Between Stillness and Chaos

It’s one of those days where I can’t really do much else but not move. Deepak Chopra, whose meditation I’m randomly listening to, might call that stillness; I might call that PMS. In stillness, I find my true self, he says in my headphones.

So I sit there, thinking about it, feeling it, trying to connect with that part of me that has never changed—the part that has always been the same and always will be.

Old Deepak, his voice calm and measured. He tells me to imagine I’m standing in a vast town square, and everyone I’ve ever met is there, filling the space, waiting for me to tell them what to do. He tells me that my thoughts are my most powerful tool. That intention is everything. That I must set an intention.

He starts listing them off: inner peace, vitality, a deeper connection with the Creator. And then, abundance.

That word stops me.

Another lifetime ago, I went to an EFT tapping circle in Venice Beach (yes, this was a real thing), where half the people in attendance set their intention for “abundance.” I remember looking around the cafeteria-style room, wondering how much abundance they were really going to manifest sitting there.

Still, I let Deepak’s voice carry me back to the exercise, back to stillness, back to my true self—the part of me that has always been there. And when I look for her, I find a 5-year-old girl.

* * *

The 5-Year-Old Girl

She saw children starving in Bosnia on TV. There was a phone number on the screen if you wanted to donate. She picked up the portable phone, pressed the buttons, reached a real human on the other end.

“What’s your name?” the voice asked.
“How much would you like to give?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Would you like that to be one time or monthly?”
Not knowing what either of those words meant, she answered,
“Monthly.”
“And will that be by check or credit card?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Credit card.”

She ran to find her mother, who was in the bathroom getting ready.

“Mom, what’s your credit card number?”

Her mother turned, took one look, and said, Hang up that phone right now.

And she did. Because she had upset her mother, which always filled her with shame.

She had only wanted to help.

* * *

The 6-Year-Old Girl

She watched a dead bumblebee decompose on the low brick wall in her garden. Every day, she checked on it, fascinated. She wanted to know what happened after you died.

Over time, the bumblebee became smaller and smaller, until one day, all that remained was the dust of its exoskeleton. Then the wind carried it away in pieces.

Her conclusion: you just turn into air.

* * *

The College Student

She left the palace, like Moses. Like the Buddha. She saw the world’s suffering in unbearable proportions.

She knelt down to talk to every homeless person on her street. Not just to give them money—though she did that too. But to give them something far more valuable: a conversation, a human experience, a moment of dignity.

She took one wheelchair-bound homeless man, whom she particularly liked—due to his “expertise” in Japanese culture and his request to be called Thailand Cat—to see a movie once. Ratatouille.

The attendant at the theater refused to let him in. She looked that attendant in the eye and said, He’s with me. That’s his ticket.

She saw the shame on the attendant’s face, and for a moment, she felt powerful.

But from college onward, the world became a terrifying place. So much freedom, so few guardrails. And if you weren’t careful, you’d end up in the wrong crowd, going nowhere.

Eventually, she learned: trust no one.

* * *

The Mother

Every month, like clockwork, she grieves.

Not for herself, but for the world. For all the people who will never get to fulfill their dreams. For the ones who will never even come close.

And then again freaking Deepak Chopra asks her in her ear:

What do you want?
What do you want?
What do you want?

And the answer comes easily.

Peace.

What do you want?
A world where everyone has the opportunity to go after their dreams.

What do you want?
A world where there is shared responsibility for the well-being of each other.

What do you want?
A Jewish state led by someone who not only is intelligent and pragmatic but also prays. A leader who turns to God for guidance—because that is how a true Jewish leader should be.

What do you want?
For Gazans and Islamists around the world to deradicalize.

What do you want?
Actually, for everyone and everything around the world to deradicalize.

What do you want?
To use AI to solve the world’s problems in record time: global warming, food security, safety, shelter, economic stability. Not a problem.

What do you want?
For the boomers to step down gracefully and let Gen X and millennials finally have a moment.

For a minute, I let myself live in that world.

And then, out of nowhere, my dog Sage’s arch enemies appear.

They’re two dogs from next door, her own blood relatives somehow, who have terrorized her for almost two years. Every time we walk past their house, they hurl themselves at the gate, barking so violently that it borders on psychotic. Lots of times they even start biting and attacking each other. Morons. And once, when we ran into them on a walk, they broke free from their leashes and attacked her. And that was it. She was never the same after that. Neither was I.

She used to be the world’s sweetest, most trusting dog. Now she isn’t.

Now, she attacks first.

She used to run freely by my side, leashless, as if we shared a perfect understanding. Then one day, out of nowhere, she lunged at, bit, and broke the skin of an older woman that could have been my mother while out on a walk.

That was the day I became a leash person.

And I grieved.

Because it was proof that the world can break you.

Even Sage.

So now, as I sit there listening to Deepak Chopra ask me what I want, thinking about freaking peace for crying out loud,  the two dogs appear. And they charge toward her.

She bolts toward me in terror. They come right up to her, so close I can feel the tension in her body, see the panic in her eyes. I’m definitely stressed too.

And then—nothing.

They sniff her. Then they turn and run away. As if the whole thing never happened.

And Sage doesn’t know what to do with that. Neither do I.

Because even if the attacks stop, the fear doesn’t leave.

Even if someone who spent years terrorizing you suddenly drops their radicalism and says, I’m done, I’m different now, bygones be bygones—it doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t undo the fear, the trauma, the instinct to protect yourself at all costs.

And for that, I grieve.

Because without trust, we have nothing.