Whispering Wyrd

The Healing Web

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  • When Peace Itself Becomes Offensive

    Some Buddhist monks are walking across the United States right now for peace.

    They aren’t doing this for spectacle. Monks do not leave their monasteries lightly or on a whim. When they do, it is usually because they perceive a great need. Throughout history, monks have walked through literal war zones, places where bullets were flying and lives were actively at risk, to call attention to humanity’s deep and ongoing need for peace.

    These monks walking across the U.S. today are thankfully not facing that kind of violence. But they are facing something else: ridicule, suspicion, and outright hostility online.

    I struggle to understand how anyone could be offended by a peaceful walk calling attention to compassion and non-violence. I can’t help but notice a common thread among many of the people attacking them, but I won’t point it out here. This post isn’t meant to be divisive. Still, an honest question arises: if peacemaking itself is offensive, what values are actually being defended?

    Even within Christianity, the words attributed to Jesus in Gospel of Matthew 5:9 “Blessed are the peacemakers” are clear and unambiguous. Why, then, does a peaceful act provoke such resistance?

    Some critics have gone so far as to claim the monks are attempting to “gain spiritual territory.” That idea is so disconnected from the reality of monastic life that it borders on the absurd. These monks are not going door to door. They are not preaching, recruiting, or converting. They carry only what is offered to them. Their walk is not about power, control, or politics.

    It is simply about peace.

    Why, then, must everything be filtered through a political lens? Peace does not belong to a party. It is not owned by any single religion or tradition. Every living being, unless profoundly disturbed, wants to live without fear, violence, or hatred. Peace is a universal human longing.

    I wish these monks were walking through New Mexico. I would walk with them for a while. I would offer them food and water, as people along their route already do. I deeply admire their quiet dedication and embodied prayer.

    Imagine what the world would look like if peace truly lived in our hearts, not just as an idea, but as a daily practice. Or imagine something even smaller… what your town, your city, or your state might feel like if people chose peace in their thoughts, words, and actions.

    As Imagine by John Lennon gently reminds us: “It isn’t hard to do.”

    Amituofo
    ~Buck

  • One Year

    In sixteen days, it will be one year since I took my last benzodiazepine.
    One year free. One year since my last and final pill.

    For so long, I was told by doctors and pharmacists that I would never be able to stop. That the doses were too high. That the length of use was too long. That freedom was no longer an option for me. Those words didn’t come from strangers, they came from the very professions meant to help, not discourage.

    But I did it.

    At nearly sixty years old, I knew I didn’t want to spend whatever time I have left as a slave to a drug. After a year-and-a-half-long taper, I took my last dose. When I told my current doctor, he said, “I didn’t think you would be able to do it. I’ve never had a patient succeed after over two decades of use.”

    But I did.

    During acute withdrawal, there were countless moments when I believed I had made a terrible mistake. Times when the suffering felt unbearable. Times when I wanted to go back on, just to make the pain and suffering stop. But I didn’t. I kept going.

    I kept going because of the love and unwavering support of my wife and my sons. Because of my family. I kept going because freedom mattered more to me than comfort.

    I don’t know what I expected one year out. I think part of me assumed I would be completely healed by now. I’m not. I am much better, there’s no question about that, but I still experience waves. Symptoms return. Sometimes for weeks, not days.

    Because of the length of my use, I live with PAWS, post-acute withdrawal syndrome. Having a name for it doesn’t make it easier, but it does remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m not broken. That this is something others have walked through too.

    One year clean. One year clear.

    For the first time in decades, I’m not dependent on a substance. Before benzos, it was alcohol. So this, this clarity, is something I’ve waited far too long to experience. There’s no chemical fog now. No constant rage. No bottomless despair.

    Life is beautiful. I see it clearly now.

    Sometimes regret sneaks in. That it took almost sixty years to arrive here. That I lost so much time. But I don’t stay there. I refuse to live in regret or in the past. I don’t want to live in the future either.

    I choose now.

    Because now is the only place life can be touched. The only place it can be lived.

    Even during the waves, especially during the waves, I practice gratitude. I’m grateful for my wife and my sons. I’m grateful for this astonishingly beautiful place I call home. For the mountains that held me when I was falling apart and continue to help me heal.

