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Jim McCrory

When There's Tension in the Room: Some Thoughts on Empaths

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:32


And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him

Micah 4:4



Image generated with the assistance of copilot


There’s a moment when the atmosphere shifts—subtle to most, but unmistakable to me. The air thickens, emotions fill the space, and I feel them as if they’re my own. Unspoken words hang like storm clouds, simmering frustrations quietly churn, and the German word Weltschmerz—the pain of the world—takes hold.

This is life as an empath.

For those of us with finely tuned emotional senses, we don’t just witness others' feelings; we absorb them. When tension fills the room, it engulfs me before anyone speaks. My instinctive reaction is to withdraw, to escape the invisible burden pressing down. For years, I thought this response was something to suppress, but I’ve come to understand it’s a core part of who I am.

Yet, being an empath is often misunderstood. In religious settings, where compassion should prevail, I’ve frequently encountered the dismissive phrase, “You’re too sensitive.” This form of gaslighting dismisses genuine emotional awareness as a flaw rather than recognizing its value. Bible principles are sometimes misapplied, used to invalidate emotions rather than support them, as if being attuned to others' pain is a stumbling block rather than an opportunity for deeper connection.

Sensitivity is both a gift and a challenge. It allows me to connect with people in profound ways, feeling their joys, sorrows, and fears—even when they try to hide them. But that same sensitivity makes me vulnerable to discord. When tensions rise, I bear the brunt of emotional turbulence—whether it’s anger, frustration, or resentment.

I’ve learned to respect the need to step away—not to abandon others, but to protect myself. There’s no shame in leaving an emotionally charged room to regain balance. Staying in such an environment only drains my strength. Sensitivity, while a strength, can become overwhelming when exposed to too much negativity.

For a long time, I envied those who seemed untouched by tension, able to brush off conflict or remain indifferent. But I’ve come to accept that my sensitivity is part of who I am. It enables me to offer comfort when it’s needed most or to understand someone’s pain without them having to speak.

I no longer apologize for who I am. Sensitivity isn’t a defect; it’s a way of seeing the world more clearly. Walking out of a room full of tension isn’t about avoiding people—it’s about restoring my peace so I can continue offering empathy in a world that so often needs it. In this broken world, only God’s future Kingdom will bring the ultimate restoration. Thy Kingdom come.


 

 

And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him,

For the mouth of Jehovah of Hosts has spoken.

Micah 4:4


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Jim McCrory

All Books Inform Us We Are Wired For Happiness

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 11 Oct 2024, 12:08

But they will each sit under their own own vines and fig trees,

and no one will make them afraid again... Micah 4:4 


Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@hitoshi_suzuki


That day, when I woke up in a drawer surrounded by strangers, something fundamental shifted in my life—though, at three months old, I couldn’t yet grasp it. These four figures, staring down at me with expressions I was too young to understand, would become my family. There was a bustling street below—Govan, in the heart of Glasgow’s shipbuilding industry. The clang of riveters, the sharp percussion of hammers, and the acrid, nervous hiss of welding torches biting into steel all filtered into the room, sounds that were constant companions to my early years.

We lived on the third floor tenement in the late 1950s. The tenement buildings huddled together, creating a skyline of flat, grey facades, heavy with grime. The windows were small, allowing little natural light into rooms that seemed perpetually draped in a twilight haze. I can still picture the narrow streets below, choked with mongrel dogs and littered with rubbish, the kind of setting where rats didn’t need an invitation to scavenge through the nightly detritus. This was Govan—a place where money was always tight, and laughter, though it existed, seemed more a defence mechanism than genuine joy.

 For a long time, I thought my character had been shaped by growing up in that hard-scrabble environment, where the shipyards dominated life, and working-class men loitered around corners with the world-worn faces of T.S. Lowry characters. Govan wasn’t just a place of razor gangs, moneylenders, and pubs on every corner; it was a place where survival was woven into the very fabric of existence. But there was something deeper that had begun shaping me even before I could fully understand it.

