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Peter
ParticipantI’m trying something different or maybe its not. It draws from Sufi and Zen traditions and my exploration on the nature of mirrors and the ways we reflect each other and ourselves in the same moment
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A young monk approached the master and said,
“Master, my friend scatters like the wind. I cannot keep him still. How can I hold him close?”
The master handed the monk an empty wooden box.
“Catch the wind in this,” he said.
The monk frowned. “That is impossible. The wind cannot be trapped.”
The master smiled.
“Then why do you try to hold what was born to move?”
The monk lowered his eyes. “But if I do not hold him, will he not leave me?”
The master opened the box and turned it upside down.
“Look,” he said, “the wind has already been here. It touched your face, filled your lungs, and passed on. Did it ever belong to you?”
The monk was silent.
The master placed the empty box in his hands.
“Carry this with care,” he said.
“It is lighter than the wind, yet heavier than your need.”Later, in the quiet of the garden, I sat with the box in my lap. In stillness, I rested where roots go deep, and the earth hummed softly with my name. Unseen by others, I bloomed in the soil of a deeper spring. The gaze of others may pass me by, but my leaves are my own offering.
I began to notice how, in every relationship, two mirrors face each other. Perhaps one belongs to the soul longing to be seen, the other to the heart that wishes to shape. Yet in reflection, which mirror is which? Do we even notice when each polishes the other to match its own image?
This is the silent tension beneath so much human suffering: the desire to be known, and the impulse to control what the other sees, creating an endless corridor of reflections, images of images, stretching into infinity.
So it is with us. The one who feels unseen begins to adjust themselves, hoping to catch the other’s eye. The one who shapes another secretly longs for affirmation in return. Each becomes both the unseen and the shaper, trapped in a hall of mirrors where no image is real.
How can we truly see another when we do not see ourselves?
The Sufi would say: “You polish the mirror of another, yet your own is covered in dust.”
The Zen master would strike the mirror and ask: “Where is your face now?”
Both teachings point to the same truth: the more we seek ourselves in another’s reflection,
the further we drift from our own center.And so, I turned inward.
The unseen must learn to bloom without witnesses. The shaper must learn to behold without grasping. When each tends to their own mirror, the hall of illusions collapses. Two souls meet, not as images, but as essences, not in a corridor of reflections, but in the open sky of being.Rumi whispers: “Out beyond ideas of right and wrong, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
And the Zen master adds, with a smile: “Bring nothing with you, not even your face.”
I sit quietly and imagine two mirrors facing each other, seeing the endless reflections.
Then one mirror is turned inward and polished gently, not for others, but for clarity.What is my nature when no one is watching?
The mirror falls away, and with it all reflections. There is no hall, no corridor, only the vast, open field.
I have looked for myself in a mirror polished by others’ breath, a surface bright, yet blind, where smoke slipped through the cracks of reflection. I reached for form…. and found only shimmer.
Now I walk where mirrors cannot follow, beneath a sky too wide for frames. The fog still curls around my feet, but I breathe the open air.
I am not smoke, nor shadow… I am the wind, moving through the world, unbound, unseen, quietly present, witness.
Peter
ParticipantHi silvery blue
“I just sometimes wish that others who come into conflict with me would think of me that way, too… Sometimes I feel like I’m trying my best and I’m all alone.”I’ve felt that same loneliness
It is funny-sad, isn’t it? In an age overflowing with tools for communication we often find ourselves more fragmented, misunderstood, and lonely than ever. More “connected” than any generation before us, yet deep connection feels rarer. We have endless ways to express ourselves, yet language feels more fragile, more easily misread.
We seek safe spaces, yet risk losing the courage to engage bravely… and for that I have no answer.
Peter
ParticipantHi Alessa
A question I often ask what myself, what if…Peter
ParticipantHi Alessa
Thanks, the stories are personal, most coming for old journal entries, but I also think universal in away. Is it odd that sometimes I find that comforting and sometimes it ticks me off. 🙂
The notion of forgiveness has long been a puzzle to me. In the community I grow up in the word was used in a way I assumed everyone must naturally just understand it. In hindsight I know that wasn’t true. But it feels like it should be so I think we pretend.
