There’s an image my old Buddhist teacher once shared that has stayed with me. He compared the wandering mind in meditation to a dove released at mid-sea. You can imagine the bird soaring into the sky, circling, searching for a place to land, but after all its effort, it inevitably returns to the ship. Out there, in the middle of the endless ocean, there’s nowhere else to go. This simple metaphor resonates deeply with me, especially in moments when I feel lost or overwhelmed by my thoughts. It captures a lot of what is going on for me right now.
As a Palestinian, the dove also carries another layer of significance. The image of the dove with an olive branch is a universal symbol of peace, resilience, and hope. These symbols have long represented the human longing for peace, not just between nations but within ourselves. In meditation, just as the dove always returns to the ship, we, too, can always return to peace, no matter how far our minds or hearts may drift. This realization has been crucial for me, especially when the world outside feels far from peaceful.
In these turbulent times, this message of the dove brings hope. Like many, I feel the weight of political unrest, environmental crises, and a sense of disconnection that seems to pervade everything. There are days when I, too, feel the anxiety and pressure that weighs on our collective spirit. Many of us look to world leaders for solutions, to consumption for comfort, or to status for security, but more than ever, it seems none of these external forces will bring the happiness or peace we seek.
The mind, like the dove, has a natural tendency to wander. It drifts into thoughts about the past, worries about the future, and distractions from the present moment—sometimes faster, sometimes slower. Even after years of meditation, I still experience this wandering mind. There are days when it feels like a struggle, as if my mind refuses to cooperate. But what I’ve come to realize is that the goal isn’t to control the mind. It’s not about forcing stillness or attaining some perfect state of calm. The key is to observe the mind with compassion and patience.
There’s no need to control the mind, because just like the dove, the mind has its own nature. It will always seek to explore, to roam. Trying to control it only creates tension, and I’ve found that the more we resist, the more we suffer. Instead, I’ve learned to accept this wandering as part of the process. When I stop resisting my mind’s nature and simply notice its flights, I can gently guide it back. Back to the breath, back to the body, back to the present moment. This act of returning is the heart of the practice. It’s about being with what is, without judgment, without trying to force change.
The ship—the breath, the present moment—is always waiting for us to return. In this, there is hope. In this present moment, we are safe. As I continue my own journey, I hold onto the vision of a future where peace is possible, also in Gaza and for Palestinians. It takes courage, resilience, and compassion, but just as the dove always finds its way home, I believe we can find our path to a world where war ceases, justice prevails, and everyone can live in peace. The dove carries not only the olive branch of inner calm, but the promise of peace for all—if only we can lovingly allow it to land.
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