Stillness Is Not Surrender

I’m following up on what I wrote this morning, so here this evening, because there is more I want to say to those of you who are carrying this fight in your chest every single day.

I have talked with many people who stand at the forefront of this work, the ones organizing, protesting, showing up for their communities again and again. I recognize something in them because I recognize it in myself. Their conscience will not let them rest. Something in the soul keeps saying, do something, the world is upside down, you cannot look away. I understand that pull completely.

I want to say clearly that I am not a scholar or a theologian. I am simply a traveler without a permanent home. Every place I rest becomes a home for a while, not a lasting one, just a place to lay my head before moving again. Perhaps that describes most of us, really. We are all traveling from one station to the next, toward a destination none of us can avoid. That much is certain for everyone.

Yesterday I found myself beside a quiet Azalea Japanese pond, and something in it stopped me. It was not only the trees or the stillness of the water, though that was part of it. It was noticing that other people nearby had also paused there, drawn toward the same quiet. It made me think about how rarely that kind of stillness gets any attention. The news does not sensationalize peace or kindness or unity. It sensationalizes conflict, because that is what keeps us watching. Our nervous systems have adapted to that rhythm. We live in a near constant state of alertness, scanning for the next threat, the next outrage, the next thing that demands a reaction.

But that pond taught me something different. The water was still. The branches reflected on its surface without disturbance. For a moment it felt as though the earth itself had paused. And I recognized myself in that reflection, because for the better part of thirteen years I have rarely stopped moving. I have found calm in places along the way, but a steady, lasting peace is something I have let slip. My mornings used to begin with prayer, with reading the Quran, with a kind of grounding before the day pulled me elsewhere. That rhythm has fallen away, and I know I need to return to it. I am working on it, slowly with reflection and clarity.

I say all this to make a simple point. Stillness is hard. When we try to sit quietly, something under the skin resists it. The heart feels heavy, the breath feels tight, a voice inside insists we should be doing something instead of sitting still, whether that means being on our phones, organizing, attending meetings, or simply worrying. I think this reaction deserves attention, because so much of the world around us is built to keep us on edge, to keep our alertness high, because agitation holds attention better than calm does.

Nature, for me, breaks that cycle. It waits patiently, without asking anything of us, simply offering itself. Come sit with me, it seems to say. Stay as long as you need. Find whatever balance you have lost. And in that stillness, something becomes possible that is very hard to reach otherwise, a gentler relationship with ourselves. Not the harsh inner voice that says I am not doing enough, I cannot change anything, but something kinder, something closer to the truth, which is that our intentions are good, and our own wellbeing matters too, not only the wellbeing of others we are fighting for.

I was in conversation this afternoon with someone who felt they could never do enough, that the work must simply continue without breaks. I understand and respect that conviction. But I offered a different way of seeing it. Everything in existence has its limits, and that is not weakness, it is simply how things are made. Even the greatest injustices, the cruelest systems, the most entrenched powers, all of them will eventually meet their breaking point. We cannot fix the whole world. Most of us do not even know everything happening two streets from where we live. But whatever falls within our reach, whatever we can see and touch and respond to, we are called to meet with sincerity. If we act with good intention, without bias, without cruelty, and we do it consistently, without destroying our own health in the process, that is enough. Change comes. It always has.

So reach out. Find a place, however briefly, where you can be still and listen to yourself, even if it feels unfamiliar or uncomfortable. And I want to return to something I said before, because it bears repeating. Love remains one of the most powerful forces we have. Nothing rivals the strength of the human spirit expressed through a smile, laughter, an embrace, a hug, a kiss, the simple presence of loved ones and good people near us. Do not be afraid to receive that love, or to offer it.

I am sharing a photo of myself from yesterday, standing near that Azalea Japanese pond, wearing a shirt with its logo turned upside down. It felt fitting somehow. The world often looks upside down to me too. But I do not believe it is broken beyond repair. I believe it is moving exactly as it was meant to move, toward its own resolution, toward good eventually overcoming what is cruel and unjust. That is my hope, and my faith, and I hold onto it, God willing.