The Little Book On Acceptance

I am still working on acceptance. As I write this, America is involved in a war with Iran, and Ukraine is still fighting for its independence from a Russian invasion. I want to accept life. I want to accept that in this life, Earth experiences wars. I want to accept all the deaths and the destruction of buildings thousands of years old. I am working toward accepting it all.

That's how this book began. With those thoughts. And with a realization that arrived not long before I began writing it.

We exist inside the consciousness of the Creator. We live and have our being inside cosmic laws — karma, as you sow so shall you reap, love is all. Everything is a piece of the puzzle. That is how the Creator is aware of every blade of grass, every raindrop, every one of us. The Creator holds the puzzle. And it is not large to the Creator. Infinity is well managed. A trillion trillion of whatever is like one plus one to the One — to Source, to God, to whatever name we give the Maker.

This is how I understand it. The Creator is always aware of us — always holding the puzzle, as I said. One lane on the highway is always lit up in awareness. That is the Creator's attention, resting on us.

When we meditate, or turn our thoughts toward the Creator — the other side lights up.

That is poetry in action.

That is why the Creator can help us with anything. That is why nothing happens without permission — not the bad things, not the impossible dream that comes true, not a single breath. Every breath is given.

I had been living inside thoughts like these for years, learning to stay centered in peace. But war, death, and the destruction of civilizations were situations that none of my tools was making a dent in — even with the belief that the Creator is in control, that not even a pin drops without permission.

Until that morning when I said those words, my attempts at acceptance were like going in circles — the words forming in my mind but never quite becoming intention. When those words finally arrived with real weight behind them, I needed to put them on paper. This book is what came out.

NASCENT UNDERSTANDINGS

I think we all have a cheat sheet when it comes to mastering something. A cheat sheet — meaning something we were either innately born with, or a talent or state of mind given to us when we were young.

I was given the concept that there is no death, and that there is a world beyond the physical. A realm. A place we go after we shed the mortal coil. This belief was handed down to me by my parents, who had been missionaries in Liberia. They encountered experiences most Americans would consider supernatural. I grew up hearing those stories. They expanded my world and made it feel, if not magical, then mystical. Not believing in death was one of those beliefs passed to me. That view helped me handle death with a kind of grace — leaving only the missing of the person, and what they meant to me, left to deal with.

The other cheat sheet I was given was innate. The more a person tried to hurt me or get the best of me, the more I found it amusing. My mother told me stories of being six, seven, and eight years old — my brothers trying to ruffle my feathers — and how I would just smile serenely at their attempts. She said my reaction really upset them. I realized early on that I had some kind of superpower in that respect.

It felt exhilarating to know that being teased or put down meant nothing to me the moment I recognized it meant something to the other person. The pain only came when I thought someone hadn't meant to hurt me — that they were simply being themselves. That would sting. Or worse, the thought that I simply wasn't enough of something — whatever that something was. That would hurt.

But if they were deliberately trying to hurt me? It was a zero-sum game. And I always walked away whole.

So I grew up with those two abilities that helped my younger self accept certain things. But in life, there are hundreds of moments we can either accept or fight.

As a youth, when I tried to accept a situation involving someone else's pain, I sometimes felt guilty for wanting to rise above it. As though I owed it to the person — or to the world — to stay down there with them in it. It didn't seem right that I could take something in stride. Didn't rising above mean I lacked compassion?

By the time I graduated college and began working in social work, that inability to rise above other people's pain began taking its toll. I worked with a lot of older women who appeared physically tired and worked long hours because there were too many people to help or it took too long to do everything in one day. They were martyrs. Admirable — but not looking like my parents, who were vibrant, energetic, and healthy.

I remember writing on a piece of paper: I don't want to become a martyr.

Soon I started thinking: if everyone is weighed down by a particular pain, who is left to help heal it? Humankind doesn't evolve if no one is allowed to be a hero. Heroes change circumstances. That's why we root for them in the novels we read and the films we watch. That's why we feel proud of a decorated soldier even if we share no blood, religion, or creed with them. Something in us recognizes what it costs to rise — and honors it.

Heroes are what make the world go round.

SOMEONE HAS TO CHOOSE

I'd changed jobs from the one I acquired upon graduation. I had a lot of contact with foster parents and biological parents. There were expectations on us as workers and everyone knew what they were: you're the trained professional. When speaking with foster and biological parents, you are expected to keep your composure no matter what.

I remember struggling with those conversations when clients were upset with me. Social workers make very little money. We're doing this job because we care and genuinely want to help. But I soon learned that no one thanks you — not the foster or biological parents, and not your supervisors and directors.

I came to terms with that easily. There was always a part of me that never fully gravitated toward what was inside another person's head unless we were actively engaged in conversation. Perhaps that tendency came from being the youngest child and only daughter of parents who were very busy. I suppose I had learned how to orient inwardly — to stay inside the lines of my personal world.

I recall always being in a victim-victim dynamic. I needed something from a foster or biological parent — a medical exam before I could finalize a document — and they were dragging their feet. I'd be frustrated because their delay was making my paperwork late. They'd be frustrated because I wouldn't accept an excuse that made sense to them.

At some point, it occurred to me: nothing gets accomplished when both people are playing the victim. Someone has to be the hero in the dynamic.

At that stage of my career, I didn't particularly want that role. I went into it kicking and protesting with everything I had. But eventually, the more mature part of me — the reasonable part — had a quiet talk with the part that wanted sympathy. It simply said: you have to choose.

It wasn't easy. That voice repeated the choice for years before I finally chose to be the hero.

The two selves reconciled. Making a genuine choice resolves contradiction when that choice is rooted in commitment. I'm a committed type of person, so I grew into it. I grew so comfortable with it that I could sit with a client who was blaming me for everything, listen to their pain, and sincerely tell them I understood why they were upset.

What did they hear when I said that? They heard that they were right and I was wrong. But when you've decided to be the hero, you can carry that weight on your shoulders like it's wings. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't shake you.

I became so skilled at it that a supervisor once transferred a case away from me because he found the client unbearably obnoxious. He assumed I must be suffering. I wasn't. Her behavior landed on me like a four-year-old trying to deliver an insult. The woman had zero power over me — though it was perfectly fine that she thought she was Godzilla.

When you truly become the hero in a situation, you stop needing to monitor how the other person sees you. You know who you are. Full stop.

Not everyone is ready for this kind of acceptance, and some people find themselves not even wanting to want it. That's okay. In a universe as vast as ours, I promise you — all roads lead to Rome.