I won’t go too far down that road here, but I’ll just say. I’ve come to see forgiveness as more than a virtue. I see it as the one tool we have to help shape the world, even when we feel small in it. That thought makes me uncomfortable, and sometimes breaks my heart, and sometimes gives me hope. But yes, not easy, and I don’t feel I’m alone in wondering if the hardest person to forgive, may be ourselves.
Peter
ParticipantHi Debbie,
I’ve been thinking more about a question that stayed with me after reading your post.
I hope it’s okay that I’m taking a second attempt, not to answer your question, but to relate to the moment when someone asks, “What if my authentic self is someone I don’t like?”
In my first reply, I was honest but suspect not helpful. I told you I’ve asked that question myself, which is true. But before I asked the question came, I remember saying the words “I hate who I am.”, Words I still hear myself sometimes still saying,
So, when I read your post, something in it stirred a memory of hurt in me, the kind that once made me ask the question. I don’t want to assume it’s the same, but perhaps close enough that I wanted to respond.
And because I’m me, I offered the path and practices that have helped me. But I knew even as I wrote them that words can’t reach the place that question comes from. Hear again if I’m honest, I don’t always like the guy that responses in this way, but he means well.
So last night, I found myself looked again to the wisdom traditions, not at the practices, but at the teachers and wondered how they respond to the hurt behind such questions. This is what I saw:
The Buddha sits beside you in silence, and maybe your breathing begins to match his.
The Sufi reaches out and holds your hand, and maybe your heart breaks a little, but not in a bad way.
Jesus also sits beside you and weeps, sharing your tears if they fall.
The hurt not resolved but… but maybe not the same…
This to I would offer.And eventually, the Zen master that is Life comes along and claps his hands loudly and gives you a nudge. You get up, go to work or school, take a dance class maybe or head to the gym. Where maybe someone makes you laugh, or better yet, you make someone laugh. And you find you don’t not, not like yourself.
In another thread, I mentioned how sometimes I imagine my ego, or maybe my id, as a dog responding to energies I’m unconsciously projecting. When I’m anxious, it barks. When I’m avoidant, it hides. When I’m reactive, it lunges… when I’m hurt, I wonder if I can like myself…
But I didn’t mention that sometimes I imagine the dog running through a field of wildflowers, chasing a squirrel it has no real intention of catching. Then, because I’m me, I can’t help wondering if the squirrel knows it’s a game and realizes that I’m the squirrel too.
The scene shifts: the squirrel safe in a tree, calling out the dog the way squirrels do and the dog barking back, the way dogs do. A part of both, I imagine laughing.
And in that moment, Life is.
Peter
ParticipantHi Everyone
The topic of compassion and conflict is one I’ve returned to more than once, and I suspect I’m repeating some of what I’ve tried to say before. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I should re-engage with it. But last night, an old song came to mind “This Little Light of Mine.” It came out of nowhere. Maybe that’s the invitation to let the light shine, even when the path feels uncertain.
What follows is a reflection I’ve been sitting with, shaped by past readings, metaphors, and personal experience. I offer it with humility, knowing it may be misunderstood, but hoping it might resonate with someone else navigating the tension between healing and being heard.
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In a space like Tiny Buddha, where many come to share personal trauma and seek healing, the importance of compassion and respect cannot be overstated. Yet, the very nature of online forums, limited to words alone, adds complexity. Tone, intention, and nuance are easily lost, and what was meant as support can sometimes feel like confrontation.
I believe that anyone posting here is hoping to be seen, heard, and perhaps helped. But it’s not always clear what kind of help they’re seeking. Some may want advice, others simply a witness. For those truly seeking healing, I’ve come to believe that tension is inevitable, because healing often requires being pushed, even triggered which I picture as a metaphorical ‘slap’ of the Zen master. 😊
I wonder: without that tension, can we truly be seen? In ballroom dancing, if the connection doesn’t hold tension, there is no dance. The movement collapses. The same might be true of dialogue.
