Hi Tee

Yes, it’s an area that occupies me, though still a work in progress. Wisdom traditions have long warned about mistaking activity for passivity and vice versa, but we seem deeply resistant to this insight. That resistance, I suspect, is a source of much of our suffering.

Society holds a paradoxical view of change. We readily agree that change from the inside out is more lasting than change imposed from the outside in. Yet we undervalue the very process that makes that inner change possible. Why? My thought is because we mistake inner work (subjectivity) for passivity and external enforcement (objectivity) for action.

We live in a culture that celebrates transformation, makeovers, breakthroughs, revolutions… a world that privileges what can be seen, counted, and proven. Action, in this frame, means movement.

Inner work, by contrast, is subjective. It happens in silence, in solitude, in the messy terrain of thought and feeling. It lacks the markers of “doing something” that our culture recognizes: speed, noise, output. So we label it passive. We call reflection “navel-gazing,” restraint “weakness,” and emotional labor “soft.”

As a result, we rush to fix, to act, to judge, to enforce, believing that movement equals progress and defense of our boundaries. But this bias blinds us to a deeper truth that inner work is often the most courageous, demanding, and transformative form of action.

Tor Nørretranders, in The User Illusion, tells a story of physicists debating why the good guy in Westerns always wins the shootout. The answer? Because the bad guy acts while the good guy is present. Conscious, ego-driven action is about half a second slower than presence. The bad guy loses because he decides to act and moves first, while the good guy, fully present, was already active.

Here, stillness is not inaction. t’s presence. It’s the fruit of inner work: knowing oneself, mastering fear, refusing to be baited by chaos. The gunslinger’s stillness looks passive but its not, it’s the most active force in the scene, shaping the outcome.

My thought is that to truly understand action and passivity, we must integrate both objective and subjective perspectives. We must learn to see the invisible, to recognize that stillness can be strength and motion can be avoidance. In doing so, we confront our biases about what counts as passive and what counts as active. And perhaps then, we begin to discern how those biases have shaped the way we hope, what we expect from change, and where we place our trust.

Hi Anita,

I’d like to gently offer a “yes, and” on this statement: “For trauma survivors, the loss of self isn’t liberation—it’s fragmentation. Healing often requires reclaiming the self, not dissolving it.”

Yes: this is deeply true and must be honored – And – Wholeness may eventually include a loosening of the rigid self, not as erasure but as expansion. The journey of reclaiming the self can coexist with the possibility of transcending it.

Just as we must be careful not to use spiritual teachings to invalidate trauma or silence pain, we also need to be mindful not to silence the transformative insights that those traditions offer about the nature of self, liberation and wholeness.

The Dharma does not rush this process. It does not say, You are not real. It says, You are not only this. It says, When you are ready, there is more. Wholeness as presence of everything connected, seen clearly, held wisely, loved deeply.

Hi Tee

“I’ve got to say, Peter, that I notice a little sensitivity on your part when you talk about passivity”

Not quite in the way you speculate: My comment on expanding on Bruce Lee quote was me talking to myself wondering how better to communicate what I see as a major stumbling block for integrating the teaching of the various wisdom traditions. Mistaking for action what is really passivity and vice versa.

I’ve often wondered why wisdom traditions, for all their depth and beauty, don’t seem to catalyze the kind of societal transformation they point toward. I’ve witnessed individual awakening, but once form becomes institution, something seems to stall. The flow slows. The tenderness hardens. My thought is that mistake the notion of activity and passivity. Especially when it comes to Hope – we hope badly and my thought is because our Hope tends to be passive but we assume its active.

Erick Fromm suggested that unskillful hope is a attempt to flee from choice, from responsibility, from the anxiety of being, and in our flight, we embrace submission, conformity, and destructiveness. In Escape from Freedom, he named such hope as fear masquerading as safety, the seduction of authoritarianism…

Anyway something I’ve been working on.

LOL I wanted it to read as a ‘Yes and’ and see I wrote ‘But even then’… Sometimes, as you said, withdrawal is the wisest choice which even then, I think, can be done with compassion’

Hi everyone

In a world that often asks us to choose between silence and shouting, I’ve come to wonder if there’s a third way, stillness in action. Not passive. Not aggressive. But present.

I’m going to attempt to use the following Sufi and Zen stories to illustrate the third way ‘stillness in action’ I’ve been trying to communicate. Reframing the conflict within the tension of political discord I’ve been trying to engage and come to terms with. Next to explore this third way, I’ve imagined a conversation between Layla and Zafar, two voices navigating the fire of rhetoric and the longing for connection.

This Sufi story, often attributed to Rumi, tells of people who enter a dark room where an elephant is kept. Each person touches a different part, the trunk, the leg, the ear… and describes the elephant based on their limited experience. One says it’s like a snake, another like a pillar, another like a fan…. “If each had a candle and came together, the differences would disappear.”

Zen Koan: Is That So? This koan tells of a Zen master named Hakuin. A young woman in the village becomes pregnant and names Hakuin as the father. When confronted, he simply replies, “Is that so?” He accepts the child and cares for it. Later, the woman confesses the truth and the child is returned. Again, Hakuin says, “Is that so?”

Reflection:
There are days when I read a headline or hear a soundbite and feel my chest tighten. The words are sharp, the tone dismissive, the posture combative. My first impulse is to recoil, to label, to judge, to turn away…. It’s not just disagreement. It’s discomfort. And beneath that a deep sadness that we’ve forgotten how to speak to one another.

