Guided Meditation on Forgiveness

In today’s political climate, family gatherings can be even more stressful than usual. Our divides may loom just around the corner, threatening to dredge up old wounds or derail a holiday meal. 

With all of this in mind, I wanted to offer some practices for holiday conversations. With some preparation and effort, we can stay kind and grounded regardless of what comes up, and even increase the chances of enjoying our time together. 

1. Set Your Intention 

Setting an intention is like having a North Star: whatever happens, keep returning to that inner compass. How do you want to show up this year?

Some helpful intentions include being curious, kind, relaxed, and focused on the good in others.  

One holiday, a relative picked me up from the airport. I could feel my irritation rising as they spoke loudly, interrupted me, and drove aggressively. I took some quiet breaths, saying silently “patience, patience…” until the wave passed.

To receive the steady support of your intention, reflect on it beforehand. Choose a word or phrase, then pair it with an image. If your intention is to be flexible, you might picture a river flowing around stones. For patience, I imagine an ancient Redwood. Close your eyes, picture that image, and feel its strength in your heart. During the gathering, recall it as often as you need.  

2. Know Your Limits

We all probably know that awful experience of being frozen, swallowing our emotions, and later feeling small, ashamed, or angry. It takes courage to face long-standing family dynamics and try something different. 

Yet if we’re clear about what we are and aren’t willing to discuss, it’s easier to relax without continually recalibrating our boundaries.

Maybe you don’t want to spend the holidays arguing about war, politics, or the ecological crisis. You may do enough of that already, or know it’s not fruitful with certain relatives. On the other hand, you may be equally clear about confronting comments that land as racist, antisemitic, Islamophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, and more. 

Consider what might come up. Which fault lines are most likely to emerge? Then, what’s most important to you in how you respond? A skillful response aligns with your values while honoring the other person’s humanity. We can stand up for what matters and still tend to the relationship.

Memorize a few phrases to defuse a tense moment, set a limit, or gracefully change the subject. Here are some examples you can adjust to your voice:

• “I need a moment to think about how to respond to that.”

• “I don’t think you intended it this way, but that comment could fuel harm. I want everyone to be seen for who they are, rather than making assumptions or stereotypes.”

• “It sounds like this really matters to you. Can we take turns trying to understand each other’s views for a few minutes before debating?” 

• “I think we see this issue differently, and that’s okay. Let's focus on enjoying our time together. Could we talk about _____ instead?”

• “This is getting a bit heated for me. I’m going to take a short break and come back in a few minutes.” 

3. Ask Real Questions and Listen Better

Coming prepared with a few meaningful questions can help draw out the good in others. For example: what brings you joy these days? What’s something you did for fun recently? How are you staying balanced with all that’s happening in our world? What’s an important lesson you learned this year?

When you ask, really listen. Get curious and listen for what matters underneath. Can you connect with something they care about? 

4. Make Space for Everyone

It’s not uncommon for a few individuals to dominate a conversation. We can break out of this pattern by adding a little structure so everyone can be heard.

You might invite each person take a turn sharing something they’re grateful for, or one thing that touched them this year, while others listen. Or, invite people to share something about themselves that others don’t know. Playing a game can also shift the focus and interrupt old habits.

For heated topics, propose some agreements for how to have the conversation. Could you each agree to listen with an open mind, seeking to understand each point before arguing? Is there someone who can moderate? Do you want to set a timer and take turns speaking? How will you handle defensiveness or over-activation?

When sharing something that matters to you, link it to a personal story. Stories create connection and pave the way for more meaningful conversations down the road. 

5.  Recall How Briefly We Are Here

Everything passes, the beautiful moments and the excruciating ones alike. Since losing my dad, I often look back at our messy family gatherings with some nostalgia. Knowing life that life is a stream of endless change—that this too will soon be a memory—helps us cherish the sweet moments and bear the hard ones gracefully.

So, use the tools you have to stay present and grounded: feel your breathing or your feet on the ground, bring something soothing to hold in your pocket, or quietly clasp one hand in the other. Above all, have compassion for yourself, which can go a long way toward easing any heaviness. 

I hope this is helpful, and wish you and your community a safe, happy, healthy holiday season.

News & Upcoming Events

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Keynote Address at Washington University of St. Louis
October, 2025

One of the blessings of parenting small children is the daily invitation to slow down and rediscover the magic of life. Exploring a stone or pondering a simple question—“Where does the sun go at night?”—the eyes of a small human can reawaken our capacity for wonder, that natural state of openness and awe, deep connection and amazement.

Far from a naïve luxury, wonder is an indispensable tonic for the heart in uncertain times—a well of vitality that sustains us. In a world where headlines often pull us toward fear, anger, or fatigue, wonder reminds us that there is goodness and beauty worth tending.

Seeing Anew

The world is filled with wonder. Look deeply into anything—a glass of water, a pebble, your own body or mind—and it reveals the miracle of existence. Water falls from the sky. Flowers bloom, birds sing, mushrooms erupt overnight.

Think of the last time something stopped you—the smell of the first rain, an oak blazing with autumn color, the harvest moon rising. Words fall away; the eyes widen, the jaw relaxes, and the dullness of habit dissolves.

Wonder uplifts us. Born of presence, it connects us to joy and gratitude and guides us toward intimacy with life.

It also humbles us. For wonder places our sense of self in a broader context, reminding us that we are each part of something vast. In a flash, our view expands, and a profound sense of belonging can arise—knowing our life as one unique piece of a greater whole.

This brings reverence. It affirms that simply being here is a blessing. Wonder doesn’t erase our hardships, but it situates them in a wider field of beauty and meaning.

Rekindling Wonder

This awareness is always available, yet it can be challenging to live from it. So many forces pull us away: disconnection from the land, obsession with productivity, constant screens and stimulation, a culture that privileges intellect over intuition. The pace of life leaves little room to slow down, rest or open.

Certain conditions help—physical and emotional safety, rest, nourishment, unstructured time. These aren’t required for wonder, but they’re deeply supportive. When our basic needs are met, our hearts are freer to touch wonder.

Wonder doesn’t depend on novelty or youth. It’s not something to chase or grasp intellectually. It’s about the quality of our attention. Through presence, we rekindle it. With age and perspective, our capacity for wonder may even deepen.

Wonder, Grief, and Renewal

Yet receiving wonder—especially through the natural world—often calls up grief. Our love for the earth connects us to the sorrow of its suffering. Perhaps this is one reason we resist slowing down: we sense that if we truly let ourselves open to the beauty of being alive, we’ll also touch the heartbreak of what’s been lost and what continues to be destroyed.

This pain can feel overwhelming. That’s why we need resources like compassion, courage, forgiveness, and community—to help hold the heartbreak that accompanies wonder today. Joanna Macy called this The Work That Reconnects, moving through heartbreak into empowerment and aliveness. Wonder and grief meet in the depth of our spirit. Only by staying connected to wonder and love can we bear the pain of loss and act with integrity.

I often think of those who, even amid incomprehensible suffering, still found room for wonder. Etty Hillesum, writing before her death in Auschwitz, said: “Despite everything, life is full of beauty and meaning.” Or the Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha, who wrote, “When you open my ear, touch it gently. My mother’s voice lingers somewhere inside.” 

These words stop the mind. They remind us that the capacity for wonder is not dependent on circumstance. It lives right here in our hearts—a doorway to mystery that reawakens our kinship with life.

Step outside or look up. Feel the aliveness of the air—the clouds moving, the wind. Any ordinary moment can become extraordinary. 

The Call to Remember

What if wonder were not just a pleasant feeling, but a calling—to recollect our interdependence, our belonging, and the sacredness of what we’ve been given? In this way, wonder becomes both a spiritual and an ethical capacity—a way of perceiving that guides how we live and care for the world. Then our work flows naturally out of compassion, just as the right hand instinctively reaches to soothe the left. 

So I invite you to explore: what’s one place you can slow down and be available to wonder? Can you pause long enough to look deeply at a tree, a glass of water, a piece of fruit—and really see it as if for the first time? 

Cultivate what the Zen tradition calls beginner’s mind. Put everything else down and come to the moment fresh.

