Tending Hearts in a Time of Heartbreak

What is to be done when we don't know how to help?

Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

There are so many words for it and no good ones.

“Crisis” and “catastrophe” don’t even come close—especially in the face of yet another in a seemingly relentless string of ever-worsening crises and catastrophes.

The emotional words come a little closer. “Heartbreak.” “Grief.” “Devastation.” “Agony” “Unimaginable suffering.”

And then there is that phrase that describes what many of us who remain safe in our homes, far from the bombs and bloodshed in the Mideast, feel this week. The organizational psychologist Adam Grant invoked it in an Instagram post yesterday: “empathetic distress.”

Empathetic distress

Grant describes it beautifully. “It’s not just seeing suffering that’s painful. It’s hurting for others while feeling unable to help.”

On the face of it, it seems absurd, even grotesque, to speak of our emotional pain when so many have died and so many others inevitably soon will die. When thousands upon thousands have suddenly lost family members, homes, livelihoods, and even the most uneasy semblance of order in the world.

So, of course, it goes without saying: Anyone in a position to do something truly useful to contribute to peace or, at least, a lessening of the mighty suffering being experienced in Israel and Gaza now should focus on that.

But what of the many of us who don’t have a way to be of any concrete help now? For us, it is perhaps worth a moment’s reflection on this dynamic of empathetic distress — because, as Grant notes, untended, it leads to not only burnout but also withdrawal.

Put another way, if we continue to helplessly witness suffering upon suffering, we are at risk of hardening our hearts. We are not, after all, endless repositories for grief.

So, while we may not know yet what we can do for the many innocent citizens caught in this sudden war, we can know what we must not allow to happen to us. We must not allow ourselves to shut down. Of course, we need to sometimes. But we can’t take any kind of permanent refuge there—for the world clearly needs something else from us.

What now?

So, what can we do to lead our lives with courage and compassion in the face of an overwhelming amount of suffering in our troubled world? Here are a few practices that helped me this week:

First, On Being’s Krista Tippet shared a beautiful ten-minute meditation on grief with Roshi Joan Halifax.

I’ve listened to this meditation many times over the years. Almost every time, it has made me cry and made my heart break — not in the way we have grown accustomed to after learning of one tragedy followed by yet another: feeling it, then quickly feeling the need to move on with our lives. Roshi Joan’s brief meditation offers a container for giving our grief its time, which is essential for carrying on in with courage and compassion in times like these. You can find it here.

Second, Deer Park Monastery, the California-based monastery in the tradition of Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh, also yesterday shared a meditation and prayer (that runs longer, at over an hour) and these wise words:

“The war is complex and difficult to stop, but it is also impermanent.

“Its cessation now depends on our capacity, as human beings, to listen deeply, resist polarization and discrimination, and take concrete steps toward lasting reconciliation with love in our hearts.

“Love, compassion, and courage need to have a place in politics.”

You can find the Deer Park monks’ Global Prayer for Peace Ceremony here.

And finally (as if there is anything final to say on something like this), I have found it useful to reflect on the words spoken by a mother suddenly caught up in this horrific new war, according to a report in The New York Times.

“Where’s the humanity?” she asked.

That can sound like a rhetorical question. But I find it haunts me in a way that is begging for an answer.