There is a rhythm to the fire. The heat, the rhythmic strike of the hammer, the shaping of metal into something with purpose. Today, as I worked on an arrowhead, the metal seemed to speak of something heavier than steel. It spoke of anger.
We often treat anger like a weapon we point at the world. We aim it where we want to shoot, focusing our energy on what we believe deserves it. But in the silence of the workshop, a realization settles in: pointing the arrow is easy. Holding it steady is where the struggle begins. And sometimes, the most dangerous part isn't where the arrow flies, but the hand that grips it too tightly.
The Ball Beneath the Water
It's rare for me to feel genuine anger. I've often wondered if that absence is a virtue or a blindness. Perhaps I should feel it more often. But lately, the emotion has surfaced, and with it came a heavy lesson. Anger is an energy sink. It drains you. It consumes hours, days, even weeks of mental bandwidth, yet rarely changes a single thing outside of your own skin.
We are taught to fear this emotion, to assign it a negative value, to push it down. I used to imagine anger like a ball held underwater. You can press it beneath the surface for a while, but eventually, the ball breaks the surface. And the longer you hold it down, the harder it becomes to keep submerged. The tension builds until the snap is inevitable.
The only way to stop the struggle is to let go. To allow the ball to ride the waves. This doesn't mean you ignore the feeling or pretend it isn't there. It means sitting with it. Observing it without judgment. No value attached, no "good" or "bad." Just the raw presence of the emotion.
The Coal in Your Hand
There is an old saying that captures this perfectly: Holding onto anger is like grabbing a piece of coal with the intention of throwing it at someone else. You are the one who gets burned.
I've felt that burn recently. The heat wasn't directed outward; it was internal. I was the one sitting there, draining my own energy, watching nothing change in the world around me. The arrow was pointed, but the target remained untouched, while I sat with scorched fingers.
The Monk Who Carried the Woman
This reminds me of a story about two monks traveling together. A senior monk and a junior monk approached a river where a woman stood, unable to cross. Despite their vow never to touch a woman, the senior monk simply picked her up, carried her across, and set her down on the other bank. They continued their journey in silence.
Hours later, the junior monk could no longer contain his confusion. "How could you do that?" he asked. "We vowed never to touch a woman!"
The senior monk looked at him calmly and replied, "I put the woman down by the river hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?"
We are all guilty of being the junior monk. We carry the weight of past grievances, the memory of slights, the heat of old anger long after the event has passed. We walk around burdened by a ghost, wondering why we are so tired, while the world moves on.
You Don't Learn to Swim in a Storm
So, how do we put the woman down? How do we drop the coal?
For me, it starts with practice, but not the kind of practice you do in a storm. You don't learn to swim in a hurricane. You practice when the water is calm. You build the muscle of detachment when you aren't already drowning in rage.
Two tools have helped me immensely in this quiet work.
The first is a bullet journal. For years, I tried to journal, but it never stuck. Recently, however, writing down my thoughts, especially the ones I tend to hoard, became a lifeline. There is a profound relief in transferring the chaos from your mind onto paper. It allows you to see the situation from a distance, to realize how much energy you are pouring into a void.
The second is meditation. I visualize myself sitting on a bus. Every thought, every surge of anger, every worry is just a sign passing by the window. The bus keeps moving. I sit back, feeling the weight of the bench, watching the signs flash by without stepping off. I don't judge the sign; I just watch it pass. Over time, the bus ride becomes easier. The feelings become lighter.
The Work Is Never Done
I'm not expecting this to ever be on autopilot. Some days, I'll find myself back at the beginning, holding that hot coal again. But here is the hope: every time I pick it up, I drop it faster. Every time I sit with the anger, I spend less time burning.
Anger is not a villain. It is a messenger. It tells us something is wrong, something needs attention. But listening to the message doesn't require acting on the impulse. It doesn't require launching the arrow.
You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be willing to drop the coal.