Guide Stars Lessons: The Truth of Being Human
There’s an old Sufi tale about a wandering holy man (who they called a dervish). He owned nothing, carried little, and lived simply, moving from place to place. One day, he was invited to the palace of a powerful king. Surrounded by gold, servants, and guards, the king looked him over and asked, “How do you live with so little and still look so free?”
The dervish glanced around the lavish room and said, “And how do you live with so much and still need guards at every door?”
Then he added, “You’re surrounded by riches, but afraid to lose them. I carry nothing, and yet I sleep in peace. You are locked in luxury. I am free in simplicity.”
The king said nothing. Because deep down, he knew the man was right.
Now let me ask you something real.
If tomorrow you awoke to find everything gone except those around you, would you still feel rich?
Sometimes we get so caught up in who’s right and who’s wrong, who’s louder, or who we agree with, that we forget the things that really matter. We stop looking our neighbors in the eye. We scroll past the small things that used to make us feel connected: a shared joke, a helping hand, a good morning. It’s easy to forget that beyond the noise, most of us want the same things. Peace of mind. Safety. A chance to live with a little joy. And the truth is, we can’t get any of those things without each other.
Now’s not the time to harden our hearts or draw lines in the sand. There’s enough of that already. This is the time to remember what holds us together: not just blood and friendship, but basic decency. A willingness to look out for someone else, even when you don’t agree. A respect for the fact that we all call this place home.
When we remember that, we make space for unity. We make space to move forward, not as enemies on different sides, but as people trying to live well, side by side.
I came across a passage from Rumi’s Masnavi that caught me off guard. Just a few lines, but it stayed with me. He wrote, “The wound is the place where the light enters you. Don’t turn away. Keep your gaze on the bandaged place. That’s where the light enters you. Don’t run from the grief. Ours is not a caravan of despair.” Something about that felt painfully true. Especially now, when it’s so easy to look away from the parts of ourselves that make us uncomfortable, the places we’ve been bruised, or the places we’ve bruised others.
Some wounds don’t bleed. They just show up in the way we stop checking on each other. In how quick we are to walk past someone we once laughed with, how easy it becomes to act like we were never friends. We’ve been hurt, sure. By words, by pride, by moments we thought would pass but didn’t. But if pain can crack us open, maybe it’s also the space where we let care find its way back in. Maybe it’s not about running from what hurt us, but learning how to carry it differently.
It’s easy to forget how quickly we can turn into the very thing we used to criticize. How subtle the shift is, from standing for something to standing over someone. We tell ourselves we’re just being firm, just holding the line, but sometimes it’s not strength. Sometimes it’s bitterness dressed up as conviction. And if we don’t stop to check ourselves, to really sit with who we’re becoming, we risk losing the very things we think we’re protecting. Dignity. Grace. Our ability to listen without needing to win. These are the things that keep a soul clean. And they don’t come from shouting louder. They come from staying soft when the world dares you to go hard.
The loudest thing in the room is rarely the most important. That’s the trap. We start confusing volume for value, mistaking the performance for the point. And in all that noise, we stop seeing people. Real people. The kind who still cry in private, still check their phones hoping someone thought of them, still wonder if anyone would notice if they went quiet. That ache isn’t always about money. In fact, money is one of the biggest distractions we’ve invented. It buys silence, not healing. Comfort, not connection.
That emptiness people carry around? It’s rarely something money can touch. If anything, money lets us pretend we’re okay. It gives us something to reach for when we don’t want to reach inward. It buys quiet, not peace. Distraction, not direction. We spend just enough to avoid sitting with what actually needs our attention: each other, and the parts of ourselves we’ve been running from. But we weren’t made to live around each other like strangers with full carts and empty hearts. We were meant to show up. Not with things, but with time. With presence. With care. That’s what holds people together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
At the end of it all, there is no crowd. No applause. Just you. No titles. No performance. No mask to hold in place. Only the self, stripped of story and stripped of name, staring back without blinking. Philosophers have spent centuries circling that moment because they knew what we try to forget: the self is not a role you play. It is a silence you confront. It does not care who agreed with you. It remembers what you compromised. And if you dare to look long enough, without reaching for distraction or comfort, you might see it for what it is. Not your enemy. Not your savior. Just the last honest thing you will ever meet. And if that meeting unsettles you, it should. Because the truth is, most people will die never having truly seen themselves….
Or the true face of our fellowman.