Still, like a dance, this is a delicate balance. When the past is alive in the present, triggering can feel like re-traumatization. Forgiveness, in such cases, may feel like vulnerability to further harm. Under these conditions, honest engagement becomes a tightrope walk where even well-intentioned responses can and will trip over boundaries often invisible.
I’m not sure what the answer is, other than cultivating a space of grace. Even now, I hesitate to post these thoughts, suspecting they may be misunderstood or felt as aggressive. But perhaps grace begins with the willingness to risk being misunderstood, in service of something deeper?
I’ve wrestled with these questions for years, and one resource that gave me hope was the book Crucial Conversations, followed by Crucial Confrontations. These books explore how to stay present and respectful during high-stakes, emotionally charged dialogue. What stood out most to me was the idea of “mastering one’s story,” learning to recognize and reshape the narratives we tell ourselves before we speak.
But I’ve learned that mastering one’s story isn’t a quick fix. It’s shadow work. It means facing the parts of ourselves we’d rather avoid, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And that process, too, can be triggering. Yet without it, I don’t know how we can engage honestly or compassionately, especially in conflict.
Is it paradox, irony, or something else that one might reach out to a site like Tiny Buddha while in the midst of mastering their story or doing shadow work? To seek clarity in a space where misunderstanding is likely? Perhaps it’s a kind of spiritual risk, a willingness to be seen in the messy middle, not just the polished end.
A surprising source of insight for me has been the show ‘Cesar Millan: Better Human, Better Dog’. While it’s framed around dog training, what often unfolds is a deeper emotional journey, one where the dog’s behavior reflects the energy and unresolved trauma of the human. In many episodes, the “pet parent” must confront their own fears, grief, or past wounds to help their dog. And sometimes, it’s the dog that leads the way not by intention, but by mirroring what needs attention.
The dog’s past trauma is often soothed by the calm confidence of the pet parent. Both grow. The pet parent learns to be still, to regulate their energy, and the dog learns to trust. Growth emerges from this tense, honest engagement where healing is not forced but invited through presence and attunement.
I often imagine my ego, or perhaps my id, as a dog responding to energies I’m unconsciously projecting. When I’m anxious, it barks. When I’m avoidant, it hides. When I’m reactive, it lunges. And just like Cesar’s approach, the work isn’t about suppressing the dog, it’s about understanding the energy behind the behavior.
This metaphor helps me see that compassion and respect, especially in conflict, aren’t just about how we treat others, they’re also about how we relate to the parts of ourselves we’d rather not face. And maybe that’s why forums like Tiny Buddha matter. They offer a space where we can begin to notice our own projections, and if we’re lucky, learn to hold them with grace.
I’m curious if others resonate with this metaphor or hearing about any sources or practices that have helped you engage with tension, healing, or shadow work, especially in online spaces like this one? I’d love to hear what’s supported you.
Peter
ParticipantA final reflection as I return to sit beneath the tree.
The Path Between
The morning mist still clung to the valley when Layla set out, her steps quiet on the dew-covered path. She had begun walking without a destination, only a feeling a pull toward something unnamed.
Near the bend where the cedar trees grew thick, she saw an older man sitting on a stone. His cloak was worn, his posture still. He did not look up as she approached, nor did he speak.
Layla paused. Something in his silence reminded her of herself… not the self she showed, but the one she had once carried quietly, before Zahir had taught her to listen.
She sat a short distance away, not too close. She did not speak. She did not offer a question or a metaphor. She simply waited.
The wind moved through the trees. A bird called once and was answered. The man remained still.
Layla closed her eyes and breathed. Not every silence needs filling, she thought. Not every pain needs naming.Layla sat beside the stranger, the silence stretching like a thread between them. She did not reach for it. She let it be.
