Under the Surface

Tapping into the underground stream of healing

A sweet little stream is flowing underneath the Redwood Circle at the Quaker Center in Ben Lomond, California. I could see the clear water bubbling down the hill from one side, then disappearing under the 30-foot diameter circle, and then, like magic, coming out on the other side. I imagine what it looks like below the earth, beneath the benches that sit in that beautiful place, surrounded by 200+ year-old redwoods sprouting from 2000+ year-old root bulbs. In its underground flow, that tiny stream initiated a healing breakthrough for me.

Last week, I was at the 3rd Asian Diaspora Jam, which brought together 28 diverse changemakers from across North America, ages 22 to 72, with ancestors from China, India, Taiwan, Korea, Japan, Vietnam, and the Philippines. We gathered to explore what it means to be alive in these times and what it means for each of us to be part of this vast diaspora.

Not surprisingly, belonging was a huge theme. As I mentioned in a previous piece, I think it is one of the quintessential questions of being Asian in North America: Do I belong? If so, where and how and with whom do I belong? If not, then what?

This Jam went even deeper into the nuances of our identities and experiences. We were reckoning with belonging: Do I belong if my ancestors were part of an imperialism project? Do I belong if I am part of a particular faith community? Do I belong if I don’t have any spiritual practice? Do I belong if I am being ‘cancelled’ by another organization in this very moment? Do I belong if my family has a lot of money? Do I belong if I am slow and need more time to process things? Do I belong if I make mistakes? And so on.

What I heard beneath these questions was the longing to be loved, to be seen, to be held, no matter what. I have come to see this longing as an essential part of being human. And engaging this longing with presence, care and love is what calls forth belonging — and it is what I and so many other Jammers are practicing, both inside and outside of the Jam.

Slowing down more, I saw another stream below this longing to belong.

It all started when I was reflecting on where my reaction to blame and ‘attack other’ comes from, when I enter my ‘panic zone’ (that state of being when I am not able to listen, not able to speak from my heart, and no longer present). The prompt was something like, “Where do you go in your panic zone when you hear news of political challenges in your Asian ‘homeland’?” I remembered my trip to India in October and how my friends of various cultural and religious backgrounds, who are activists, artists, and intellectuals, described the fear they were feeling inside of the Modi regime. And so I spoke about that fear, and how I get into ‘attack’ mode as a protective response, and how that ‘attack’ then relates to the way I disconnect from my father when he starts sharing his own conservative political ideology. In slowing down, I realized that underneath my reaction is grief — grief for the loss of relationship with my father, grief for my friends’ fear and hopelessness, grief for my inability to do much to shift this political reality, grief for the people who are being excluded and are afraid. That was the stream running below the surface.

Unbeknownst to me, Arya*, another participant in the Jam, was triggered by my sharing. She had felt unsafe speaking her own political views in a variety of alternative and progressive spaces that she and her family had participated in before. And, so she got scared that the Jam was another one of those places, where she would have to bite her tongue, go along with the ‘norm’, and not be able to share her honest feelings. This made her very uncomfortable, and she found herself withdrawing from the group and the experience overall. Luckily, different people were able to offer generative support to her, which helped her realize more of what was happening, and offered her the opportunity to maybe try something different this time. Could she share her truth and see if that could open the door to belonging, versus ‘cancelling’ herself and shutting down that possibility?

Later the next day, Arya and I had the opportunity to slow down together. I invited her to share what was on her heart, and I took the time to listen to her. I asked her to speak from the ‘I’ instead of using ‘we’ statements around her identities and experiences. I noticed I felt myself disconnecting and wanting to put up a wall when I heard the ‘we’. Partly because I lost Arya in that nameless, faceless ‘we’. Partly because, with the ‘we/us’, there is also a ‘them’ — the ‘other’ or the ‘out-group’’ — and that made me uncomfortable. And partly because, I knew I didn’t belong to that ‘we’, and so how would the two of us ever find common ground? Thankfully, Arya was amenable to sharing her feelings from the ‘I’, which made it much easier for me to hear her and to make a connection to what she was saying.

What became clear in our conversation was that Arya wanted to have a space to celebrate her heritage and grieve some of the losses her ancestors had experienced. And what I realized is that there have not really been any ways to do that in India. There are few spaces to celebrate the good, without immediately counter-acting it with all the bad. And there are few spaces for being with grief, because it is immediately turned into attack. In other words, rather than feeling the sadness — which is vulnerable and soft and uncomfortable — rage and stiff posturing take over and turn it into, “Who can I blame and punish right now for these feelings?”

Not only does no one get the chance to grieve then, but also a form of zero-sum thinking kicks into gear. It is either/or, one winner takes all, and others must lose — thus leaving no room for multiple experiences, no space for the both/and. If I am suffering, it is someone’s fault, and if I can kick them out, hurt them, or punish them, then I will (somehow) feel better.

