Samadhi, complete concentration, is the essence of listening. In counseling, it means being fully absorbed in the present moment, attuned not only to what is said but to what trembles beneath it. When we hold that kind of stillness, grief itself begins to speak a language of transformation.
By George Cassidy Payne
When I sit with someone in distress, I often find myself drawing not only from contemporary clinical practice but from a much older wisdom, one that predates psychology itself.
Buddhism, with its intricate understanding of mind, suffering and liberation, offers a vocabulary for experiences that often defy words.
Citta, the heart-mind, encompasses memory and recognition. In counseling, citta reminds us that every recollection is alive; each memory carries a pulse—a residual breath of feeling. When a grieving widow speaks of her husband who died by suicide, she is not just recounting events; she is revisiting a living world that once was.
I remember telling one such widow, “One of the hardest things to understand is how someone who is suffering—grieving, addicted, sometimes violent—can still be a great father.” I meant it with my whole heart. Our memories don’t neatly divide people into good or bad; they reveal complexity. Citta helps us honor that complexity, allowing love and pain to coexist in the same breath.
Sometimes, when we think about grief as a “stage,” we imagine it as something linear—anger, forgiveness, acceptance—like steps we’re supposed to climb in order. But grief doesn’t move that way. There are no rules, no invisible clock urging us forward.
Grief is something we carry, not something we leave behind.
Its shape changes over time; it softens and sharpens, expands and contracts. Forgiveness may visit us in one season, and anger in another. Both have their place. The anger is with you, it is part of you, and it comes from your own experience of what happened to you. To move away from anger completely would be to move away from yourself. Yet anger, too, can change form—it can be transformed into energy, into protection, into love that refuses to disappear.
The hardest thing to do is to forgive ourselves.
Especially when we were not the ones who caused the harm. In families shattered by tragedy, self-blame often hides beneath love. Mothers, in particular, carry this weight—the fierce instinct to protect their children, the unbearable guilt of not being able to shield them from suffering. When we watch someone we love suffer, all we want is to know how to take that pain away.
Guilt arises from that powerlessness—the aching sense of not knowing what will help. I cannot know for sure, and I cannot see inside his heart, I told this widow, but from what you’ve shared, I sense that he may not have known what help could look like—or perhaps he felt he did not deserve it. Fear can take many forms: fear of change, fear of exposure, fear of being a burden.
Especially for men, it is not always easy to ask for help; there is a lot of pressure to be “strong” and to handle things on their own. Not all suicides are connected to mental illness. But it is possible that he was struggling with a condition that was untreated, quietly shaping his decisions and his suffering.
One thing I can say, as a suicide prevention counselor, is that suicide often happens during what we call an acute crisis period. Sometimes, these moments last only fifteen minutes. In that window, a person’s suffering becomes so consuming that it eclipses every other possibility. It is an impulsive, distorted state—one where the future disappears, and all that exists is unbearable pain. If a person can make it through that acute period, if someone can reach them, or if they can find even a thread of connection, the intensity of those thoughts often diminishes.
The crisis softens. The unbearable becomes survivable.
I told her, I don’t know what happened, and I cannot know if this was the case, but I share this because it offers a different way of thinking about it. He could have loved you and the children deeply, and still have been caught up in a moment of crisis that he could not control.
Guilt can be a sign of love just as much as it can be a sign of pain.
If you did not love him, you would not feel this sense that you could have done more. But you did everything you could, and what happened is not your fault. The fights, the misunderstandings, the moments of tension—they were not your fault. Sometimes people hide their pain not to deceive, but to spare others from their own sense of helplessness. In that silence lies another form of love: flawed, human and deeply tender.
In Buddhism, dharani refers to sacred utterances—words of power that carry transformative energy.
The same holds true in counseling, where language itself can become an act of healing. Words like “you don’t have to rush,” or “it’s okay to still be angry,” can become dharanis of their own, a kind of spell-breaking compassion that frees the grieving from the tyranny of timelines. Words, when rooted in presence, offer permission for truth to exist as it is: unpolished, unresolved, and still deeply human.
Karma is not destiny but relationship, the unfolding of causes and conditions. In therapy, recognizing karma helps us see how pain often emerges from intricate networks of experience, not moral failure. Addiction, violence, and despair do not appear in isolation; they are conditioned by histories of loss, trauma, and unmet needs. Understanding this softens judgment and nurtures compassion, for others and for ourselves.
Samadhi, complete concentration, is the essence of listening. In counseling, it means being fully absorbed in the present moment, attuned not only to what is said but to what trembles beneath it. When we hold that kind of stillness, grief itself begins to speak a language of transformation.
Presence becomes medicine.
Tanka, craving and blind demandingness, often surfaces as the longing to make sense of suffering, to find certainty in uncertainty. In grief, this craving may appear as the desperate need to understand “why.” Yet through mindful awareness, we can see craving as a doorway rather than a trap. Beneath it lies love, the yearning to reconnect, to find peace.
These are not answers. They are only thoughts—gentle offerings shaped by the teachings that have guided me, and by what I have witnessed in the quiet of the counseling room. I would never pretend to know anything so profound, nor would I ever presume to know what another feels, or how deeply they hurt inside. I am here with you, taking in every word.
Sometimes all we can do is just sit, listen, and be with the pain.
The Tattooed Buddha is looking for articles on Hope for the month of November. Would you like to be a part of it? Send us your words to: editor@thetattooedbuddha.com. See submission guidelines here.
Photo: Pixabay
Editor: Dana Gornall
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George’s essays have appeared in publications such as The Good Men Project, The Buffalo News, The Rochester Democrat & Chronicle, and many more. A poet at heart, his work often blends memoir, philosophy, and theological reflection, rooted in the belief that language can be both a balm and a spark.
Whether reflecting on the writings of Marcus Aurelius, the parables of Jesus, or the mindfulness of a Jain monk sweeping the ground before them, George writes to make space for wonder, doubt, and dialogue.
He joins The Tattooed Buddha as a regular columnist to explore themes of death, inner peace, activism, grief, and contemplative life in a world on fire—and to ask, again and again: How can we live as if everything we do matters?
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