    I’m grateful for the ravens calling overhead, reminding me that I am never truly alone. For the pines, junipers, and firs that scent the air I breathe. For the mountain wildlife that heard my weeping. For the Earth that caught my tears.

    This has been the hardest journey of my life. I have shed more tears than I could ever count. But I have also known moments of joy and beauty that I never imagined were possible.

    There is no way to explain long-term benzodiazepine withdrawal to someone who hasn’t lived it. I don’t expect understanding, and I wouldn’t wish this path on anyone. It tears you apart from the inside out. Everything you thought you knew about yourself is violently stripped away. Nothing escapes the reckoning.

    But in being torn down, I was forced to rebuild… slowly, honestly, from the ground up. And now I know what is real for me. I know what matters. Those are the things I choose to tend to now.

    That’s why I’m publishing this today instead of waiting for the exact anniversary. Sixteen days doesn’t change the truth of any of this. What’s written here is just as real now as it will be then.

    I am free.
    I am here.
    Now.

    That is what matters.

    I came out of this a different man. And for the first time in my life, I like who I am. For the first time, I am proud of who I am. I know what I’ve endured. I know the faith that carried me and continues to carry me. And I know the people who stood beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own.

    To my wife and my sons: thank you. I love you.
    To my mom and dad, my aunt, and my sister: thank you. I love you.

    Peace. Because peace matters.

    Amituofo
         ~ Buck

  • How Soft Pink Light Helped My Nervous System Relax

    I want to share something small but surprisingly powerful that’s been helping me lately.

    A few nights ago, while talking with our neighbors, I noticed their home was filled with soft pink light. It wasn’t bright or flashy. It was gentle. Warm. Calm. I felt my body relax almost immediately, in a way that caught me off guard.

    Later, my wife and I bought a couple of pink and purple LED bulbs. When I came home from the gym and walked into a living space filled with that same soft pink glow, something happened again, only stronger. My shoulders dropped. My jaw unclenched. My breathing deepened without effort.

    I could feel tension melting away.

    Why This Matters (Especially in Withdrawal)

    If you’ve never lived with prolonged anxiety, nervous system injury, or medication withdrawal, this might sound trivial. A light bulb? Really?

    But if you have lived through it, if you’ve spent months or years with your body locked in survival mode, you know this truth…

    Any genuine relief is good relief.

    When your nervous system is raw, overstimulated, and hypersensitive, even neutral environments can feel threatening. Bright white light, harsh overhead LEDs, constant stimulation, it all adds up. The body doesn’t know it’s “safe,” even when the mind does.

    What the soft pink light seems to do is signal safety.

    Not intellectually, but physically.

    Why It Works

    I’m not a scientist, and I’m not making medical claims here. But we do know a few things:

    • The nervous system responds strongly to color and light
    • Warm, low-intensity light reduces sympathetic (fight-or-flight) activation
    • Pink and soft amber tones are often associated with dusk, firelight, and rest—conditions humans evolved under

    In other words, this kind of light may be telling the body:

    “You can stand down now.” Or “No more threat.”

    And for someone in withdrawal or chronic stress, that message is everything.

    Not a Cure But A Companion

    This isn’t a cure.
     It won’t fix withdrawal.
     It won’t erase trauma or anxiety.
     It won’t replace medical care.

    But it can be a companion.

    Something that gently supports your nervous system instead of challenging it.

    And that matters, especially when so many “solutions” involve taking something, adding something, or forcing something.

    This doesn’t ask anything of you.
     It just changes the environment.

    If You Want to Try It

    If you’re curious, here’s what worked for me:

    • Soft pink or pink-purple LED bulbs
    • Low brightness (this is important, soft, not intense)
    • Use in the evening or during rest times
    • Don’t mix with harsh white overhead lighting

    That’s it.

    No rituals required.
     No belief system needed.
     No substances involved.

    A Closing Thought

    The last two and a half years have taught me something I wish more people understood:

    Healing isn’t always about doing more.
     Sometimes it’s about removing pressure.

    Sometimes it’s about creating a small pocket of safety and letting the body do what it already knows how to do.

    If you’re going through withdrawal, deep stress, or nervous system exhaustion, and this gives you even a little relief, then it’s worth sharing.

    May you find moments of softness.
     May your body remember rest.
     May small refuges appear where you least expect them.