 My new father, the man who took me into that household, was a storyteller like no other. In the evenings, as dusk settled over the shipyard town, he’d step quietly into my room and begin to spin tales from Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, or Huckleberry Finn. His voice carried me far beyond the grim streets of Govan, to places and characters that became more than stories—they became reflections of life. I’ve often wondered whether it was his own empathy that pulled him toward these tales of orphans and outsiders, children adrift in the world, much like I must have seemed to him.

 Memory has a way of distorting things, and sometimes my recollections of him feel like they’ve been blurred at the edges, caught up in the fluid tides of time. But the stories—those I remember with startling clarity. They were as real to me as the streets of Govan, and just as vivid as the constant stench of the shipyards and the distant hammering echoing through the town.

 Through those books, I encountered people like me. Characters who taught me resilience, kindness, and a certain nobility that I wanted to live up to but didn’t always succeed in embodying. They were my first friends, the ones who planted the seeds of values that would shape who I would become, and who I would sometimes fail to be. They opened up a world beyond the hard boundaries of my everyday life and, in their way, they became a part of my personal foundation, something that started long before I knew how to give it a name.

As I grew older, I began to ponder the nature of the stories my father shared with me. Most of them had one thing in common: a happy ending. No matter how dire the circumstances, how bleak the path the characters tread, there was always some resolution that offered redemption, hope, or peace. I found myself deeply affected by this pattern, not just because I longed for the same sense of closure in my own life, but because of what these endings seemed to suggest about life itself.

 In books, happy endings often feel inevitable, as though the struggles of the characters, no matter how excruciating, were leading them toward some grand resolution. And while Govan’s grim streets and the hardships of daily life often seemed to offer the opposite message, I began to wonder if the happy endings in those books pointed to a deeper truth. Could it be that, in the grand scheme of things, we are born not for suffering, but for joy? That beyond the daily grind, there exists some larger purpose—something that assures us that all our trials will one day resolve into a peaceful whole?

 This idea took root in my mind, as if the happy endings I read about were small, quiet whispers from eternity, suggesting that our lives, too, have a destination far brighter than the one we might imagine from where we stand. It was more than just wishful thinking; it felt like a truth embedded in the very fabric of those stories. If a Dickensian orphan could find love and family, if Huck Finn could break free from the chains of his broken world, perhaps these stories were a reflection of a larger reality—the idea that our struggles, our pain, are not final destinations but stepping stones toward something greater.

 Philosophically, it seemed impossible to ignore the idea that these stories, with their inevitable arcs toward happiness, might mirror something we inherently know to be true about the human condition. We crave resolution, peace, and joy because, deep down, we sense that we were made for it. Even in our darkest moments, there is an inexplicable pull towards something better, as if our hearts remember a world we’ve never seen but long for.

In this light, the happy endings in books are not mere fiction; they are echoes of a reality we are destined for. It’s as if the human spirit, despite its many wounds and hardships, carries within it a seed of hope that cannot be extinguished. That perhaps, in the grandest scheme, we were born to experience something far more beautiful than the harsh realities of our everyday lives. And if that’s true—if we are destined for joy—then the painful, broken moments we experience now are not signs of failure, but rather, part of the journey toward a final, unshakable happiness.

Perhaps that is why those stories stayed with me, shaping my thinking more deeply than I ever realized at the time. They told me, in ways that the world around me could not, that there was a reason to hope. And in a place like Govan, where hope sometimes felt in short supply, that belief was nothing short of a lifeline.

But they will each sit under their own own vines and fig trees,

and no one will make them afraid again... Micah 4:4 


Scripture taken from The Voice™. Copyright © 2012 by Ecclesia Bible Society. Used by permission. All rights reserved.




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Jim McCrory

Good Morning Mexico: I love that word Sobremesa

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 9 Oct 2024, 14:18

The psychologist leaned in slightly and asked, “What’s the capital of Scotland?”

