The Space Between Us?

Blessings To, For, From John

Whatever space there was between us is gone. But John O'Donohue – beloved poet, philosopher, mystic, teacher, friend – is not.

I had the huge and life-changing privilege of working with him for the first half of last year.

Amongst phone calls, e-mails and meetings, we had fun thinking, laughing, drinking, challenging each others’ belief systems and expanding each others’ horizons.

He was always open. And his gentle ways helped me become more so than before.

In the birthing of Benedictus / To Bless the Space Between Us www.jodonohue.com/books/, we discussed love, life, death, and everything before, after and in between.

Where our Irish Catholic and Conservative Jewish ideas differed, we agreed…returning to Druidic roots and realizing universal truths. When we needed to test theories, we learned…turning to physics, neuroscience, philosophy, poetry, nature.

And always, we joked.

John was the most reverent, irreverent, joyous, generous, paradox I knew.

Almost all of the words I can use to express my sorrow at his loss, my gratitude for his presence, my sympathy for his family and my prayers for us all are his words.

Fortunately, he left us a lot of them.

His life serves as a constant reminder to live ours fully and with love.

Thanks to him, I do!

Warmly and with whole heart,
Wendy Dubit www.vergant.com
colleague, fan and friend

Taonga of the World

Diane Winder from Aotearoa New Zealand shares her tribute to John O’Donohue.

In a far-away land, perhaps as remote to the world as the valley in North Burren, we mourn the loss of a great soul. We were privileged to know and spend time with John O’Donohue.

From my first encounter nearly a decade ago atop the Shawangunk Ridge in the heart of Hudson Valley New York, to sharing time at his various talks, his generous heart, great mind, and unforgettable spirit have followed me along the winding pathways of life to find me in Aotearoa, New Zealand, the land of the long white cloud.

There was a special presence in this shining man who oozed a sense of enchantment and adventure. Listening with the heart, one could almost hear the whisper of an unrelenting inner voice magnetizing him to life’s next experience. John was filled with life and carried himself with a comfortable stride forged in a homeland of incredible beauty and ancient mystery. He was a poet and profound writer whose words were cultivated from the seat of the Earth and called from the soul of the universe.

Those many years ago, our Mohonk gathering brought leaders together with leading authors exploring the questions of synchronicity, authenticity and soul at work. Big questions for a time and a humanity yearning to find meaning in the midst of a world out of balance.  But not too big for John. His early monographs on the four elements are like delicate appetizers to a great feast of his later works such as “Anam Cara”… (“Stone as the Tabernacle of Memory”, “Air: The Breath of God”, “Fire: At Home at the Hearth of Spirit”, “Water: The Tears of the Earth”).

The human self is a crest of threshold

cast among infinities.

There is the infinity of time and the infinity of space.

Yet within us there is also the infinity of interiority. 

Questions awaken in us.

There is no limit to the distance 

a question can travel.

John was to be the catalyst of a connection whose embers have never strayed far from the hearth of my heart.  Driving through Massachusetts that late autumn, I arrived in upper state New York to a burst of colour as the trees sang our arrival. We were a small group, yet we were to come from all corners of the globe to walk the mysterious and deep interior spaces that John so fluidly honoured.

As I rushed into the hall with everyone already seated in the great circle, I took a chair at the end of a row. Just barely catching my breath, I felt the strong presence of another latecomer brush past me and take the only remaining seat to my right. It was John. His grin was contagious and we giggled at our already common connection of tardiness. We quietly shook hands and introduced each other. “My name is John” he said. “Oh, have you come far?” I smiled as the lilt in his speech gave away a murmur of Ireland. “Not too!” The grin widened and his eyes danced.  The distance between souls is never far.

Our time on the edge of the sparkling-blue waters of Lake Mohonk was one of those life-changing experiences that only occasionally cross our ordinary paths. We wrestled with our intentions, danced with new friends, and put our shoulders against our inquiry and leadership that left us confused and frustrated. Yet John’s presence and wisdom was like a beacon in a black night.

In a small “chamber” group, I found John once again sitting beside me. Synchronicity indeed. The group was swimming through the deep waters inquiring the “evidence of possibility” and John encouraged me to speak from my heart.  To my surprise my words were applauded.  I told the group that my viewpoints simply arose between the blazing fire in the enormous hearth to my left and John O’Donohue on my right! Great laughter erupted as everyone knew the greater of the two blazes.