    Amituofo

    ~Buck

  • Spirituality Isn’t Optional

    I’m currently reading The Energy of Prayer by Thich Nhat Hanh. Like his other books, it’s thoughtful and gentle. But this one, in particular, has landed deeply for me.

    What resonates most is the way he speaks about spirituality without dogma. It’s not about what you’re supposed to believe, but about how you live, breathe, and relate to the world around you. At times he even seems to view the world through an animist lens as I do. When he speaks of a pine tree as “real,” or even of speaking your thoughts to it, I understand exactly what he means. Nothing exists in isolation. Nothing arises on its own. These aren’t abstract ideas for me, they’ve shaped how I move through my life and how I heal.

    I’ve written before about the heart palpitations that developed during my withdrawal from benzodiazepines, and the fear they bring with them. What I’m slowly understanding is how tightly my emotional state is tied to them. Anxiety leads to palpitations, palpitations lead to fear, and fear feeds the anxiety right back again. It’s a vicious cycle. A loop. When your heart is skipping every second or third beat for fifteen or twenty minutes or longer, “just staying calm” isn’t exactly simple.

    This is where Hanh’s words help me in a very real way.

    He was a man who knew hardship deeply, yet lived with remarkable steadiness and compassion. Through his writing and Dharma talks, he continues to help people long after his passing. His words don’t just comfort me spiritually, they calm my body. They ground me. They slow my breath to a natural rhythm.

    During protracted withdrawal symptoms, my breathing has become shallow, almost without my noticing. Anxiety makes it worse. Trying to force myself to breathe deeply never works. The body knows when it’s being lied to. But reading Hanh’s words brings a calm that’s genuine. My breathing returns on its own. Nothing is forced. The calm is real, and the body recognizes it as real.

    For me, spirituality isn’t optional. It’s not a hobby or an abstract interest, it’s woven into my healing and my survival. It’s woven into my very being. And what I appreciate most about this book is that it doesn’t require anyone to change their beliefs, or even have beliefs at all. Hanh had deep respect for all traditions, and that respect is present on every page.

    Regardless of your beliefs, or lack thereof, I wholeheartedly recommend this book.

    When I am calm
    I remember that I am held.
    In peace I remember I am worthy,
    that I am not “beyond help”.
    In love I remember that
    I too am loved.

    ~Buck

  • Even In Fear, We Are Still Held

    The holidays are sometimes a difficult time for me. That’s not a complaint, just a fact. This year feels different though, more exposed. It’s the first holiday season in decades that I’m doing without alcohol or benzodiazepines. No numbing. No softening the edges. Just me, just as I am.

    I don’t regret that. In a lot ways, I feel clearer and more alive than at any other point in my life. But clarity doesn’t always mean comfort, and presence doesn’t always mean peace. Not yet anyway.

    Over the last year and a half, I’ve learned that I don’t relate to spirituality through belief systems or dogma. What matters to me is lived experience. What proves itself again and again. Buddhism, Daoism, and animism have done that without doubt. Or perhaps I should say aspects of them, because I remain extremely wary of rigid structures and absolute claims.

    Animism asks nothing of me except attention. Buddhism offers tools and techniques without threats. Daoism reminds me not to force what has to unfold in its own time.

    And then there is chanting.

    When I chant Namo Amituofo or Namo Guan Shi Yin Pusa, something very real happens. Not in just a purely “useful” way, not as some trick to calm myself, but as a relationship. I feel accompanied. I feel answered.

    I believe Amitabha Buddha and Guan Yin are there for me, regardless of my doubts, my fear, or my confusion. And yet, the fear is still here too often during the ongoing waves of withdrawal.

    I’m beginning to understand that this doesn’t mean something is wrong.

    In Buddhism, fear isn’t treated as a failure of faith or practice. It arises from causes and conditions, from memory stored in the body, from uncertainty, from impermanence. After decades of chemically suppressing my nervous system, it makes sense that fear would surface now. My body is learning how to be on its own again without alcohol or benzos.

    I was feeling better, better than I ever remember feeling in my life, when the heart palpitations came back and reopened old anxieties. That brought grief with it. A sense that I should be further along by now. That I’d somehow earned peace and then lost it again.

    But Buddhism doesn’t promise certainty in the body or answers to unanswerable questions. What it offers instead is companionship. A way of not being abandoned, even during fear and worry.

