The world has become a busy and particularly noisy place. Even if we live in remoter, ‘rural’ areas, access to quiet contemplation is often hampered by the rumble of planes, or the grinding screech of power tools on an otherwise sleepy Sunday afternoon. However, although it is tempting to do so, the intention of this article is not to bemoan the abundance of noise, but instead to think about the value of what I call ‘relational presence’ as an antidote.
What is relational presence? When we are in silence with another person, if we can allow ourselves to get beyond the initial anxiety of experiencing its lack of mental or emotional stimulus as an impingement, relational presence can become a means of reverie, contemplation, and a deepening of one’s connection to one’s own thoughts. Relational presence does not necessarily have to include the physical presence of the other: when we are in the midst of a day-dreaming reverie for example, we may think about someone of whom we are fond, and in doing so, this brings us comfort. The person may be far away, or perhaps no longer even alive, but in our reverie we are brought closer to them, and, at some level, we feel that the experience is intimately shared.
I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen a stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. But I know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave light of the old staircase, and wait for us, above, I thought of that window; and I associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield ever afterwards.
Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
In this beautifully poignant piece of writing, the stained glass window becomes animated through the ‘tranquil brightness’ of David’s love; it is the emotional content of the memory of Agnes which brings what William Blake calls the ‘divine image’ into being. Perhaps one might say that David’s love for Agnes is what brings him closer to the divine image, and as we have seen with experiences of the numinous, the sacred is very much part of our emotional lives, and it is through our emotions that we can reach it.
Of course we are often most aware of the value of relational presence when it is no longer there: we do not know what we’ve got until it’s gone. This loss of relational presence is depicted in Christopher Isherwood’s A Single Man with great sensitivity, where its protagonist George must come to terms with the loss of his beloved partner, Jim.
Only after a few instances does George notice the omission which makes it meaningless. What is left out of the picture is Jim, lying opposite him at the other end of the couch, also reading; the two of them absorbed in their books yet so completely aware of each other’s presence.
I first read A Single Man thirty years ago, yet the very particular affective nature of this short passage and the experience of being ‘absorbed’ into one’s own imagination whilst maintaining an emotional awareness of a loved one has stayed with me; it is such a moving and profound example of gentle and tender intimacy, and a deep expression of love. Indeed, it is this emotional tenderness which not only becomes a means of emotionally holding the other, but clears the way to the imaginal; the safety to explore one’s inner world stems from relational presence, and a closer relationship to the inner world of the imaginal can only enrich our relationship to the outer world. Relational presence is unconditional; nothing is expected of the other, though like George, one would feel a deep loss should they no longer be able to have an embodied experience of their loved one’s presence. After all, in the midst of grief, the memory is but a shadow.
Despite the emphasis placed upon quiet at the beginning of this article, this by no means excludes conversation as part of relational presence; in fact it is a very important aspect of it. However, the conversation of relational presence has a particular quality to it that is distinct from ‘having a chat’. First of all, there is little impulse to hasten to fill the spaces between words that are exchanged; pauses are mutually understood as parts of a relational tapestry, a lunar equivalent to the solar of words, one might say. Pauses are paths which pave the way to shared contemplation; they are invitations to dream together, perhaps of shared memories which neither party has thought about for many years. The mutual dreaming of the memory brings it to life once again, and, as with David Copperfield’s stained glass window, its colours are painted with the palette of a shared emotional response; feelings of fondness, nostalgia, wonder, dread, regret, or sorrow.
If we are fortunate, our earliest experiences of relational presence are those we cannot remember; of being cared for and treasured. As we grow up, we - hopefully - then begin to form memorable experiences of being cherished and cared for. These memories often take place in very ordinary ways, and such care is not usually part of a ‘big gesture’, yet we feel profoundly safe and loved in those moments. There is an important temporal aspect to these experiences too, because when we feel loved and cared for, we are then saved from an awareness of the ephemeral nature of these precious times, especially when we are still children; when we feel loved in this way it is as if we are held in the arms of eternity. As William Blake put it, ‘If a thing loves, it is infinite’.
Thank you for reading.
The next article in the series considers the way in which we relate to our early experiences of love and care later in life, particularly if we have suffered childhoods where care has been absent. I also consider the way that the loss of relational presence is portrayed in literature, with particular regard to examples from romantic, gothic, and decadent texts. I conclude the series by thinking about relational presence and its relation to the numinous.