Becoming the Antidote
As I write, we have entered a new yearly cycle. The winter solstice has passed, and with it, the gradual return of the light. And yet, here in the Northern Hemisphere, we remain in the stillness that deep winter invites. Nature has turned inward, shedding her leaves and shifting energetically back to her root system, bracing against the cold winter wind while preparing her gifts for spring. We too, being intricately entwined in this cycle, are also being called to go within. In fact, every great Holy Journey commences in the wilderness of our soul. The light having gone out forces us to turn inward, and so the journey begins.
I have spoken before about the spiritual path being one of both forgetting and remembering, that all healing is, as Ram Dass reminds us, “in the return.” But what are we remembering, and what are we returning to? These are deep philosophical questions, but more than that, they are invitations to explore that which constitutes truth and beauty for each of us. To “know thyself,” as the famous Greek euphemism inspires. To re-member is to re-mind. It is to reassemble the fractured parts back into an integrated whole. To live, my friends, in and with integrity. And thus, the most essential first step on the path of consciousness is the practice of introspection, because there is no true path forward that does not first lead inward.
I start here because I recently read, or perhaps heard, that the call of our times, particularly for those of us committed to the healed life, is to form the antidote to brutality. At first, this can sound monumental, especially given the current geopolitical theatre. And yet, if we slow down for a moment and learn, as Pema Chödrön encourages, “to become intimate with fear,” we may begin to reconcile a deep spiritual truth: what exists in one exists in the whole.
The brutality we witness on the world stage so often plays out quietly within our own minds. Self-criticism and self-hatred, the impulse to judge, ridicule, compare, and condemn, these too are weapons of mass destruction. It is no accident that Blaise Pascal observed that “all of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly alone in a room.” Without stillness, we remain captive to the noise of the ego.
And so, the only way we can begin to form an antidote to this inner brutality is through stillness. We must slow down long enough to truly listen to the soul rather than the agents of the ego. This is the path of introspection, defined as the examination or observation of one’s own mental and emotional processes. To really know thyself. To become intimate with our own fears, our shadow, and to listen to what it is asking of us.
This work is not indulgent. On the contrary, it is essential. It calls us into a level of personal responsibility that is not only healing for the individual, but critical for our times. When one really considers what is behind so much of the madness and chaos currently playing out, it becomes quite clear that there is a collective neurosis that has inverted what constitutes real power. Power is not about taking what is not mine. It is not about acquisition and ownership. Real power is about choosing to live in alignment with one’s values. It is about being honest and learning, as A Course In Miracles teaches, “to become generous out of self-interest.”
Because when we do, we form the greatest antidote to brutality: to leave someone more empowered than before. Imagine if we could construct our lives around this creed, that everyone we meet, we aim to leave more in their power. And I am not talking about worldly power, but rather sacred power, a power infused with grace and guided by truth. This is how we remember, and this is how we return. We exchange a grievance for a miracle, and every time we do, we get to touch peace.
2025 was a year that asked a lot of so many of us. It forced a necessary shedding that demanded a robust vulnerability, one many of us are still learning to become comfortable in and with. But vulnerability is a type of power. It is how we move through the wilderness of life, the dark night of the soul, and eventually arrive at our own emergence. It is also a vital ingredient to an even greater power: humility. None of us come out unscathed. None of us. And when we can accept that life is less about being comfortable and more about becoming generous, then we have remembered what true healing is all about, leaving this world better than we found it.
One woman who embodied this with such spiritual elegance was the primatologist and anthropologist Jane Goodall. She placed compassion at the center of her scientific inquiry and determined that the survival of life was not predicated on who owns the most stuff, but rather on kindness. She died a few months ago, but her legacy remains an antidote to brutality. The survival of life, and certainly of humanity, rests in our ability to be generous out of self-interest, to forgive more willingly, to take responsibility, to hold those who harm with accountability, to remember that peace is our birthright, and that joy comes more easily to those with a generous heart.
To be kind to self and other. To find time each morning to sit in stillness. To become intimate with fear. To not run, but rather rise. And to remember, as A Course In Miracles teaches us, that heaven is not a place nor a condition, but the awareness of our oneness. All of life, breathing together.
In closing, the brilliant Ram Dass: "Healing does not mean going back to the way things were before, but rather allowing what is now to move us closer to God.”