words on words and weapons
as a friend of mine once told me, “you can be right, and you can be dead right.” well, since i ain’t dead yet, things must still be alright. so far so good!
it’s true, there have been so many people shot and killed for expressing their truth publicly – it’s the age-old 3D consciousness conundrum – a form of survival-based fear of loss applied to language itself. from jfk to mlk to john lennon, people have been silenced for speaking out. just the other day my brother told me about conservative speaker charlie kirk, who was shot while giving a talk at utah valley university on september 10, 2025. to be honest, i didn’t know much about him, but hearing those words struck a nerve – that familiar gut-punch of gloom, shock, resignation, depression. you know the drill.
nobody really wants to hear about another person getting shot and killed in america or anywhere, do they? “somebody got shot and killed.” that sentence alone stings or numbs if we let it, just like all the other times you hear about children getting bombed and families torn apart, in gaza or ukraine or wherever it happens. these sorts of happenings are inherently demoralizing to hear about, both on an individual and a collective level – on any level you feel in your impermanent, still-beating heart. it’s exhausting. it’s brutal. it’s sad. and yet, on another level, it’s just another unjust murder in a long list of unjust murders through every era and every land.
from both my individual and universal perspective, any act of violence – no matter who attacked who – hurts all of us somehow. perhaps the reason shootings like this hit americans especially hard is because it’s yet another blemish in the premise of the so-called “land of the free, home of the brave.” with deep irony — charlie kirk having been a strong proponent for the second amendment himself — this particular event rips open that uncomfortable crack between the freedom to speak one’s mind openly and the freedom to bear arms.
if you really want to know my take on weapons, i’d say either we all need ’em or we all need to put ’em down. i suppose i’d say the same about free speech, too. while words are not the same as bullets — words don’t end lives the way guns do — both can wound or heal. words can inflame, dehumanize, or console; guns can kill or deter. i firmly believe the power of love is mightier than both the word and the sword.
sometimes we write or speak from a place of violence within ourselves – individually and collectively – from a place of pain, on a stumbling quest to make sense of it all and to reach a place of deeper understanding. if we are willing to do the work of patiently grappling with the violence in ourselves and each other long enough, we may yet taste that sweet fruit of relief and, dare i say, love. but love doesn't force itself, it only comes when we welcome its grace into our lives.
there will come a time, perhaps sooner rather than later, when we won’t need words or guns – when we are attuned to the wisdom of silence, to deepening connection through sheer attentive presence, through shared imaginative resonance, rather than using words as weapons. i believe in a day when we are quicker to empathize than to point the gun at our fellow being, or as i like to say, our expanded self. a day when our ability to love is so strong it recognizes the inherent dignity of all beings, on this planet and beyond.
in the meantime, messy as it may be, if we’re going to speak or possess weapons at all, may we attempt to wield the power of both as responsibly as possible. i think harmony is a continual unsheathing and uplifting, a clarifying of muddy waters. we must all do our part to reckon with our worst unchecked tendencies, and step it up a notch on the path of peace, love and understanding.
having said all of this, my hope is that these words comfort more than they afflict. either way, i invite us all to take a deep breath in and a long sigh out – maybe that’s all we needed in the first place.
addendum: when i look at charlie kirk’s picture — really look with my heart and not just my eyes — i see a human being, just like me, who deserved to live, who held the same right to life as anyone. i don’t need to know what he said or did, who his friends, family, or enemies were, or who truly knew and loved him. he was another version of me, doing what he thought was best. his tragic death cannot be reversed, but, like anything, it can either serve as a catalyst for deeper peace or deeper division. how can we truly expect unity if we’re unwilling to embrace everyone — and i mean everyone — as part of ourselves? love doesn’t exclude. it considers. it expands.