The sun had begun its slow descent behind the hills, casting long shadows across the path. Layla remained seated beside the stranger, her breath steady, her heart quiet.
After a long silence, the man turned slightly and looked at her. His eyes were kind, deep with time. And then, he smiled.
It was not a wide smile, nor one that asked for anything. It was the kind of smile that carries recognition, not of a face, but of a moment shared.He stood slowly, as if the silence had given him something he hadn’t known he needed. He did not speak, nor did he reach for anything. He simply placed his hand over his heart, bowed his head slightly, and turned to walk away.
Layla watched him go, her own heart still. She had brought no bundle, no token, to give him. Only herself. Only the quiet.
And yet, she knew both had received something.Just before the bend, where the cedar trees grew thick, he paused. Without turning, he raised one hand in silent farewell. Then he was gone.
Layla sat alone once more, but the silence had changed. It was no longer the silence of waiting. It was the silence of something completed.
She closed her eyes and listened not for footsteps, not for voices, but for the stillness that follows a gift given and received freely.
And in that stillness, she smiled.The Old Man’s Heart (inspired by the movie ‘The life of Chuck’)
As a young man, he had once been given a seed of fire by a gardener whose eyes held both sorrow and joy. “Plant this in your heart,” the gardener had said. “It will burn away the thorns and grow into a tree whose fruit is peace.”
And so he had. He had once thought the fire would only burn away what was false. But over time, he learned it also revealed what was beautiful.
There were days though, like today, when the ache of the world pressed heavy on his chest. Days when he saw too clearly the pain people carried, the harm they gave and received without knowing why. On such days, he did not try to fix anything. He simply sat, letting the ache be what it was.
Only today, he did not sit alone.
The woman beside him had offered no words, only presence. And in that presence, he felt the ache held, not erased, not explained, but witnessed.
It reminded him of a moment long ago, walking down a city street. A busker had played a rhythm that matched a businessman’s steps, and the man had stopped, set down his briefcase, and danced. The music changed to meet him, and for a breathless moment, he did not know if the man was dancing to the music or if the music was dancing to him.
Here also a young woman had joined him, and the world had become rhythm and movement and grace. And he could swear he heard the world sigh in gratitude.
It was one of the most beautiful things he had witnessed so he was not surprised when he found tears had started to fall. Something in him had recognized a truth: that life, at its most honest, is a dance between souls. Sometimes we lead. Sometimes we follow. Sometimes we simply move together.
That was what he felt now. The ache remained, but it was no longer solitary. It was shared. And in that sharing, it became something else, not pain, not joy, but the quiet rhythm of love.
Peter
ParticipantI saw pain and believed it could be a doorway, a place where healing might begin. I projection of the wounded healer, perhaps because I needed to believe that healing is always possible, that forgiveness is always a strength.
But sometimes triggers are not seen as invitations, but as invasions and forgiveness not as liberation, but as vulnerability to the past. And in that difference, I felt the distance between my intention and the impact.
Layla and Mira
In the quiet valley, Layla had begun tending a small garden of her own. It was not as large or as balanced as Zahir’s, but she watered it with care and remembered his teachings.One day, a traveler named Mira came through the valley, her eyes heavy with sorrow. Layla saw the pain and thought, I know this path. I can help.
She invited Mira to sit beside the garden and spoke of seeds and soil, of forgiveness and rain. She told Mira that healing begins when we soften the ground within.
But Mira grew tense. “You speak of planting,” she said, “but my soil is not yours. Your words feel like wind against a wound.”
Layla was quiet. She had meant to help, as Zahir had helped her. She had offered what had once been a gift to her but now it felt like a weight to another.
Layla returned to Zahir, unsure. “Teacher,” she said, “I tried to help as you helped me. But my words caused pain.”
Zahir looked at her gently but said nothing.Layla sat beside him in silence. The wind moved through the valley. She watched the dry soil and wondered if she had ever truly understood it.
She whispered, more to herself than to him, “Maybe the seed must wait. Maybe the soil must speak first.”
Zahir nodded, but still did not speak.
