Many years ago when I was an undergrad, I learned that the week of final exams was a time of great anxiety. The dorm’s common rooms filled with study groups, and solitary students hunched over their desks late into the night. Across long tables in dining halls we commiserated about upcoming tests and unwritten papers. (We scarcely noticed the cafeteria dishes clattering in the background as other people prepared our food and cleaned up afterwards.) It was the crucible of the semester’s end. Fashionable girls abandoned blow-dry styles for ponytails, and went about bare-faced, attired in sweatshirts. The library tables were full, and everyone looked stressed.
My senior year I lived off campus, in a neighborhood where no one else was in college. The strangest thing happened. During finals week I had some exams. I studied. I wrote papers. I worked hard and I finished. The drama I believed was part of finals was entirely missing. No pervasive anxiety anywhere, except when I showed up to take a test. For the first time I understood that the concentration of worried students on campus created its own separate atmosphere, a storm cloud looming over the dorms and classrooms.
The time we’re in feels something like being caught under that storm cloud. Certainly, there’s more at stake than a student GPA, and the expanse of unease is far beyond the reach of a college campus. But the principle is the same. On a national scale, we’re creating this atmosphere as we amplify each other’s anxiety.
The news is intense right now. I listen to NPR on the radio while I’m cooking, read online newspapers over coffee, watch news on tv in the evening, and try to keep up with The Atlantic magazine here and there. The routine of all this news-gathering has a soothing regularity, despite the distressing content. The state of our nation is a topic of urgent conversation over Zoom or in person. But all of this takes a toll.
Our collective emotional pitch is creating the reality we’re living, and it’s not good for us. It keeps us on edge, affects our relationships and our health, and creates a climate where disinformation can easily take hold.
I’ve had to learn to recognize when I’ve hit my limit for news, and more importantly, how to step away from that anxious mindset. Though at this point I can’t walk a few blocks to reach a different climate, I’m finding that walking a few blocks helps anyway.
Different things help different people. In this final week before the election, it’s a good time to be intentional about cultivating some peace of mind. How can you allow yourself at least a few minutes a day to rest from the rising anxiety? Is there a place where you can be in nature? Is there a project you enjoy working on? Is there a friend with whom you enjoy spending time? Is there something new you’d like to learn? Can you revive your mindfulness practice?
In that last, quiet undergraduate year, I missed the excitement of finals week on campus, just a little. What I actually missed was being caught up in the shared experience with my classmates. For all the distress, we were going through something important that bound us together.
I know now that I could have helped myself and others if I had been less overtaken by the hive mind. I could have made more of a contribution if I had more perspective on the hive’s anxiety. I could have offered the genuine assurance that we simply had to do the work in front of us, and the reminder that a few deep breaths would make it easier.
That’s true now, as well. We can’t control events, but we have a great deal of choice in how we respond to them. We can choose where to put our energy and attention. We can recall how we’ve been carried through other difficult times in our lives, and allow that to give us a better perspective. If each of us can keep our balance individually, it will help bring peace when we need it most.
Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Righteous Mind, is helping me better understand some important dynamics of the liberal/conservative divide. I can appreciate some of the things driving the thinking of others, even if I don’t agree with them. And I find that we sometimes have more in common than I realized.
In my previous post I discussed Haidt’s first two major points. He shows that the basis of our political and moral decisions is based more on instinct than reason, and he examines the difference between the left and right in regard to the five main foundations of moral judgment.
Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. Being part of the whole lifts us out of the mundane reality of everyday life. This gives life meaning, and we need one another for that experience.
Groups of people who agree on a moral worldview offer a sense of support and belonging to their members. This creates something that Haidt calls moral capital—his term for the trust, accountability, and buy-in that allows a group of people to work together, trade with each other, and achieve what they could not accomplish on their own. Moral capital gives individuals confidence that their investment of time, energy, and resources will be rewarded. Moral capital encourages people to work in a way that benefits not only themselves, but the others in their community.
