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Dear Auntie Margana,
With the war in Iran going on, I find myself completely distracted whenever I try to meditate. My mind fills with images from the news, worry about what’s coming next, and I reach for the remote to watch the news. I feel guilty trying to sit in peace when so much suffering is happening in the world. What can I do?
— Distracted and Disheartened
Dear Distracted and Disheartened,
Oh, sweet soul. First, let me say this: the fact that you feel the weight of distant suffering is not a flaw. It is a sign that your heart is open, that you are paying attention, that you are connected to the great web of life in ways that many people spend years trying to cultivate. Do not shame yourself for that.
But let us gently untangle something here, because I think you may be carrying two burdens at once — the suffering of the world, and the belief that your meditation should somehow be immune to it.
It shouldn’t. And here is why that is actually good news.
We recently explored the wisdom of Buddhist monk Gelong Thubten, who spent years believing that meditation meant achieving a still, empty mind — only to discover that the very struggle he was experiencing was the practice. He writes that when he brought his frustration to his teacher, the response stopped him cold: “You’re meditating like somebody taking drugs. You’re waiting for a hit.”
That lands differently when you swap bliss for peace, doesn’t it? You are sitting down and waiting for the war to disappear from your mind. You want meditation to be a sanctuary sealed off from reality. But that is not what meditation is, and chasing that sealed room is exactly what is exhausting you.
What is actually happening when images of conflict flood your mind during meditation? Your awareness is working perfectly. You are noticing. The problem is not that the thoughts are arriving — thoughts always arrive. The problem is what you do next. Most of us, when a painful thought surfaces, either chase it deeper into worry or angrily shove it aside. Both responses keep you locked in the struggle.
Thubten offers a third way. He describes the moment you realise your mind has wandered not as failure, but as the precise moment of awakening. You drifted into news footage, into fear, into grief — and then something in you noticed. That noticing is awareness. That noticing is meditation. From that moment, your only job is to gently return to the breath, without judgment, without scolding yourself for having drifted.
Do this once. Then do it again five minutes later. Then again. Each return is a small act of strength.
Now, the guilt — let us speak to that directly, because I know it is sitting there quietly beside you. You feel that seeking inner calm while others are suffering is somehow selfish, even indecent. But consider this: a mind that is constantly shredded by anxiety cannot hold compassion for long. It burns through it. The stillness you are building in meditation is not an escape from the suffering of the world. It is how you sustain your capacity to care about it without being destroyed by it.
Thubten puts it beautifully: “The ultimate purpose of life is to love others and to help them to suffer less.” Meditation, he says, builds the wisdom and strength to do exactly that. You cannot pour from an empty vessel. The practice is the refilling.
There is also something Thubten emphasises that I want you to hold close: meditate especially when you do not feel like it. Meditate when you are sad, when you are tired, when the news has hollowed you out. Not because it will immediately feel better, but because you are teaching yourself that the anchor is always available, even in the storm. If you only ever practice in calm waters, you will have no skill when the waves come. And right now, the waves have come.
So here is what I suggest, dear one. When you sit down and the images of war flood in, do not fight them. Let them be clouds in the sky of your awareness. Notice them. Name them gently if it helps — “worry,” “sadness,” “fear” — and then return to the breath. Again and again. Do not judge the session by whether the thoughts stopped. Judge nothing. Simply show up, anchor yourself in the breath, and practice returning.
Over time, you will find something remarkable: the practice does not make you indifferent to the world’s pain. It makes you steadier within it. Calmer. More present. More useful to those around you who are also frightened.
The war will do what wars do. You cannot stop it from your meditation cushion. But you can become someone who is not swept away by it — and that, quietly, is one of the most powerful things you can offer the world.
With love always, Auntie Margana