May you rediscover the magic of our world, and may your work be fueled by love.

These reflections are based on recent teachings at my weekly group, Clear Dharma Sangha. Drop in here for a session any time.

News & Upcoming Events

• In case you missed it: last chance to get $50 off and a free book when you register for the Say What You Mean online course by the end of the month.

• Join me for a free online event, Mindfulness and the Crisis of Belonging: Finding Our Ground in a Divided World. October 31st, 10 a.m. PT through Washington University of St. Louis.

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Whether you’re caregiving, working on a team, teaching a class, or organizing in your community, you probably know this terrain: conversations unravel fast, and steadiness matters. Wider political, economic, and environmental stresses only heighten the pressure.

How many of us receive training in how to build real understanding? We learn math and history, but not how to navigate disagreements or ask for what we need without blame. That gap shows up everywhere: the argument that goes in circles, workplace tension that festers, the tiff with a loved one that leaves us shut down.

Communication is hard—and it’s essential.

It shapes how we show up in love, in conflict, in community. In today’s world, the way we communicate matters more than ever. Our words can add to the chaos, or build bridges of dignity, clarity, and care.

The good news is, the tools are within our reach. With training, we can change the course of our conversations—and sometimes our lives. As we listen more deeply and speak more clearly, connection grows. We find our ground, even when the stakes are high.

Sometimes, that means being able to say:

“We see this differently, and I still care about you.”
“I’m struggling to understand, and I want to keep trying.”
"I'm opposed to what you're saying, and I still want what's best for you."

A Special Invitation: $50 off + win a free book

Join me this fall for the Say What You Mean online course series.

People consistently share that my Say What You Mean online courses have been life-changing. If you’re seeking meaningful change, learning to communicate more effectively is one of the most potent things you can do. (Already taken the course? Brush up on your skills with a group coaching session.)

Through video teachings, guided practices, and live group Q&A sessions, I’ll guide you step by step to bring these tools into your life. You’ll learn how to:

• Stay focused on what matters in any interaction

• Listen beneath the surface for deeper concerns

• Reduce anxiety in difficult conversations

• Express yourself more clearly and effectively

Enroll by October 31 to receive $50 off any course—and get a free signed copy of one of my books or Marshall Rosenberg’s classic Nonviolent Communication. We're giving away over 100 books—while supplies last.

I’ve seen again and again how small changes in our communication ripple out. Words matter. With practice, they can build bridges of understanding in a world where so much is pushing us apart.

I hope you’ll join me.

Today the news churns as we face real threats—ecological unraveling, violence, authoritarianism and humanitarian crises. Balance is hard to come by. And still, goodness persists: the morning sun on the kitchen table; a neighbor checking in; the moon bathing us all in its silver light.

Both are here: chaos and wonder, anguish and delight. 

As a parent of little ones, I feel the weight of this acutely—the grief of my children one day awakening to the climate crisis, hunger, war. That ache lives alongside their joy and laughter. It catches in my throat and sits heavy in my chest.

If you’re tired, scared, or heartbroken, you’re not alone. Wherever you stand, however you understand the causes of—and responses to—suffering in our world, our paths are intertwined. Our thriving depends on one another.

I don’t know how we’ll solve all of this, but I do know it starts with finding some ground within. How do we keep our hearts open and balanced when so much is out of our hands?   

Stepping Back

When stability crumbles, we often swing toward extremes: panic or freeze. We speed up in a frenzy or shut down.

Our practice can help us thread the needle between these reactions. First, we make room for however we feel. There’s no “right” way to respond. Shock, fear, anger, grief, even numbness—all are legitimate, human.

Then, practice can return us to what matters—truth, goodness, connection—and to small, concrete acts that nourish one another and move toward the world we want to create.

Rooted Perspective

I also find myself returning to Buddhist teachings on equanimity—wise, balanced perspective—and to that image of a tree.

Equanimity isn’t indifference, apathy, or withdrawal. It doesn’t mean we stop feeling or surrender to the magnetic pull of despair. Equanimity is a sacred capacity for staying present—especially in the face of suffering. Like the keel of a ship in rough seas, equanimity steadies us. 

At once spacious and intimate, equanimity widens our view and plants our feet. It lets us look upon the turbulence of this moment and see not only chaos, but the unfolding of countless causes and conditions—personal and structural, immediate and historical. Empires rise and fall, wars come and go. Seeing these tectonic movements doesn’t excuse harm or minimize suffering. It softens our hearts, reminding us that this, too, is the way of the world.

In my own practice, equanimity grounds me and helps me meet what is actually happening. “Here we are. I feel so sad that all of this is happening. And right now, this is the world we live in.” Turning toward what is opens the door to the next clear step.

The Poise to Act Wisely

Equanimity isn’t passive. It brings us into direct relationship with this moment and helps us stand firm, even when it’s hard to know what to do. Whether facing helplessness with a family member or despair over the headlines, it lets us enter the unknown with an even heart—more empowered, less afraid.

It also frees us from two illusions: that we can fix everything, or that nothing we do matters. Instead, we recognize both the limits of our control and the possibilities for change. 

From there, equanimity clears the way for vision and action. We recall that countless people are working for change, and that the future is not written. John Paul Lederach writes, “Moral imagination is the capacity to imagine something rooted in the challenge of the real world yet capable of giving birth to that which does not yet exist.” 

As we work together, equanimity sustains us by loosening our fixation on results. It enables us to keep showing up without burning out. We can act wholeheartedly—helping a loved one, doing our best to right the ship—while releasing what we cannot control. Christian mystic Thomas Merton taught, “Concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of what you do for itself.”

Equanimity doesn’t mean turning away from Gaza, from Sudan, from climate breakdown, or from violence in our communities. It steadies us to face them without collapse, and clears the way for imagining a different future. The seeds we plant today shape tomorrow. We do what we can, where we are, with what we have—together, even when we don’t agree on every step.

Embodying Equanimity

There is enough pain in this world to break our hearts a million times over. Equanimity doesn’t shield us from grief. It widens us so grief doesn’t break us. It helps us act with clarity about the past, honesty about the present, and reverence for the future.

When we practice equanimity, we sense our roots. Even when shaken, we don’t stand alone—like the trees, our roots interlace beneath the surface and support one another. Then, we grow settled in an unsettled world, clear and grounded in a world that’s spinning.

In the days and weeks ahead, if you feel rattled—by the news, by conflict, by your own inner storms—pause and breathe into your roots. Feel the ground beneath you. Sense the space around you. Reflect: this is what has come to be, for now. And this, too, will change. 

Then listen. What helps you feel rooted? What’s one small thing you feel called to do—today—to help?

These reflections are based on recent teachings at my weekly group, Clear Dharma Sangha. Drop in here for a session any time.

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We live in a tenuous age. Amid a spiraling ecological crisis, authoritarianism, and genocide, we need voices that help us face the truth without losing heart—voices that can hold both our heartbreak and our hope. 

Joanna Macy, who died last month at the age of 96, was such a voice. For more than half a century, through her teaching, writing, and organizing, she embodied a rare combination of moral clarity, fierce compassion, and unshakable devotion to a just and thriving future.

She leaves behind a profound legacy and a living invitation to each of us: to take our place in the healing and transformation of our world. Through the Great Turning and the Work That Reconnects, she offered a road map for answering that call. Her life’s work nourished myriad communities and touched countless lives, including my own.

I first encountered Joanna through one of her books, World as Lover, World as Self. During a period of despair over the environmental crisis, her words dissolved my isolation and helplessness into a vast sense of belonging to the web of life, and reminded me that we are each entrusted to do our part as one node in a great network of healing. 

When we met in person, I was struck by how she wove intimate care for the heart with an uncompromising commitment to future generations. Over the years that followed, we stayed loosely connected—sharing tea, a poem, or a milestone from my life.

To spend time with Joanna was to dwell in a space where grief and beauty meet—where the sorrow and joy of being alive dance together. She carried an extraordinary balance of unflinching wisdom, warmth, playfulness, and childlike wonder.

She joined me for an interview in 2016, sharing powerful insights into the role of meditation, sangha, and collective action in meeting the crises of our time. You can read and excerpt from it here. Below, you'll also find links to her websites, books, and other interviews if you wish to explore further.