When people can trust one another, they don’t have to hold back out of fear that their hard work will be taken advantage of. Their shared commitment to act for the good of the group brings out the best in its members. Moral capital is a source of real power, and it allows the group to be highly effective in what they undertake together.
In many ways, a moral community operates like a powerful hive. To belong, individuals must sacrifice some personal freedom and act for the good of others in the hive. In this way the community multiplies the power of an individual, making itself into a cohesive organism able to survive challenges and defend against enemies.
Here’s what Haidt has to say about building a strong moral society, by which he means a society with ample moral capital:
“Moral communities are fragile things, hard to build and easy to destroy. When we think about very large communities such as nations, the challenge is extraordinary and the threat of moral entropy is intense. There is not a big margin for error; many nations are failures as moral communities, particularly corrupt nations where dictators and elites run the country for their own benefit. If you don’t value moral capital, then you won’t foster values, virtues, norms, practices, identities, institutions, and technologies that increase it.
“Let me state clearly that moral capital is not always an unalloyed good. Moral capital leads automatically to the suppression of free riders, but it does not lead automatically to other forms of fairness such as equal opportunity. And while high moral capital helps a community to function efficiently, the community can use that efficiency to inflict harm on other communities. High moral capital can be obtained within a cult or a fascist nation, as long as most people truly accept the prevailing moral matrix.
“Nonetheless, if you are trying to change an organization or a society and you do not consider the effects of your changes on moral capital, you’re asking for trouble. This, I believe, is the fundamental blind spot of the left. It explains why liberal reforms so often backfire, and why communist revolutions usually end up in despotism. It is the reason I believe that liberalism—which has done so much to bring about freedom and equal opportunity—is not sufficient as a governing philosophy. It tends to overreach, change too many things too quickly, and reduce the stock of moral capital inadvertently. Conversely, while conservatives do a better job of preserving moral capital, they often fail to notice certain classes of victims, fail to limit the predations of certain powerful interests, and fail to see the need to change or update institutions as times change.” (pp. 342-343)
We all tend to believe that we own the moral high ground. We gather with like-minded people and share a hive mindset. The sense of community is enjoyable, and we find empowerment in aligning with those who think like us. Belonging to a hive gives us a buzz, so to speak.
Inside communities like these, politics takes on a religious fervor. The left and right come to view each other not as opponents, but enemies. Without shared moral capital, the two sides cannot work together. This is the morass we’re in, and we can’t get out of it by trying to change each other’s mind.
We need a way transcend the impasse we’ve reached. Einstein said that problems are never solved on the same level at which they are created. We must orient ourselves according to a higher vantage point. It’s imperative to elevate our perspective and our dialogue so we can talk to one another. Our challenge is to release our death-grip on being right, and to cultivate moral humility.
Moral humility means easing our battle stance. In conversation, it means willingness to listen. It requires resisting the urge to be right, and refraining from attack. Moral humility seeks instead to understand the fears that drive the other person. This is not easy. Moral humility makes our judging mind give up the driver’s seat.
This is not a call to abandon what we think is right. It is rather about expanding our moral sense to reach beyond our hive. Moral humility does not mean that anything goes. It means noticing when a puffed-up sense of righteousness threatens to take us over.
If I’m convinced that I’m right and you’re wrong, I can’t see anything new; I can only see what I already know. Moral humility means I’m less invested in being right, and more invested in discovering how the world works.
This can look a lot like curiosity, and a sincere interest in learning from each other. Practicing moral humility together allows us to exchange ideas, not just shout at one another. Perhaps it even helps us create a place where, individually and collectively, we all can thrive.
In a political era that renders us painfully disconnected from one another, Jonathan Haidt offers some help. Informed by his studies of how politics and morality are entwined, he explores the very different world views that shape our political and moral decision-making. In his book, The Righteous Mind: How Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, he describes how we arrive at moral judgments. His work shows what contributes to the chasm between people on the left and the right more clearly than anything I’ve encountered.