Perhaps it’s no surprise why I’ve taken John’s passing so personally. He seemed to touch everyone with a personal encounter that acknowledged a deep human connection in rhythm with a spiritual journey under a divine canopy. We seemed to have a natural affinity to one another, borne on the winds of a star-crossed time unknown to us.  We spoke of John’s father as a stonecutter and farmer, and my Celtic ancestors as stonecutters and farmers in that very same region where we gathered in New York. As John O’Donohue was my year-younger soul-brother, my year-younger birth-brother, also John, passed away suddenly in a night in 1993 at the all-too-tender age of thirty-eight.

The many times I had seen John since that gathering, there was an instant recognition of anam cara. We would laugh and laugh like siblings sharing a good joke. His wisdom taught us all how to restore the true rhythms of our human-divine connection. When I was to marry, he was the first person we asked to celebrate our union. Since it was nearly two years in the future, John answered with his characteristic Irish twinkle and delightful exuberance, “I don’t know where I’ll be! I could be dead in two years!” How could any of us imagine that a great tree would fall so soon?

Like John and the Celts, the indigenous Maori of Aotearoa carry a tradition of the reverence for the soul in all things. Over these ten years, I felt John’s personal life was tapu (sacred), and not intended to be opened in the many encounters we found ourselves. I sensed he had a profound love of privacy and family that was not meant to be tread by his more public relationships. His sacred work will dance throughout all time as a taonga (treasure) to be opened again and again. With strength and love, John would weave a tapestry of words from this world to the next. So much so, that you felt you belonged to this greater landscape and would willingly travel the journey with him.

It is not without irony that I heard of John’s passing on St Patrick’s Day in New Zealand. This news has taken time to travel and seep into a mourning world. As I looked out upon the bush and wept, a little fantail came to dance in the branch above me. Barry Brailsford, our beloved New Zealand author and storyteller tells us that a bird of power in Maori lore, fantail (piwakawaka) brings two gifts. The first is laughter, for laughter opens the pathway to the deepest of the mysteries. Unlike any other, John’s own laughter created a lightness of heart and a profound opening to the mysteries of the magical worlds of friendship, beauty, spirituality, life, death and our own divinity. This little piwakawaka with its dancing fan tail is also a visitor when death gathers. It is the messenger and guardian of the spirit offering the gift of the dawning, the springtime of renewal. And as Barry tells us:

Fear is not the companion fantail brings to that moment.
 Its offering is reassurance, a reminder
that we die a thousand deaths in one lifetime;
that we let go of the old again and again
to give birth to the new.
It speaks of beginnings that are without end,
of constant renewal, the promise of change and growth.
Nothing is lost to us forever. All is of the turning,
for we are joined as one within the circle.

Arohanui John, soul-brother and taonga - treasure of the world. May we meet again in the great circle.

John's essay on St. Patrick

Prologue to The Confession of St. Patrick.

History is an amazing presence--it is the place where vanished time gathers. While we are in the flow of time, it is difficult to glean its significance, and it is only in looking back that we can recognize the hidden dimensions at work within a particular era or epoch. St. Patrick has always been acknowledged as a pivotal figure in early Irish history and spirituality. Yet despite this importance, his significance has often become rather caricatured in legend and in the retrospective intentionality that nostalgia often confers. And yet we need not be limited by what legend has given us, since we are fortunate in having documents from Patrick's own hand.

The Confession of St. Patrick provides a window into a remarkable life. Patrick is a figure who inhabits a crucial threshold in the evolution and definition of Irish spirituality. To serve this threshold demanded a singular commitment that engaged every resource and depth of character he possessed. His story revolves around an initial irony which qualifies his centrality in the Irish tradition.

It was Irish pirates who kidnapped him from his British home and sold him into slavery here. They could never have suspected the spiritual tradition that would be born out of their brutal action.

Indeed, the structure of this initial moment sets the rhythm of Patrick's subsequent life, namely, the praxis of a spirituality of transfiguration. His physical slavery releases him into a life of inner liberation. His captors only controlled his tasks and location but they never got near the eternal spring that was awakening in his young mind.

