Letter To a Hurting World

World, I’m sorry you’re hurting.

I’m sorry your babies are dying. I’m sorry you’re being torn apart by a few haters of you and your people and the love that makes you go ‘round and ‘round.

I don’t quite know what to do.

I don’t quite know how to feel or how to act or what to say when really horrific things happen to your people—my sisters, my brothers. I freeze.

Many are saying: “I’m not scared. We’re not scared. We can’t be scared.”

But I don’t believe them, World, because I’m scared.

I’m scared for your future and I’m scared for all of our futures and, most of all, I’m scared for the future of my little boy and all of the other little boys and girls who will inherit you and all of the mess that’s been created in you, in the name of I-don’t-know-what.

I don’t want to hate, World.

I don’t want to become one of the haters, but I’m finding it really hard to put on a brave “love wins” face right now.

I’m finding it really hard to let my broken heart shine bright, even though that’s what she does best, you know—this heart of mine, she’s a firefly.

But maybe, right now, it’s OK not to shine. Maybe it’s OK to just be scared. To just be scared and angry and really, really sad. To just sit on the couch, crying, for those who got dressed up on Friday night, in Paris, and headed to a famous concert hall, only to be gunned down a few hours later.

And for those who, days earlier, were on the streets of Beirut, perhaps shopping at the market with their children, when a bomb went off, leaving nothing but corpses and terror in its wake.

Crying, too, for the fact that I didn't even hear about the tragedy in Beirut, until the tragedy in Paris happened. (What does this say about you, World? About us? About the value we place on some lives and not on others?)

All of this breaks me, World.

It makes it hard for me to breathe. It makes it hard for me to trust in the innate kindness of your people. And it makes it hard for me to believe—really believe—that love wins.

But then, World, I do what I always do when I feel lost: I close my eyes.

I place my hand on my chest.

I breathe into my belly.

And even though it’s hard at first, it gets easier. The breaths get deeper and longer and, in time, I feel myself settle. Everything slows down: breath, hearbeat, racing brain.

Just like that, I’m in my safe space again—that space, inside, where I go to find comfort when you, World, become a bit too crazy for me.

It is here, in the hush, that I reconnect to the real Knowing so often buried underneath all of the false knowing. It is here, in the hollow, that I can see the Light so often obstructed by darkness . It is here, in the clearing, that Courage lives—the kind of courage that can never, ever be crushed by fear.

This is where God lives, too.

This is where Love lives.

(And, World, just so we’re clear: In my version of life and life-after-life, God and Love are the Yin and Yang aspects of the exact same thing.)

And even though I’m a bit too scared and angry and sad right now to feel the full force of that capital-L-Love, I still know it’s there.

With my eyes closed and my breath steady, I can feel it. It’s like a soft current gathering strength underneath rough waters, quietly but consistently pulsing, gently reminding me of its presence and its power.

And when I open my eyes, twenty minutes later, I realize that I feel just a little bit stronger than I did before, a little bit braver, and like I carry just a little bit more capital-K-Knowing in my body.

World, this is what I know for sure:

I know that Muslims are not to blame for the terror running rampant in this world and I know that there is confusion about this, but I know that I will keep standing up for my Muslim friends as they would stand up for me.

I know that there are more of us who are praying for peace and working for peace and singing for peace and fighting for peace than there are who are rejoicing in these senseless acts of violence.

I know that fighting for peace is an oxymoron—that dropping bombs over entire villages only adds to the brutality and does nothing to ease it (if it did, we would have seen some sort of progress by now, 14 long years after this "war on terror" was started). I know that war is terrorism with a bigger budget.

I know that there are many who disagree with me on this, and that that is their right. I honour their voices, too. 

I know that there are more of us who are opening doors for those who are running and who need a safe place to sleep tonight than there are who are locking doors and barring windows.

I know that there are more of us who are hurting right now than there are who are celebrating—and I know that this is a very good thing.    

Because we are hurting together, World.

We are your people and we love you and we love each other and we are hurting together.

We are your people and we are kind.

We are resilient.

We are very, very brave.

And maybe, today, we are just too scared and angry and sad to feel very, very brave.

Maybe, today, we are feeling pulled towards hate (because fear does this, you know) but maybe—if we close our eyes, if we find our breath, if we listen to our wise, wise hearts—we will all feel a little bit braver tomorrow. 

Brave enough to believe—really believe—that love wins.

We are your people, World, and we are trying.