As Joanna taught, we are never alone on this path. Our love, our grief, and our action are most powerful when we walk together.

In care,
Oren

An Interview with Joanna Macy
Joanna Macy on Meditation, Democracy, and The Great Turning

"We are at a point where we are called to understand – more than ever before – the inherently communitarian character of the Buddha's path."

Learn more
Joanna Macy’s Website
The Work that Reconnects

Tributes and Conversations
A Wild Love for the World, On Being Podcast with Krista Tippett (2010)
We are The Great Turning, 2024 Podcast with Jessica Serrante (2024)
In Honor of Joanna Macy, 1929-2025, Tribute by Rebecca Solnit

Selected Books by Joanna Macy
World as Lover, World as Self (1991)
Widening Circles: A Memoir (2007)
A Year with Rilke (2009, with Anita Barrows)
Coming Back to Life (2014, with Molly Brown)
Active Hope (2022, with Chris Johnstone)

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"We are at a point where we are called to understand – more than ever before – the inherently communitarian character of the Buddha's path." – Joanna Macy

In this excerpt from a 2016 interview for the online program Next Step Dharma, Joanna Macy reflects on the power of meditation, the communal roots of the Buddha’s path, and the need for collective action in a time of global crisis. With characteristic clarity and warmth, she calls us to move beyond hyper-individualism and to practice together as sangha as we face the challenges of our age.

Oren: In our times, with so much distraction and fragmentation of attention, what do you see as the value of silent meditation practice?

Joanna: The Buddha saw suffering as rooted in the fears and delusions of the mind—and we run from that truth at every opportunity. In our time, the capacity to run is greater than ever; we live in a world more efficient in its distractions than any in history. Meditation slows us down, and that alone is an incredible boon. We live in a society hurtling forward faster than our ancestors could imagine. To stop, even briefly, is precious. It lets us experience the exquisite importance of choice—of directing our mind where we want it to go. That repeated act of returning our attention, even when it’s hard, can transform our lives.

Oren: How do you see the gifts of meditation carrying over into the rest of life?

Joanna: You don’t go on retreat just to become a nicer person, or to try to maintain tranquility. The path keeps unfolding as you meet the world, human and non-human alike. This is where great discoveries happen—bringing your practice into the collective life of our time. We discover who we are and what can happen through us, in interdependence with others.

Oren: Meditation can seem so solitary that it’s easy to think that relationships or being a part of a community is secondary on the spiritual path. How do you see this?

Joanna: I think that we are called to understand—more than ever before—the inherently communitarian character of the Buddha’s path. The core doctrine is relational in nature. The Buddha invites us to watch, in our own mind and in the world, the dependent co-arising of all things: a reciprocal process, one thing conditioning another.

The Buddha taught during a time when monarchies were rising and cities were growing. But he came from a tribal republic governed by an assembly—called a sangha—not a monarchy. And that’s the word he used for his fourfold community of monks, nuns, laymen, and laywomen. These were self-governing communities where decisions were made by consensus; sometimes they even took ballots—what some political historians see as the earliest roots of democracy on Earth.

They were also radically inclusive—anyone was welcome. The Buddha ordained runaway slaves, soldiers gone AWOL, people of all colors and caste. They lived in a gift economy, holding all in common. Today, in a late capitalist economy shredding lives, deepening poverty, and widening extremes of wealth and deprivation, we have this exquisite model for awakening.

The sangha of that early time calls us to awaken not only to freedom from suffering in one’s heart-mind, but also to the possibility of creating self-governing community that is radically inclusive and in service to the larger whole. 

Oren: What do you suggest for people who find it hard to connect with a community?

Joanna: Even two people sitting together can be enough. Sit down together in silence, take refuge in the practice together, share a few words. There’s a powerful guidance that’s there in your presence together. It’s beautiful.

It's the pearl of great price, that sense of being together on the path. It's so precious…sweet, and steadying. It's an act of great moral beauty too. And then you find that it can help you in moments you didn't expect, when you're far from anything that would look like a spiritual community. You might be down at the police station, or you might be caught in a traffic snarl, or you could be in a great altercation; and then you realize, “Ah, but my sangha is right here.” You find that your sangha is portable, that it lives inside you.

Oren: Any final thoughts on walking this path in our current times?

Joanna: Given the nature of our society, with its tools to contaminate life, to poison the seas and disappear the forests, we need sangha to steady us. It’s as if we’re walking with two ditches on either side, paralysis or panic. The sangha can keep us from falling into either, so we can stay awake with each other, blessing each other every step of the way. 

One of the greatest tasks before us is to deconstruct hyper-individualism. It has achieved pathological power; it distorts our politics, economy, and even our spiritual lives. So thank goodness we have the Buddha Dharma to help us out of this notion of our precious self-righteousness…that has sunk its claws into us. It is the root of the poisons that we’re inflicting on our systems, of great hatred and delusion.

And we cannot fight our way out of that actual delusion—it’s just a paper bag. It’s not who we really are. With the practice of the Dharma and with others, we see clearly. It’s okay if we don't know everything. It’s okay to forgive ourselves. It’s okay to be wounded. In fact, being able to recognize our incompleteness is exactly what’s most needed. But how do you do that, except in community?

So many people are shut down; they say, “I don’t think there’s anything I can do to make a difference.” Right? [laughter] There isn’t—but you can’t wait for something that one individual can do! It’s with others that we can see together, act together, hear together, feel together. We graduate from the fantasy of what one individual can do, and awaken to the collective.

May these reflections from Joanna’s life and teaching remind us that we are never alone on this path—and that our love, our grief, and our action are most powerful when we walk together.

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Learn more about Joanna Macy’s Work:

• Joanna Macy’s Website

• The Work that Reconnects

• A Wild Love for the World, An Interview with Krista Tippett (2010)

• In Honor of Joanna Macy, 1929-2025, Tribute by Rebecca Solnit

• We are The Great Turning, 2024 Podcast with Jessica Serrante (or here)

Selection of Joanna’s 17 Books:

• World as Lover, World as Self (1991)

• Widening Circles: A Memoir (2007)

• A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings from the Best of Rainer Maria Rilke (2009, with Anita Barrows)

• Coming Back to Life: The Updated Guide to the Work That Reconnects (2014, with Molly Brown)

• Active Hope: How to Face the Mess We’re in with Unexpected Resilience and Creative Power (2022, with Chris Johnstone)

Amid all this, I’ve been reflecting on patience—not as passive acceptance, but as a form of strength. The kind of strength it takes to meet the unbearable truths coming out of Gaza (or Ukraine, Sudan, Congo, Myanmar…) without shutting down. The kind that lets us grieve, stay present, and imagine another future.

A Quiet Power

Patience isn’t gritting our teeth and waiting for something to end. That’s all we can muster at times, but true patience is an inner softening that opens into spaciousness. It lays the foundation for real healing and transformation—within ourselves, our relationships, and across society. Like water slowly wearing down stone, patience is a quiet, powerful force that endures and shapes the world over time. 

Patience is not passivity. It doesn’t mean standing by in the face of harm. Rather, it creates space for a clear, deliberate response—soothing the inner pressure to react and helping us choose how we show up.

In a culture of instant gratification and hyper-efficiency, patience is radical. It attunes us to the organic rhythms of life—like the steadiness of an ancient redwood abiding across centuries.

In relationships, patience is a form of love. It takes time to love—time to give our full attention, to slow down enough to truly connect. There's a world of difference between trying to get my toddler to follow my timeline, and engaging at his pace. Patience also supports skillful communication and helps us stay present through difficulty: bearing discomfort, noticing the urge to react, and dissolving tension with presence. 

Patience in Times of upheaval

Bayo Akomolafe says, “The times are urgent; let us slow down.”

We may understand the value of patience with those we love. But what does it mean to be patient when the world is on fire—when danger is real and immediate?

I write with humility. I’ve never faced the kind of direct violence or persecution that so many have endured—throughout history and today. I speak not from experience of war or exile, but as a student of nonviolence, writing from principle, vision, and faith. 

