Waiting for test results in a hospital can be a solitary event. And unexpectedly quiet in certain waiting rooms. Jane Gross on the silent solidarity of women forged while waiting for the results of their mammogram tests each year.
Life can be frustrating, and we often react with resistance, or overwhelm. Sharon Salzberg reminds us that emotional balance doesn't come from denying feelings, but from allowing them room to play out fully.
Paul Kalanithi's latest book spurs a pregnant mother to recognize the myth of meaning-making. Our columnist on reckoning with ambiguous endings, and the spectrum of imperfection on which we must all live and thrive.
The big stage of TED can provide a platform for dreaming big, talking big, and a big ego. As our columnist prepares to present at TED2016, she looks to Pema Chödrön and the bigness of her own ideas to make a difference through the massive platform.
Being around people can be an anxious experience, if not draining experience, for many. But, how can we manage that trepidation and move forward? Alexandra Elle reflects on having the courage to show up and interact when it feels next to impossible.
Finding a clear sense of being home shouldn't be sought from a desperate place. But, how is it possible to yearn without becoming lost in our deluded states of mind? Sharon Salzberg on the wise attention we possess that alchemizes delusion into wisdom.
In periods of fear, the catalysts of panic can sometimes be ourselves. Courtney Martin on the importance of mitigating our own fight-or-flight response in order to retain our compassion and humanity toward one another.
What happens when our icons are turned to rubble? Would their meaning still hold? Drawing on the Hindu tradition of ishta devata, Sharon Salzberg contemplates the Paris attacks and the Syrian refugee crisis through her favorite icon, the Statue of Liberty.
Civilizations elevate the best in cultures and people. A composer encourages us to rethink the phrase "clash of civilizations" and, by definition, civilization can only fuel human flourishing.
Recent mass killings in Oregon and abroad inculcate a kind of fear that can be paralyzing. Through the lens of a Native American tale, Omid Safi refuses to feed those wolves and chooses to feed another wolf: love.
For the world-weary, cynicism may feel safe. But, in our efforts toward self-protection, what might we be missing? A Millennial reflects on the doubt and distrust he sees in his generation, and suggests a courageous counterpoint: sincere and hopeful optimism.
Our readers and our columnists explore Vincent Harding's question in light of the Charleston tragedy — and how we can reclaim our fears and our hopes in this great experiment. Plus, some things I've been reading this week (for your eyes only).
The fear inside us presents itself in the most unlikely and perhaps unexpected ways. But how do we engage that feeling and let go?
So much can terrify us in the world today. Fear is a natural response. But the path of love, Omid Safi writes, is not the absence of fear but a notion made possible through vulnerability.
A powerful commentary from the mother of a black teenage son who says we need to stop talking around the edges of race and address the systemic problem itself: that we see black men as less than human.
Some good humor on forgetfulness and poignant verse from the poet Billy Collins to sweeten the swallow.
In a 1919 letter to Gandhi, the Nobel laureate offers these words of advice on planting the seeds of intolerance.
Krista dishes on cooking with the BBC. We remember Roger Ebert's smile. And thoughts on fear and grieving, the coming spring, and a culture of advocacy.
Our weekly capsule of Krista Tippett's tweets, Instagram pairings, and strange bits of ephemera observed online.
In response to Speaking of Faith’s show about the brutality of regimes around the world and the question of the people who disappear — and their children — I thought I would share with you a scene from my childhood in Portugal during the country’s fascist regime that lasted for almost 40 years and ended in 1974.
I wake up in the middle of the night, as I often do, and walk slowly down the steps of the long staircase. I am eight years old. I come to join my father, who sits in his office listening to a small voice coming from a small radio. The sound is muffled; the words sound detached. I do not understand what it says.
He smiles at the sight of my face peering through the crack of the door.
“So, you’re up,” he says.