empathy

Daphne Kingma says “Empathy is truly one of love’s miracles. In empathy we not only feel sorrow for, but we feel with another person. In empathy we ask ourselves to enter into the experience of others, to feel their sorrow, to know their pain, to experience their fear. Empathy connects us very deeply to others. For in a sense we go inside their feeling selves, that most private of places, and there give them company. Empathy is a spiritual undertaking, for in its capacity to connect us so deeply to one another, it is truly the end of divisiveness, the beginning of peace.”

Soon after he was married, Thomas Moore, the famous 19th century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return, he was met at the door, not by his beautiful bride, but by the family doctor. “Your wife is upstairs,” said the doctor, “but she has asked that you do not come up.” And then Moore learned the terrible truth, his wife had contracted small pox. The disease had left her once flawless skin pocked and terribly scarred. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again. Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room. It was black as night inside. Not a sound came from the darkness. Groping along the wall, Moore felt for the gas check to light the lamps. A startled cry came from a black corner of the room. “No! No, don’t light the lamps.” More hesitated, swayed by the pleading in the voice. “Go!” she begged, “Please go, this is the greatest gift I can give to you now.” Moore did go. He went down to his study where he sat up most of the night prayerfully writing. Not a poem this time, but a song. He had never written a song before, but now he found it more natural to his mood than simple poetry. He not only wrote the words, he wrote the music, too. And the next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he returned to his wife’s room. He felt his way to a chair and sat down. “Are you awake?” he asked. “I am,” came a voice from the far side of the room, “But you must not ask to see me. You must not press me, Thomas.” “I will sing to you then,” he answered. And so, for the first time, Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today:

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

The song ended. As his voice trailed off on the last note, Moore heard his bride rise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up and slowly drew open the shutters.