From that place, I’ve come to understand patience not as passivity, but as a form of resilience that sustains movements from the inside out. Inwardly, it soothes the flames of anger and hatred that can consume us or tear movements apart. Like the shore of a great lake, it holds a wide container for pain, reactivity, and inner conflict.

Outwardly, patience lends movements staying power by aligning us with the long view and nurturing depth when change is slow. The suffrage movement spanned decades of organizing, setbacks, and incremental wins before women gained the right to vote. Today, mutual aid networks sustain communities abandoned by public systems—offering support, care, and solidarity long after headlines fade.

Patience also gives vision time to ripen. As Nelson Mandela reflected, mistaking urgency for clarity can lead to wasted energy, missteps, and burnout. In movements for justice, as in our personal lives, we need time to listen deeply, to imagine, to discern. Patience makes space for wisdom to emerge, so our choices are aligned not just with what we’re against, but with the future we long to build.

And yet, the idea of patience can be misused. As Dr. King warned in his 1963 Letter from Birmingham Jail: “For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’...This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’”

Dr. King didn’t reject patience; he called for discernment. Waiting can be a form of inertia, enabling harm. But there’s also a waiting rooted in moral clarity and determination. He advocated for what we might call healthy impatience—a fierce love that refuses to stay silent in the face of injustice. 

I’m not offering any simple answers for how to respond to injustice. There are many roles to play, many forms of courage. But without patience, urgency can veer into reactivity or despair.

The Long Arc of Transformation

When rooted in vision and resolve, patience becomes a kind of spiritual stamina. It turns time into an ally—a force that strengthens us. Instead of feeling trapped by delay, time matures our efforts—like seeds resting in winter soil. 

Nonviolent movements wear down injustice through sustained friction. Like making fire with a bow drill, it takes both suppleness and persistence. During the Vietnam War, monk and activist Thích Minh Đức reflected: “We did not think that by demonstrating we’d turn things around immediately… Today one inch, tomorrow another inch.” Patience meant staying with the struggle even when change felt impossibly slow—remembering that every inch matters.

In a culture of speed and performative outrage, how do we build the capacity to stay? Can we create collective conditions to slow down and center patience in our families, communities, and movements?

What if we practiced a screen-free day each week? Spent an evening by candlelight, attuning to our circadian rhythms? Or did something the slow way—growing food instead of shopping, knitting a sweater by hand? 

These aren’t just nostalgic rituals. They build cultural muscle for long-haul change. Patience invites us to live in harmony with the natural unfolding of things—and reminds us there’s nothing we can’t endure, together.

Patience isn’t resignation—it’s steady presence imbued with love. So, I invite you to consider: 

Where in your life do you sense the need for more patience? What kind of strength might emerge from slowing down? What becomes possible when we wait, listen, and stay?

These reflections are based on a chapter from Your Heart Was Made For This, and recent teachings at Clear Dharma Sangha.

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Amidst this backdrop, on Father’s Day, I’ve been reflecting on the quiet, essential power of care—how support, safety, and strength can take many forms. The capacity to protect and guide lives within each of us. This poem is an offering to the father figures in our lives, and the fathering presence we each carry.

To the Fathers Within

Today I honor protective presence.

As the world burns and factions chant,
As leaders auction our future,
As family members are stolen and shipped abroad—

I offer respect to the healthy father figure within each of us.

I honor support, integrity, and wisdom—
which have no gender.

Whether you’ve seeded a family of your own,
fostered growth, or offered refuge
in the landscape of others’ lives,
I bow to the strength beneath your care.

I honor all who have made
of themselves a steady ground for others to stand upon—
who have let their hearts break
and discovered the fabric of love that holds us all.

Who labor to turn pain into connection,
channel anger into service,
and grief into beauty.

I still feel the warmth of my father’s big hands,
the deep resonance of his voice,
and the steadiness of his presence
echoing through my life.

Remembering him, I feel the lineage of countless others
who father in spirit
by the way they hold, protect, and guide. 

Thank you for being a bedrock of gentle strength,
for shielding those more vulnerable,
and for tending the terrain of kindness
that lets all of us bloom more fully.

May we each offer our presence today
as the shelter of a great tree
where young hearts can rest.

Inspired by and based upon a blessing offered by Rachel Shiyah-Satullo

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]]>To the Fathers WithinPracticeOren Jay SoferTue, 13 May 2025 07:01:00 +0000https://www.orenjaysofer.com/blog/speech-20255785b85b15d5dbb0fab56c26:579fc0068419c21cd02a0356:6822320e9862d4321fc23b4cLearn more about my approach to Mindful Communication here; check out the best-selling book, Say What You Mean, or experience the complete training here.

Our toddler swings at me for what is probably the tenth time in a row. I take a deep breath. “Are you mad? I won’t let you hit me—do you want to hit the pillow?” The heaviness of the headlines fades as my world narrows to this one interaction with my son, who I love with all my heart, yet who pushes me to my limit in moments like these.

Some days, it’s hard to say what’s more challenging: the dizzying pace of change and collective pain we’re living through, or raising two small children under the age of three. (Honestly, most days it’s parenting.)

Communication is where practice meets real life. There’s a reason the Buddha singled out “Right Speech” in the Noble Eightfold Path. Words are powerful. They can heal or hurt, soothe or enflame, unite or divide. Communication is hard. It’s messy. And for all of these reasons, it’s also a ground for deep transformation—if we’re willing to take it on as a practice.

The Gap Between Insight and Speech

I first noticed the gap between my formal meditation and my communication in my twenties, while working as a cook for retreats at the Insight Meditation Society. Though I wasn’t touching profound insight or bliss on the cushion, I was enjoying some peace and calm, along with the uplifted warmth of wishing all beings be well. 

How quickly that tranquility evaporated when conflict arose: a fellow cook steamed the broccoli longer than I liked; a team decision didn’t go my way. My heartfelt aspirations were even less accessible when talking to my family.

The Buddha offered inspiring teachings on Wise Speech, but little technical guidance on how to implement them. Meditation cultivates insight into change and suffering, but without a method, those insights don’t always translate into our conversations. 

Bringing Speech into Practice

During this same period, I came across the work of Dr. Marshall Rosenberg, a psychologist who developed Nonviolent Communication (NVC)—a rigorous awareness practice that uses speech as the arena for transforming consciousness. NVC invites us to shift from default habits of control to principles of collaboration, compassion, and generosity.

NVC offered practical tools for embodying the deeper intentions of Wise Speech. Rosenberg’s approach trains us to distinguish between direct observations and the interpretations we add, to take more responsibility for our emotional reactions, and to transform our relationship with deeper needs—so we can respond with greater compassion and care. 

As I practiced, I saw shifts in my relationships, felt more agency, and discovered more tenderness for myself. Speech became a daily field of practice: not just two, 45-minute sessions on the cushion, but many hours a day. Now, when I feel defensiveness rising in a conversation with my wife, if I pause and get curious, I can better understand her needs and perspective while staying connected to my own.

Practicing Wise Speech involves more than what we say. It includes when, how, and why we speak. It includes how we listen. It invites us to examine our motivations and develop discernment. It cuts to the heart of our sense of self—our feelings, needs, and attachment to being right.

In communication practice, we expand mindfulness beyond the narrow domain of internal experience to truly include others—what the Buddha called being mindful “internally, externally, and both internally and externally.” We enter the complexity of relationship, with all its positionality, power, and embedded histories. And we cultivate wholesome qualities: humility, honesty, patience, fierce truth-telling married with genuine kindness.

A Practice for our Time

This training extends beyond close relationships. Wise Speech is a vital resource for staying human in times of injustice, disinformation, and division. In the face of systemic violence—from mass incarceration to deportations to the ongoing horrors in Gaza—our words can perpetuate harm or help interrupt it. They can bridge difference, restore dignity, and help us metabolize what feels unbearable. 

While speech alone can’t mend all that’s broken in our world, it plays a vital role in how we engage, repair, and reimagine together. I think of courageous individuals speaking out under pressure—from judges striving to uphold integrity in the courts, to climate scientists affirming the truth, to activists naming harm with clarity and compassion. 

In moments like these, when so many remain silent in the face of unspeakable brutality, choosing to speak can be an act of conscience and solidarity.

