I keep arriving here: at the warm, open palm of mercy. Someone who once loved me gave me a directive that I've not heard before or since: 'To thine own self be merciful.'
That was a potent hit to the head of the existential nail, one of the sanest things anyone's ever said to me. To thine own self be merciful.
Is any work we can do more imperative? If we can't live in our own skin in a state of truce (at the very least), how can we live with one another?
No wonder mercy is such a visceral challenge. As a principle, mercy is often overlaid with religious overtones -- it's seen as a saintly state that few, if any, of us can attain for more than an instant at a time.
Is it a saintly state? Is mercy at all natural to our makeup? Are we 'hardwired' to salve, rather than savage, ourselves and other beings? (Are we hardwired to do both?) Can mercy occur independently of injury -- does an injury always have to be inflicted before mercy is bestowed?
Mercy makes me sweat. To thine own self be merciful ... I dare you. Mercy demands that we look long and deep into the mirror of every being we encounter ... beyond apparent appearances, into the depths of a life ...
Sometimes I think that mercy is the opposite of madness. Mercy is lucid -- lucid like the noon sun without the burn. Sees all; denies nothing. Sees into and through.
I wonder about mercy in relation with kindness, compassion, altruism ... and I hone in on what makes mercy mercy.
It's the quiet ... that warm, open palm. Whenever I imagine and recall my own experiences of mercy, I know touch. Skin meeting skin with loving intent ... and we soften. The whole body sighs ... We are safe; we surrender.
A warm, open palm ... a belly, a cheek, a shoulder ... a hug, a spoon, a palm spooning a face ... a nuzzle, a snuffle, a laying-on, a gentling, a rest.
Mercy reaches and receives the core ... and warms us there.
Mercy says, Been there, done that, lived it -- without the cynicism. And then: I dare you to be kind ... to yourself.
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