Except perhaps for these parts of your answer (upon 2nd reading):”None of the “bad” things they do..”- bad things are really bad, why the ” ” around bad?

and “The person I see now is just the result of everything around them”- no such thing as Personal Choice…?

Dear James123:

Thank you for your answer. I want to love more in this way of radical acceptance, a way that not bound by preferences, judgments or desires, like you said. But how to accept really bad people?

Anita

Dear James:

A sense of peace came over me as I read your invitation to become love. And I find myself asking: what is love, truly? Not just in poetry, but in practice.

For me, it means to do-no-harm: no abusive behaviors toward others, but also allowing no harm to be done to me, as best I can. That means being selective and discerning about whom I choose to interact with, and how. It’s a learning experience for me.

When you say “live within love,” what does that look like for you?

🤍 Anita

Dear James123:

Your original post brought back to my memory the poem, Hokusai Says, by Roger S. Keyes. It’s a poem that mean t a lot to me but.. I’ve forgotten it for too long:

Hokusai says look carefully.
He says pay attention, notice.
He says keep looking, stay curious.
He says there is no end to seeing.

He says look forward to getting old.
He says keep changing,
you just get more who you really are.
He says get stuck, accept it, repeat
yourself as long as it is interesting.

He says keep doing what you love.

He says keep praying.

He says everyone of us is a child,
everyone of us is ancient,
everyone of us has a body.
He says everyone of us is frightened.
He says everyone of us has to find
a way to live with fear.

He says everything is alive–
shells, buildings, people, fish,
mountains, trees, wood is alive.
Water is alive.

Everything has its own life.

Everything lives inside us.

He says live with the world inside you.

He says it doesn’t matter if you draw,
or write books. It doesn’t matter
if you saw wood, or catch fish.
It doesn’t matter if you sit at home
and stare at the ants on your veranda
or the shadows of the trees
and grasses in your garden.
It matters that you care.

It matters that you feel.

It matters that you notice.

It matters that life lives through you.

Contentment is life living through you.
Joy is life living through you.
Satisfaction and strength
is life living through you.

Peace is life living through you.

He says don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid.

Look, feel, let life take you by the hand.

Let life live through you.

Dear James123:

Your explanation is truly excellent—thank you so much. The clarity and depth you offered helped me feel not just informed, but invited into a new way of relating to my inner experience. What you wrote about fear and anger especially resonated, and I intend to practice those insights with care and curiosity.

I found myself rereading this line several times: “Pure Consciousness itself watches, and the fear begins to lose its power because there is no resistance feeding it.”- That image—of fear losing its grip simply because it’s seen without resistance—feels both profound and liberating.

I do have a question about the part on danger. You wrote: “When you allow yourself to fully face that fear, without trying to flee…”—I find myself pausing here. Isn’t the instinct to flee danger a survival mechanism? Something deeply wired into us for protection?

I suppose what I’m trying to reconcile is the difference between resisting fear and responding to actual danger. If the body is flooded with fear because it perceives threat, how do we distinguish between what needs to be welcomed and what needs to be acted upon? I’d love to hear more if you feel called to elaborate.

With appreciation and warmth, Anita

Dear Debbie:

First, about what your therapist said—“Shame on you for judging your nephew”—

That phrase is deeply loaded. In therapy, shame is often the very wound people are trying to heal. It should never be used as a tool against the client.

Even if your therapist didn’t intend harm, saying “shame on you” crosses a line. It’s a moral judgment, not a therapeutic intervention. Therapists are trained to avoid language that shames or blames—especially when someone is working through trauma or relational pain. That kind of phrasing can shut down vulnerability, trigger old wounds, and make the space feel unsafe.

A trauma-informed therapist would have recognized that your anger wasn’t just about your nephew—it was connected to deeper pain. Instead of honoring your emotional clarity and protective instincts, the focus was redirected to your nephew’s possible suffering. That kind of reversal can feel invalidating, even disorienting.

While this may not qualify as a formal ethical violation, it does raise important concerns: emotional safety, attunement to trauma, and the power dynamics in the room—especially when a therapist uses shaming language and then backpedals without repair.

So let me say this clearly: you’re not overreacting. Your discomfort is real, and your instincts are trustworthy. That phrasing was inappropriate, full stop.

Even when a client has acted in harmful ways (which is not true in your case), the therapist’s role is to explore the why, not shame the who. There are ways to invite accountability that still honor dignity—like asking, “What do you feel when you think about that moment?” or “Can we explore how that may have affected the other person?” These kinds of questions open doors, rather than shutting them.

Some therapeutic styles do use challenge or confrontation—but never shaming. Even in intense moments, the language must stay rooted in respect and curiosity.

Again: shame is often the wound. It should never be the weapon.

Now, about your relationship with your nephew—

Your instinct to protect yourself, to journal through the pain, and to set boundaries is not only valid—it’s wise. Taking space wasn’t about punishment; it was about clarity. You recognized that his actions stirred something unresolved in you, and instead of reacting impulsively, you chose distance. That’s not avoidance—it’s discernment.

You didn’t lash out. You didn’t demand anything. You simply chose not to reach out as you normally would. That’s a boundary. Quiet, clear, and rooted in self-respect.

And the way you processed your anger—through writing, reflection, and self-inquiry—is a beautiful example of emotional maturity. You honored your truth without needing to make anyone else responsible for it. That’s emotional sovereignty: staying loyal to yourself, even when others might not understand.

Emotional intelligence isn’t just about empathy or communication—it’s about knowing what you need, honoring your limits, and responding to pain with clarity instead of chaos. You did all of that. And it’s not just valid—it’s powerful.

With warmth and respect, Anita