Communication becomes a powerful site of practice: Are we adding to fear and despair, or creating space for understanding, integrity, and truth? Even amidst conflict or collapse, the way we speak can be a refuge, a bridge, a seed of something new.

Three Tools for the Path

At the same time, all of this can feel daunting. Communication habits run deep. But the good news is, it’s entirely possible to shift these habits, one step at a time. As the Buddha said of Right Effort, “If it were not possible, I would not ask you to do it.”

There are many ways to practice Wise Speech. Whether you’re just starting out or looking to go deeper, here are three tools to guide and grow with you.

1. Lead with presence: Before talking about what happened, how you feel, or what you need—can you simply show up? To find clarity and connection, we need to be here. Without presence, we lose access to our tools or best intentions. Experiment with what helps you be more present in conversation: a breath, a pause, slowing your pace. What shifts when you’re more here? 

2. Come from curiosity and care: The Buddha emphasized the importance of motivation. Where are you coming from in conversation? Habitual impulses to be right, blame, or defend? Real dialogue rests on the quality of understanding and connection we create. What would it be like to root yourself in good will and get curious? Curiosity softens reactivity and opens the door to insight. Let go of the outcome a little, and take sincere interest in the other’s experience.

3. Root your speech in ethics: The Buddha encouraged us to speak that which is true, useful, kind, and timely. Take time to reflect on these guidelines. What are your strengths? What needs development? What’s the deepest truth you know about this situation? Can you acknowledge what you don’t know? Kindness doesn’t mean being passive or condoning harm—it means refusing to let the heart be poisoned by hate. And always consider context—from time and place to power and positionality.

Integrating these principles takes dedication and patience. But even one small shift can change the trajectory of your life and relationships.

When my toddler covers his mouth and refuses to brush his teeth, I try to pause, breathe, and connect. Sometimes I meet him with empathy, sometimes with play, making up a silly song. Either way, I’m training. This is the path. Speech is where our practice comes alive.

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Kazu and I met through our shared roots in Buddhist meditation and nonviolence. A longtime practitioner and trainer in nonviolence and restorative justice, he studied with Civil Rights leaders like Rev. James Lawson and Dr. Bernard Lafayette Jr. An edited version of our conversation follows.

What is Fierce Vulnerability?

Kazu Haga: Fierce vulnerability is one thread in the ancient lineage of nonviolence. The term emerged from years of conversation about “rebranding” nonviolence to counter the misunderstanding that it’s passive or weak, and to affirm it as a path of real depth, power, and courageous action.

It’s about applying the lessons of trauma healing and neuroscience to a larger scale, recognizing that violence and injustice aren’t merely political problems, but are manifestations of unprocessed collective trauma. These insights open up new pathways for movements rooted in healing, courage, and connection.

How does that shift the way we organize or work for social change?

Real transformation requires movements that know how to metabolize trauma. If injustice is a form of trauma, then we can’t just shut it down—any more than we can shut down trauma itself.

While it’s sometimes necessary to put our bodies on the line to interrupt harm, fierce vulnerability invites us to shift from a mindset of “shutting things down” to a spirit of opening things up: to slow down, create enough safety for stories to be told, conversations to unfold, and real connection that allows healing to emerge.

The world is in a state of panic. It’s easy to become dysregulated or have our traumas activated. When that happens, the part of our brain capable of nuance, empathy, and interdependence goes offline.

Grounding practices can reconnect us with our higher selves. One way to break the trance of panic is to sparks introspection or curiosity—because curiosity reawakens our capacity to connect.

So how can we organize in ways that invite curiosity? When we repeat the same protest forms with slogans and signs, people go on autopilot. But what if we led a grief ritual, read poetry, or shared our vulnerability in the middle of a demonstration? Fierce Vulnerability invites us to organize in ways that embody nonseparation—touching something real, inviting people to ask questions, and helping us all wake up from panic and disconnection.

What’s the “fractal nature of healing”?

I believe that trauma, its impact, and healing all happen in fractals—because we live in a fractal universe. It’s a law, like gravity—an unwavering truth about the universe’s structure.

I experienced a lot of trauma and violence in early childhood. Even though I told myself I’d healed, the trauma lingered in my body and affected my relationships, because I’d never really processed it.

The United States also carries core traumas—enslavement, genocide, indentured servitude. We like to think, “That happened long ago; we’re past it.” But because we never integrated these wounds, conversations about racial healing often trigger panic or shutting down.

In the same way I had to learn to embody frozen emotions from early childhood, how can our communities—across race, gender, nationality—begin to feel and release the frozen emotions from centuries of unprocessed trauma?

You don’t have to experience violence directly to be impacted by it. The same goes for healing. Just witnessing a genuine act of healing can be deeply transformative. I remember at Standing Rock, a group of US Veterans kneeled before Indigenous leaders to apologize for centuries of military violence. Witnessing that kind of healing touches something profound in our collective nervous system.

Can you say more about the relationship between personal and collective healing in the context of social change?

To me, healing is everything—it’s our North Star. But we don’t have time to only focus on personal healing. We can’t ignore the urgency of this moment. Even if we work through our trauma and support others with theirs, that won’t turn this ship around.

I think the idea of individual liberation is a delusion. There’s no such thing as personal healing in an interdependent world. What we often call “personal healing”—spirituality, healthy living, trauma work—must be connected to systemic change. We need to embody the changes we want to see in the world.

We need to take care of ourselves. But the intention of individual healing is to recollect our interdependence. If my hand is hurting, then my body isn’t well. And if I heal my hand but ignore that my nose is bleeding, I’m living in a delusion if I think I’m well just because one part of my body is better. So let’s care for ourselves in all the ways we need—without losing sight of the fact that individual and collective liberation are inseparable.

I know people who feel too overwhelmed to face what’s happening—or who simply don’t want to know. How do we help move people from complacency or denial into engagement?

Part of our work is to keep building relationships and embody the potential of Fierce Vulnerability. With enough trust, we can invite people into hard conversations and support them in stepping outside their comfort zones. It’s easy to put Dr. King on a pedestal now, but he was deeply unpopular in his time—because he called people to take uncomfortable, radical action.

We can stay grounded in practices that reconnect us to our center, and organize in ways that create safety and belonging. If we embody Fierce Vulnerability, people will feel something shift inside. If we create spaces of belonging, people will transform. That’s what opens the door to real engagement.

We can’t force people to change—but the earth can. The earth is our ally, and it’s already pushing more people to mobilize. We’re living through a polycrisis, and things will likely get harder before they get easier. Fewer and fewer people will have the privilege not to engage.

Part of our role is to prepare the ground—to support people when they’re ready to shift, and to welcome them when they arrive.

What about those of us who care deeply but don’t feel called to protest or put our bodies on the line right now (like myself, as a parent of young children)?

That really does change things, doesn't it! You don’t have to be on the front lines to be part of the movement. Everyone has a role, and there’s a creative process to discovering what that is for each of us.

Two of my favorite movement experiences were at Standing Rock and in the early days of Occupy Wall Street in Downtown Oakland. There were medical clinics, healers, and childcare providers. There was a free school and library, people leading ceremonies and teaching songs. There was even a barbershop set up in the middle of the encampment.

So, what’s your calling? Is it cooking? Making art? Song? Poetry? Offering a space for people to meet and organize?

We need to shift from asking if we will participate to how we will participate. That’s a more fruitful place to begin. 

What does effective activism look like to you today, and what’s the role of not knowing?

Pragmatically, some things need to be stopped. For example, we need strategies to resist authoritarianism. As an activist, I was trained to have a clear strategy with contingencies. And yet, that worldview—that if we just think hard enough, we can figure it all out—feels like part of how we’ve gotten into this mess.

I’m deeply inspired by Taoism, which emphasizes not knowing. As big as the threat of authoritarianism is, there are larger, unknowable changes happening on the planet that are beyond our control.

The practice isn’t trying to steer those changes in the direction that we want, but learning to be in right relationship with forces outside of our control. Accepting that we can’t know every step toward liberation allows us to have beginner’s mind and stay curious.

