But in this moment, my heart moves me to speak about something else.
This week, I attended Marianne Williamson's talk at a church in New York City. The topic was spirituality and politics. With her usual outspoken, fiery passion, Marianne pleaded with the audience to not just pray, but to stay watchful of the political situation and actively get involved to change what we disagree with.
Now, aside from voting, I’ve never gotten involved in politics. My parents, who immigrated here from Asia, never discussed politics at the dinner table. They were overwhelmed enough with assimilating into their new life and raising small children, that there was no room for it - not to mention, they felt it was best to stay quiet and blend in. Politics have always felt dirty and complicated to me. It’s so much easier for me to sit, meditate and send love to the world.
So I looked the other way.
Of course, this has been part of the issue we're facing now. Millions of citizens looking the other way for years, not speaking up, letting the government get away with terrible things.
Listening to Marianne, I felt roused to do more. Then I catch myself thinking: Yes, I’m inspired to do something, but my nature is to be quiet, introverted, sensitive and reserved. How will I go out there and protest, when being in crowds makes me nervous and overwhelmed? How can I be vocal about my opinion, when it’s hard enough to open my mouth on most days? And what do I have to say, anyway?
But that night, as I watched a young Muslim woman stand up and tell Marianne that she was scared for herself and her community, it reminded me of my own experiences with racism and intolerance:
Like the time when I was 6, and my Dad and I were at a department store. He asked the saleswoman a question. She answered by rudely mocking his thick, foreign accent, right in front of me.
Or that afternoon in 1992 when I was riding the subway in Munich, and a tall young man with a tall umbrella sat next to me. He began to sing Nazi songs loudly, while thumping the umbrella violently against the floor. Unable to get up because he blocked my way, I shrank quietly into my seat, frozen with fear. This was a time when Turkish people (many of them born and raised in Germany) were being attacked by Neo-Nazis.
Did he mistake me for a Turk? I will never know. But what I do know is that no one in that subway said a word, or did anything to stop him.
He eventually got up and left. Thank goodness I wasn’t physically harmed, but inside I was shaken and felt totally alone.
And of course I'll never forget my visit to Dachau, the Jewish concentration camp, on a high school field trip. I had packed my lunch that morning, only to leave it untouched after the tour finished. Who could eat anything after walking through those empty gas chambers? The lingering energy of tremendous pain and fear was still palpable, decades later.
And those giant black-and-white photographs of the shoes. Mountains and mountains of shoes that belonged to doomed people, just for being Jewish. I am still baffled.
Remembering all of this put the fire underneath my impulse to do something, to protect those who are afraid, alone and vulnerable because of their skin color, gender, because of who they love or which God they pray to.
And to my inner fears that say “But I’m too shy to protest" or “I shouldn’t get involved" or "I don't have anything valuable to say, anyway” or “I’ll just pray, that will be enough”, the answer in my heart is: No - that's not true.
If I speak from my gentle heart, it actually has plenty to say. When I tap into that, I also find the courage to express myself.
There are ways I can take still action that honor my quiet, introverted nature: I can stay informed, sign petitions, write letters or make phone calls to my government representatives. Along with my meditation and spiritual practice.
None of this needs to be done with the same negativity, anger and fear that has tainted this election campaign, either - it can be expressed with the undercurrent of deep love, compassion and firm concern for this country, for my fellow citizens, and for the children who will grow up here and inherit our legacy.
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