The Insurmountable Darkness of Love: Contemplative Practice in a Time of Loss Douglas E. Christie “Darkness starts inside of things But keeps on going when the things are gone.” Christian Wiman We have to look closely to see it: her name emerging from the shadows, preserved (a miracle) on microfiche. Sabina Landsberger‐Zerkowski deported to Westerbork. Then to Sobibór—10.3.43. These words are handwritten on a small card, an artifact of the Nazis’ fanatical commitment to record and document their efforts to exterminate all Jews from Europe. A tiny card. A few words only. But they contain information crucial to the quest that has brought us to this place. We now know where she was sent. We now know where she died. A terrible moment of discovery. I am standing in small room in the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam with my old friend R. We have come here to discover whether we could pull back the veil that has long obscured his understanding of what become of his great‐grandmother Sabina. And now we know: the letters on the card leave no doubt. She was taken from her home in Amsterdam, held in the Dutch Theatre, then sent first to a concentration camp at Westerbork, two hours northeast of Amsterdam, and from there transported by train to the far eastern edge of Poland. To Sobibor. There she perished. The poet writes: Faith in what existsIs knowledge not faithBut faith in what does not existIs true faith. This moment contains an entire universe; but it is haunted by an absence. Only the words on the card remain. A reminder of what Edmond Jabés refers to as “God's triumph.” “All absence,” he says, “means presence to nothingness, means awakening to the void.” The void is all we have. Or so it seems to us in this moment. For R., it is space through which he now moves in the aftermath. For me also. Not in the same way. But we are in this together. My task at this moment, my only task: loving my friend and brother, accompanying him into a place of incomprehensible darkness. Love born of darkness. Or darkness suffused with love. How to enter such darkness? How to dwell there and not give into the temptation to flee? How to move through this darkness together, holding one another, beyond our capacity to say how or why? Strange questions, admittedly. But questions that increasingly occupy many of us in the present moment. Sometimes the darkness we encounter feels deeply personal, rooted in intimate experiences of loss known only to us. But often it is more widely shared, arising from the crisis of an historical trauma that that leaves almost no one untouched. There is only loss, displacement, and exile. What, if anything, can be said or done in response to such experience? How especially can one speak the enduring presence of love amidst such darkness? The title I have given to this essay comes from the work of a thirteenth century Flemish mystic named Hadewijch of Brabant. She was figure of immense intellectual and spiritual originality in the late medieval world, and her writing and thought continue to resonate in the present moment, not least because of her courage in navigating darkness. Also her honest and sensitive engagement with the reality of absence, exile, and despair, and her willingness to face and enter what she and many of her contemporaries referred to simply as “the abyss.” All seen in light of minne, or love. What she describes as “the deep, insurmountable darkness of love.” For reasons that are not easy for me to understand or explain, even now, Hadewijch and her vision of dark love became part of the journey I undertook with my friend R. to look for traces of his lost family. Two abysses somehow became connected in my own imagination and experience. This vision of dark love has also impacted my understanding contemplative practice, what it means to pay attention, to see, to become aware. What it means especially to live with awareness of all that is unknown, unknowable, sunk in darkness. What it means to acknowledge the...
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