Dearest Shambavi, there are stories in spiritual traditions that you know regarding the impact that the witnessing of profound suffering can trigger in the hearts of sincere practitioners…. The one I most remember, although I can’t remember all the details or even the name of the practitioners turned into buddhist saint that this story represents. Its a famous buddhist tale where the practitioner experiences such profound grief that the heart finally splinters into 1,000 pieces which become the thousand eyes of the all seeing buddha….as I refuse to turn away, this is what is happening to me….. Inshallah!
This post comes at the perfect time. I’ve been carrying a low-grade heartache for a while now—a quiet depression, a murmur of anxiety. Look outward, and you’re spoiled for choice: the collapse of U.S. politics, starving children in Gaza, the looming climate catastrophe. Is this me? Am I anxious? Am I depressed? Or is it just the pain of the world leaking into my body?
Last night, I went for a walk and passed a woman who lives on the street. She could be my mother. My heart ached—why is she out here? But I was also afraid to approach; she’s been aggressive before. And that, too, hurts. We’re failing to help those near us, just as we’re failing those far away. And I feel the sting of my own cowardice.
The hurt compounds. One kind of pain layers on another until it becomes a tangle. Alone in the quiet of my space, I sit with this pile of ache like stray toys collected over time. Hurting is part of this human device called the body.
And then something opens: maybe this “body” isn’t just mine. Maybe it’s the Human body—this shared vessel made up of all of us. I can’t quite articulate it, but then the internet hands me a key to unlock my own encrypted thought.
I stumble upon my beloved Roberto Benigni, shouting with that wild love only he can channel:
“When children play war and one gets scratched, the game stops. What kind of cowardice is this? They kill children in Gaza—they must stop! It is unbearable to the human soul. Don't they hear the cry of pain rising not from one place, but from the whole world? If they don't feel the pain, they are not human. We are one body—if they don’t feel the pain in one part, they are not being human.”
And suddenly, I gasp for air. The pieces lock into place. This is one body, and we are hurting because we are one.
As practitioners, we often seek a oneness that feels like bliss—a unifying, peaceful presence that lifts our burdens and restores joy. But this pain I feel? It’s also a product of oneness. I hurt because I am connected. This ache is not separate from the sacred union—it’s an expression of it.
For years, I struggled to reconcile the suffering in the world with the idea of oneness. How could such pain exist in a state of divine unity? And now, Roberto has answered that question with piercing clarity: suffering is there because we are one. My body is the body. If one part hurts, we all feel it.
Tears came as I listened to Roberto’s cry—not just because of the tragedy, but because I recognized something. The oneness I’ve sought isn’t only about peace or joy. It includes this pain. Feeling the hurt of others is proof that we are connected.
And so, to answer the original thought: I don’t think we are being “tenderized.” I think we’re re-discovering our natural state of interconnectedness. We are remembering that we are one human body—capable of feeling across distance, across difference, across fear.
My own pain reveals that I am connected. It’s not a concept or a spiritual goal—it’s a felt reality. This isn’t some rosy ideal. It’s a raw and honest experience of being part of the whole.
And in this recognition, I finally found a kind of peace. Not the kind that says “all is well,” but the kind that says: this pain makes sense. And welcoming it is the first step toward inhabiting oneness in a real, embodied way.
This realization doesn’t lessen my desire to act—to find solutions, to help where I can. It simply changes the framing: the suffering I once perceived as “other people’s” pain… is actually my own.
Yes to all this. I think we are saying the same thing. The essence of the natural state is tenderness and devotion. When we experience tenderization -- the "beating" that opens us to tenderness, we are being more integrated with that. More immersed.
I remember the images you write of. I remember at the time feelings of horror, disbelief, grief, heartbreak, incomprehension, and a sense of futility in being able to effect any change, though I was not, at the time, as a child, able to verbalize these feelings. I continue to struggle with these feelings in the face of Gaza's tragedy. It's an invitation, now, to not turn away from suffering how ever it meets me. In the same way that we humans use one emotion to block another, less pleasant emotion (anxiety or numbness can mask grief, rage, helplessness etc) I've learned to try to practice being with what's real, what's true, in myself and the person with me. It won't save Palestinian children. But I tell myself that if I can meet suffering right here, maybe there's hope that one by one, we can shift our avoidance into compassion and care. Feeble comfort. But I think that's the rub. There's no comfort here. Only blazing reality. Thank you for teaching that, Shambhavi.
