Growing up, I spent hours in a great, old white pine. I’d climb high into the crown and grip the trunk, feeling held as it swayed. That memory has been returning lately—the strength and flexibility of deep roots.
Today the news churns as we face real threats—ecological unraveling, violence, authoritarianism and humanitarian crises. Balance is hard to come by. And still, goodness persists: the morning sun on the kitchen table; a neighbor checking in; the moon bathing us all in its silver light.
Both are here: chaos and wonder, anguish and delight.
As a parent of little ones, I feel the weight of this acutely—the grief of my children one day awakening to the climate crisis, hunger, war. That ache lives alongside their joy and laughter. It catches in my throat and sits heavy in my chest.
If you’re tired, scared, or heartbroken, you’re not alone. Wherever you stand, however you understand the causes of—and responses to—suffering in our world, our paths are intertwined. Our thriving depends on one another.
I don’t know how we’ll solve all of this, but I do know it starts with finding some ground within. How do we keep our hearts open and balanced when so much is out of our hands?
Stepping Back
When stability crumbles, we often swing toward extremes: panic or freeze. We speed up in a frenzy or shut down.
Our practice can help us thread the needle between these reactions. First, we make room for however we feel. There’s no “right” way to respond. Shock, fear, anger, grief, even numbness—all are legitimate, human.
Then, practice can return us to what matters—truth, goodness, connection—and to small, concrete acts that nourish one another and move toward the world we want to create.
Rooted Perspective
I also find myself returning to Buddhist teachings on equanimity—wise, balanced perspective—and to that image of a tree.
Equanimity isn’t indifference, apathy, or withdrawal. It doesn’t mean we stop feeling or surrender to the magnetic pull of despair. Equanimity is a sacred capacity for staying present—especially in the face of suffering. Like the keel of a ship in rough seas, equanimity steadies us.
At once spacious and intimate, equanimity widens our view and plants our feet. It lets us look upon the turbulence of this moment and see not only chaos, but the unfolding of countless causes and conditions—personal and structural, immediate and historical. Empires rise and fall, wars come and go. Seeing these tectonic movements doesn’t excuse harm or minimize suffering. It softens our hearts, reminding us that this, too, is the way of the world.
In my own practice, equanimity grounds me and helps me meet what is actually happening. “Here we are. I feel so sad that all of this is happening. And right now, this is the world we live in.” Turning toward what is opens the door to the next clear step.
The Poise to Act Wisely
Equanimity isn’t passive. It brings us into direct relationship with this moment and helps us stand firm, even when it’s hard to know what to do. Whether facing helplessness with a family member or despair over the headlines, it lets us enter the unknown with an even heart—more empowered, less afraid.
It also frees us from two illusions: that we can fix everything, or that nothing we do matters. Instead, we recognize both the limits of our control and the possibilities for change.
From there, equanimity clears the way for vision and action. We recall that countless people are working for change, and that the future is not written. John Paul Lederach writes, “Moral imagination is the capacity to imagine something rooted in the challenge of the real world yet capable of giving birth to that which does not yet exist.”
As we work together, equanimity sustains us by loosening our fixation on results. It enables us to keep showing up without burning out. We can act wholeheartedly—helping a loved one, doing our best to right the ship—while releasing what we cannot control. Christian mystic Thomas Merton taught, “Concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of what you do for itself.”
Equanimity doesn’t mean turning away from Gaza, from Sudan, from climate breakdown, or from violence in our communities. It steadies us to face them without collapse, and clears the way for imagining a different future. The seeds we plant today shape tomorrow. We do what we can, where we are, with what we have—together, even when we don’t agree on every step.
Embodying Equanimity
There is enough pain in this world to break our hearts a million times over. Equanimity doesn’t shield us from grief. It widens us so grief doesn’t break us. It helps us act with clarity about the past, honesty about the present, and reverence for the future.
When we practice equanimity, we sense our roots. Even when shaken, we don’t stand alone—like the trees, our roots interlace beneath the surface and support one another. Then, we grow settled in an unsettled world, clear and grounded in a world that’s spinning.
In the days and weeks ahead, if you feel rattled—by the news, by conflict, by your own inner storms—pause and breathe into your roots. Feel the ground beneath you. Sense the space around you. Reflect: this is what has come to be, for now. And this, too, will change.
Then listen. What helps you feel rooted? What’s one small thing you feel called to do—today—to help?
These reflections are based on recent teachings at my weekly group, Clear Dharma Sangha. Drop in here for a session any time.
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