The first point Haidt makes is that we make our moral and political decisions instinctively. Only then does our analytical mind come along and construct the reasoned arguments that justify those moral and political choices. Haidt’s analogy is that reason is like the rider perched on top of an elephant. The elephant of instinct holds the power to set our direction.
This is why we don’t change each other’s minds with our clearly reasoned arguments. It’s helpful to remember that important decisions are made according to deep feelings about what matters most. Reasons don’t convince anyone. They simply explain or justify our decisions. If someone comes to see things in a new way, it’s because the change happens at a deeper level.
Haidt’s second major point is that human beings make moral judgments according to five main categories. Though all of us rely on these foundations of morality, some carry more weight than others, depending on the individual. The categories are:
Care vs. Harm
Fairness vs. Cheating
Loyalty vs. Betrayal
Authority vs. Subversion
Sanctity/Purity vs. Degradation
We use these categories to make sense of our experience and to determine what is right.
These categories affect everyone’s moral judgments, but we interpret behavior in relation to these categories differently. For example, both liberals and conservatives value fairness. Liberals tend to focus on fairness in terms of equality and social justice. The liberal idea of fairness is a level playing field. Conservatives tend to focus on fairness in terms of proportionality. The conservative sense of fairness is a society where people receive rewards according to the effort and contribution they make. Both liberals and conservatives value fairness, but their attention is directed to different aspects of what makes a system fair.
Liberals are most concerned with the first two categories of morality: care and fairness. Liberal political messaging generally addresses support and protection for vulnerable individuals, and creating a level playing field for everyone. The other three categories of moral decision-making do not carry the same import in the liberal mindset. Conservatives give more equal weight to all five categories. Conservative messaging includes the importance of loyalty to the group, respect for authority and the need for hierarchy in an orderly society, and the dignity and sanctity of human life. As Haidt points out, this gives conservatives an advantage in their political messaging. Speaking to all five moral categories offers more ways to connect with the priorities of individuals.
Haidt describes how studies of neurological structure reveal differences between the brains of individuals who describe themselves as liberal and as conservative. Neurological patterns of those who identify as liberal correlate with seeking and enjoying novelty and diversity in their experience, whereas those who identify as conservative show neurological patterns aligned with putting new ideas to the test and wariness of new experiences. A healthy society needs both perspectives, and thrives when these two propensities can be in conversation, determining through dialogue and debate how best to proceed.
Haidt offers further explanation of the difference between liberals and conservatives by examining three primary moral themes: autonomy, community, and divinity. Which is most important to you? Has it changed over time?
The moral theme of autonomy is central in what Haidt designates as WEIRD culture: Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic. But in other parts of the world, and among conservative people in the West, community and divinity matter just as much as autonomy. In many cultures, community and divinity far outweigh autonomy in importance.
To create a society that effectively safeguards autonomy, the moral categories of Care vs. Harm and Fairness vs. Cheating matter most. Again, liberals who place the highest value on autonomy will be most concerned about the moral categories of Care and Fairness. On the other hand, to create a society that effectively safeguards community, the moral categories of Loyalty vs. Betrayal and Authority vs. Subversion are more important. Safeguarding a sense of the divinity of human life and society, makes Sanctity vs. Degradation the main priority. Once again, Loyalty, Authority, and Sanctity are categories of moral concern that resonate more strongly with conservatives, whereas WEIRD people focus mostly on Care and Fairness.
Seeing these fundamental differences in perception laid out so clearly has helped me understand more about my own moral and political values, as well as those of others. It has also made me more aware of what I hold in common with those whose politics are very different from mine. This is a welcome surprise, and perhaps even a way to find common ground. At a time when our nation is in such great need of the ability to work together, perhaps the non-judgmental insights Haidt offers can help us crack open the heavy doors of our ideological fortresses.
Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. I’ll look at what he means by that in my next post.
As late summer shifted to fall this year, I decided to plant a tree. I’ve been adding shrubs and perennials where formerly only grass and violets grew, but planting a tree feels different. As a child, watching the growth of a sugar maple that I helped my grandfather plant taught me how a tree changes the landscape with its powerful presence. Planting a tree matters, and choosing well is a significant task.
I spent weeks mulling the options for a particular spot in my back yard. I wanted a tree that will flower in the spring, grow fruit I can share with the birds, and take on a pleasing rounded shape. It had to fit under the power lines. After much reading and google image searches, I finally narrowed the search to some variety of the crabapple.
Years ago, a spreading crabapple tree grew just outside the door to my children’s kindergarten. Perhaps memories from those days colored my choice. I can still see the tree full of children, as natural there as the fruit or the foliage. They clambered along its branches and tasted the sharp fruit, theirs for the taking, as their mothers or fathers lingered on the lawn at the end of the school day.
At local nurseries I encountered a plethora of dogwoods and redbuds and cherries—all lovely—but no specimens at all of the tree I was looking for. I was starting to question my choice until, at the third garden center I visited, I found not one but three varieties of crabapples. Jackpot! The nursery guy liked the Sugartyme, the only name I recognized from my research. It’s a good tree, but not quite the shape I hoped for. Snowdrift was another lovely specimen, with orange-red fruit and leaves turning gold in the October sun. The third variety was the Donald Wyman, bearing bright red fruit and glossy green foliage.
I pulled out my phone and compared pictures of the mature trees, read about their care, then walked for a while among the other trees and shrubs as I considered which to bring home. Returning to the crabapples banished any indecision. The colors of the Donald Wyman made me smile. Its shape already felt familiar, like the silhouette of a friend. I didn’t so much choose my tree as recognize it. This was the one I wanted to bring home.
The Donald Wyman is a species discovered at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum in the 1950s. The tree is named for the head horticulturalist who found it. Nature made something new in that garden, and a naturalist with a trained eye and a continual presence in that place recognized the importance of the fresh arrival growing there. I’m glad he was paying attention.
With my back seat folded down, the tree man easily loaded it into my car through the hatchback. There was even room to bring home the Allegheny viburnum I had found on my tour of the garden center. When I got home and unloaded it, the tree brushed the top of the garage doorway—I had to set it out in the driveway to give it room to stand. I wheeled it around back and placed the container where I thought it should go. I studied the tree from different angles, including from inside the house, continually adjusting until it was perfectly placed.
Then there was the work of getting it into the ground. I gathered what I needed: shovel, pine mulch soil conditioner, Bio-tone fertilizer, and pine bark mulch, all carried or lugged or wheeled to the planting site. I dug a wide hole, not too deep, and made a nest of well-conditioned soil to welcome and protect the first year’s root growth. I made sure the slender trunk was straight and tall, and the prettiest branches facing where I’ll view my tree most often. I watered it in, and admired my work, and told the tree: I’m glad you’re here.
The next night we had some weather. The sky darkened toward evening and the wind blew hard. The leaves and branches and entire upper half of the tree bent under its force, whipping back and forth. The young tree seemed so vulnerable out there, and some deep and non-rational protective instinct cringed at having left it to the elements all on its own. As if I should have kept it inside? Of course that didn’t make sense. And another part of me, seeing things more objectively, recognized that this is what the tree is made for. By some miracle, it is created to live in the elements, to weather the seasons, to grow and thrive in a full range of experience. I will water it and give it every support I can. But like the children all those years ago, now grown, this tree is meant to have its own life.
In the hour after I planted the tree, a robin swooped toward a slight branch, then seemed to change his mind about its ability to hold him. A smaller mockingbird lit briefly, then flew away. A couple days later I watched a blue jay pluck one of the bright red crabapples. When the fruit dropped to the ground he followed, pecking away at the skin until the round morsel in his beak glowed creamy yellow in the afternoon sun.
