The Eye

Yesterday, while in the pool, I noticed something simple that stayed with me long after I got out. I moved my left hand and my right hand through the water toward one another, and each hand created a current as it moved. The water carried that movement forward, stretching it beyond my hands themselves, until two streams of motion were traveling directly toward each other. When those currents met, they did something unexpected. They did not disappear, and they did not overpower one another. Instead, the water adjusted. It curved, folded, and reorganized itself around a central point, creating a shape that looked unmistakably like an eye. Movement continued all around it, but the center held steady, as if the water itself had found a place to standstill and observe its own motion. That small moment clarified something important about how opposition works, both within us and between us. We are taught to think that when two forces meet, one must win, the other must lose, or both must cancel each other out. Yet what I saw in the water suggested something else entirely. When opposing forces meet and neither one retreats nor dominates, something new can form that was not present in either force on its own. This is where dualism begins to loosen its grip. Dualism thrives on speed and reaction. It keeps us moving so quickly that we never slow down long enough to understand what we are actually defending or resisting. As long as we stay locked in motion; arguing, positioning, responding, we remain trapped inside the same loop, repeating familiar conflicts without learning anything new from them.

The eye represents a breathing space within that motion. It is the moment where reaction gives way to awareness. In that space, both sides become visible at the same time. We begin to see what each side is trying to protect, what it fears losing, and what it carries beneath its surface arguments. The eye does not ask us to agree, but it does require us to see clearly. This process extends far beyond personal insight and reaches directly into our social and cultural lives. Many of our collective conflicts persist because we remain locked in constant reaction to one another. Groups define themselves by what they oppose, and identity becomes something sharpened through resistance rather than understanding. In this environment, complexity feels dangerous, and slowing down feels like weakness.

Public discourse reflects this pattern. Conversations move fast, emotions run high, and positions harden quickly. There is little room for reflection because reflection interrupts momentum. Without space for a collective interlude, society continues to circle the same disagreements, growing louder but no wiser. The eye rarely forms under these conditions, because stillness is treated as disengagement rather than depth.

Yet real change requires this discontinuation. When opposing groups are held in sustained presence to one another, whether through dialogue, shared experience, or mutual exposure, something begins to shift. Each side is forced to confront its own assumptions, contradictions, and blind spots. The presence of the other prevents easy stories and simple villains, making room for a deeper understanding of the system as a whole. What emerges from this process is not compromise in the usual sense. Compromise suggests that each side gives something up in order to keep the peace. Transformation works differently. It changes the shape of the situation itself. Just as two colors can combine and become a completely new color that cannot be separated back into its original parts, opposing forces can generate new ways of seeing and relating that did not exist before. This is where the idea of a third intelligence becomes useful. When tension is held with awareness rather than avoidance, it produces insight that belongs to neither side alone. This intelligence is shaped by relationship, not agreement. It carries the memory of conflict but is no longer governed by it.