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
I would like to relate true story of passivity in action.
When I was a school I was dating a guy (A) a couple of years older. His brother (C) was in my class and one of the girls (T) in our class was (c) best friend. Anyway T & C parents went away for ten days so it was party city at their house. Now T did not come to any of the parties which was strange but I could not attend the last 2 parties due to a commitment. I was told that T would be a the party. It dawned on me that A should really be with T instead of me, so I broke up with him telling him that I know it is T you really want. Yes they did get together at the party. Back at School T comes barreling down the hallway with her mates and thumps me on the arm.
Once I had taken my coat off I calmly walked up to her and stroked her cheek and just said “I am not afraid of you”.
Epilogue A & T got married & had a family & I lived happily ever after ha ha

Thank you, Tee. I appreciate the way you’re engagement.

I wouldn’t describe myself as someone with a rich inner life aimed at spending as much time there as possible. I’m not sure how that impression came about, and when I have time, I’ll revisit what I wrote to see where the gaps might be for that impression to arise.

Your definition of passivity as the absence of necessary action is valid, especially from an external, outcome-oriented perspective. But I’m pointing toward something more interior. Stillness, in this sense, isn’t the absence of action it’s the presence of awareness within action. A kind of motion that doesn’t rush. A kind of strength that doesn’t shout.

“only when there is stillness in movement does the universal rhythm manifest.” – Bruse Lee – I’m seeking the rhythm.

You’re right, this approach works best when there’s a willingness to listen. When someone is only interested in attacking or defending their corner of the elephant, it can feel not just futile, but harmful to stay engaged.

That’s why Zafar doesn’t suggest staying in every conversation at all costs. He speaks too discernment, the wisdom to know when to step back, and the courage to do so without shame. “Not all silence is surrender,” he says. “Some silence is a candle lit for yourself.”

Layla stood up for herself, which was brave. But she also felt unsettled afterward. Not because she spoke, but because she lost her center in the heat of the moment. Her journey isn’t about choosing between speaking or withdrawing, it’s about learning to respond from a place of stillness, even when the rhetoric flares. To be accountable for what is hers and release what isn’t, without defense or sense of righteousness. Without losing her center.

Sometimes, as you said, withdrawal is the wisest choice. But even then, it can be done with compassion. To say, “This hurts.” To say, “I don’t know how to stay.” That kind of honesty is not weakness, it’s presence. And presence, even when it’s not returned, is still brave.

I hear that distinction as a ‘yes and’ – hoping it doesn’t come across as a ‘yes but’ – does that resonate with you?

Than I see we have landed on the same space – “Willingness to see the other, listen to their pain, listen to their needs. But also, respect our own pain and our own needs. Compassion and self-compassion. I think the two together is the winning combination.”
That was nicely said.