And Layla stayed there, not knowing what to do next, but willing, at last, to listen.
Peter
ParticipantHi Everyone
The last few days I’ve been sitting under the tree wondering if I have planted the seed of fire or bottled it up. Or perhaps I have planted it but not tended it well? Digging it up looking for just the right garden, the right crack of light to fit through.
Words from the Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us… as we forgive” and the ask that we love our neighbor as ourselves… arise. Words that feel less like a request and more like a mirror. A mirror I’m not sure I want to look into, knowing how I struggle to love myself. What if the soil of the self is dry, cracked, and hard?
I know the truth of the interconnection of the web of life: that what we do to earth, what we do to others, we do to ourselves. And yet, I also know how difficult it is to forgive myself, to offer grace inward.
That tension led me to the story ‘The Seed and the Soil’, the soil of self-love, and the rain of kindness. It’s not a solution, but perhaps a way to walk with the question.
The Seed and the Soil
In the quiet valley nestled between two hills, Teacher Zahir tended a small patch of earth behind his hut. It was not part of the two gardens he was known for. This soil was dry, cracked, and stubborn. Yet each morning, he knelt beside it, pressing a single seed into the ground and whispering something no one could hear.One morning, Layla, the young seeker, returned to Zahir. She bowed and asked,
“Teacher Zahir, why do you plant in soil that does not grow?”Zahir smiled gently. “Because the seed is forgiveness.”
Layla frowned. “But the soil is barren.”
Zahir nodded. “Yes. It is the soil of the self, untended, hardened by years of judgment and silence.”
Layla sat beside him. “And you believe the seed will grow?”
Zahir looked to the sky. “Not by force. But even dry soil softens when the rain comes.”
Layla whispered, “And what is the rain?”
Zahir closed his eyes. “Kindness. Patience. The quiet act of loving what we are, even when we do not understand it.”
Layla touched the soil. It was still dry, but not as hard as before.
Layla’s Reflection: The Soil Within
I sat beside Teacher Zahir today, watching him press a seed into dry earth. I asked why he bothered, why plant where nothing grows?He said the seed was forgiveness, and the soil was the self.
I didn’t know what to say. I’ve tried to forgive. Others, yes, but myself? That soil feels too hard, too tired. I’ve buried things there I don’t want to name.
But Zahir didn’t speak of force. He spoke of rain, of kindness, patience, and the quiet act of loving what we are, even when we don’t understand it.
I touched the soil. It was still dry. But maybe not as hard as before.
I wondered: If I have not forgiven myself, have I ever truly forgiven others?
And deeper still: What I’ve done to myself I’ve done to others…
Maybe the rain has already begun.
Peter
ParticipantHi Alessa – Those words were beautiful
Peter
ParticipantHi Debbie,
“What if my authentic self is someone I don’t like?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times and know many others have too. Today after having struggled with the question, I wonder if maybe not being alone in the question is part of the answer.
What I’ve learned is that what we call our “authentic self” often gets tangled up in old wounds, habits, or roles we didn’t choose but learned to play. Looking back, I’ve come to see that disliking a version of ourselves can be the beginning of a hero’s journey, a call to transformation. Still the untangling is a work in progress…
The wisdom traditions don’t always give direct answers, but they do offer companionship in the question.
Some say the self is not fixed but unfolding. Others speak of a deeper essence beneath the layers something whole, even if hidden. And some invite us to meet the parts we dislike not with judgment, but with curiosity and compassion.
Rumi writes, “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” Maybe the dislike stems from identifying with the ego rather than the soul.
The Buddha reminds us: “You can search throughout the entire universe for someone more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and that person is not to be found.”
In the Christian tradition, we’re told: “You are loved not because you are perfect, but because you are G_d’s creation.”
Lao Tzu offers: “When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”
And Jung adds: “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
Perhaps in this moment, it’s enough to have asked the question and then, siting with it gently, see where the river takes you.
Others on this site are better equipped to help you work those parts you struggle with.