I’m invested in this tree, its place in the landscape, its relationship with the birds in its branches and the chipmunks at its base. I look forward to witnessing the amber color of its leaves in the coming weeks, and its fragrant white blossoms in the spring. Its growth in any moment is imperceptible, yet if all goes well it will achieve a height and breadth that changes the landscape. Life flows through the tree, and the jay, and me. For this glorious time we’re given, we are here.
I know better than to try to change anyone’s mind about politics. From opposite sides of the political chasm in this country we can list our reasons until we’re out of breath, but the only effect is to scare away the birds.
Maybe we can agree, though, that the climate this fall is one of fear. I have things I’m afraid of, and so do you. And separate from the fear that arises from my own perspective on current events, there’s a collective fear in the air and across the airwaves. My fear adds to the climate, and the fear out there increases my own. Maybe that’s your experience, too.
When I experimented with spending a week largely away from the news, not listening to the radio or tv newscasts, and reading very little from the newspaper, I felt somewhat differently. I realized that the endless reports, analyses, and what-if projections, were claiming my attention in a way that made me less thoughtful and more emotional. I still have grave concerns, and I need the information shared by ethical reporting. But I don’t need to feed an inner anxiety machine. Living in a constant state of fear, anger, and upset doesn’t help anyone.
I don’t want to belittle anyone for their politics. People whom I love and respect think differently from me. But I would like to share my main concern about this election, and I hope you’ll stay with me long enough to hear.
At a time when we disagree on so much, it’s easy to lose sight of the container that holds our ability to have a country in which we disagree. We have different ideas of how to attain increased peace and prosperity, but most of us do want to find a way to achieve that blessed state.
Stoking fear and mistrust encourages us to think of our “real” country as constituted of those who think like us. The Kentucky state flag reads, “United we stand divided we fall.” These words, of all that might have been chosen, remind us that there are powers that would turn us against one another for their benefit.
There are powers that would have us believe that the greatest threat to our democracy is from those who think differently from us. This way of tapping into our most basic fears is how much of politics works. The message is that the “others” would undermine our way of life, and that to elect them would hand the reins to those who do not value the principles on which our country was built. These are the political arguments in every election season.
The question of which party should hold the reins of power is a normal political question. But what’s at stake this year is not normal. It’s much bigger.
An unspoken but powerful message in the air this fall is that peace and prosperity will come through policies that lessen the ability of citizens to vote. This year, the question is whether we will accept the leadership of someone who is working to negate our ballots.
This year’s election is not just a matter of who will lead. It’s a question of whether we will hold onto our democratic system of government or not. Strange as it sounds, it’s apparently possible to vote away a democracy.
The power of the president is being used to make important institutions into political mouthpieces. A politically driven Justice Department can’t uphold justice. A politically driven CDC can’t maintain trust and respect as a source of reliable information. A military that acts to police its own country sets soldiers against fellow citizens instead of protecting them from foreign enemies. Under this president, long-respected independent institutions on which we rely for our way of life have been turned into vehicles for propping up power.
The existential threat is not from those with whom we disagree. This is a distraction from the larger issue. It’s like arguing over who gets to steer the Titanic. This president uses his rhetorical gifts to turn us against one another, which directs our attention away from what matters most.
The threat is whether we will have a democracy that allows each of us to have a vote, and permits debate about public policy. We don’t see public debates of important issues in Russia or China. Is that what we want?
After half a year of guarding against the coronavirus, there’s no longer much that feels novel about it. We’re all learning to live with the isolation and limitation, along with the toll it takes. I feel like a potbound plant. Yet just as roots pushing against their container force new growth above the soil, the constriction of these days pushes me to leaf out in new ways, even as I long for life to open up again.