“Edinburgh, of course,” he replied.

His next question caught him off guard: “And when was the last time you shared a meal with friends?”

Suddenly, a warm reel of memories began to play in his mind—a slow, cosy film where laughter mingled with the scent of food, and time seemed to stretch in the glow of shared company.

On What it Means to Be Human — Jim McCrory



 Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@yvonnemorgun


But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; 

and none shall make them afraid:

 for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.

Micah 4:4 (KJB)




Sobremesa: The Art of Lingering in a Fast-Paced World

 

In a world that glorifies speed and productivity, where our days are measured in schedules and deadlines, the Mexican tradition of sobremesastands out like a quiet rebellion. It’s a word I didn’t grow up with, but one that resonates deeply with the quieter rhythms of life I’ve come to cherish over time. Sobremesa is not just the time spent at the table after the meal is finished, but the celebration of togetherness, the shared moments that linger long after the last bite has been taken.

Growing up in Glasgow, meals were often practical affairs. The city moved to the rhythm of its shipyards and industries, and meals mirrored that pace. Food, in my childhood home, was sustenance—something to keep the body going before the next task. Yet, tucked into those hurried moments were the seeds of something slower, something closer to sobremesa. There were nights when conversation stretched long after the plates had been cleared, and I would find myself drawn into the world of my parents’ memories, stories of their childhoods, and the hardships and joys that shaped them. I didn’t know it then, but those moments—the laughter, the sighs, the comfortable silences—were fragments of what sobremesa embodies.

It wasn’t until later in life that I experienced a more intentional version of this tradition. My wife and I began to cherish slow Sunday afternoons, particularly when visiting friends. We would linger over cups of tea, talking about everything and nothing, as time seemed to slow to a comfortable crawl. The conversation wasn’t about achieving something or checking off a task; it was about presence, connection, and the shared human experience. In those moments, I realized that the space after the meal—the sobremesa—was just as nourishing as the food itself.

 

And here’s the beautiful thing: no matter how often we gathered, no matter how many times we shared those meals, we never tired of it. There was always something new to discuss, some story to revisit or some laughter to be had. It was as if these moments with loved ones, this time spent together after the meal, was something infinite in its appeal. I suspect that even if we lived forever, we would never tire of sitting down to a meal with family and friends. The act itself, like sobremesa, never grows old because it taps into something eternal—our deep need for connection, for communion with others.

There is something almost sacred about this time. In a world where so much is transactional, sobremesa asks nothing of us but our presence. It invites us to be, rather than do. To share, rather than compete. In this space, stories are passed on, wisdom is exchanged, and relationships deepen. It’s a practice that reminds me of the spiritual dimensions of community—the importance of staying a little longer, of listening a little more carefully, of allowing time to unfold naturally without rushing to the next thing.

As I reflect on this, I think about how much we lose when we hurry through life. In the push for efficiency, we forget the richness of connection, the joy of simply being with others. Sobremesa offers us an antidote to this, a reminder that some of the most meaningful moments happen when we let go of the need to be somewhere else.

Perhaps that’s why sobremesa feels so timely and timeless to me. In a culture often focused on what’s next, it offers the gift of now. It’s an invitation to linger, to engage in the deep human need for connection. And in a world where so many are isolated, where divisions grow wider, sobremesa reminds us that the simple act of sitting together, of sharing a moment, can be one of the most profound ways to foster community.

It is in the lingering that we find meaning, in the small, unhurried moments that reveal the fullness of our shared humanity. In those extended conversations after a meal, we are reminded that we were never meant to go through life alone, but in communion with others—whether over coffee, or tea, or something as simple as the warmth of another person’s presence.

And maybe, just maybe, the world could use a little more sobremesa. Because if we were made to live forever, we’d still look forward to those meals, still find joy in the company of those we love, still cherish the conversations that flow long after the last bite is taken. Some things, it seems, are timeless.






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