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Real Conversation

The mother and her child

seem to talk all day long,

and yet they do not really communicate with each other.

So when shopping is done or the laundry finished,

they leave the house, if only for ten minutes,

to "converse intimately for a while."

For them are provided the gentle shade of trees,

and an empty bench.

The most striking line in this poem is the reference to the act of "really communicating with each other." What did the poet mean by this? Why would "ordinary talk" not be considered "really communicating with each other?" Sitting on the bench under the tree, the mother and child no doubt speak, as always, of normal and ordinary things. And it's precisely in this the ordinary things of daily life as the theme of the conversation that their conversation is "real" and important. They speak of the most normal things, not great problems.

The picture appears to suggest a casual dialogue without any particular goal, when words are not even necessary. Herein lies the secret of a true "intimate conversing" not attached to any particular subject, but rather to the atmosphere that pervades it. "If only for ten minutes, they leave the house."

Ten minutes will suffice; in thus leaving the house some free time is created. Conversation under those conditions becomes truly "intimate." It is the joy of being together, not what is being said, that is precious. According to Takada, this togetherness is the soul of "intimate conversing." In other words, conversation is of itself sufficient in the measure that it is an expression of love. This is the "pure conversation" for which one reserves ten minutes of leisure. The etymological origin of the Japanese word hi-ma (leisure time) speaks of this reality. Hi signifies the sun or sunlight, and ma means a fissure, or a brief interval of space or time. As we read in a Japanese language dictionary, Daigenkai, leisure is the "fissure through which the ray of sunshine penetrates." Consequently, in our excessively active life we must reserve this free moment to allow the light of the sun to enter. And if we replace "the sun's light" by "God's light," this phrase can be directly applied to prayer. To pray is to make a place for God to enter our lives. Thoughts that invade our prayer or our meditation are probably no different from our regular thoughts, and we can expect to be troubled by even more trivial things. But the value of prayer cannot be judged by these momentary thoughts, however good or bad. If true conversation is "intimate conversing," an expression of love, it stimulates communication between loving persons. According to Teresa of Avila it is "an intimate sharing between friends; it means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us."(12)

Just as the mother and child must leave the house, even if only for a brief moment, to taste the joy of being alone together, in order to really pray amid life's numerous occupations precisely because they are so numerous the fissure must be opened to allow God's light to enter. This "intimate conversing" with God our Father is what is commonly called "mental prayer."

In dealing with mental prayer, theology distinguishes contemplation from meditation. Leaving this distinction aside, we can simply say that at the root of all true prayer is openness to the Other. Sen- no-Rikyu, a founder of the tea ceremony, used to say: "The tea ceremony is simply a matter of boiling water, pouring it on tea, and then drinking it."(13) In the same way one can say that prayer is simply losing oneself in God.