Patrick understands his slavery as the door into divine recognition and friendship. In this awful experience of alienation and exile, he discovers God as his anam-cara. Anam is the Irish word for soul and cara is the word for friend. The Anam-cara is the Friend of the soul. This is one of the most beautiful concepts in the Celtic tradition. An ancient affinity and belonging awakened between two people in the Anam-cara relationship. This relationship cut across all other connections. In your Anam-cara you discovered the Other in whom your heart could be at home. The depth and shelter of this Anam-cara belonging enables Patrick to endure the most awful conditions. Prayer is conversation with his Anam-cara:

But after I had come to Ireland, it was then that I was made to shepherd the flocks day after day, so, as I did so, I would pray all the time, right through the day. More and more the love of God and fear of him grew strong within me.  And as my faith grew, so the Spirit became more and more active, so that in a single day I would say as many as a hundred prayers, and at night only slightly less.  Although I might be staying in a forest or out on a mountainside, it would be the same; even before dawn broke, I would be aroused to pray.  In snow, in frost, in rain, I would hardly notice any discomfort, and I was never slack but always full of energy.  It is clear to me now, that this was due to the fervor of the Spirit within me.

Pascal said that in difficult times you should always keep something beautiful in your heart. Patrick is able to survive these harsh and lonely territories of exile precisely because he keeps the beauty of God alive in his heart. The inner beauty of the divine intimacy transfigures
outer bleakness.

This inner intimacy brings his soul alive. It opens the world of the divine imagination to this youth. Consequently, he becomes available for his destiny in a new way. His dreams invite him to ever richer thresholds of his future. He is shown in a dream a ship that will take him away from slavery. The lantern of his dream guides him through two hundred miles of hostile territory to a harbor where strange sailors unexpectedly relent and take him aboard ship. Fascinating relics of ancient traditions glisten through this phase of the narrative.

His parents and friends are delighted at his return. He studies and becomes a priest and bishop. Yet his destiny is not to remain among what is familiar or complacent. Again the dream calls him to journey toward the next threshold. It is the dream of a letter from Ireland full of the
"Voice of the Irish" calling him to "come back and walk once more among us." Patrick allows himself to be guided by the "vision in his dreams."  He is "pierced to the core" by this request.

It is fascinating that the crucial new direction in his life is not determined by the clear calculations of the daytime but rather originate in the voices of dream in the depth of the night. Often the most original disclosures assemble in the unconscious and are deciphered through imagination and dream. Patrick is so attuned to this deeper dimension of soul that his sense of who he is rendered ever more complex by such new inner disclosures.

His sense of soul complexity finds its most fascinating expression in the frame-breaking experience that happens at that tender threshold somewhere between dream, prayer, and vision:

And on another night, "I do not know, only God knows" whether in me or outside myself, I heard the most wise words which as yet I could not comprehend . . .

In the moment of deepest divine encounter, the frames of normal perception are radically extended and intensified. Yet in contrast to some Oriental mysticism, the sense of the intimacy and belonging of the Self does not fade into anonymity of Nothingness:

And once again, I saw him praying within my soul, it was as if I was still inside my body, and then I heard him above, me, that is over my inner man.

Patrick is amazed at this intrusion or more precisely extrusion from his own depths. This new presence is not himself but yet is radically at one with him:

And as all this was happening, I was stunned and kept marveling and wondering . . . who he might be, who was praying in this wise within me.

But as this prayer was ending, he declared that it was the Spirit.

Patrick discovers that the deepest experience of prayer is not the mere verbal intention of an isolated subject directed at a distant deity. The deepest prayer is beyond subjectivity and objectivity. It is the echo of the inner membrane where the human soul dovetails into the divine. This is reminiscent of what Eckhart terms the Birth of God in the soul. This event liberates Patrick from oppression of outer constraint by absolutely confirming the depth, authenticity, and expressiveness of the inner wellspring He tells us:  in such ways I have learned, by my own experience.

For any great spirit who must negotiate the great thresholds and indeed become a threshold the nourishment and sustenance of such inner confirmation is vital. He can travel on any dangerous or hostile outer journey because he knows he is at Home within. This is what sustains him in the lonely times of betrayal, misunderstanding, and scandal. Patrick is a strikingly modern figure in being ambivalent externally, however internally he inhabits the unity of innocence and authenticity. His singular independence is grounded in the sense of his own autonomy. It is reminiscent of Kierkegaard's statement: "Purity of heart is to will
one thing."