I’ve learned about sewing masks over these long months since the pandemic took hold. My first efforts were pleated rectangles, stitched on the machine one after another like a banner of prayer flags. In those early, frightening days when masks were nearly impossible to find, each was a supplication for safety, offered to and for my loved ones.
The masks I make now fit better, and there are many other places to find them. Maybe I’ll attempt another round with a new design, but these days I’m weary of the project and the clutter. It’s time to clear the dining room table, piled with the fabric, interfacing, and allergen filter I’ve experimented with. I designated a box for keeping my tools and materials at hand. Like the fears that arrived with the virus, they’re not quite put away but no longer sprawling everywhere.
In this and so many other ways, we’re living in the in-between. Covid has imposed strange, yet increasingly familiar, routines even as it remains long way from being over. The end, so far, isn’t even in sight.
I would have thought that my imposed solitude should yield more creative work, and more plans for teaching. After all, the quiet is something writers and contemplatives long for. But for much of the summer, I haven’t been able to settle on what project to take up next, or what kind of plans to be putting in place.
I remember months ago considering paths to choose from, different directions in which to focus my attention. New possibilities surely still exist, but at this point there is nothing to illuminate the path forward. I lack a sense of beckoning energy, or of alignment with a greater will, when I consider generating something new.
If I knew what to work on I would do it, but the character of this time resists forward momentum. Even now as the calendar turns toward fall, usually a productive time for me, it’s not a season for looking forward. For now, I’m doing more learning than teaching, more reading than writing. I’m digging and planting in my yard, and trusting that the soil of my inner life will yield new growth as well. We’re living in a liminal time. I’m getting through it with this repeated mantra: Bow to what is.
For me, bowing to what is means allowing myself to see what is happening and to accept that it’s real. It means not resisting or denying what is true, even if I dislike it. It means trying my best to see without distortion. Only then can I respond effectively, whether it’s showing compassion to myself or someone else, or setting a boundary where it’s needed. We can’t force the world to be as we wish, we can only meet the world where it is and go from there.
The events of this year are bigger than I am. I can’t fix what’s wrong. Yet how I respond, how each of us responds, matters. We need deep healing in this country—not just a fix, but a reset. How to do that is beyond me, but I want to be part of finding a way. When things are this out of balance, the best thing I can offer is a commitment to connecting to the true, balancing center, and encouragement for others to do the same.
So my direction, for now, is not so much forward but inward. I look for glimpses of the pattern being woven through the unfolding of these days. I listen for the messages behind the daily onslaught of news. I value silence, a rest from the stream of information that yields no insight. If true knowledge is to be had, it must come from deeper and more enduring place.
The upheaval we’ve all experienced this year has made clear that we are not in control. But we do have choice. We’re part of something bigger than we are, and each of us has a role to play as this greater reality unfolds. This is a time for each of us, in our own way, to listen for our soul’s wisdom.
This world is in dire need of the genuine gifts that each of us can offer. We must read the inner compass that allows us to bring forth the abilities that are uniquely ours to share. How do we act not from fear but from love? What can we offer that strengthens the collective?
This liminal time offers an invitation to consider questions that we’ve held off, perhaps for years. It’s time to listen—not to the cacophony out there, but to the wisdom that dwells inside. It’s time to see clearly, respond effectively, and create a society that can somehow hold us all. Let’s keep working to find a way of life, individually and collectively, that fits better.
Lately I’ve been weeding and mulching according to the sun, working when I can have shade in the heat of the summer. By 8:30 my time’s up, and even that is pushing it. Afterwards it feels good to sit on the porch and cool off, enjoying the improving landscape as the sun lights up the yard.
When I dug out a shrub from the front yard earlier this summer, I didn’t do anything beyond smoothing the dirt to reclaim the space it left. I pulled a few weeds then looked away for a moment. Suddenly the opportunistic crabgrass had not only taken over but grew in a mound threatening to replicate the size of the bush that had been there before. Among the spreading fingers a small cranesbill geranium with pale pink flowers bloomed—who knew you were there? But the voracious weeds nearly choked it out.