I think one of the most important things we can do right now is slow down, ask what our heart’s truest calling is, and listen—to the wind and the birds, the moon and the stars—for guidance from beyond our intellect. 

So much wisdom is being offered. But when we think we’ve figured it out, we stop listening. That’s the danger: losing curiosity and our ability to truly hear what the universe is saying.

How are you holding the helplessness, despair, or hopelessness so many are feeling?

First, I think we need to rely on spiritual practice—and I mean that in the broadest sense. I consider Neil deGrasse Tyson one of my spiritual teachers, because when I hear him talk about the cosmos, it fills me with the same awe and wonder I feel in ceremony or on retreat.

We need practices that connect us with something larger than ourselves and widen our sense of time. A lot of hopelessness comes from the sense that we won’t reach Beloved Community—that the transformation we long for won’t happen in our lifetime. And that might be true.

But we can expand our view beyond our lifetime. Recently, I was at a gathering on Bowen Island, off the coast of Vancouver, and each morning I’d visit a thousand-year-old tree named Opa. I’d just sit there, contemplating what it means to witness a thousand years. In another ancient forest, one tree is over 4,800 years old. It was already two thousand years old when the Buddha walked the Earth!

There’s something about our individualistic, human-centered view that fuels urgency and anxiety. But when we remember we’re part of something much greater—not just as individuals, but even as a species—it becomes a little easier to be with this moment as it is. And that can nourish and sustain us for the road ahead.

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Like many of you, I've been sitting with these questions—feeling the turbulence within and around us and doing my best to stay anchored in care without being swept away. Here’s a summary of my reflections. View or listen to the talk below; learn about Clear Dharma Sangha here.

Mindfulness begins with a quiet act of turning inward—pausing, noticing, and recovering some measure of steadiness in a frenzied world. But it doesn’t end there.

As Krishnamurti once said, “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

True mindfulness doesn’t make us more comfortable with the crises around us. It makes us more awake to them—so we can see clearly and find our place in the vast work of healing and transformation that's needed right now.

We are living through a period of profound change. Political systems are straining, ecological crises are escalating, and social institutions are undergoing deep upheaval. Regardless of your perspective, it’s hard not to feel the tension. Many feel a sense of dread at the sheer scale and pace of what’s unfolding in our world, pushing us toward numbness or overwhelm.

Here are three ways mindfulness can help us meet this moment with clarity, courage, and care—without shutting down or burning out.

1. Mindfulness helps us stay present to suffering.

Mindfulness brings us into direct contact with all of life, including that which is painful or frightening. With practice, we begin to relate to difficulty not with reactivity or avoidance, but with a steady intention to understand. We stop seeing suffering as a personal failing or something to escape, and begin to ask, “What is this?” “What’s happening here?”

This shift in perspective is crucial when facing collective suffering—climate catastrophes, authoritarianism, war. Mindfulness nourishes the courage to stay awake in the face of hardship, to remain present and curious rather than collapsing into despair or denial.

2. Mindfulness helps us metabolize strong emotions and return to balance.

Being awake to pain—personally or collectively—often brings up strong emotions: fear, grief, rage, helplessness. These responses are deeply human. They’re not something to push away or override. They’re a reflection of our love, and call for our care and attention.

Mindfulness transmutes these emotions into grounded power, helping them move through us rather than fester. In my own life, I often feel stretched between the immediacy of raising two small children and the enormity of what’s unfolding in the world. Mindfulness doesn’t make that tension disappear—but it helps me stay present without being consumed.

Whether we’re directly impacted or feeling the ripples from afar, we need honest ways to acknowledge how we’re doing. The first step is simply naming the truth: “I feel overwhelmed... numb... angry.” Acknowledging the truth opens the door to processing what’s here—one breath, one moment at a time.

3. Mindfulness helps us stay engaged without burning out.

Processing our own pain, we begin to see more clearly. And as Thich Nhat Hanh reminded us, “Mindfulness must be engaged. Once there is seeing, there must be acting. Otherwise, what’s the use of seeing?”

Mindfulness supports the deep listening and discernment needed to know what we are called to do in the midst of this polycrisis. It also guides us so we can respond in sustainable ways. 

When we act from urgency or outrage, our energy may be intense—but it’s often unsustainable. Over time, we burn out or inadvertently contribute to the very cycles of violence and division we wish to heal.

Mindfulness roots our engagement in something deeper: love, clarity, and a commitment to stay connected to what matters. It helps us track when we’re overextending and recalibrate.

These three threads—seeing clearly, metabolizing emotions, and acting sustainably—are not linear. They unfold together, informing and supporting each other as we practice staying awake and responding to our world. 

I invite you to reflect: How are you relating to collective suffering right now? What emotions arise? Can you bring some mindfulness to your response, even for a moment?

We don’t need to have it all figured out. But we do need to keep returning to what matters, and to ourselves, each other, and the world we’re part of.

With steadiness and care,
Oren

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Mindfulness and social change

(I’ve posted some of my teachings from the retreat here on my website, including a guided meditation on self-compassion.)

In these times of great change, with political instability, economic uncertainty, and climate catastrophes, it’s natural to feel overwhelmed. The rapid pace of change and the intensity of events can leave us disoriented. The need to respond to events that threaten our values or those most vulnerable feels urgent.

When faced with such challenges, some of us withdraw into the comfort of familiar routines or echo chambers. Others find ourselves compulsively checking the news, anxious to stay informed yet increasingly helpless to do anything about it. Neither response helps us stay balanced internally or respond externally.

I believe what is called for now is something quieter and stronger—a wise balance of self-care and enduring, radical love for one another expressed through clear and powerful action. The inner balance that supports this begins right where we are, with whatever we’re feeling.

For me, this process often shows up in the tender ache of parenthood—holding our baby against my chest, feeling her body completely relaxed and trusting; looking at pictures of wild animals with our toddler and sensing the anticipatory grief of the day he learns how humans have damaged our planet. These moments undo me. They keep me close to what matters and drive me to keep finding a love wide and deep enough to meet this world as it is.

For many, this moment touches deep wells of grief, fear, and anger. If that’s true for you, it’s okay. It’s entirely human. Your emotions aren’t a problem. Difficult emotions are part of meeting insecurity. We don’t have to push them away or be consumed by them. We can learn to hold them wisely and channel their energy into meaningful action.

Start where you are. It’s okay to resist how you feel. It’s okay to fall apart. It’s okay to be a mess. Sometimes we need to turn away from the pain to nourish ourselves. Then, when we’re ready, we return and tend to the wound. 

As Rumi wrote, "The pain is the cure for the pain." The medicine is here, within each of us. As we attend to our pain, it opens and reveals our love. Holding our pain, we touch the depth of our heart and remember how vast it truly is. From that place of perspective and connection, new responses arise.

Finding Steadiness in the Midst of Suffering

When we allow suffering to teach us, it strengthens us. Over time, we discover a quiet confidence—not because we avoid hurt or loss, but because we understand its universal and temporary nature. And in that knowing, there is inner freedom. Not from life’s hardships, but from the fear that they will crush us. This is the power of the dharma: to free us from fear, isolation, and despair, to steady us in the midst of it all. This inner freedom then supports our actions for collective liberation.

To do all of this, we need nourishment. Some of us might need time in nature. Others might need connection: to speak with a trusted friend or sit quietly in community. Taking small, meaningful actions can soothe helplessness and channel anxiety into purpose.

But none of this can be sustained if we’re relying solely on external conditions to settle our hearts. We need something deeper than momentary pleasure, sturdier than distraction.

Where do we find refuge when the world feels like too much? What does the heart truly know at its core? For me, the answer comes back to love. 

Not love as sentimentality or a fleeting feeling—but love as an inner resource. Love as a steady, sustaining force. Love as the deepest knowing of our relatedness with all of life. Love transforms grief by reminding us that we hurt because we care. Love transforms fear by reconnecting us to one another. Love transforms anger by guiding it into courageous, wise action.

Love isn’t only something we offer outwardly. It’s something we return to inwardly, again and again—a well we draw from, a practice we cultivate. When the heart breaks, love mends it. When the mind spins out, love brings it home. 