Dearest Shambavi, there are stories in spiritual traditions that you know regarding the impact that the witnessing of profound suffering can trigger in the hearts of sincere practitioners…. The one I most remember, although I can’t remember all the details or even the name of the practitioners turned into buddhist saint that this story represents. Its a famous buddhist tale where the practitioner experiences such profound grief that the heart finally splinters into 1,000 pieces which become the thousand eyes of the all seeing buddha….as I refuse to turn away, this is what is happening to me….. Inshallah!
Wow. I love that image of the 1000 eyes. I'd never come across that before. Thanks for sharing!
This post comes at the perfect time. I’ve been carrying a low-grade heartache for a while now—a quiet depression, a murmur of anxiety. Look outward, and you’re spoiled for choice: the collapse of U.S. politics, starving children in Gaza, the looming climate catastrophe. Is this me? Am I anxious? Am I depressed? Or is it just the pain of the world leaking into my body?
Last night, I went for a walk and passed a woman who lives on the street. She could be my mother. My heart ached—why is she out here? But I was also afraid to approach; she’s been aggressive before. And that, too, hurts. We’re failing to help those near us, just as we’re failing those far away. And I feel the sting of my own cowardice.
The hurt compounds. One kind of pain layers on another until it becomes a tangle. Alone in the quiet of my space, I sit with this pile of ache like stray toys collected over time. Hurting is part of this human device called the body.
And then something opens: maybe this “body” isn’t just mine. Maybe it’s the Human body—this shared vessel made up of all of us. I can’t quite articulate it, but then the internet hands me a key to unlock my own encrypted thought.
I stumble upon my beloved Roberto Benigni, shouting with that wild love only he can channel:
“When children play war and one gets scratched, the game stops. What kind of cowardice is this? They kill children in Gaza—they must stop! It is unbearable to the human soul. Don't they hear the cry of pain rising not from one place, but from the whole world? If they don't feel the pain, they are not human. We are one body—if they don’t feel the pain in one part, they are not being human.”
And suddenly, I gasp for air. The pieces lock into place. This is one body, and we are hurting because we are one.
As practitioners, we often seek a oneness that feels like bliss—a unifying, peaceful presence that lifts our burdens and restores joy. But this pain I feel? It’s also a product of oneness. I hurt because I am connected. This ache is not separate from the sacred union—it’s an expression of it.
For years, I struggled to reconcile the suffering in the world with the idea of oneness. How could such pain exist in a state of divine unity? And now, Roberto has answered that question with piercing clarity: suffering is there because we are one. My body is the body. If one part hurts, we all feel it.
Tears came as I listened to Roberto’s cry—not just because of the tragedy, but because I recognized something. The oneness I’ve sought isn’t only about peace or joy. It includes this pain. Feeling the hurt of others is proof that we are connected.
And so, to answer the original thought: I don’t think we are being “tenderized.” I think we’re re-discovering our natural state of interconnectedness. We are remembering that we are one human body—capable of feeling across distance, across difference, across fear.
My own pain reveals that I am connected. It’s not a concept or a spiritual goal—it’s a felt reality. This isn’t some rosy ideal. It’s a raw and honest experience of being part of the whole.
And in this recognition, I finally found a kind of peace. Not the kind that says “all is well,” but the kind that says: this pain makes sense. And welcoming it is the first step toward inhabiting oneness in a real, embodied way.
This realization doesn’t lessen my desire to act—to find solutions, to help where I can. It simply changes the framing: the suffering I once perceived as “other people’s” pain… is actually my own.
Yes to all this. I think we are saying the same thing. The essence of the natural state is tenderness and devotion. When we experience tenderization -- the "beating" that opens us to tenderness, we are being more integrated with that. More immersed.
I remember the images you write of. I remember at the time feelings of horror, disbelief, grief, heartbreak, incomprehension, and a sense of futility in being able to effect any change, though I was not, at the time, as a child, able to verbalize these feelings. I continue to struggle with these feelings in the face of Gaza's tragedy. It's an invitation, now, to not turn away from suffering how ever it meets me. In the same way that we humans use one emotion to block another, less pleasant emotion (anxiety or numbness can mask grief, rage, helplessness etc) I've learned to try to practice being with what's real, what's true, in myself and the person with me. It won't save Palestinian children. But I tell myself that if I can meet suffering right here, maybe there's hope that one by one, we can shift our avoidance into compassion and care. Feeble comfort. But I think that's the rub. There's no comfort here. Only blazing reality. Thank you for teaching that, Shambhavi.