When We Dare to Truly See Another
There are moments in life when we are summoned—not by loud voices or striking signs—but by the quiet ache of presence. One of the most profound of these moments is when we stand before another human soul in their fragility. Not the curated version of them, not the surface smiles or confident postures—but the trembling, unguarded truth of their being. Perhaps they are in grief. Perhaps wearied by life’s turning tides. Perhaps unsure if they are still lovable, still seen.
And when we, in response, dare to slow down—to still the noise of our own minds and offer the vast, gentle space of our seeing—something ancient awakens in us. Something primal and holy, as if the very memory of the soul is stirred.
In the Celtic tradition, there was a reverence for the sacredness of the threshold—those in-between spaces where one world met another: dusk and dawn, land and sea, birth and death, seen and unseen. To behold another in their vulnerability is to enter such a threshold. It is to stand, heart open, at the meeting place between their sorrow and your compassion. And in this meeting, we begin to remember ourselves—not the self made of striving and image, but the deep self, the soul we were before the world told us who to be.
"Ár n-anam féin a chlaoigh muid"
It is our own soul we bend when we fail to honour another.
When we look with eyes softened by love, not judgment, we remember that we too are woven of light and trembling. The person before us is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be honoured. And in them, we see echoes of our own journey: our falterings, our quiet prayers, our own longings to be held in tenderness.
There is an old Irish blessing that says,
"Go bhféachfaidh tú le trócaire agus le tuiscint."
May you look with mercy and understanding.
Such looking is an act of grace. Not everyone is ready to be seen. And not every gaze is safe. But when we offer a presence that does not pierce or invade, but simply rests beside—then a door opens. We give someone the gift of being real. And we, too, are given a gift: we remember that compassion is not something we achieve, but something we are.
The ancient Celts believed the soul shone through the face and eyes. That in seeing another soul, we could glimpse the eternal within the temporal. To pause and behold someone with reverence is to light a candle in the darkness—not only for them, but for ourselves. The light of such moments does not burn; it heals. It reminds us that our belonging does not come from perfection, but from presence.
And so, the invitation remains: when you find yourself before someone—especially someone bowed by sorrow or silent pain—resist the urge to look away. Slow your breath. Quiet your thoughts. Let your heart be a vessel, not of answers, but of listening.
"Anamcara," the ancient Celts would say—“soul friend.”
The one who sees not the mask, but the soul behind the eyes.
The one who walks beside another, not to lead or follow, but to accompany.
In a world so hungry for pace and performance, it is a radical act to simply be with another, gently, quietly, with no need to fix. It is here, in these sacred pauses, that the soul is invited home.
And perhaps this is how we begin to remember who we are—not through achievement or acclaim, but through love offered in the raw, unguarded hours. When we see another clearly, in their fragility and fullness, we remember that we, too, are a flicker of sacred light—brief, precious, and bound to all others by a thread too mysterious for words, yet felt by every true heart.
"Ní neart go cur le chéile."
There is no strength without unity.
May we remember this.
May we live as soul friends to one another.
And may we always dare to truly see.
BLESSING from my heart to yours
Dear Friend,
May you be blessed with the rare gift of presence—the kind that does not hurry past the surface of things, but lingers long enough to witness the quiet truth that lives beneath.
May your eyes be gentle, not only in how they behold others, but in how they behold your own soul. And when someone stands before you in their hour of fragility, may you not turn away, but draw nearer with the reverence such tenderness deserves.
May you recognize that to truly see another is to cross a sacred threshold—to step for a moment into their world, not to fix or explain, but simply to accompany. And in that silent companionship, may something ancient awaken in you: the knowing that every soul is held together by longing, by sorrow, and by the deep, enduring ache for love.
May your presence be a quiet shelter for those who feel exposed by life. May your listening be a balm, not made of answers, but of understanding. And in giving this gift to others, may you come to know how deeply it lives in you.
May the grace of stillness find you often, softening the noise of the world so that you might remember: we are never truly strangers to one another—only souls who have not yet been seen with the full light of love.
And may you walk this life with the blessing of clear sight—the kind that knows how to honor brokenness, how to recognize beauty in its rawest form, and how to meet another in their truth without fear, but with kindness that comes from the deep well of your own becoming.
I love You,
Alma