Patrick's intimacy with the divine makes him painfully aware of his faults and unworthiness. Yet this recognition never becomes self-obsessive. He acknowledges that the tender mercy of God is deeper and more ultimate than mere human failing. His faults, therefore, do not become a barrier to either his destiny or growth. His difficulties with eros make Patrick real and interesting. They signal the charisma and passion of his personality and presence.

Patrick's presence is full of uaisleacht. The Irish word for nobility is uaisleacht; it also carries echoes of honor, dignity, and poise. Patrick exercised uaisleacht in relation to the people he shepherded. He served, defended, and cared for them, yet he refused any gifts or attempts to
claim him. He also exercised uaisleacht in relation to his own destiny.  He constructed no kingdom of the ego. He opened himself to the ultimate calling and challenge of Otherness in its social, territorial, and spiritual forms:

For I know full well that poverty and adversity suit me better than riches and delights.

The range and intensity of his inner and outer exposure is both admirable and fascinating. Only a great soul could engage such otherness and still remain gentle and free.

A threshold is a place where different territories meet. Patrick is a great threshold. In him the pre-Christian and Christian dimensions of the Irish sensibility find an acute and balanced tension. Frequently in the Confessions we sense this meeting. Near the end he aligns the
pre-Christian Celtic sense of the divinity of the sun with Christ: "the true sun . . . who will never die." In the Lorica attributed to Patrick, even though it comes three centuries later, we find a lovely balance of the pre-Christian and the Christian.

The Lorica derives its particular nuance from the absolute recognition of the omnipresence of God. The new day is understood as a gift of the divine. The very energy of awakening and arising is made possible by the love and care of God. Whatever the day holds is welcome because the ultimate origin and destination of the day is divinity. It explicitly recognizes the day in the light of the Trinitarian embrace. A day is no mere segment of anonymous and contingent time. A day is full of latent divinity:

I arise today
in a mighty strength
calling upon the Trinity,
believing in the Three Persons
saying they are One
thanking my creator.

This lyrical and direct evocation of the Trinity is then followed by a recognition of the Christological depth of our experience. Next the forces of the invisible world that secretly contribute to our destiny and experience are named and invoked. Then he names the elements and acknowledges how their latent divinity calls the individual forth out of the night into the energy and celebration of life:

I arise today
through strength in the sky:
light of the sun
moon's reflection
dazzle of fire
speed of lightning
wild wind
deep sea
firm earth
hard rock

The secret faithfulness of landscape is recognized here. It provides the where without which no life or object could exist.

Patrick draws constant attention to his rustic and unlearned sensibility. The depth and probe of his writings belie this. Yet it is true that the exploration and refinement of theological connections and nuance is neither his objective nor gift. Yet in his writings the pre-Christian and the Christian are always adjacent. Close enough to allow us to explore their embrace and recognize here a latent/nascent theology of Creation. A Celtic theology of Creation understands such continuity and interflow as vital, rich, and liberating.

--John O'Donohue
Conamara, Ireland

This work was originally published as Prologue for
The Confession of St. Patrick by John Skinner.

Used by permission of the publisher.

The Death of a Soul Friend

by Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell

January 10, 2008 
 
James Brown may well have been the King of Soul, but John O'Donohue was, most certainly, Hermes of the Soul, fleet-footed of philosophies and cosmologies, traveler of invisible realms and secreted interiors, a master wordsmith, fast-witted, deeply tender and hilariously funny. At the age of 52, John has left this mortal coil. And, boy, am I sad. 
     
    The first email read that John had died suddenly; the next communication said he had passed away peacefully in his sleep. As a poet, John would have appreciated the tonal differences in "suddenly" and "peacefully." Those two words evoke such dissimilar feelings, and, as with most things, both were accurate. 
     
    I was first introduced to John O'Donohue via his book "Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom." I had received the book as a gift from a client and, given the busyness of life, I had placed it atop my magic mountain of books to be read. Over time, the magic book mountain grew larger, and the book was temporarily lost in the shuffle - until, years later, I ventured to Ireland with the Jungians for a combination conference and tour. 
     
