In a world splintered by division, where anger and fear so often outpace understanding, an urgent question arises:
How do we remain connected with those who cannot yet feel the sacred interconnectedness we know exists?
It is tempting, even instinctive, to recoil. To fortify our hearts against those who perpetuate the illusion of separation. To answer exclusion with exclusion, even subtly. But if we are truly committed to the reality of oneness, then our spiritual practice cannot end at the boundaries of affinity. It must find a way to include even those who deny it.
The path forward is not through force. It is through compassion—carefully, patiently cultivated.
We start small.
First, we wish ourselves well.
As counterintuitive as this may feel, in a world that often punishes tenderness, this is no small act. To bless our own being—to hold ourselves with mercy—is the first ripple in the pond.
From there, we extend our practice outward.
We include those we love naturally. Those who awaken ease and warmth in us. We hold them in our hearts. We bless their journey, their struggles, their growth.
Then we stretch a little further.
We offer compassion to those toward whom we may feel neutral: the cashier at Walmart, the stranger in traffic, the coworker whose life story we do not know. The houseless woman sleeping on a bench outside the grocery store. We practice a steady art of inclusion, strengthening muscles we will need for harder work ahead.
Only when our practice and our capacity have deepened by degrees do we risk turning toward those who wound or divide; whose aim, it seems, is to rend the fabric of our belonging.
Even then, we do not rush.
We do not collapse into false forgiveness.
We learn first to see the tiger without embracing the tiger.
To witness the fear behind the aggression.
The loneliness behind the cruelty.
The disconnectedness behind the violence.
And we protect ourselves.
Our practice, after all, began with self-blessing.
We do not invite harm. But neither do we exile from our prayers those who need them most.
Above all, we ensure that the right part of us is praying.
If the part of us praying is merely repeating what we have been told it would be virtuous to do, little good can come. Moreover, if any part of us is still steeped in bitterness, in fear, or in superiority, the prayer will have no strength. It will not ripple outward in healing.
But if the prayer rises from the wellspring of love within us—from the place untouched by fear, unbroken by judgment—then even the smallest prayer becomes a force of great power.
We are not required to fix anyone.
We are not required to make others see what they cannot yet see.
We are asked only to remain faithful to the truth we carry:
That all beings are connected, even in our forgetting.
Then prayer becomes not an argument but an offering.
Not a battle but a beacon.
By degrees, with patience, with practice, and with great tenderness, we widen the circle of our compassion.
And someday, perhaps without even knowing, someone standing at the farthest edge will feel the ripple—and begin, in their own time, to remember.
With gratitude to Sacinandana Swami
