light and dark together

instead of polls, read this reflection from a Zen teacher

Excerpted and edited from a talk by one of our root teachers at Appamada, Flint Sparks. Election Day, November 2024.

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The artist and writer

Patti Smith

once said, “Transformation of the heart is a wondrous thing, no matter how you land there.” What I assume about each of you today is that somewhere deep inside, you long for the world to be lovingly transformed somehow, some way. We all wish for a kind world. A compassionate world. A world full of wisdom, and welcoming, and generous care. In the teacher’s seat, my primary commitment is to offer things I believe to be relevant for everyone, no matter your political stance or choice on this important day. So I feel an edge of discomfort as I list those aspirations for the world. Here is my concern.

There can be a hidden seduction in consensus, an unseen perversion of purpose in holding too tightly to one position, a subtle enchantment invited through focusing on one commonality of thought, and there is an unexpected form of violence in a social worship of one-ness.

When we speak solely to the choir, we turn our back to the larger congregation.

I’m speaking in a direct manner because I’m concerned we don’t have time to waste. Consoling each other only through shared agreement won’t transform the broken-heartedness and shattered relationships of the world. We must venture to the shadowy edges of our understanding, beyond the boundaries of our comfort—even our comprehension—in order to appreciate the startling diversity of who we are as a people, and what we are capable of in this world.

We are here to reflect the light of our genuine goodness, for sure, but I’m concerned that in doing so, we unknowingly neglect the dark, and I am convinced that neglecting the dark is destroying us. I don’t want to fail you or miss this moment, but I feel called to more. I am calling you to more.

Light and dark, together. Photo by @Flint Sparks.

From Rilke, writing in a long, dark winter in a Russian Orthodox Monastery:

You, darkness, of whom I am born —
I love you more than the flaming light
that limits the world to the circle it illuminates
and excludes all the rest.

But the darkness embraces everything:
shapes and shadows, creatures and me,
people, nations—just as they are.

It lets me imagine
a great stirring presence breaking into my body.
I have faith in the night.

I have faith in the night. In our liturgy we chant, the spiritual source shines clear in the light; the branching streams flow on in the dark. Our world is visible in the light, displaying infinite forms of dimensionality and novelty. The dark is a place of no distinctions; it is formlessness, where everything moves together and everything is held. We embrace the light but often fear the dark. We turn away from the night.

Together—the light and dark, the relative and absolute, the mundane and divine—all describe the vast, inconceivable space into which we are born and into which we will return. It is the field of our joys and sorrows, of love and hate, of grief and celebration—our one unbound heart and mind which we strive to embody through spiritual practice and which we hope to express in our lives.

Rilke described more than the light of the Divine, the glow of the Great Mystery, the warm smile of God, or the unbound love of Universal Consciousness. He invites us to reach wider and deeper, to include more, to include it all. Be assured, I embrace the light and love at the very heart of our lives and our practice. This wholesome and brilliant radiance is precisely what we celebrate when we sit in silence. But I am concerned, in that rich glow, we may miss the requirements of our shaky animal bodies, our frail humanness, our fierce and messy mammalian life-force that is the very ground of our being.

Humans have highly sophisticated brains, and we are singular among mammals in having the most well-developed prefrontal cortex. It is why we have these skulls, peculiar among primates. We are a species of mammal who bring their young into the world long before they can be on their own. Our children do not run with the herd within minutes because our survival does not depend on that. Our survival depends on maintaining rich and enduring relationships. As a result, we have to attach strongly and attune deeply, in order to support maturation into resilient human-being-ness. The part of our brain that fulfills this requirement is constantly working, like the spinning ball, the searching signal on our phones, looking for a connection. The human brain scans perpetually to answer three crucial questions:

Are you there?
Do you hear me?
Do you choose me?

Every human yearns for a warm response to these questions in living form, in fleshy human relationship. And much of what we are now horrified by in our world are the consequences of the ways in which these signals have found no response, no answer, no connection. There are so many people lost in the shadows and we are startled as they emerge into view, bringing with them the demands and pain of primal, unmet longings. There is more to the story, always, but this is what I want to touch on today.

No matter how disaffected or marginalized a person is, no matter how embittered or destructive, if you offer someone hope they will be seen, heard, and included, and if you offer something to do that they think will make a difference—any difference—in a world they’ve given up on, and if you promise, even falsely, that they will be celebrated alongside others for joining a close-knit community, they will join. So would you. And no amount of rhetoric or rebuke from another perspective about how misguided the group or its leaders are will change that reality. A felt sense of meaning, facilitated through warm relationship, is what matters to humans incarnate. An invitation to join others in a way that makes sense to us will always trump the alternative: despair and isolation, meaninglessness and powerlessness. If leaders at any level appeal to these essential longings for inclusion and connection, they will find ardent supporters.