I wish you well and I hope you remember to be kind to yourself if you decide to explore the river.
Peter
ParticipantI see I’ve become discouraged by the weight of events in the world, things I do not understand.
The choices we’re making don’t seem to match the values we say we hold most dear.
It leaves me feeling as if my feet have never truly touched the ground.
A fool, perhaps, for thinking that maybe…When I start to feel this way I know its time to take a break from the digital world for a while and as the dervish suggests, walk on for a bit, and seek out a tree to sit beneath.
Relic or Root
“There was once a Gardener who came to a land of dry soil and broken roots. He carried with Him a seed of fire. He said to the people, “Plant this in your hearts. It will burn away the old thorns and grow into a tree whose fruit is peace.”Some rejoiced and planted it.
Some cast it aside.
Most buried the seed in stone jars, sealed tight. It is too wild,” they said. “Too new. Too dangerous so we must prepare ourselves first before we plant it.”
Years passed. The few who had planted the seed found their lives changed. The fire did not consume the world though it warmed their hearts. And in that warmth, they knew others as themselves, they forgave and shared bread, they sang and walked in light. The mountain remained a mountain, but so did the flame.
Those who had sealed the seed began to speak of it as a relic and not a living thing or a way to be lived. They built temples to the jar, sang songs to the memory of the fire, and taught their children to guard the stone, keeping it from rolling away.
One day, a child asked, “Why do we keep the seed locked away?”
The elder answered quickly and with little thought and so spoke a hidden truth that was also a fear, “Because if we plant it… it might change everything.”
The child went into the hills and wept.
And in the silence, a voice whispered, “Life is as it must be… yet the seed still burns.”
Peter
ParticipantA old story brushed off
The Dervish, the Market and the Wind of Grace
A dervish entered the market, humming a song no one understood.A merchant shouted, “Your song offends my silence!”
The dervish bowed and kept walking.A scholar said, “Your bow offends my dignity!”
The dervish smiled and kept walking.A beggar cried, “Your smile offends my sorrow!”
The dervish wept and kept walking.A child tugged at his robe and asked, “Why do you keep walking?”
The dervish replied, “Because the market is a mirror. If I stop, I become the reflection.”
The child asked, “And what do you see in the mirror?”
The dervish said, “Everyone shouting at their own echo.”
Later, the dervish sat beneath a fig tree at the edge of the village, listening to the wind.
A warrior passed and said, “Your silence mocks my battles.”
The dervish opened his eyes and whispered, “Then let the wind carry your sword.”A poet passed and said, “Your whisper offends my verses.”
The dervish smiled and whispered again, “Then let the wind carry your rhyme.”A widow passed and said, “Your smile offends my grief.”
The dervish wept and whispered once more, “Then let the wind carry your tears.”The same child returned and asked, “Why do you whisper to the wind?”
The dervish replied, “Because the wind does not argue. It carries everything, swords, rhymes, tears and returns them as rain.”
The child asked, “And what does the rain say?”
The dervish said, “It says nothing. It simply falls.”
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When we look to the universe, we are indeed smaller than small, yet through forgiveness become bigger than big. Forgiveness is one of the few human acts that bridges this gap. It is a portal through which the finite touches the infinite. In forgiving, we momentarily step into the role of the divine, not in arrogance, but in humility and grace. Forgiveness as the dervish points to need not be a debate or a defense. It is a whisper to the wind, a surrender that allows pain, pride, and sorrow to be carried, softened, and returned as something nourishing.
Peter
ParticipantSometimes light can be both hope and limitation and the way out isn’t always up but down into the dark, into and through the places we fear. Even if the sky is brief, the flight, the life, is real.
The Sparrow and the Silo
There was once a sparrow who found itself trapped inside an empty grain silo. In the first frantic hours, it flew in circles, searching desperately for a way out but there was none. Exhausted, the sparrow eventually stopped and began to explore. To its surprise, it discovered food and water, enough to survive for a very long time.
