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.

Hi James
Defiantly a delicate balance and challenge sharing from one’s experience and engaging in dialogue without it feeling like imposing ones views. Especially in spiritual spaces, where language touches on deep and often ineffable experiences. Dialogue in these contexts seems to ask for a quiet kind of humility: to speak from one’s center without assuming it is the center. Easier said then done..

LOL a Jehovah witness just stopped by

Hi Tee,

The topic remains of interest to me, though I sense we may be circling something deeper, perhaps a tension that’s hard to name, and therefore difficult to resolve.

I was attempting, in my own way, to communicate that Maya and the pain it creates is real. I should have been clearer that this pain is not to be dismissed. My intention was to offer a third way of engaging with that pain, one that neither denies it nor rushes to assign blame.

I acknowledge that my invitation to pause and reflect was misunderstood as assigning equal blame. That wasn’t my aim, nor was it intended to determine who was right. This, I agree, was a failure on my part, especially given how the metaphor landed even as I found myself entangled in it. I can’t un-ring the bell, so I’ll let that be.

One question that hasn’t yet been addressed is: in an online forum, what is our expectation around accountability when someone has hurt us? Do we cancel them? Should they cancel themselves? I hope not.

Sometimes all we can do is accept what is and give ourselves credit for expressing our truth with clarity and care. Accountability, in this context, may not mean punishment or withdrawal, but rather a willingness to stay present, to listen, to reflect, and, when possible, to repair. Still, that’s not always easy, and it’s not always mutual. But I believe there’s value in resisting the impulse to erase or condemn and instead choosing to remain in the discomfort to see what it might reveal. That is what I’ve witnessed here, for which I’m grateful.

Regarding your question: “Say someone hits you while you’re sitting peacefully, minding your own business—does it reveal anything about you?”

It reveals something about the person hitting, if they’re willing to look within. Just as the reaction or response of the one being hit will reveal something about them. I can see some value in keeping the events isolated, focus on the hitter… but if I’m the one being hit, what I care about, perhaps selfishly, is my response and what it reveals about me.

I wonder if my framing, that every interaction, especially online, carries some element of projection and mirroring, is part of what’s causing both of us to feel misunderstood. It’s a lens I’ve come to trust as a kind of truth, but I recognize it may not resonate in the same way for others. Perhaps we can agree to disagree here.

Lastly, in your reply I noticed a strong, even triggering, reaction to “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” I know it’s often used to express compassion, but I experience it as a kind of split… a way of loving that still divides. It feels like it keeps the heart slightly closed, even when the intention is to keep it open. That’s not a critique of your use of it, but an acknowledgment of how it landed in me. To be honest, I was horrified that what I wrote connected to that notion as anyone on the receiving end of that phrase is unlikely to experience it as being truly seen.

I also noticed a frustration, perhaps even a touch of anger… directed inward. I often feel clumsy when trying to communicate something that feels clear inside but lands differently outside. Language, especially metaphor, is how I make sense of things, but I’m learning that it doesn’t always translate well.

Still, I value this exchange. Even in its discomfort, it invites reflection as I find myself uncertain about how, or whether, to continue discussing the topic, but I’m grateful for your willingness to stay in the conversation.