The fruitful darkness. Photo by @Flint Sparks.

So we must go into the dark—to the shadowy aspects of ourselves, to our closest and dearest relationships, to the complex and broken communities of our world—and begin to make sense of the chaos. This may make us uncomfortable, even terrify us, but the result of not looking, not listening, not connecting, and missing what’s important in that darkness is equally terrifying. We must make contact with—better!—make friends with, the shadowy elements of ourselves and those around us, if we are to bridge the gap. Yes, turning toward shadows can be frightening, but turning our back on darkness is dangerous. It’s evident that this noble experiment is in trouble—politically, socially, culturally, biologically, artistically. To survive, we must awaken and face more fully the entirety of who we are and learn more about those we so easily label “other.” We must find ways to reclaim our broken hearts and burnish the gold they contain. Can we imagine big enough, deep enough, wildly enough to save ourselves? Can our imagination expand beyond the bounds of problem-solving and endless technologizing and instead reclaim our profound responsibility to each other and for each other?

Can we demonstrate through our own warm relationships that a tweet is not a kiss on the cheek, an email is not a whisper in your ear, and a Facebook friend request is not an outstretched hand?

These are real questions we face, and it appears that our wisdom traditions and the spiritual practices they offer may hold more of a key to survival than our evolving technologies or our global economies.

Krista Tippett

asks us to “reach across the mystery to each other,” so what does this mean in our lives? What can we actually do?

At a bank in Kaunakakai, HI. Photo by @Flint Sparks.

Here are everyday ways we can practice wisdom and compassion:

1.    SEE EACH OTHER.

Acknowledge each person’s truth and dignity, even if you are dismayed by what you encounter. Learn from everyone or at least learn about them. Without being met in a meaningful way, any of us can escalate into reactivity to grasp for what we lack. Practice positive regard. Pay benevolent attention.

2.    LISTEN TO EACH OTHER.

Listen for vulnerability and the signs of suffering, not so you can “help,” or change, or challenge. Allow people to speak their truth and be reflected so they may know themselves, and you may know yourself as something beyond your cherished and partial perspective. What we don’t know will hurt us and others. What we will not turn toward will turn on us.

3.    KNOW THAT BOUNDARIES ARE ESSENTIAL FOR LIFE TO FLOW IN BALANCE.

Rivers need a bank and fire needs a container. Without these boundaries, they can both can be destructive. With proper boundaries, rivers and fires can serve and nourish. There is such a thing as foolish compassion, and there are real dangers in the world we must attend to. It is crucial to know our limits because it helps contain and focus our strengths. Sometimes, it is wise to put distance between you and another person or group, even as you hold them in your heart. Sometimes “No” is the fullest and firmest form of compassion.

4.    PRACTICE FLEXIBILITY AND HUMILITY.

In the provocative words of family therapist Carl Whitaker:

• Fracture role structures at will and repeatedly. Entrenchment in beliefs is not a nimble place from which to respond to the world.

• Learn to retreat and advance from every position you take. Try on new perspectives and contemplate the insights within.

• If we abandon our missionary zeal, we are less likely to be eaten by cannibals. Certainty is a formula for being blind and unkind. Self-righteousness creates contention and pain. Do not strive to “fix” or “help.” Simply be of service.

5.    BE PATIENT WITH YOURSELF AS YOU STUMBLE AND FALL, BUT DO NOT GIVE UP.

Accept your impotence in matters great and small without apology. Soften into the strength and capacity you do have and be kind to yourself. This is another way to know self-compassion. When you fall, use the ground you fall on to stand yourself up again.

FALL DOWN SEVEN TIMES, STAND UP EIGHT. Kanji: Nana karobi ya oki.

On an inaugural podium in 2021, after another of these trying election cycles, a young Amanda Gorman spoke:

And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us

We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside

We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another

We seek harm to none and harmony for all

Poet W.S. Merwin echoed her sentiment when, nearing his 90th birthday, he spoke of his pain from Earth’s destruction and concluded, “On my last day, I want to be planting a tree.”  This was his vow for the good of all beings, and he was determined to do it despite his fear that it would make no difference.

This is also our opportunity, our most meaningful work: to remove barriers to love and show up—time and again—for the realization and embodiment of care. Poet Elizabeth Alexander wrote, “Love is the mightiest word.” So it seems to be. We aspire to do good, to love each other, because it is our nature. Beyond consensus or dispute, love is what we want to do. Love is what we must do.

To life as it is,
Flint (and Sun)