Thursday, January 10, 2008 at 2:02am
The death of a soul friend
Column: wavelength
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 written essay entitled "Reflections" 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 {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © Copyright 2008 by Adele Ryan McDowell.
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 written essay entitled "Reflections" 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 {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © Copyright 2008 by Adele Ryan McDowell.