    Maybe spiritual peace isn’t the complete absence of fear and worry. Maybe it’s knowing we are not alone when fear and worry arrives.

    So, I continue. I chant. I walk. I notice the living world around me. I let myself be held when I cannot hold myself.

    I am still searching.
    I still have fear and worry.
    And I am still here.

    May all who are walking this season without numbing
    with open eyes, open hearts, and trembling nervous systems
    know they are not failing.

    May fear be met with compassion instead of judgment.
    May the body be given time.
    May the heart be given refuge.

    May Amitabha’s light and Guan Shi Yin’s listening presence
    be felt even in moments of uncertainty.

    Amituofo.

    ~Buck

  • When A Stranger Says “Me Too”

    I use CBD to help manage withdrawal symptoms. Today I stopped by a new shop to restock, since the store I used to go to closed its location here in town. Because this shop carries different brands and products, I explained what I was looking for, and why.

    When I mentioned that I was using CBD to help with benzodiazepine withdrawal, the man behind the counter paused. His eyes lit up, he smiled slightly, and said:

    “Me too.”

    That simple response opened a conversation I didn’t expect.

    I’ll admit, at first I was a little skeptical. I don’t know why, maybe because benzodiazepine withdrawal is still something most people don’t understand unless they’ve lived it. But as he began talking about what he’d gone through, mentioning details specific to benzo withdrawal that you don’t just pick up secondhand, I knew immediately he was telling the truth.

    It was surprisingly comforting to meet another person, face-to-face, who has been through that particular kind of hell. Outside of support groups, I never really expected that to happen.

    There’s something strange, and strangely human, about how two complete strangers can instantly recognize one another through shared suffering. No long explanations needed. No convincing. Just understanding.

    After I told him what I had been taking and how I use CBD, he shared his own routine, which turned out to be very similar to mine. He set up what I needed on the counter, we talked a bit more, and I left feeling lighter than when I’d walked in.

    Without CBD, withdrawal, especially during the acute phase, would have been even harder for me than it already was. No one will ever convince me that CBD doesn’t work. I know it does, because I’ve lived it, and because many others have too… for both benzodiazepine and alcohol withdrawal.

    It’s not a magic cure. It doesn’t erase the process. But it does take some of the edge off, and for me, it helps with inflammation and overall nervous system calm. I’ve learned that quality matters a great deal, just like with anything else.

    I take CBD three times a day, usually with meals. On particularly rough days, or if something triggers a spike in symptoms, I’ll use a fast-acting tincture. Otherwise, I stick with edibles. One of the things I appreciate most about CBD is that it doesn’t get you high. There’s a calming effect, yes, but no intoxication. And the last thing I want, especially during withdrawal, is to feel altered in that way.

    Sometimes healing shows up in unexpected places, like a short conversation in a shop, a shared nod of recognition, or a simple “me too.”

    If you’ve been through withdrawal of any kind, or are going through it now, what has helped you?

    May you be met with understanding where you least expect it.
    May your nervous system find moments of ease, even in the midst of healing.
    And may you remember that when someone says “me too,”
    you are no longer walking this path alone.

    ~Buck

  • I Love Christmas Time!

    I want to begin by saying something clearly and respectfully… one doesn’t have to be Christian to enjoy Christmas. I realize that may already be obvious to many people, but I’ve had thoughtful questions from Christian friends about what Christmas means to me personally, as a Buddhist who also sees the world through an animist lens.

    For me, Christmas isn’t about rejecting anyone’s beliefs. It’s simply about how I relate to this time of year.

    The word Christmas is, of course, a Christian name for the holiday as it exists today. But the season itself, the midwinter celebration, the honoring of light returning during the darkest part of the year, has much older roots. Long before it was called Christmas, many cultures marked this time of year as sacred.

    Among Germanic and Norse peoples, it was celebrated as a midwinter festival. Evergreens symbolized life continuing through winter, and the solstice marked the slow return of longer days, a true “return of the light.” When Christianity spread through those regions, December 25th became associated with the birth of Jesus, in part by aligning existing celebrations with new meaning.

    None of this diminishes what Christmas means to Christians today. Traditions evolve. Meanings layer upon meanings. And this season has remained special across centuries because it speaks to something deeply human.

    What Christmas Means to Me

    For me personally, Christmas is special for very simple reasons.

