I have a Facebook friend who takes me to task for not speaking out about the humanitarian crisis in Gaza. I have other Facebook friends who urge me to more overtly condemn the inappropriate attitudes, language and behaviour of Donald Trump. And I have friends whose political persuasion is Teal and/or Green and suggest I should be more outspoken about the climate crisis. I appreciate and respect all these people and, by and large, I agree with their views on these matters: I do think the situation in Gaza is horrific and I long for the day when the Israeli Prime Minister is called to account for his excessive hawkishness; I do find it hard to comprehend how Donald Trump can attract such an apparently large body of support within the USA while expressing such vitriol and hatred toward so many people and espousing such questionable values and morality; and I do feel a deep concern for the future of our planet and am frustrated by the lack of leadership and action from the major political parties on this issue.
While I do think that I have articulated my position in these matters, I accept that I have not been as strident a voice or as active an advocate as the depth of my feelings might warrant. Why is this so? I could say, ‘I have no expertise’ or ‘I don’t want to offend friends who hold different views’ or ‘I’m 70 years old; it’s time for others to take up the fight’ or ‘What difference would I make anyway?’ but I know such responses are cop-outs to excuse my soft-pedalling. I don’t believe any of them are valid.
So how might I understand this inner tension: my hesitancy to nail some of my strongly held opinions to the door? I offer the following reflection around this as thoughts taking shape but not yet fully formed, perhaps by way of explanation, perhaps as a pointer to the resolution of my dilemma. I wonder if my thought process might resonate with you.
My hesitancy is, I feel, partly anchored in a desire to eschew the dualistic thinking that is so prevalent in contemporary culture. We too readily polarise issues and discussions, believing that things are either right or wrong, good or bad, true or false. Nowhere is this more evident than in politics – one side seems to automatically hold the position that any idea from the other side is flawed and must be opposed. But life is rarely so simplistic, and most situations are far too complex to be reduced to yes or no. So, for example, when I want to decry the atrocious and disproportionate assault by the Israeli Defence Force on Gaza, I want also to denounce the terror perpetrated by Hamas over many years. It’s not that I don’t have opinions. It’s more that I have diverse opinions and am acutely aware that there’s some ‘truth’ in all of them! And the unsatisfactory outcome of that ambivalence is that I sometimes tread gently where perhaps I ought to stamp my feet.
Many years ago I undertook training in conflict resolution and was encouraged to consider ‘the view from the balcony’, the idea being that gaining an overall perspective on an issue can facilitate more effective mediation. It’s akin to the old adage about the value of being able to see both sides of the argument. To do so can be quite challenging in situations where ‘right’ or ‘just’ seem to be starkly aligned with one ‘side’ and not the other, but it is in exactly such situations that the practice of being able to step back and take in the view from the balcony is so helpful. That’s not to imply that one can’t ever discern right from wrong or good from bad or truth from falsehood, and certainly not to imply that one should not take a stand for what one perceives to be right, but rather to suggest that such assessments are rarely absolute and ought always to allow for the possibility that elements of right, good and true may be found in all positions.
This perspective has been encouraged by my learning and experience in reflective practice, in particular, the invitation to ‘attend’ to the journey. I’ve come to appreciate this as an imperative to ‘notice’ all things, sometimes being awed, captivated, driven by a focus on one thing, but always remembering that the particular is an integral part of the much bigger whole. I recall a line from Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut’s 1998 commentary on modernist culture, that goes something like this:
Life is a garden, not a road. We enter and exit through the same gate. Wandering. Where we go matters less than what we notice.
How does all this help resolve the tension between holding strong opinions in the context of diverse perspectives? I’m thinking it may proffer freedom to be more overt and intentional in the expression of my personal views as I acknowledge the complexity of any issue and the validity of diverse opinions. Acknowledging the whole allows me to champion the particular. Embracing diversity enables me to hold to and articulate the specific. Being respectful of the views and rights of others gives me permission to discern and declare my own.
Perspective matters, as suggested by this unattributed quote, delivered in the context of a discussion about climate change: We perceive ourselves as passengers on the Titanic, but in fact we are the iceberg!
In an ancient Hassidic story, a Rabbi asks his students, “How can you tell when night has ended and day has begun?” Answers one of the students, “Is it when I can gaze into the distance and distinguish a sheep from a dog?” Another, “Is it when I can see the fence between my field and my neighbour’s field?” And another, “Is when I can tell the difference between a fig tree and an olive tree?” With growing disappointment the Rabbi exclaimed, “It is none of these. You know only how to divide – one animal from another, your field from your neighbour’s, one tree from another tree. Is that all we can do – divide and separate? How do we know when night has ended and day has begun. It is when you can look into the face of a stranger and see your sister or brother. Until then, night is still with us.”
David Brooker
25th October 2024
OldSoul.blog 
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