Every night at 9 p.m., like clockwork, I called my dad to check on him and see if he needed anything. We would talk about politics and the weather, and I would remind him of his appointments. The calls were usually short, but when I hung up, I felt he was okay and had what he needed.

After my mom passed, it seemed his dementia just got worse. The forgetfulness, the strange things he would say and do, it all seemed to turn up a notch every few days. It was as though he had been holding it together for her, and once she died, he just let go.

The disease progressed rapidly, but dementia wasn’t the only thing happening.

He also began allowing people off the street into his home. These people, if you want to call them that, made it their business to take advantage of the elderly. They exploited his confusion and deliberately sowed discord between us. I was able to control what they ultimately wanted: his money. They then told him lies, convincing him I was out to get him, and that I intended to harm him.

My phone rang at 5:30 a.m. I saw it was my Dad and immediately panicked.

“Listen here, you little asshole. Stop sending the police here. These are fine people and they are taking care of me. And I know what you are doing. You’re stealing my money. You hear me, goddamn it! Leave us alone! I’ll tell the law what you are doing and they’ll throw you in jail.”

I heard laughter behind him and the line went dead.

This was my father. A former Baptist preacher, the man who helped shape my own sense of morality; the same man who taught me about goodness and kindness. And now, he believed his own son was trying to destroy him.

I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling a familiar stone of anxiety settle in my stomach. How on earth was I going to save him from all of this?

Every day, I carried all of it: the anxiety, fear, hopelessness, confusion, and a sheer insanity of something like this having befallen him. He was a good and kind man. Good and kind people don’t deserve this. Yet, here it was, like an unwanted Christmas present without a receipt for return. The pain of the disease and the people exploiting him were tangled together in a knot of suffering I couldn’t untangle.

There was disappointment, too. I was disappointed that there were people in the world who would take advantage of an elderly, sick man. I was disappointed in myself because I felt I lacked the courage to stand up to them, confront them, and make them leave. I was also disappointed because I made my mother a promise. I told her I would take care of my dad, and I was trying, God knows I was trying, but I couldn’t protect him from what was happening.

I felt like I was failing him every second.

There is a Buddhist story that came to mind, one I was reminded of after watching a video recently. It is the story of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion. Looking out across the worlds, he saw the immense suffering of living beings and made a vow that he would not rest until every sentient being was free from suffering.

For countless ages, he reached into the suffering world, helping wherever he could; trying to ease the pain of others. Eventually, he looked across the worlds and saw that suffering remained. Despite all his efforts, the task seemed no closer to completion, and the vow he made now seemed impossible.

What happened next?

He broke. Literally.

According to the story, his body shattered into a thousand pieces. His teacher, Amitabha, gathered up those pieces and rebuilt him, giving him eleven heads so he could see suffering in all directions and a thousand arms so he could reach out in every direction to help.

I recognized something in this story. It hit me in an unexpected and emotional way.

And now, as I reflect, I think about how much we expect of ourselves. We want to be superhuman, only to discover that we’re not. No, sorry. Human you are, and human you’ll be.

We believe that our love should be enough to help, protect, fix things, and make situations better. When things don’t work out, we tell ourselves we’re just not trying hard enough. We keep looking for the right words. We search for that one last thing that might change the situation, or that might somehow change the outcome.

What happens when we can’t?

We break. We explode into a thousand pieces.

The part of the story I keep coming back to isn’t that Avalokiteshvara broke, but what happened afterward. He wasn’t told to try harder or condemned for failing his vow. He was gathered up and rebuilt.

Maybe all the lofty talk about what compassion is and how to realize it in our daily lives is asking something far simpler of us.

Not to be invincible.
Not to have all the answers.
Not to believe we can save everyone from the things that hurt them.

Maybe compassion is simply refusing to look away.

The video also talked about mani stones. These are stones carved with the mantra Om Mani Padme Hum. They are placed along mountain paths and remote places. I think of them as carrying a message: I was here, and I did not look away.

That brings me back to my dad.

