Systems of the Soul
An Endless State of Suffering
There I was, facing my grief head-on — every word spoken another dagger to the heart.
For a long time, I clung to the thought that if I just tried a bit harder, it wouldn’t be true —
as if I could somehow fix the facts to make the pain go away.
I had forgotten a teaching I once heard long ago:
the parable of the two arrows from Buddhism.
The teaching is simple on the surface, yet profoundly difficult in practice.
Imagine being fired upon by an enemy archer — without warning, the first arrow pierces your flesh, wounding but not ending you.
In the distance, you see a second arrow flying toward you.
In that moment, you have a choice:
suffer over the pain of the first and be struck by the second —
or accept the pain, move forward, and avoid further suffering.
Much of Buddhist practice, as I understand it, isn’t about avoiding pain but transcending it —
realizing that we are not our bodies, not our thoughts, not even our emotions.
Those all belong to us, but they are not us.
We simply are — an island in the ocean of being.
That realization lies at the heart of acceptance.
In life, you will encounter every emotion that language can name — love, joy, pride, fear, anger, grief.
The goal is not to let any of them take root too deeply.
If we claim we’ve been happy all the time, that’s not true — pain is inevitable.
The truth of existence lies in how we acknowledge our emotions.
Do we let them control the story?
Does our pain override our willingness to move on?
If so, we invite the second arrow — and it wounds the soul far more deeply.
I’ve been facing my own season of grief and recently had a moment of clarity.
I was camping with my two sons, each asleep on one of my arms.
Sadness, pain, and guilt had all entered my mind.
Instead of simply being present — acknowledging the hurt —
I let it infect my self-story.
I told myself I was worthless.
That I deserved this pain.
That I’d caused it — that I would always feel it.
I chose the second arrow.
Then my youngest stirred.
Unaware of the tears in my eyes, he opened his and gave me the brightest grin in the world —
not quite old enough for all his teeth, but eager to show every gum in that smile.
I kissed his forehead, and he buried himself back into my arm.
In that moment, I was lucky to have a messenger remind me to pause.
That simple spark of joy helped me catch the spiral and center myself.
In Taoism, the nature of the world is often likened to a stream —
always moving forward, regardless of what shapes or slows it.
Over time, even the hardest rock is worn smooth by flowing water.
The harder you fight life’s nature — pain, sadness, happiness, joy —
the more exhausting it becomes.
There’s a concept called wu wei, or effortless action.
It means life becomes lighter once you accept things as they are,
instead of how you think they should be.
The world will never follow your plan,
so either flow with it — or tire yourself fighting the current.
Later that night, I decided to think it through.
I already knew the negative story by heart — I’d written it a thousand times.
But what about the positive one? Could it exist?
To find out, I looked deeper into the negative.
What was I truly afraid of becoming?
Bitter. Jealous. Stuck in the same patterns that brought me here.
The positive story, I realized, simply removes those obstacles.
I saw myself as a character —
and I could either remain a background figure in my own story,
or step forward as the main one.
I chose not to fight the current, but to build a boat and ride it.
I chose to miss the second arrow
and let each moment become a teacher.
There are no good or bad emotions — only lessons.
The choice lies not in what arrives at your door,
but in how you open it.
Pain, loss, grief, sadness — they visit us all.
Few make it through life without knowing one deeply.
In those moments, remember: we decide what to do with the emotion.
Do we let it root into suffering, or pull it free and grow?
Every moment offers a lesson — it’s our choice whether it heals or harms.
Your story is defined not by what happened, but by how you faced it.
What are the main themes in your inner memoir?
Are you writing a tragedy or a hero’s story?
No one else writes those pages for you.
Can you name a time when you were carried by the current of an emotion?
Will you choose to dodge the second arrow?