Days passed. Then weeks. The sparrow grew used to its strange new world. It was safe, even comfortable but achingly lonely.
One morning, the sparrow noticed beams of light shining through cracks in the silo walls. Excited, it flew toward them, hoping for escape. But the cracks were too narrow. Still, the light was beautiful, and the air near it was fresh and cool. It reminded the sparrow of the sky it once knew.So, each morning, the sparrow would rise, fly toward the lights, and peer through the cracks. Some days, it caught glimpses of the world beyond, trees swaying, clouds drifting, the shimmer of open air. These moments gave it hope and belief.
A year passed.One morning, the sparrow realized it had stopped flying. The routine had faded. The hope had dimmed. It had grown old, tired, no longer wishing to believe, that just maybe this time. The sparrow found it even resentful of the beams of light that once inspired it. They now felt like taunts, reminders of a freedom that maybe never was.
The sparrow began to spend it days doing little. Some days it simply sat. Sometimes as it sat its mind would sometimes quiet as its breath slowed that was a kind of peace. Then in that stillness, it noticed something it had never noticed before, a faint current of air, like a whisper.
Curious, the sparrow followed the oh so slight breeze to a dark corner of the silo full of shadows, a place it had always avoided. There, hidden in the shadows, was a hole. The hole looked deep. Maybe endless.
The sparrow hesitated. It knew the hole might be a trap, fearing that once it entered there might be no going back. But something in the whisper called to it. So, gathering its courage, the sparrow descended.
The hole turned out to be a tunnel which was long and dark. There was no light, no sound only silence. Many times, the sparrow grew afraid. Cold and hungry, it nearly gave up. But just when it thought it could go no further, it felt the breeze again, stronger now, carrying the scent of open air.
With the last of its strength, the sparrow pressed on.
And then, light.
The sparrow emerged into the world it had ached for so long. The sky stretched wide above. The wind lifted its wings and for the first time in what felt like forever, the sparrow flew, not in circles, not in hope, or belief, but in freedom.
I’ve told that version of the story before but now wondering if the ending wasn’t an escape into magical wishing. So, an alternate ending to honor the part that sometimes wonders if the sky is even real.
The sparrow had emerged. After the long silence, through the darkens, hunger and fear it had found the sky again. The wind lifted its wings, and for a moment, it remembered what it was to fly, yet it remained still. The world seemed to have changed. Or perhaps the sparrow had… The sky stretched wide above was still the sky, the trees, silent sentinels of home, still trees… yet the songs of other birds sounded distant, like echoes from a life it no longer belonged to.
The sparrow, weary from its journey looked up at the sky, not noticing the shadow that moved quickly, silent, feline, inevitable. A cat, sleek and patient, had been watching from the tall grass. Its own hope ready, its own prayer to answered.
The sparrow in that moment, looking up, saw the sky not as a place to escape to but something it had carried within all along. The light. The wind. The longing. The courage. The silence… and yes, the darkens too. It was, and he was, all of it.
It had never been about the silo, or the tunnel, or even the sky. It had always been about the flight, the willingness to move, explore, to sit, to listen, to descend into the dark, and to rise again, even if only for a moment.
And in that moment, the sparrow was free.
Peter
ParticipantHi Everyone
I feel its important to remember that the healing process will push up against the boundaries of our experiences that often requires us to revisit the very places where we were hurt. In my experience a difficult space to hold as ego consciousness seeks to protect itself while the Self seeks to be made whole.
Ideally, healing involves re-engaging with pain in a way that allows for transformation rather than repetition. However, In spaces where we rely solely on language, especially inherited language shaped by the same systems which may have often caused harm, or exasperated it, this becomes even more complex. I often wonder how much of our pain resides in the experience and how much in the language that tries to express it. I know I get tangled up in it.
For anyone interested in this problem I found Jung’s archetype of the Wounded Healer helpful as it reminds us that our own pain can be a source of insight, but also a risk if not held with care. Transformation arises not from being unscarred, but from having walked through the fire and returned with something to offer.
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