When the World Is on Fire

Our world seems to be on fire.

In some places, it is actually burning. The hazy smoke from fires in Canada is once again blanketing the northeast. I was connecting with some folks in Maui this week as they faced a local fire that was forcing people to evacuate. And communities in Gaza and Ukraine and other parts of the world are being swallowed by fire.

In the midst of war, political upheaval, economic uncertainty, and climate crises, how do we keep showing up with an open heart?

How do we keep meeting this moment?

I have been struggling with this lately. 

Some friends and I were having lunch in Kennebunkport this past weekend. And as the server shared the daily specials, he finished with, “Vegetable of the day is broccoli.”

But it sounded funny when he said it. He emphasized it—like brrrroccccoli.

One of my friends pointed this out, and the waiter said in response, “Yeah, well, I think when you offer broccoli, you basically have given up.”

We all laughed.

It feels like that some days, doesn’t it, that it’s time to bring out the broccoli.

Just give up our hopes and dreams and wishes for a better life for all.

So, how do we meet this moment when the world is on fire?

How do we stay informed and engaged but without becoming overwhelmed?

I have an answer for you, which I heard someone say recently.

It’s to love the world anyway.

It’s to show up with an open heart and love it all—the messiness, the pain, the struggle—anyway.

This doesn’t mean we have to like what is happening. It doesn’t mean not having boundaries. It doesn’t mean taking in every breaking news alert. 

Instead, it means focusing being as grounded as we can be. Focusing on our own state and self-regulation. Managing the inflow of what’s happening and not letting it manage us.

A week ago, I was on a boat about to take off for a whale watch, and we noticed the crew watching the water between where the boats were docked. 

They were watching a seagull that was trapped.

He wasn’t able to fly. He had a broken wing. And this gull tried again and again to pull its heavy torso up onto the rocks with its one wing—but kept slipping back down. Again and again, he tried. 

Gulls can be annoying, and dirty, and scavengers. But my heart went out to this one. Even the owner of our vessel went to see if he could help but the gull wouldn’t come close enough to shore to assist him.

It was heartbreaking—seeing him try.

In the end, we had to just let him be.

We had to let the gull live out its fate.

That night, I was watering plants at home, and I noticed a bee hanging around our rock wall. He, too, could not fly for some reason—he kept trying to get somewhere and gravity kept pulling him back down. 

He, too, had a broken wing.

I stayed with the bee, watching it for a while.

There was nothing I could do (how does one rehabilitate a bee, let alone a seagull?). 

But I saw the bee. I was witness to its struggle. I held space for it.

I stayed with it for a few minutes.

In moments like these, I want to disconnect—to turn my face away from all of the suffering. I dream of finding a house off the grid somewhere by a stream and going to live in peace and quiet.

Packing myself away from all the physical pain, anxiety, and suffering.

Turning away from all of those broken wings.

Even my own.

But I know that’s not the answer either.

Here is what I do know: In these times, we need to carefully choose where we put our attention. We need to be present, not depleted. The world needs us to be intentional, not reactive. It needs us to show up with our full selves, with purpose and thoughtfulness. 

We can’t show up in fragments from whatever happens when we caught up by the churn.

When I want to look away from that animal, person, or situation where there is suffering, I need to look closer. I need to hold space for it and be with it.

Of course, we need communities to activate, advocate, speak up. We need people to stand up for what you believe in and help put out some of the flames. We need people to stand up for moving things in a better direction.

But we can also choose to be witnesses in our own ways to the unfolding. To be with whatever is happening.

And when needed, we can choose broccoli—if that’s all we have energy for.

But in all of these moments, these times are not about loving the world any less. They are not about walking away. They are not about judging where we are. These times are about loving our world on fire even more.

How else might you engage with these difficult times?

What might you do differently to be an even more dedicated and steadier witness?

What does it look like if you loved this world on fire even more tomorrow than you do today?

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