As much as I wanted his dementia to go away, for those people to leave, and for him to understand what was happening — that I was not the enemy he believed me to be — I could not change his reality. As much as I wanted to force the situation to turn out the way I wanted it to, to make things right, I was coming face-to-face with the painful truth that some things were simply beyond my power to change.

I couldn’t. And it broke me, a thousand times over, every single day.

But I was there.

I showed up for him through the overwhelming fear and anxiety. There were moments when I had to step away, catch my breath, and find some particle of peace.

But I came back. I was there because he was my father and I loved him.

Though the intensity has lessened, I still find myself struggling with the feeling that I failed him. I think he deserved so much better. I suspect some of that feeling comes from measuring myself against an outcome I never had the power to guarantee.

Being there for someone and being able to save them are two very different things.

The thousand arms of Avalokiteshvara strike me differently, too. Maybe they aren’t about becoming strong enough to do everything. Maybe they’re a reminder that compassion was never meant to be carried alone.

We need one another as we make our way through life. We need people like the teacher in the story, people who can gather the pieces when we fall apart. Sometimes we’re the ones reaching out, and sometimes we’re the ones who need someone to reach back.

I don’t have some quote or bit of wisdom to compress all of this into a neat little slogan for bumper stickers or refrigerators.

I didn’t expect that story to break me open like it did. I guess it reminded me of a time when I was stretched way beyond my limits, desperately searching for some way to make it all stop, trying to make the world better for someone I loved and finding out … sorry, no can do.

I couldn’t save him from what was happening. I couldn’t make the disease stop or make him understand. I couldn’t make everything right.

But every night at nine, I picked up the phone. When the bills came, I wrote the checks. When he had doctor’s appointments, I made sure he went.

I was still his son. I still loved him. I was still there.

Video:
Every Syllable of “Om Mani Padme Hum” Is Closing a Door
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcgOYZlDGfs

I resonated with Nancy Blackman, MASF’s, What Happens When Our Childhood Teaches Us We Aren’t Enough?

What Happens When Our Childhood Teaches Us We Aren’t Enough?

It took me many years to discover how a simple dismissal in my early childhood planted the seeds that became the engine behind my self-loathing and the belief that I wasn’t good enough.

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The Thousand Arms We Don’t Have was originally published in Refresh the Soul on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth, who sustains us and governs us and who produces varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

—The Canticle of the Creatures, St. Francis of Assisi, 1225

In preparation for my retreat, “Care of Creation: Living the Canticle of the Creatures” in May 2027, I have read the Canticle of the Creatures aloud daily for the last few months while on my morning walk around Assisi. Often, something arises for me.

Several weeks ago, the phrase, “…who governs us…” would not leave me alone. But why? As I considered it, I found that it points to one root of our current ecological crisis, and also to part of our solution.

For context, The Canticle of the Creatures is the poem and hymn of praise penned by St. Francis of Assisi near the end of his life (provided in full at the end of this article). It expresses his cosmology in simple, yet compelling terms, which can act as both a guidepost and inspiration for our lives.

The Canticle is considered the earliest work of its kind in Italian, and according to Dante, was the first great Italian poem. More significantly, it speaks of the deep interconnectedness among humankind, all creation, and the Divine/Spirit/Great Creative Consciousness. It invites us into a way of inter-being, rooted in humility, gratitude and the acceptance of our humanity, offered through a vision of the world that is strikingly relevant today.

In light of recent global ecological events, it seems more urgent to listen to the wisdom of St. Francis. In the face of increasing disconnection from ourselves, one another, and the natural world, The Canticle of the Creatures shows us a different way to see and live. Instead of overt striving and competition for power and resources, St. Francis invites us into a life of gratitude and right relationship. He understood his true place within the great community of creation, and projects a vision of harmony that begins within us and extends to all of life.