Nature abhors a vacuum they say. Physicists seem to be saying there are no vacuums, really. Everything exists in a field that connects everything. But our senses recognize that creating a space invites something to fill it.
Putting things in order, clearing space, is enormously satisfying. It brings peace. Then immediately the world presses in. So we need rituals and routines for holding that space, for preventing the opportunistic weeds from taking over and choking out what would bloom there.
It was a lot of work to pull out the crabgrass and other weeds that took over that fertile patch of soil. The job would have been easier if I had jumped on it sooner, but it’s done now. I worked carefully to keep the volunteer geranium intact while I extracted the weeds from around it. This time I covered the bare ground with a layer of mulch to help keep the weeds down. I need that help to hold the space until I get other things to grow there.
Whether it’s in a garden, or on a tabletop, or between the lines of a day planner, holding space can feel unproductive. It’s the antithesis of having an agenda. And yet holding space is about the healthiest intention we can have.
It’s interesting to consider the difference between an “agenda” and an “intention.” Agenda is a kind of willfulness, the imposition of not only what, but how and when. An intention is more expansive. It names a value and leaves open how to achieve it. It’s the yutoriof consciousness (yutori being a Japanese word meaning “a space of sufficiency and ease”). There are times when the focus and direction of an agenda is needed—it enabled me to do the work of clearing the weeds. At other times, intention is needed to allow room to breathe and for new life to grow. While an agenda tries to avoid surprise, intention makes space for the unexpected and creates the possibility of delight on the way to where we want to go. Intention holds things lightly.
Creating and maintaining space in our lives claims the fertile ground of our heart and soul. Staying with our creative and contemplative practices protects us from encroachments that rob us of what we need to be fully alive. We don’t have to let ourselves be overrun by crabgrass, whether it takes the form of negative thoughts from within or impositions from without.
At a time when the news feels more oppressive week by week, fear and despair (or the anger and hate that disguise them) are the weeds that can take us over if we allow it. Our lives individually and collectively are too important to allow that to happen.
We have the ability to love one another and to bring love’s healing to the world. We need space in our lives and our hearts to do that work. The gentle intention of holding space is important right now. Holding and tending our heart space, being watchful for weeds and removing them promptly, will allow beauty and healing to bloom in our hearts, our lives, and our world.
I’ve loved the yin/yang symbol from the first time I saw it
as a girl. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but recognized something mysterious and
true. Over the years I’ve come to understand more about the dynamic it represents,
and life continues to teach me about what it means.
Yin/Yang Symbol
The symbol shows the opposites of yin and yang in a dance.
It depicts the endless cycle of one side growing into fullness, at which point
it gives way to the other. That’s why the seed of the opposite appears as a
small circle in the middle of the widest point.
A better word than “opposite” for the forces in play is “complementary,”
which suggests not so much either/or, but rather both/and. The complementary
forces are two sides of a single coin. Each would be meaningless without the
other. They are not separate, even though they are as different as they can be.
The pandemic we’re all living through is my latest teacher
about what this powerful symbol embodies. A virus unleashed for which we have
no defense and no treatment is devastating—to our health, our economy, and our
way of life. At the same time, at no point in my lifetime has it been this easy
to see how interconnected our lives are. We had forgotten that.
There are many two-sided effects from the virus. The
limitations that constrain daily life are burdensome. Yet the many things we
can no longer do has brought spaciousness to our schedules. Shut-downs have
issued an invitation to explore what previously was edged out of the calendar.
We’ve had to give up in-person gatherings for Zoomtime, but in exchange we can include
others without the limitations of geography. Remote meetings have been around
for years, but we needed a push to find out collectively how well it can work.
In-person classes and meetings draw able-bodied people from a limited
geographic area. Technology breaks open the possibilities as those barriers
disappear. The tossed coin spins through the air in a mesmerizing pattern of
dark and light.