We are imperfect and we make mistakes all the time, but we are trying. And we’ll keep trying, together. We’ll keep healing, together. We’ll keep lifting each other up and teaching each other how to love again.

Our shattered hearts will keep shining, World. Don’t you worry. They will.

Our hearts will continue to light up the night.

We are your people, World.

Your army of fireflies.

Seeking Stillness

My city was attacked this weekend. Savagely assaulted, besieged, and set ablaze.

Voices were silenced and causes overshadowed by a few thrill-seeking cowards in black masks who have zero understanding of, or respect for, the purpose of protest.

Riveted to my TV screen, I watched in horror as the city I love became a broken, burning bedlam.

I was furious. Outraged. I swore, I screamed, I changed my Facebook status to one of fierce condemnation,

Blood boiling, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I became a vehicle of bitterness and rage.

And I hated. I hated the G20 Summit. I hated the leaders and their private jets and their expensive suits and their wives. I hated them for shaking hands and smiling for the cameras and eating at the Fairmont while the city that hosted them was being destroyed. I hated the so-called anarchists who used my city as a platform to spread their vile, vicious non-message. I hated that the media frenzy was no doubt encouraging them. I hated that innocent and well-intentioned people were being unjustly arrested. I hated that poverty issues, gender issues, health issues, and green issues were being suppressed. I hated that the money that was spent on G20 security could have bought one hundred million mosquito nets in malaria-infested countries.

I hated so strongly and vehemently that the hate completely engulfed me. I merged with it, morphed into it. I became the hurricane itself, spewing venomous words and toxic thoughts into the world.

Deepak Chopra once stated, “In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you.”

My stillness had vanished. I had lost it, along with any semblance of perspective.

For a few brief hours I became part of the problem.

Because isn’t that how problems grow? How negativity spreads? How hate circulates? How fear propagates?

When we lose sight of who we are and allow ourselves to be overtaken by external circumstances we, quite simply, lose altogether.

I know this. And not in a superficial sense but in an innate and profound way. I know this.

And yet, with jets roaring overhead and sirens blaring in the distance, the innate and profound knowing that exists in my core dissolved almost entirely.

Almost.

At around 2am on Sunday morning, while I obsessively followed the tweets of those witnessing the brutality downtown, something happened: the hardened shield encircling my heart, obstructing all feelings but anger and hate, began to crack. I could feel the fissures snaking up, down, and around, allowing slivers of light to shine in.

I paused. Breathed. Closed my eyes. Opened myself up to the stillness of tranquility. Of safety. Of love.

I stayed in this place of inner joy and peace for a very long time, letting go of my anger, my hate, my fear, my frustration, allowing wave after wave of comfort and contentment to wash over me.

This is where power begins. In this place of genuine passion and purpose. Here, there is clarity.

Here, there is hope.

Numerous studies have been done, in recent years, to substantiate the claim that energy, in all its forms, has a deep and lasting impact on people, animals, and the planet itself.

The Global Coherence Initiative is a collaborative research project which studies the relationship between living beings and the Earth’s magnetic fields. Studies have in fact demonstrated a correlation between changes in the Earth’s magnetic fields and changes in a variety of biological functions (brainwaves, nervous system activity, heart rhythm, memory, etc.) Incredibly, researchers also hypothesize that the Earth’s fields can be directly impacted by human emotions.

The significance of this cannot be overstated: human emotions may play a key role (the key role) in the well-being of all living things and of the planet itself.

Though we cannot see it, energy spreads. It reaches far and wide. It communicates. It connects. It activates. And, as such, it can provoke change. It can transform conflict into cooperation, discord into harmony. It can balance imbalances.

This is not some airy new-age concept, but a phenomenon that many modern scientists do not deny: human energy can heal the world.

Let us remember this.

During times of crisis, of despair, of oppression. During times of fear, of distress, of injustice. During times of sorrow, of misfortune, of pain, let us remember this.

Resorting to violence and hatred, though oftentimes tempting, is never the answer.

Stillness is the answer.

And by stillness I don’t mean inaction. Action is critical. Protests are crucial. Expression is essential. But the acting, protesting, and expressing must come from a place of stillness, of knowing, of authenticity, of love.

We are more powerful than we know. The future is, quite literally, in our hands.

In our hearts.

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Here is a tribute to the peaceful protesters who marched, sang, danced, and hoped. I celebrate you.

What the Media Ignored.

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This week’s affirmation: Though chaos surrounds me, my heart is still.