    John was to be one of the presenters at this conference, and I reasoned this book would be excellent on-the-plane reading as well as good preparation for the conference. Little did I know what awaited me as I turned the pages of his book. 
     
    John spoke to my soul in such a tender, incisive way that I found myself frequently putting the book down. I needed time and space to allow the words to travel through my interior layers and to reach their intended destination: my soul. John's words fed me; like the slow watering of grapevines for optimal nourishment, John knew how to drip, drip, drip, word by word, the language of the soul into my being. 
     
    "The inner music never abandons you." 
     
    I arrived in Ireland a soggy, tearful mess. Who was this man? 
     
    Over the years, I was to come to know him through his works, a retreat and other conferences. I am, and will continue to be, a bona-fide, card-carrying fan. 
     
    His bio will tell you that John was a philosopher examining the works of Hegel and Meister Eckhart, best-selling author ("Eternal Echoes: Exploring Our Yearning to Belong," "Divine Beauty: The Invisible Embrace"), poet ("Conamara Blues," "Echoes of Memory"), speaker, activist and supporter of fellow artists. 
     
    John looked like the photograph on all of his book jackets. He had that ex-Catholic priest black suit thing going on style-wise, along with the scholarly beard. He was Irish and, really, what more can be said - there was the lilt of his speech, the twinkling eyes, the sharp wit and the mastery with words that could charm the birds out of the trees. 
     
    John carried both the gravitas of intellectual rigor and spiritual discipline along with an animated, enlivening spirit. He was like an infusion of new blood, re-animating the psyche with expansiveness and possibility and re-strengthening the cellular self with new oxygen. 
     
    When I first saw John speak, he approached the podium very solemnly with a stack of books in his hands; the books serving as potential references during his talk. He was humble, soulful and delightful. 
     
    I can't tell you exactly what he spoke about that day, save to say that I was mesmerized, enchanted and thoroughly smitten. The majority of the women in the room would have told you, just like me, that John could have slid his shoes under their bed any night of the week. 
     
    And the reason was that John could take the non-ordinary yearnings of the soul and translate them into ordinary realities. He made us feel that everything was possible. All of our rambunctious and contradictory and colliding feelings were valid. We were not alone. John's language honored the mystery and delighted in the connections. He wrote gently, knowingly and with a broad acceptance of all that is human. John was fluent in soul. 
     
I would love to live 

Like a river flows, 

Carried by the surprise 

Of its own unfolding.

     
    And that's why I am feeling this loss so personally. I feel as if I have lost a soul friend, what the Celts call an anam cara. Like a tuning fork with perfect pitch, John constructed language that hummed with my deepest self; this was an enormous gift. His words were resonant. They moved me. We had a soul connection. This was an intimate relationship: soul to soul. 
     
    "A friend is a loved one who awakens your life in order to free the wild possibilities within you." 
     
    "Love opens the door of ancient recognition." 
     
    Given his international acclaim, clearly, John spoke to many others. We are all reaching out to one another across the Internet waves. One outstanding tribute is 
a Memoriam by David Whyte, fellow poet and Celtic neighbor. It reads, in small part, as this: 
     
    "He was a rare form of human possibility, a razor sharp intellect married to a far-traveling, Irish articulation and bird-of-paradise vocabulary that made the listener realize that until then they had never listened at all. ... John was a love letter to humanity from some address in the firmament we have yet to find and locate. ... " 
     
    John, you wrote, "Grief is a journey that knows its way." And we, those of us who have felt so deeply connected to your words, your passion and your spirit, are holding fast to the heart of your words as we grapple with the reality of your death and follow the journey before us. 
     
    "You slip through a door of air. Memory comes home, bright as a dead tree drawn to blossom in the moon." 
     
    "In the glow of your silence, the heart grows tranquil. No one will ever know where you had to travel." 
     
    Rest in peace, dear John, I suspect the gods needed your very soulful, joyous, kick-ass self to work from the other side. 
     
    I leave you with a simple but heartfelt Irish saying: "When I count my blessings, I count you twice." Amen, brother, amen. 

    — — — 
    Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is ARMCDOWELL@aol.com. © Copyright 2008 by Adele Ryan McDowell.

Streaming video:
John's appearance at Caroline Myss Education Institute in 2006.