The monumental shifts we’ve experienced have happened with unsettling
speed. Practices that only a few months ago seemed carved in stone have now crumbled.
Whether the change is welcome or painful, we have an immediate sense of the
impermanent and illusory nature of our institutions and ways of life.
Finding out that broad changes are indeed possible within a
short span of time threatens our sense of security and stability. Yet in
another two-sided truth, it also offers a sense of freedom and possibility. We’ve
learned that our shared perception goes a long way toward creating our reality,
which is true in times of stasis as well as change. Ideas held by enough people
become our collective experience. The world we can envision is a world we can
make, however far from our current reality it may be. We know this in a way we
did not when this year was new.
The changes brought by the virus are not the only challenges to our country; its yin/yang lessons apply elsewhere. In the upheaval of our time we’re witnessing a political arsonist set fire to our nation’s institutions. It’s traumatic, like watching wildfires destroy old growth forest. I’m among the grief-stricken as the canopy of justice, responsibility, and protection burns. Yet after a forest fire comes new growth. A diversity of life emerges with plants that could not flourish in the dense shadow of the former trees.
In everything happening in our country and around the world,
something bigger than we can see is at work. We all have a part to play in its unfolding,
in this dance of dark and light. The flames will eventually burn out, the sunlight
will touch the earth in new places, and seeds long dormant will break open. The
world will be remade once again, and we can each contribute to making it
stronger and better for all of us.
A Japanese poet and samurai named Mizuta Masahide, who lived over 300 years ago, understood the yin/yang nature of the world. These lines of his endure:
Barn’s burnt down— now I can see the moon.
These lines offer the revealed moon as the round white circle in the yin/yang symbol, seeding new light in an expanse of dark.
I’ve known for months that a shrub in my front yard needed
to be moved, but all through the fall, winter, and most of the spring, I avoided
doing anything about it. It was a big project and I was focused on other things.
There was nothing wrong with the plant itself, but it was out of balance with its surroundings. It obscured the once-visible house number and blocked the roses trying to grow nearby. This happened little by little, the barely perceptible daily change imparting no sense of urgency. The encroachment grew, until a few days ago when something changed.
The tide of emotion moving through this nation and washing
over me needed some kind of release. Grief and pain and anger over injustice is
finally permeating our individual and collective psyche at a level we’ve never experienced
before. And on that particular day, not knowing what to do about the larger picture,
I found myself wrestling with the simpler task in front of me.
I cut into the ground with the tip of my shovel, making a circle wider than the reach of the shrub’s branches. I put my whole body into it, gripping the handle, foot on metal, shoving the blade into the soil with all the strength I could muster. Yet I also worked carefully. This bush was rooted in the wrong place and causing problems in the landscape, but I didn’t want to destroy it. Instead, I wanted to resituate it elsewhere.
When the underground structure was finally exposed, I was able to tip the shrub over. The root system ripped free with the sound of a thousand filaments breaking, muffled by the earth. One root, inexplicably longer and larger than the others, I had to cut with a pruner. I didn’t want to harm the plant, but I was doing violence to its intention to remain.
As I dug and sweated and pulled on those roots I held the
question of where I was planted, and in what ways I might be rooted in the
wrong place. I held the question of how our collective landscape needs to be
remade, and what my part might be.
I continue asking, praying the question of what I can offer to support change, how I can act in a way that is compassionate and responsible. The answers take time. The questions are seeds, and I’m tending the ground where they can grow.
The shrub is doing well so far in its new location. I watch
its leaves and water it well, willing it to take hold in this better place. The
leaves are indicators but the important work is below ground. That’s where the
hidden roots make their connection with new soil.
Beneath the ground unfolds a process that despite its familiarity remains a mystery. The seeds of questions we’re willing to ask break open, pushing new life up into the sunlight.
