Live Wholeheartedly

Live Wholeheartedly December 6, 2016

Stephen & Matthew 2008 2

When he was two or three, my grandson Matthew, now a skilled gymnast, would throw his whole body onto sofas, beds, piles of pillows, grassy slopes, or, sometimes, his large, patient dog in moments of complete delight. His heedless abandon was a little nerve-wracking to witness, though he rarely hurt himself. But the sheer physical joy he took in leaping, landing, rolling and laughing was a pleasure for all of us less daring onlookers.

I remember Matthew’s flying leaps when I think of the line in Ecclesiastes, “Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with your might.” Somehow, I misremembered the ending of that verse for a long time as “. . . do it with your whole heart.” That paraphrase helps me a bit more than “might,” but both serve to remind me to refocus and recenter when I’m mired in ambivalence, second-guessing myself, or distracting myself with concerns about what I’m not doing rather than attending to the task at hand.

The road not taken, the unanswered letters, the friends one is not seeing can always impinge on the moment. (As my husband is fond of quoting, to make the point, “If you’re reading Dostoevsky you’re not playing the cello.”) It is a discipline bring one’s whole heart to each encounter or each task, to release oneself wholeheartedly into meditation or prayer or rest, to consent fully and willingly to the call of the moment or to make one’s “No” as clear and unambiguous as possible, because clarity is a gift, even when it disappoints.

I remember years ago attending a friend’s party when I was too tired, too burdened by other obligations, too short on time, and in no mood to be sociable. Despite what I thought were my best efforts, she noticed. “It feels as if you don’t want to be here,” she said in her forthright and kindly non-judgmental way. She was right. I wanted to honor the occasion, so I had made myself come, but my reluctant presence was no great gift to her or anyone else that afternoon. A loving note in which I wholeheartedly expressed my honest affection would have been, on that occasion, the better choice.

As I was inclined then, and am still, to reiterate for emphasis, a wise friend offered me the curious advice, “Two things you should say only once: ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Thank you.’” I thought long about that, since I tend to underscore both apologies and thanks with repetition. His rule suggests that when forgiveness or thanks are wholehearted—genuine and deeply felt, holding nothing back—speaking them once will confer the blessing intended. Repetition can add nothing to a true and wholehearted word.

Wholeness of heart, like health, is a blessing, and it confers blessing. It radiates. It gives words weight. It is a stay against deception. And it magnifies every kindness.


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