Dear Celia,
Thanks so much for your recent email. I don’t claim any special wisdom on how to maintain “the delicate balance between the need to call out social injustices and yet stay positive,” but I so appreciate the question! You’ve given me an opportunity to reflect on this high-wire act, which, for me, is an ongoing life practice. There’s no rulebook to follow in every situation, is there? Thank goodness, we can learn from our mistakes.
Not long ago, for the first time since before the pandemic, I was sitting in a local brew pub, visiting with R., a dear friend. Put simply, R.’s politics and mine don’t mesh. Our spiritualities scarcely overlap. From the start of the pandemic, our opinions about how to handle it have been at odds.
Early in our far-ranging conversation, that evening in the pub, R. said, “I love my freedom.”
“When you say `freedom,’” I asked, “what do you mean, exactly?”
Instantly defensive, R. launched into a robust sermon on patriotism. I waited until he finished, then clarified my question.
“Listen, I’m not attacking you,” I said. “I’m grateful for my freedom, just like you. But what is `freedom?’ I genuinely want to know how you define it—I think we may be using the same word to mean different things. Don’t worry about offending me. I promise to listen to whatever you have to say without commenting.”
Thus reassured, R. began to flesh out his view of “freedom.” From my perspective, it was a very libertarian position, colored by white supremacy. He said that he resents every governmental intrusion into the free market and the personal lives of citizens; that he doesn’t believe in paying taxes except for national defense; that he opposes all types of regulation, including on guns; that he heartily approves of border walls to stem the tide of “lazy” refugees and immigrants, and so on.
Objections simmered up in me until, at last, I boiled over. I don’t recall my words. I just remember the look on his face, like I’d slapped him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My bad! I promised that I’d listen without commenting. Please continue—I’ll do better this time.”
R. resumed, but with obvious hesitation. Meanwhile, I resolved inwardly to regard him less as a cultural adversary and more like a man reading his poems to me for the very first time.
Why? For one thing, I knew that I’d be more grateful for his willingness to take a risk. For another, I knew that I’d be more attentive and curious. After all, a poet usually reads to a friend not to be judged but simply to share—to reveal something of himself. These inner shifts on my part might help R. feel safer. He might be more candid, more real.
Throughout the rest of our conversation, I worked to govern my tongue. I also managed my thoughts, actually paying attention to R. instead of mentally arguing with him. I leaned in and calmly met his gaze. Whenever I felt vexed by his “free speech,” which sometimes crossed over into hate speech, I focused on the flow of my breath.
Eventually R. and I seemed to move out of our habituated roles—him feeling attacked, my feeling provoked. Our discussion deepened. We both began to listen better. We both began to speak more reasonably.
R. and I were never going to agree on much that night. But by the time we parted, we were surprised to have agreed on this: Our country won’t function well unless “we, the people” maintain a healthy balance between personal freedoms and social responsibility. (Another high-wire act!)
It took hours for R. and me to reach that point of agreement, but I shouldn’t have been surprised that we got there. After all, when we listen with openness as a poet recites, a “leap” or “turn” in the poem can transport us to where a shared truth “clicks.” We may feel that truth in our mind as an insight, or epiphany. We may feel it in our body as a sort of quickening. We may feel it as a lightening in our spirit.
Such a significant shift—whether in a poem, a conversation, or a conflict—can be subtle. It can even occur in the silent spaces of what isn’t said aloud.
If we’re to notice that moment, and value it, and possibly build upon it, we must sustain our attention without seeking to control or dictate what’s happening. Without imposing our expectations or values. Without judging.
So, Celia, here’s what I’m thinking: In some (though certainly not all) situations, speaking less and listening more can be one of the best (though certainly not only) ways to “call out social injustices yet stay positive.”
I’ll confess: I often get impatient with this process, especially given the immense suffering all around me. I’m sorely tempted to rise up in rage. But rage, no matter how justifiable, can inflict violence that makes a just peace impossible.
Can we let the contested spaces in our society ripen beyond our personal control? Can we offer those spaces our compassion and creativity, thereby encouraging them to turn, like fields of flowers that follow the sun?
Deep peace and health to you,
P.S. Like this care package? Share it with a friend.
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