My faith helps me overcome such negative emotions and find my

Host: The mountains stood silent beneath a pale dawn, their edges sharp against the horizon, cloaked in mist that glowed faintly gold. A river wound lazily through the valley below, its surface smooth as glass, catching the light and holding it like a prayer. The air was thin, clean, untouched — the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty, but full of listening.

In the small temple perched on a ridge, Jack sat cross-legged on the stone floor, eyes half-closed, breath steady but restless beneath the stillness. Across from him, Jeeny knelt before a small bowl of incense, her hands resting on her knees, her eyes calm — like she’d made peace with gravity itself.

The wind slipped through the prayer flags above them, carrying whispers of color through the thin air. And beneath that sacred quiet, the words of the Dalai Lama floated gently, like a mantra wrapped in compassion:
"My faith helps me overcome such negative emotions and find my equilibrium."

Jeeny: “You look like a man trying to wrestle peace into submission.”

Jack: opening his eyes slightly “Maybe peace should be easier to catch.”

Jeeny: “It never is. You can’t chase calm. You can only stop running long enough to meet it.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “Simple isn’t the same as easy.”

Host: The light spilled slowly through the wooden shutters, slicing the air into soft, golden stripes. Dust motes drifted lazily, like slow-moving thoughts. Jack exhaled — a long, deliberate breath, the kind that tries to let go but can’t quite commit.

Jack: “The Dalai Lama said faith helps him find equilibrium. I wonder what that feels like — to trust something so deeply that even pain feels temporary.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about escape, Jack. It’s about balance — holding both pain and peace in the same breath.”

Jack: “Balance. You say that like it’s an object you can grab. But when the world tilts, I just fall.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe stop fighting gravity.”

Jack: “You mean accept it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith doesn’t stop the fall. It teaches you how to land.”

Host: Her voice was soft, yet carried a strange certainty — the kind that only comes from breaking and rebuilding yourself more times than you can count. Outside, a small bell rang — its sound pure, echoing across the mountain air like a reminder that time doesn’t rush here.

Jack: “I don’t know if I have faith like that. When things go wrong, I get angry. I want to control, to fix. I don’t… surrender.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t surrender. It’s alignment.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Surrender says, ‘I give up.’ Alignment says, ‘I’ll trust the current while I swim.’”

Jack: “And if the current drags you under?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where you were meant to learn how to breathe differently.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted toward the small altar beside them — a simple clay Buddha, its face serene, almost smiling. The incense smoke coiled upward like an invisible thread connecting the earth to the unseen.

He stared at it for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time.

Jack: “You ever feel like your emotions control you more than you control them?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Everyone does. But faith gives you distance. It doesn’t erase the storm — it gives you a higher place to watch it from.”

Jack: “You mean perspective.”

Jeeny: “No — compassion. Perspective sees the storm. Compassion forgives it.”

Jack: “And what about anger? That one’s harder to forgive.”

Jeeny: “Then let it be seen. Anger only burns when you hide it.”

Host: The flame of the candle flickered. For a moment, it wavered violently, then steadied again — as if proving her point. Jeeny smiled faintly, not at the flame, but at the lesson it seemed to teach without words.

Jack: “I envy people who can just… believe. Who can say, ‘I have faith,’ and mean it without flinching.”

Jeeny: “You think faith is certainty, Jack. It’s not. It’s endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance of what?”

Jeeny: “Of not knowing — and still trusting anyway.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve done that.”

Jeeny: “Every day. That’s what faith looks like when you’re human.”

Host: The wind pressed through the open window, carrying with it the scent of pine and incense, mingled with the crisp scent of snow. The prayer flags fluttered, colors blurring into motion — each one a heartbeat in the long rhythm of belief.

Jack: “When the Dalai Lama says ‘negative emotions,’ I think of rage, fear, jealousy… I think of everything that makes me feel small.”

Jeeny: “And he’s saying those emotions aren’t enemies — they’re teachers. Faith is what helps you learn the lesson instead of becoming the wound.”

Jack: “So even pain has a purpose.”

Jeeny: “Especially pain.”

Jack: “And when faith falters?”

Jeeny: “Then kindness steps in.”

Host: Her tone softened, her eyes lowering briefly. The candlelight painted her face in shades of amber and quiet strength. The moment felt suspended, like the whole mountain had leaned closer to listen.

Jeeny: “You know what faith really is? It’s memory. The memory of light when the room goes dark. You’ve seen it before, so you know it’s still there — even when you can’t see it now.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. And hard.”

Jeeny: “Everything true is both.”

Jack: “So faith isn’t certainty — it’s remembrance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The soul’s way of saying, ‘I’ve survived before. I will again.’”

Host: The first ray of sunlight finally broke through the mist, spilling gold across the temple floor. Dust particles glowed like stars, floating between them in that sacred quiet.

Jack inhaled deeply, the air tasting new somehow — crisp, alive, forgiving.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. Not faith in something divine — just faith that I can find my balance again.”

Jeeny: “That’s where it starts. Faith isn’t somewhere outside you. It’s the still point inside the chaos.”

Jack: “And you’ve found yours?”

Jeeny: “Some days. Other days, it finds me.”

Jack: “You make peace sound like a dance.”

Jeeny: “It is — one you keep forgetting, and remembering, for the rest of your life.”

Host: The bell rang again, louder this time, echoing through the temple. It sounded like a heartbeat — not mechanical, but human. Jack’s shoulders relaxed, the tension in him dissolving like mist. He looked out toward the rising sun, the light now warming his face.

Jack: “You know, I used to think equilibrium meant stillness. But maybe it’s movement — just controlled.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s balance through rhythm, not resistance.”

Jack: “And faith… faith keeps the rhythm steady?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even when the music changes.”

Host: The camera pulled slowly back — the prayer flags fluttering above, the golden light spilling across stone and incense, two silhouettes seated in quiet symmetry between shadow and flame.

Outside, the mountains began to glow — peaks kissed by morning, valleys still holding night. The river below shimmered, winding forward endlessly, unhurried and unstoppable.

And in that still-moving world, the Dalai Lama’s truth echoed gently —

That faith is not escape, but balance.
That it does not silence the storm, but steadies the heart that endures it.
And that peace, like breath, is not something found —
but something returned to, again and again.