There is a particular kind of frustration and anguish that comes to those of us who practice. We sit in stillness, we cultivate awareness, we return again and again to the breath — and then we open our eyes to a world that seems to be on fire. Wars that kill children. Hunger that could be ended but isn't. Indifference that has become so normalized we have to remind ourselves that it is not, in fact, normal. For many of us practitioners, the question arises naturally, almost painfully: What does my practice have to do with any of this?
The Theravada tradition offers us a concept that can seem, at first, like a kind of spiritual retreat from the world: upekkha, or equanimity. In the Pali Canon, equanimity is one of the four brahma viharas — the divine abodes — alongside loving-kindness, compassion, and sympathetic joy. It is often described as a balanced, unshakable quality of mind. This is where the misunderstanding can creep in: equanimity is not the same as indifference. It is not the same as acceptance of the unacceptable.
The Buddha himself was not a man who looked away. He taught in a world of caste discrimination, poverty, and political violence. His entire philosophy was rooted in the recognition that suffering is real. Dukkha is the first noble truth. To "see clearly" in the Theravada sense is to see suffering clearly, without flinching, without looking around for the nearest exit.
So, what then is "it is like this" — that quiet acknowledgment we sometimes make in practice? I uttered this phrase while speaking with Pam the other day. In Ajahn Chah's teaching, this phrase points to a quality of clear seeing rather than passive resignation. When we say "it is like this," we are not saying "it’s fine" or "it should stay this way." We are saying: I see what is here. I am not in denial. I am not overwhelmed. I am present. From that ground of presence, we can act.
The Dhamma doesn’t ask us to like what we see. It asks us to see it truthfully. And truth-telling — about war, about systems that grind people down, about the casual cruelty of inhumanity — is itself a form of right speech. Right or skillful speech, as a path factor of the Noble Eightfold Path, is often reduced to "don't lie," but in its fuller sense it encompasses speaking what is true, what is timely, and what is beneficial. Speaking out against injustice can be a profound expression of right speech.
Similarly, right action and right livelihood are not merely personal ethics — they extend outward. Signing a petition, writing to a representative, refusing to buy goods made by exploitation, marching in a street alongside others who also see the suffering: these are not distractions from the path. For many of us, they are expressions of it.
Bhikkhu Bodhi, in addressing this very tension, has spoken about what he calls "engaged Buddhism" in a Theravada context. He draws a distinction between inner equanimity — the unshakable stillness of mind that our practice cultivates — and outer passivity, which is not what the tradition recommends. Equanimity, he suggests, is the ground from which compassionate action arises. It prevents us from burning out. It keeps our engagement from becoming driven by reactivity, hatred, or despair. But it does not recommend silence.
This is a delicate balance, and we must be honest with ourselves. There are days when my practice feels inadequate to the scale of all that is wrong in the world. There are moments in meditation when grief about what is happening to human beings — to children, to the displaced, to the hungry — can arise with tremendous force. This is not some failure of equanimity. The brahma viharas include karuna: compassion, the wish that beings be free from suffering. If we are truly practicing compassion, the world's suffering will touch us. It is supposed to.
The question is what we do with that being-touched. The path suggests we return to awareness, stay rooted in our practice, and from that rootedness, do what we can — clearly, wisely, with as much kindness as we can sustain. We don’t have to fix everything. We don’t have to carry a grief so large it crushes us. But we are not excused from caring. We are not released from showing up.
Perhaps the simplest teaching is this: the world needs people who can bear difficult truths without collapsing into nihilism or burning up in rage. It needs people who can say "this is wrong" with a steady voice and a clear mind. Buddhist practice produces exactly such beings — those who have sat long enough with their own suffering to be honest about the suffering of others, and who have cultivated enough inner stillness to act with some measure of wisdom rather than mere reaction.
The cushion and the world are not separate rooms. They are the same house.
May all beings be well and happy.
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