Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent

Host: The evening was painted in shades of amber and charcoal, a sky bruised by the fading sun. The city park had grown quiet — its benches empty, its trees still, and only the faint whisper of the wind threading through the leaves. A fountain murmured softly nearby, its water catching the last traces of light, breaking it into a thousand tiny fragments that shimmered and disappeared.

Jack sat at the edge of the fountain, a stone’s throw from peace but miles away from it inside. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched, the cigarette between his fingers nothing but ash and tremor. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the base of a lamppost, her face half-lit, her eyes fixed on him with that kind of calm that can either heal or provoke.

Between them, written on the small notebook resting on her lap, were the words:

"Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned." — Buddha

The wind shifted, and the smell of smoke — faint, human, aching — drifted between them.

Jeeny: (quietly) You ever wonder why people hold on so tightly to anger? Even when it’s hurting them?

Jack: (scoffs) Because sometimes it’s all you have left.

Jeeny: (tilts her head) You think pain makes you powerful?

Jack: (shrugs) It makes you real. It’s proof something mattered. You get hurt, you carry it — that’s how you know it happened.

Jeeny: (softly) But the Buddha says when you carry it, you just keep getting burned.

Jack: (smirks) Easy for a man who reached enlightenment to say. Try letting go when the fire’s the only thing keeping you warm.

Host: The wind picked up, scattering leaves around the fountain. One landed in the water, spinning slowly before sinking beneath the surface — a tiny, perfect metaphor that neither of them missed.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know, my father used to get angry like that. Every night at dinner — small things, big things, didn’t matter. He said anger kept him sharp. But in the end, it just kept him alone.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe he was just honest about what most people hide.

Jeeny: (gently) Honesty doesn’t have to hurt people, Jack.

Jack: (turns toward her) Sometimes it does. Sometimes the truth cuts. Maybe that’s the only way to stop pretending.

Jeeny: (softly) Or maybe it’s just another way of staying trapped.

Host: A car passed by, its headlights washing briefly over them, then fading. The light caught the reflection of the water, scattering it across their faces — her calm, his tension — two sides of a fire that hadn’t yet gone out.

Jeeny: (looking at him) You’re angry at someone.

Jack: (flatly) I’m angry at a lot of people.

Jeeny: (after a pause) Yourself included.

Jack: (bitterly) Especially myself.

Jeeny: (steps closer) Then why keep feeding it? Why keep the coal in your hand?

Jack: (snaps) Because I don’t know what to do with empty hands, Jeeny! Because if I let go, then I have to face what’s underneath — the grief, the guilt, the quiet. And that’s worse.

Jeeny: (softly) No, Jack. That’s the start. The quiet’s where the healing begins.

Host: Her voice fell like water on hot stone — quiet, cooling, unthreatening. Jack’s shoulders trembled slightly. The cigarette ash broke and fell, dissolving into the fountain beside him.

Jack: (murmurs) You ever held something so long, you forgot what life was like without it?

Jeeny: (nodding) Grief. I carried mine for years. It felt like a part of my spine.

Jack: (looks at her) How’d you let it go?

Jeeny: I didn’t. I learned to stop feeding it. I stopped confusing suffering with strength.

Jack: (quietly) So you just forgave?

Jeeny: Not right away. Forgiveness isn’t letting someone off the hook. It’s unhooking yourself.

Jack: (half-laughs) You make it sound simple.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Nothing simple about it. It’s like learning to breathe underwater — unnatural, terrifying, and necessary.

Host: The fountain’s rhythm filled the pause between them, its endless cycle — rise, fall, release — mirroring the thing they were trying to name but couldn’t yet live.

Jack: (after a long silence) When I think about him… the person who hurt me… it’s like he’s still there. Still talking, still in the room. I can’t switch it off.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s because you built a home for him inside you. Every time you revisit the anger, you feed him, keep him alive.

Jack: (bitterly) And if I stop?

Jeeny: Then he dies the quiet death he earned.

Jack: (looks down) You talk like peace is a choice.

Jeeny: (whispers) It is. But it’s the hardest one you’ll ever make.

Host: The wind softened, the night settling into its quiet heart. The fountain shimmered under the streetlight — a mirror for every emotion they couldn’t quite name, only feel.

Jack: (finally) You think forgiveness is possible without an apology?

Jeeny: (nods slowly) Forgiveness isn’t for them, Jack. It’s for you. You release what poisons you. You stop carrying their shadow.

Jack: (sighs) I don’t know if I can.

Jeeny: (softly) Then start by not wanting to throw the coal. Just set it down. That’s enough for today.

Host: The lamp above them flickered, the light catching the smoke that rose between them — and for the first time, Jack’s hands were still. The dog from the earlier street wandered into the park, padding silently toward the fountain. It paused by Jack’s leg, then sat, resting its head against his knee.

Jack: (quietly) He follows me everywhere.

Jeeny: (smiles) Maybe he sees what’s good in you before you do.

Jack: (half-smile) Maybe he’s just hungry.

Jeeny: (shrugs) Maybe mercy always looks like hunger at first.

Host: Jack reached down, his hand brushing the dog’s fur, and something in him softened — not much, but enough. The tension in his shoulders released, the faintest breath of relief escaping his lips.

Jeeny: (gently) You don’t have to forgive tonight. Just stop carrying the heat. It’s okay to be tired, Jack.

Jack: (quietly) I am tired.

Jeeny: Then that’s where peace begins.

Host: The sound of the fountain filled the silence again — steady, patient, eternal. Jack’s cigarette had burned out completely, its last ember fading against the stone.

The dog shifted closer, pressing its warm body against his leg. Jack didn’t move. For the first time in a long while, he just… breathed.

And as the night deepened, Jeeny watched the small, invisible change in his face — the moment when the coal finally left his hand.

Host (closing):
The fountain’s reflection shimmered across their faces — two figures in stillness, caught between pain and release.

The world around them went on — lights glowing, leaves falling, hearts breaking elsewhere — but here, by this small pool of water, one man finally loosened his grip on the fire that had burned him for years.

And the night, merciful and quiet, seemed to whisper the truth Buddha had known all along:

Peace doesn’t arrive when the world stops wounding you.
It begins the moment you stop wounding yourself.