Except it doesn’t work that way. Because the remedy for grief is not hurting someone else. It is letting the grief be with us, feeling tender together, being held and seen, and flowing with the sadness until it comes out the other side. The tears soften the soil, and in that watered earth, there is more connection, more space, more love for self, for what is lost, and for each other.

I know this from my own experiences of going into ‘attack other’. That reaction is to protect me from feeling the loss and the pain, from being vulnerable with my sorrow. Instead, I put up a sword and shield and fight to win, to be right, to have power. I think this is what Shakespeare meant when he said, “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” It is easy to become preoccupied with the blame on the surface, while missing the deeper meaning just below. Unfortunately, from that surface, all manner of separation and violence can happen, personally, interpersonally and systemically.

I am reading The Dressmakers of Auschwitz right now, so I am understanding how the same logic worked its way through Nazi Germany. There was no space to be with and work through the grief of the 1st World War, because vulnerability was seen as weakness and grieving was seen as humiliation. So, instead an enemy had to be found (and/or step-by-step created) to generate a sense of power and domination. For an in-group to exist, there needs to be an out-group. After all, what is an ‘us’ without a ‘them’? Then, more and more atrocities can be committed upon that out-group (Jewish people, communists, disabled people, etc.), with all manner of intellectual justification, because the heart connection has been suppressed. Indeed, I think the dehumanization of others is really only possible when the empathy, connection, softness within the self has been cut off first. I deny my own humanity and my need for grieving, care, support, and then I go forward and deny the same to others when I blame and attack. Hurt people hurt people, and create systems that hurt people.

The story has repeated itself throughout human existence in so many ways and places, as you all know. I wonder, if maybe every time, the space for vulnerability and grief was bypassed, and that energy went instead to making and then attacking an ‘other’ . What worlds would have opened up if a different choice was made? If people made the space to feel their feelings of grief and loss and be with them, together?

I was so inspired by the moments of making space for grief in this Asian Diaspora Jam. Instead of moving to punish or cancel someone for their differences, I saw the group hold them in their uniqueness and work to slow down and listen for multiple truths and multiple needs, and find ways forward honoring everyone. I felt like I was watching miracles unfold. Like, when Alice* shared how she had been taught to hate people of a particular ancestry, because of the violence their army had historically wreaked on her people. And through tears, she shared that she was choosing to love Michael* (a person of that ancestry). Because Michael was revealing his vulnerability, weeping as he grappled with the complexity of his ancestors’ actions, Alice could see who he truly was. She could witness the grief he was feeling around these histories, and grieve her losses with him, too. There was enough space for all the loss — no one’s grief cancelled out another. We just collectively all made more space, a bigger container in which to welcome and be with it all.

Beautifully, Arya was also able to speak her truth into the Jam circle, sharing it from the ‘I’ and giving us all the opportunity to see her more and honor her complexity. It was a huge step for her, to be ‘out’ with her truth in a group of people and to have them meet her with love, a desire to learn more, and acceptance. I felt the healing for her, and I felt the healing for all of us, as it offered us space to be even more of ourselves and to root in our dignity — dignity as a portal to our belonging.

There is so much more I could say about being with personal and collective grief as a remedy to separation, judgement, and violence in our world. I believe the same is true if we share in our personal and collective joy. “The deeper the joy, the deeper the grief; the deeper the grief, the deeper the joy,” as another Jammer shared with me last week. The beautiful combination of play and laughter, and listening to and sharing our vulnerabilities, softens the soil between us, and nurtures the growth of healing, belonging, and love. It reminds me of how Abraham Lincoln once said, “You know the fastest way to get rid of an enemy? Make them a friend.” And what do friends do but share in their grief and joy together.

Through my conversation with Arya, I realized how I wanted to get below the surface of my blame into the stream of grief underneath. For my own healing journey with my father, I wanted to stop freezing him in his rage, and freezing myself in my blame, and instead step into feeling the grief and, if possible, grieving together. Maybe in sharing our losses and sorrows, we could heal together. Perhaps from there, as happened in the Jam, we would be able to generate more interconnected, holistic possibilities where both of us could belong even more, to our selves, to each other and to this world.

All of this gave me insight on how to connect with my father differently. In a phone call a few days later, I shared with him some of this story. He just listened and didn’t interrupt. I think he heard me, and maybe when we next meet, we can slow down and make more space for his grief, and mine too. I told him it was one of the ways I felt the most Jain — being able to be with multiple truths and not judge, and rather, practice the slowness that could open the space for all life to be loved and to belong.

I am excited to continue to look below the surface, in my own life, in the communities I work with, in building relationships and healing conflicts. Right under the circle, there is a mysterious stream. When I slow down, and feel it, the magic comes alive.

Where might you be blaming or attacking someone and what grief might be below the surface? I’d love to hear your story, if you’re willing to share.

*all names have been

changed to honor confidentiality