This needn’t be abstract. It happens in small, everyday ways. Love might look like stepping outside to feel the wind on your face. Love might sound like telling a friend, “I see how hard this is for you.” Love might mean turning off the news, cooking a meal, or resting your hand on your heart for a breath or two.

Slowly, gently, these moments sustain us. They reconnect us with our inner resources so that we can keep showing up—for ourselves, for one another, and for this fragile world we share. These moments empower us to set limits, to say no, to stand up for what matters, and protect all that we cherish.

This is the power of love. Not to try to fix everything. Not to tidy the chaos of life. But to hold us in its embrace as we navigate the storms of our time and shelter one another.

Regardless of one’s political views, I believe that we need each other. The solutions to our short- and long-term challenges depend on us building bridges and working together. We don’t have to do this alone. We can practice together and lean on one another.

If you’d like to practice in community, I warmly invite you to join me online next month for our hybrid retreat, “Steadying the Heart: Refuge through the Four Sublime States.” Learn more here.

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Regardless of where you're at, I'd like to offer a reflection practice—one that's hopefully gentle and rejuvenating rather than burdensome.

Reflection offers a potent way to step back, nourish wisdom, and recommit to our values. It can even reveal our potential to be free from the tyranny of habit and circumstance.

So here we are, a few days into a new calendar year with an opportunity to contemplative deeper questions. How am I living? What's most important? Who have I become and where do I want to devote my time and energy?

Wise reflection explores a theme or question by integrating directed thought and listening. Here are three steps to engage in this powerful practice.

Settle In

Take a few moments to unwind. Settle your mind and body in any way that feels supportive. This could be stretching, taking some deep breaths, listening to music, reading a poem, getting outdoors, or meditating. Find the conditions that help you downshift.

Notice and Adjust

Then, turn your attention inwards and take stock. Notice how you feel. What's the overall tone or mood? Are there any adjustments you can make to bring some more ease or collectedness to your heart? For example, you might shift your posture (lean back, recline), take a few deep breaths, think of a kind person or a sweet memory. Take some time to linger with that.

Ask and Listen

Now, whenever you feel ready, gently pose a question you wish to reflect on. Here are some suggestions that I find helpful around the new year.

• What have I learned this year?

• Who or what can I appreciate?

• What am I still carrying that I’m ready to put down? 

• What do I want to cultivate?

• Where do I want to contribute?

Choose one question that speaks to you, ask it silently, then listen to whatever comes: thoughts, images, feelings. Whenever your attention drifts, gently return to your body or breathing, then pose the question again.

The aim is not to arrive at a discrete answer, but to explore whatever comes with curiosity. As you sustain this receptive listening, a theme or meaning may emerge. You might stay with that theme and explore it further, or simply make a mental note of it and move on to another question.

I look forward to sharing some of my own reflections in the weeks and months to come, both here and in my online events. As we begin a new year, I wonder how your heart is? What do you hear when you step back and reflect? What do you value as you step forward into the year?

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Subscribe and get seven guided meditations plus an eBook. Img by Angel Balashev on Unsplash]]>Starting the Year with Clarity and IntentionPracticePersonal ReflectionsOren Jay SoferMon, 07 Oct 2024 07:01:00 +0000https://www.orenjaysofer.com/blog/seeds-in-grief5785b85b15d5dbb0fab56c26:579fc0068419c21cd02a0356:67035662582bf305b609a9dbToday marks one year since the Hamas attacks in Israel, and nearly that long since Israel’s retaliation in Gaza and the West Bank began—a year of loss, unimaginable grief, spiraling violence, and a growing humanitarian crisis. I honor the grief of those in Israel today, and all those in mourning. I also wish to speak to all of us watching from from afar whose hearts are breaking.

In this post, I will not take a position about policy or discuss the historical roots of this conflict (so essential in understanding this past year) beyond what I have already published opposing war and calling for a bilateral ceasefire. For the record, I believe we in the US must pressure our government to stop sending weapons to Israel and demand a diplomatic solution.[1] However, as a Dharma teacher, I believe I can offer the most insight and help by writing about how we can attend to our hearts and our communities so that we can work across our differences to contribute to peace and justice.

This is incomplete and imperfect. It’s what I can offer at this time. And right now, on this harrowing anniversary, I think that is better than silence.

The Well of Grief

These days, when I grow quiet enough to truly feel my heart, I tap into a well of grief so immense that it’s overwhelming. Graphic images of war flash through me; heartbreaking stories haunt me. The horror of all that continues to unfold casts a shadow across my days. Sometimes, holding my toddler at night, I see murdered children, buried in rubble, or those that have survived, shaking with fear. Bathing him, I think of the refugees without enough food, water, or medicine. Shopping for groceries, walking in our neighborhood, or trying to sleep at night, I struggle with the dissonance between my own surroundings and the relentless terror unfolding across the sea, funded by my own government.

When I open to the pain, it touches an even deeper grief for all that burns around the planet. I sense a great unraveling and find it easy to grow disoriented. I feel overwhelmed, helpless. I notice the urge to withdraw, ignore all that I cannot control, and focus only on what’s right in front of me.

In addition, as an American Jew with Israeli roots, I step back and recognize the complexity of my emotions in the broader context of this moment. I see how my vicarious pain differs from the acute pain of those directly affected. I see how politicians manipulate and weaponize the grief and fear of my fellow Jews to further war and oppression.

Amidst all of this, I know clearly that if I wish to contribute to a just peace, I must attend to the sea of emotion within me lest I sink in it. On the one hand, drowning in grief or spinning in ancestral trauma twists my heart in pain and prevents me from offering support to those who are suffering. On the other hand, distancing myself from these feelings cuts me off from my vitality and compassion.

I must begin by relating wisely to my heart—to grief, fear, confusion, outrage, helplessness, overwhelm and all else that stirs within.

Relating to Difficult Emotions

Buddhist teachings provide a range of tools for handling difficult emotions and transmuting their energy into skillful power. The crux of the transformation lies not in what we feel, but in how we relate to it.

This goes beyond meditative techniques. It requires dedication, patience, support, and creativity.

The first step is to discern what’s needed. If you’re feeling disconnected and numb, you may need to push yourself to turn towards the hurt and open to it. Read; talk to others who are more involved; expose yourself to personal stories and images of those living through this nightmare.

Or, if you’re feeling overwhelmed and flooded, you may need to step back and nourish yourself. One of the best tips I ever received about handling difficult emotions came from my teacher Ajahn Sucitto, who said it’s a bit like fighting fire: “Don’t go in if you can’t get out.” Step back and steady yourself. Move, dance, breathe, pray. Chant, connect with friends, find beauty, or celebrate joy. Get creative. Find support where you can, and trust yourself to know what helps you to self-regulate.

Once you’ve found some inner ground, enter the terrain of your heart. You can learn to feel what’s true with a balanced, intimate awareness, without denying or feeding your emotions. Go slowly and try to stay grounded. Notice whatever comes, opening to it as you are able. Feel your emotions as sensation and energy. Take breaks to steady yourself. Allow what’s present to move through you: alone or with others, in silence or in sound, with tears, art, music, and more. [2]

As you open to what you feel, try to regard it with the wisdom of an elder. All that we feel can connect us with the broader landscape of the human the heart and the earth hersef. For grief is the heart’s natural response to loss, our way of metabolizing the pain of separation.

By attending wisely to grief, we can recall the beauty at its core: our profound love for life. Holding our broken hearts, we touch our shared humanity and discover a love stronger than the cries to rally behind one identity or another, a love powerful enough to allow us to reach across our differences and take action for liberation.

I believe that in an era of so much harm and uncertainty, these are some of the great duties upon us: to bear witness to the pain of all that is unfolding, to hold fast to the beauty of our humanity, and to do our best to respond in a skillful way.

Engaging in Conversation: On Trauma, Discourse, and Purpose

The more we handle our own pain, the more available we are to engage with others. Yet shifting from the personal to the relational, we encounter a fraught terrain. Both the current war (what many argue is genocide) and the region’s broader history comprise some of the most contentious topics in public discourse today.

Why does it feel so utterly impossible to hear one another when we disagree about Israel-Palestine? I see several key factors contributing to this. Without understanding them, I find it highly unlikely that we can share in meaningful conversation.