Rumi’s story of the elephant in the dark comes to mind. Each person touches only a part, and each insists they know the whole. I’ve done this too. I’ve mistaken my corner of the elephant for the entire truth and expected everyone to see by its light and, sometimes, become righteous when they didn’t. ☹

But the story doesn’t end in division. It ends with an invitation: If each had a candle and came together, the differences would disappear. Here coming together doesn’t mean agreement. It means presence. It means staying in the room when it’s easier to leave. It means asking, what part of the elephant have you touched? and meaning it.

Zen offers another image. Hakuin, falsely accused and called a disgrace, Hakuin says ‘Is that so?’ Then later when the world called him a saint, he says ‘Is that so?’ Hakuin responds not with outrage but with spaciousness. His peace was not tied to what others said about him. The rhetoric can shift and change, but if your calm or sense of self is not dependent on praise or condemnation, you are free.

I used to read this as unhealthy detachment. Now in the second half of life, I see it as a kind of quiet courage. To remain present without needing to be right. To hold discomfort without turning it into defense.

It’s true that such detachment can become a shield, escape or even indifference if not careful… however, a deeper part of me calls out that that engagement doesn’t mean abandoning stillness. It means letting the stillness hold others too.

In a polarized world, dialogue is not a luxury. It’s a lifeline. And, I think it begins not with cleverness, but with compassion. Not with argument, but with attention. Compassion that makes it safe, even when its not returned, and the choice to stay engaged, to keep the candle lit, makes it brave.

Layla – Zafar Dialogue
Walking home from a family gathering, Layla replays a tense exchange with an in-law who always seems to know how to provoke her. She’s proud that she stood her ground, but the conversation left a bitter taste. The words linger. She’s frustrated not just by the conflict, but by how easily she became reactive and defensive, how quickly she let someone else’s tone shape her own. She wonders why it’s so hard to stay centered when the heat rises.

As these thoughts swirl, she notices Zafar sitting quietly beneath a tree, as if waiting for the moment to arrive.

Layla: I don’t know how to do this anymore, Zafar. Every time I try to speak, it feels like I’m walking into fire. They twist my words, mock my tone, and I’m left wondering why I even tried.

Zafar: You tried because something in you still believes that words can be bridges, not weapons. But belief doesn’t mean blindness. It’s okay to feel burned. It’s okay to step back.

Layla: But stepping back feels like giving up. Like I’m letting the loudest voices win.

Zafar: Not all silence is surrender. Some silence is a candle lit for yourself. A way to see your own wound before you try to see theirs.

Layla: I want to believe that. But the space between reaction and response is so small. Sometimes I don’t even notice I’ve crossed it until I’m already defending, already hurting.

Zafar: That space between reaction and response can be sacred even if barely there. A chance to notice before the fire catches. A chance to name it, and in naming, you begin to reclaim the space. Not perfectly. Not always. But gently.

Layla: So what do I do when the rhetoric comes again? When the words are sharp and the posture is rigid?

Zafar: You remember the elephant in the dark. You remember that they’ve touched only a part. And so have you. You ask, not to win, but to understand. And if they won’t meet you there, you still keep your candle lit.

Layla: Even if I’m the only one holding it?

Zafar: Especially then. Because one candle can remind the room that light is still possible.

Layla’s Journal
Zafar’s words are still with me. He didn’t tell me to be stronger. He didn’t ask me to forgive or forget. He simply reminded me that the space I long for, between reaction and response, might begin with noticing.

I’ve always thought I had to be ready before I spoke. Clear. Composed. Unshakable. But maybe readiness isn’t the point. Maybe it’s enough to be honest. To say, “This hurts.” To say, “I don’t know how to stay.”

And maybe the candle I hold isn’t for lighting the whole room. Maybe it’s just enough to see my own hands. To remember that I’m still here. Still willing. Still listening.

I don’t know what I’ll do next time the rhetoric flares. But I know I’ll try to pause. To breathe. To ask, “What part of the elephant have you touched?” And to mean it.

There’s a kind of stillness I’m learning to trust, not the stillness of silence or withdrawal, but the stillness that moves with me. That walks into the fire without needing to fight. That listens even when the words sting. That stays, not because it’s easy, but because something deeper is holding me steady.

Maybe that’s what Zafar meant. That stillness isn’t the absence of motion. It’s the presence within it. A rhythm beneath the noise. A candle that doesn’t flicker, even when the wind rises.

Hi Tee

Sorry my last reply was a bit rushed. I really do appreciate you acknowledging that you might have been projecting. As we talked about before I think we all do it, often without realizing. What matters is the willingness to see it and speak it.

As for your other question: yes, I do think the passage of time has shifted my focus inward. The outer pursuits still have their place, but they no longer feel like the center of gravity. The second half of life, for me, seems to be about letting go but in a way that makes space for something deeper to emerge. I don’t experience that as passive but can understand how it might seem that way from the outside looking in.

I’ve really appreciated this exchange. It’s given me much to reflect on. Thanks for the thoughtful conversation.

I Tee

I think I can name the ‘loop’ I’ve sensed in the pattern of our dialogue – ‘Yet But’.
You tend to lean into the outer, objective experience of conflict – what was said, what needs to be addressed. While I tend to lean into the inner, subjective experience – what was felt, what shifted, what resisted. Both of us I think caught in the loop of – ‘yes but’ the outer experience…. ‘yes but’ inner experience…

Of course both experience are real, and both are happening together. But communicating across that difference isn’t easy. It’s like we’re each holding a different part of the elephant, trying to describe the whole.

Anyway thanks for the engagement and holding the space. I apologize if I projected my own insecurities around communication.

Hi James

Love it. I’m not sure though how to express the warning in the initial post with also not falling in it?
A limitation of language perhaps.