessing new life, if different life, arising from the fallen beach. That also feeling good if bitter sweet. Its the bitter sweet I think were the strength of the surrender resides. Just maybe when were still the space to feel the moments of the breeze caress.

A friend of mine teaches yoga to seniors, and she would tell me about one the ladies, 95, never missing a class with wonderful posture… My friends eyes lighting up as she talked about how inspired she was by this woman. A few weeks ago the woman fell and broke her hip and didn’t survive the stay in the hospital as such things tend to end. I could see the grief in my friends eyes as she me. I sensed that my friend wasn’t sure if she had a right to feel sad… and I wish I would have talked about how blessed we are when our lives cross paths with such people if for a short time. That the feelings in such moments of loss are complex and that its right to mourn someone as a act of witness. How oddly the experience of grief calls out memories of gratefulness. A surrender to the breeze of life though the leaves? It saddens me that in our fear we sometimes don’t allow for such grief and instead hold it back.

I digress. What does it mean for surrender to be strength? It takes strength to know what is ours and what isn’t – surrendering to the Yes.

Hi Anita

This raises a deeper question: Even when healing is possible, why do we sometimes resist it?

That is the question… I suspect it may be related to do with something else you pointed out – The problem of isolation.

What does your bridge look like? Sometimes the bridge is one of those old roman stone bridges, others its a rope bride swaying in the wind were you can’t help but look down into the trouble waters.

Hi Anita
I’ve been re-reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés ‘Woman Who Run with Wolves’ and read the following last night and thought it related to this topic.

For the woman who truly has had an experience of destructive mothering in her own childhood. Of course, that time cannot be erased, but it can be eased. It cannot be sweetened up, but it can be rebuilt, strongly, and properly, now. It is not the rebuilding of the internal mother that is so frightening to so many, but rather the fear that something essential died back then, something that can never be brought back to life, something that received no nourishment, for psychically one’s own mother was dead herself. For you, I say, be at peace, your are not dead, you are not lethally injured.

As in nature, the soul and the spirit have resources that are astonishing. Like wolves and other creatures, the soul and spirit are able to thrive on very little, and sometimes for a long time on nothing. To me, it is the miracle of miracles that this is so. Once I was transplanting a hedgerow of lilac. One great bush was dead from a mysterious cause, but the rest were shaggy with purple in springtime. The dead one cracked and crunched like peanut brittle as I dug it out. I found that its root system was attached to all the other living lilacs up and down the fence line.

Even more astounding, the dead one was the “mother.” She had the thickest and oldest roots. All hir big babies were doing fine even though she herself was botas arribas, boots up, so to speak. Lilacs reproduce with what is called a sucker system, so each tree is a root offshoot of the primal parent. In this system, even if the mother fails, the offspring can survive. This is the psychic pattern and promise for those with little or no, as well as those who have had torturous mothering. Even though the mother somehow falls over, even though she has nothing to offer, the offspring will develop and grow independently and still thrive.

Except from the Chapter on ‘the Ugly Duckling’ where Clarissa highlights the mother’s role in the story and uses that to explore the various kinds of mother experiences we have. I first happened on the book 20+/- years ago and it changed the way I relate to stories. Though not written specifically for my gender it very much helped in the task of integrating the masculine and feminine archetypes so highly recommended.