Modern thinkers also support this realignment. Arne Naess, a pioneer of the Deep Ecology movement, argued that the illusion of separation between man and nature has detrimental effects on the planet and humanity itself. In her recent paper, The Overflowing Cosmos — the Poiesis of the Logos in the Canticle of Creatures of Francis of Assisi, Carla Canullo addresses Naess’ concern by citing philosopher Eugène Minkowski, who maintains that science has made man lose his place by making nature an ‘object.’ Minkowski suggests that poetry can repair the rupture between man and nature.

Let’s go back to the time of St. Francis, when nature was unknown to the extent we understand it today. Sister Mother Earth indeed set the pace through the seasons with times of rain, drought, heat, and cold. There was no getting around any of that in 1225. Sister Mother Earth did govern us.

Eight hundred years later, it seems we can get around almost everything. However, despite our modern understandings and machinations, the global ecology is becoming unrecognizable. Those who continually bend the Earth to their will, dismissing the inevitabilities brought by gross imbalance, have brought disastrous consequences upon us.

I am not suggesting we return to a medieval understanding. We have reaped so many benefits from our knowledge and technology.

However, from the early understanding of Sister Mother Earth as our “governor,” it seems we have gone to the opposite extreme. St. Francis did not know, in the same way we do now, the irrefutable precepts of science and vast intricacies of the global ecosystem, which govern us and our Sister Mother Earth. They are her operating principles, and ours.

With so much out of balance, how do we move forward? This is where The Canticle of the Creatures can be helpful as it speaks of differently balanced relationships, which are, I think, predecessors of ecological balance. The quality of our relationships are so often a determining factor in our decisions.

What we love, we protect. What we value, we preserve.

But love and value are attained through intimacy, and perhaps we have lost that sense of intimacy with our Sister Mother Earth by instead dominating her.

We feel separate. She seems “other.”

Authors Chris Hedges and Jim Palmer suggest that the process of “othering” is a precursor to violence. We know that “othering” results in segregation, persecution, internment, and/or death. In the same way, our estranged relationship with Mother Earth feeds attitudes and decisions that have brought her to this almost unrecognizable state.

St. Francis calls the Earth both sister and mother. The Canticle of the Creatures calls us back to a balanced relationship with Creation by reminding us that we are in kinship with nature, not above it. My hope is that if we reorient this relationship, we can better consider how to care for Creation.

Paul is a Spiritual Director, coach and retreat leader. His latest offering is “Care of Creation: Living the Canticle of the Creatures,” coming up in May 2027, Assisi, Italy, where he has lived the last five years. All retreat documents can be found here: Journeys to Assisi Documents. This link will take you outside Medium to Dropbox. If you have any question, please contact him at journeystoassisi@gmail.com.

Nancy Blackman, MASF mentioned something quite akin to my own sense of relationship with the world when she writes, “Sometimes healing begins when we remember that we aren’t separate from all of creation….We aren’t standing outside creation looking in. We are part of it.”

The healing I hope for can be fostered when we realize our integration with creation, and our integration is also our interdependence. Though it should not have to be said, Earth’s survival is also our own.

Day 9 — Let the Earth Restore You

Canticle of the Creatures
St. Francis of Assisi

1 Most High, all-powerful, good Lord, Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor, and all blessing.

To You alone, Most High, do they belong, and no man is worthy to mention Your name.

2 Praise be You, my Lord, with all your creatures, especially Sir Brother Sun, Who is the day and through whom you give us light. And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor, and bears a likeness of You, Most High One.

3 Praise be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars, in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.

4 Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind, and through the air, cloudy and serene, and every kind of weather through which You give sustenance to Your creatures.

5 Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.

6 Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom you light the night and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.

7 Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth, who sustains us and governs us and who produces varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

8 Praised be You, my Lord, through those who give pardon for Your love, and bear infirmity and tribulation. Blessed are those who endure in peace for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

9 Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whom no living man can escape. Woe to those who die in mortal sin. Blessed are those whom death will find in Your most holy will, for the second death shall do them no harm.

10 Praise and bless my Lord, and give Him thanks and serve Him with great humility.

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Mother To Us All was originally published in Refresh the Soul on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.