Reflections on a Proverbial Saying

Many years ago, when watching a movie at a theater with my wife, the
storyline peaked with the bitter and prolonged weeping of a man who
tragically lost his wife after only being with her for three years.
Throughout the movie, the man was the epitome of an English gentleman
being quite composed and always in control, as any Oxford scholar was
expected to be in that era. However, when it hit him that the love of
his life was gone forever, all the English protocol was abandoned and
the floodgates opened wide for him, and for me. I simply could not
contain my tears. A surge of contrasting emotions came over me. The
intense joy of celebrating the consummation of a life well lived
collided with the enormous heartbreak of this same life cut short. It
was simply too much to endure. It was as though I entered into his loss
when this array of emotions ran through me in ways I will likely never
forget.

When I glanced over at my wife, she sat there with head in hand,
donning a blank stare at the screen, with what looked like a desire for
the movie to end soon. I was stunned. I could hardly believe her casual
gaze. This is not to say my wife is an unfeeling person. Indeed, she
can feel in ways far broader and deeper than I ever will. Nevertheless,
in that theater at that moment, I was amazed this gripping scene did
not move her to tears. Later, I realized she was teaching me a very
important lesson about marriage, personal feelings, communication, and
life with others. In fact, what I learned was what the ancient Hebrew
writer meant when he wrote, “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and
no one else can share its joy” (Proverbs 14:10, NIV).

When someone says “I know how you feel,” it makes me a little uneasy
in a couple of ways. They usually mean well and try to offer comfort;
but c’mon...can anyone really “know how I feel?” On one level, I ask
“how does one ‘know’ a feeling?” I always thought you feel feelings and
know thoughts. Granted we can be aware of feelings, but can we really
“know” them as I know the NY Giants won the 42nd Super Bowl? After all,
I didn’t “feel” like the Giants would win given their opponents’
perfect record for the season.

On another level, and perhaps one that most share, I wonder, “Can
you really understand what I’m feeling?” After all, you’re not me. I’m
me and you’re you. You may have things happen to you that are similar
to things that happen to me, but you cannot really know how I feel
because I’m me and you’re you, and we are not the same.

I can feel sad and you can feel sad about the same event, but your
sadness may run deeper than mine. I could be reflecting on the plight
of a 19th century common European farmer as I gaze at a Van Gogh
painting, while you are waiting to move on to the next frame on the
wall. You may be soaring the heights of emotion as you cheer for the
Giants’ winning touchdown, while I am just wishing the power would go
out on the television! The fact remains, I’m me and you’re you, and we
are not the same.

Even if we experienced the same event, such as taking in a majestic
Arizona sunset while sipping on a beautiful cabernet sauvignon, we
still have our own unique reactions. You see, you can apprehend my
feelings but you cannot comprehend them. You may approximate my
feelings by comparing them with your own, but you cannot participate in
my feelings as I do. After all, you’re not me; I’m not you. We are not
the same.

I suspect this is close to what the writer was getting at when he
penned the proverb “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one
else can share its joy.” We carry angst in ways peculiar to us and no
single heart shares the same degree of delight with another.

Still I wonder. Is the old writer saying something more? Is he is
saying something to me about me? Is he giving me a kind of permission —
the permission to have a private life where no one can or should enter?
Perhaps he’s saying it’s okay for me to have my feelings and for you to
have yours. Maybe it’s okay for you to enjoy the privacy of your own
emotions without my “profound” insights breaking into your solitude.
Maybe it's okay for me to return the favor to myself and find some
solace in my own soliloquy. After all, “Each heart knows its own
bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.”

Upon further reflection, I wonder if the old writer is saying
something to you about me or to me about you. Maybe our sage is giving
us not only permission but also a kind of release from the burden of
feeling like we have to “know how the other feels.” Since I cannot
enter fully into your joy or you into my pain, I am set free from the
tyrannical yet tacit rule of having to “know how you feel.” That you
don’t have to encroach upon my inner life allows me the opportunity to
feel my feelings and you are released from “knowing how I feel.”
Consequently, you are then free to have your own feelings and I am
released from having to know how you feel. Put differently, maybe it is
enough for me to respect your quiet sanctuary and entrust you with you.

Even if I could articulate my feelings to you, my words would be a
meager estimate because we may use the same vocabulary, but we don’t
always use the same dictionary. I suspect, too, that my words about my
feelings will fall short of capturing the full gamut of all that is
going on within my heart. As Blaisé Pascal once said, “The heart has
its reasons of which reason knows nothing.”

I think too that the release we are given and permission we are
granted to leave each other alone with ourselves does not necessarily
mean that we are alone. You see, many times your sheer wordless
presence can provide sufficient comfort and satisfaction. Clearly, this
relationship of “being with me” does not have a geographical
requirement. After all, my dear wife is spiritually present with me
wherever I am, though not always spatially present to me. Unlike Job’s
three friends who pretended to “help” with their constant counsel and
spatial presence, our being present to the other in silence or present
with the other in spirit can provide all the support necessary for the
moment. Since you are with me, then I am with you, and so we are
together and not alone. Nevertheless, we are still our own. Uniquely
you; distinctly me. Privately public, yet publicly private.

I’m relieved to know that I don’t have to know how you feel. I hope
you are relieved to know this for me. I’m relieved to know that I don’t
need therapy because I can’t empathize in ways that are genuinely
impossible. I’m relieved to know that I can be with my wife when she is
feeling and that your being with me when I’m feeling is not only
satisfying but sufficient. Whether spatially or spiritually, we are
always separate, yet always together. I may be alone by myself, but
never alone with myself because your perennial presence comforts me.

As for that day in the theater when you shed no tears, I can only
express a huge sense of gratitude and deep appreciation for the lesson
you taught me. Though I was stunned for the moment at your seeming lack
of emotion, an important lesson was learned for our marriage, for our
communication, and for living life with others. Thank you, Dear, for
granting me the space to learn and the grace to feel. Though for me the
wheels of wisdom often seem to grind at a snail’s pace, I’m gradually
but certainly learning to appreciate that “Each heart knows its own
bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.”

Selah!