First, as many have noted, the history of Israel-Palestine bears classic signs of traumatic reenactment. Many outside of the region who have a personal stake in the conflict or feel passionately about it share in that trauma or have been deeply affected by it. Many Jews carry intergenerational traumas of antisemitism that were restimulated by the horrors of October 7, 2023. Those of us in solidarity with Palestine may experience vicarious trauma from the images of occupation, violence, displacement, and war.

Trauma exerts a powerful force, making it challenging to see clearly and stay regulated. Among its many effects are a distortion of past and present and the tendency to reduce things to simple binaries.[3] Trauma obscures one’s capacity to see complexity and nuance. It may compel us to grasp views tightly or grow ideologically rigid: “You’re either anti-X or pro-X.” Once we enter this realm, it becomes easy to dehumanize one another.[4]

Second, a range of powerful forces—political, economic, national, ideological, and religious—are attempting to control and manipulate the very terms of the debate.[5] There are many reasons for this, from Israel’s strategic value to Western nations [6] to the realities of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia; from Netanyahu’s desperate attempts to stay in power to the genocidal extremists he depends upon to do so, [7] from systems that present one-sided narratives of Israel/Palestine to maximalist demands on both sides that deny the unavoidable necessity of coexistence. 

Third, the conflict is both complicated and straightforward. On the one hand, there are complex interlocking legacies of colonialism, the Holocaust, the 1948 and 1967 wars, the ongoing violence of the occupation, ancient Jewish and indigenous Palestinian ties to the land, and violent acts committed on all sides. On the other hand, one need not be an expert on this history to know that what is happening to two million people in Gaza right now is immoral, that what happened one year ago today to thousands in Israel was also immoral, or that there exists vastly different access to power and resources, with correspondingly disproportionate impacts, in the conflict.

Finally, it’s hard to hear one another because we come from different positions, have different resources, and have different capacities (and, I would argue, responsibilities) to process our grief, rage, and pain.

This web of conditions makes it extraordinarily difficult to have meaningful conversation across those differences because the very space within which we are trying to converse is too charged and fractured. It’s as if we’re trying to carry on a conversation in the midst of a hurricane. It doesn’t matter how loud you shout; the storm prevents anyone from hearing you.

Having these conversations takes a host of skills that I’ve written and taught about extensively elsewhere. [8] Let me suggest three keys here.

First, keep doing the inner work of attending to your emotions. Strive to be aware of what’s arising in your heart and mind from moment to moment, and cultivate the restraint to check unhelpful reactions before they take hold. Ensure that you are as resourced as possible before engaging in conversation. This makes it more likely that you’ll be able to stay grounded if things get heated.

Second, be clear about your purpose before entering a conversation. What’s your aim? Who are you speaking to and what are you hoping for? For example, you might seek:

• To listen with empathy, aiming to help another feel heard

• To understand, aiming to clarify another’s view or position

• To be heard and understood

• To engage in mutual exploration and learn from one another

• To influence another’s views or behavior

Each of these purposes will entail a different approach, with different responses, offers, and limits. Of course, life is messy. Many conversations are spontaneous. Even then, you can pause and clarify your aim: what are you (or they) hoping for? Take the time to articulate this so you enter the conversation with a shared understanding of its goals.

If that remains unclear, or if you don’t have bandwidth or willingness to converse, exit the conversation gracefully. I remember my own mother setting a firm boundary with someone many months ago: “I won’t talk about this after 5:00 pm or I will have nightmares.” When they persisted, she simply refused to engage, saying “Stop. I said I can’t talk about this now.”

Last, but not least, go slowly. These conversations go off the rails quickly. Do what you can to slow things down. Breathe. Take your time as you speak, practice reflective listening to ensure you’re hearing accurately, and don’t be afraid to pause the conversation for a break.

A Vision of the Impossible

I can’t say that any of this will stop the carnage in Gaza, stop missiles from raining down on Israel, or bring justice to Palestine. But I hope it can help us to work together for an immediate ceasefire in Gaza, even if there are fundamental issues we disagree on. 

Many Palestinian and Israeli leaders and peace activists have begged us to do this work. They have demanded we do all we can to bring about a ceasefire for the sake of those still suffering in Palestine. There are concrete steps we can take to help, from engaging with elected officials to sending aid, from educating ourselves to offering empathy to those who are suffering directly.

Peace, justice, and security cannot grow from the seeds of fear and animosity. Instead, we must embody the truth that another way is possible. We must conjure the vision of what may appear impossible from where things stand right now, and walk steadily into the unknown future with a strong, broken heart.

ENDNOTES

1. See Stephanie Fox’s piece marking 10/7 in Time Magazine, I run JVP. These are my reflections on a year of unspeakable horrors.

2. For one example of bringing creativity to honoring grief, see Katie Loncke’s poppy project and grief ceremony.

3. I am not arguing here for some kind of moral relativism. We can take a firm stance against killing, racism, antisemitism, Islamophobia, and oppression, and still honor different perspectives on history. 

4. See Bayo Akomolafe’s essay, “The Lines that Whisper Us”

5. See Joseph Levine’s article “Disciplining The Discourse Around Israel-Palestine.” While I have my own critiques of how Levine develops his thesis, I find the basis of his argument compelling.

6. For one perspective on this, see Adam Hanieh’s article “Framing Palestine: Israel, the Gulf States, and American Power in the Middle East.”

7. For more, listen to the podcast “Israel’s Existential Threat From Within,” The NY Times The Daily. 

8. Sofer, Oren Jay. Say What You Mean: A Mindful Approach to Nonviolent Communication.

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Resources

I suggest these resources to broaden understanding and increase empathy. They are listed in alphabetical order by the author’s last name. (See also endnotes above).

• Amnesty International. Israel’s Apartheid Against Palestinians

• Brown, Chris & Martin, Lily. ‘Oct. 7 didn't start time; it was an outcome:’ Vivian Silver's son on staying true to her legacy

• Falk, Richard. The Nuclear Age Peace Foundation. Richard Falk on Gaza and International Law and/or, Gaza: The Wider Context.

• Kashtan, Miki. Anti-Semitism, Uprootedness, and Zionism: My Voluntary Political Exile from Israel

• Khalidi, Rashid. The Hundred Years War on Palestine and/or, The Nation. Israel is Throwing a 75th Birthday Party. Palestinians Have Little to Celebrate.

• Klein, Ezra. NY Times (reporting on Israel-Palestine): The Ezra Klein Show. 

• Lerner, Michael. Penguine Random House. Embracing Israel Palestine.

• Michaelson, Jay. The Forward: The growing panic about antisemitism isn’t a reflection of reality

• PARCEO’s Curriculum on AntiSemitism from a Frameworm of Collective Liberation. Summary of curriculum here; some of their resources here.

• Schulman, Sarah. Intelligencer: Explanations are Not Excuses.

• Unsettled podcast. Tareq Baconi: Hamas Explained.

• Teller, Matthew. New Lines Magazine, Making it work from the river to the sea.

• Where Olive Trees Weep (Documentary film)

Aid GROUPS

Groups providing aid, survival basics, and trauma healing support. Please note: I include these organizations and fundraisers based on their commitment to offering direct aid to those most in need in this crisis rather than on specific political alignment or affiliation.

• Doctors without Borders or here

• Global Giving

• International Federation of Red Cross

• Islamic Aid

• Medical Aid for Palestinians

• Mutual Aid Support Network for Families in Gaza

• Save the Children

• Trauma Support for Palestinian Children (Go Fund Me)

PEACE & NONVIOLENCE GROUPS:

These groups work on the ground for peace between Israelis and Palestinians and span a range of visions for what a just peace could look like. I share these with the my hope that different readers may each find an organization to support that is working for justice in a way that is consistent with their views.

• Abraham Initiatives

• Center for Jewish Nonviolence

• Combatants for Peace

• Garden of Hope Project

• Holy Land Trust (Bethlehem, West Bank)

• Parents Circle Family Forum (Bereaved Families for Peace)

• Rabbis for Human Rights Israel

• Roots

• Salt of the Earth Collective Liberation

• Standing Together (see also their email on 10/7/24)