    I love the lights. I love the decorations. I love the way the world seems to soften just a little during this time of year. But most of all, I love being with family, especially those I don’t get to see often because of geographical distance.

    When I was a child, like most children, I loved Christmas for the gifts. Now I love it for something much deeper, love itself. Time together. Shared meals. Stories told and retold. Laughter that fills the room.

    Christmas has a way of bringing people together, sometimes even people who don’t usually spend time together. In our family, it’s a time to share food, presence, and attention. And that matters more to me now than any wrapped package ever could.

    As Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence.” Our time, our attention, and our full presence are worth far more than anything money can buy.

    A Wish for This Season

    However you celebrate, or even if you don’t celebrate at all, I hope this season brings you moments of warmth, connection, and peace.

    Enjoy your family this Christmas.
     Be present with one another.
     And may the returning light, in whatever way you understand it, find its way gently into your life.

    ~Buck

  • What I’ve Learned Recently

    Daily writing prompt
    What skills or lessons have you learned recently?
    View all responses

    I’ll be sixty years old in a few short months, and I can say without hesitation that I’ve learned more about myself in the past year and a half than at any other point in my life.

    I’ve learned how to face fear.
    How to endure intense physical pain.
    How to survive withdrawal, not just medically, but emotionally and spiritually.

    I was taking high doses of benzodiazepines daily for over twenty years, and before that, I relied on alcohol. In truth, I spent most of my life in active addiction, beginning as far back as seventh grade. Now, for the first time since childhood, I am free.

    But this freedom came at a heavy cost.

    Next month will mark one full year free of all substances. This last year has been a strange mixture of pure hell and moments of profound beauty and peace. Getting off alcohol was brutally hard. Getting off benzodiazepines was something else entirely. Worse.

    Benzo withdrawal hurt me in ways I never could have imagined. I’m grateful I didn’t know how bad it would be when I started tapering, because if I had, I might never have begun. I didn’t know it would trigger a heart arrhythmia, multifocal PVCs, sometimes in frightening clusters. I didn’t know it would throw my nervous system so far into overdrive that my body became rigid, making it painful and difficult just to walk. I didn’t know it would worsen my type 2 diabetes and make it far harder to control.

    There’s a lot I didn’t know.

    But there is also a lot I learned.

    I learned patience, something I previously had almost none of. I learned how to cherish moments of beauty when they appear, and how to hold them close during the darkest stretches. I learned how to ask for help, something my pride once refused to allow.

    I learned that while I was numbed by benzos, I wasn’t truly seeing my own life. I wasn’t able to process my experiences, my beliefs, or even myself. I simply existed. And existing is not the same as living.

    Coming out of that chemically induced fog introduced me to myself.

    I came to terms with the fact that I never truly believed many of the things I was taught to believe in my youth. I see the world now through an animist and Buddhist lens, and I learned that this is not something to be ashamed of. It’s honesty. I am no longer lying to myself in an effort to fit into a belief system or culture that never truly felt like home.

    I learned to cherish my family in a way I always should have, but couldn’t, not fully, while numbed by drugs and alcohol. I learned that life is precious, fragile, and never to be taken for granted. I learned to care for my health with the seriousness it deserves, because it is far too easy to take your good health for granted until it’s gone.

    Seven years ago, when I was diagnosed with diabetes, it got my attention, but not deeply enough. I was still buffered by drugs, still insulated from reality. Now, without any chemical “safety net,” I’ve learned how to confront painful memories and difficult truths without drowning them in alcohol or blasting them away with pills.

    I’ve learned how to be present, really present, with the people I love.
     I’ve learned how to listen.

    And in the simplest, most meaningful sense of the word, I’ve learned how to live.

    May we learn, even late in life, that it is never too late to live honestly, to love deeply,
    and to meet each day awake, present, and unafraid to feel.

    ~Buck

  • The Universe Isn’t Empty

    I grew up being taught that meaning, comfort, and salvation came from believing the right things about a (to me) distant God. Defined in ancient books, filtered through doctrine, and guarded by rules. I tried, for many years, to hold those beliefs. But they never “took” in me. Instead, they made me feel boxed in, anxious, and completely dishonest with myself.

    What has always felt true to me, deeply, feel-it-in-my-bones true, is something very different.

    I feel connected to the Earth. To mountains and forests. To animals. To wind, sound, and silence. And that connection brings me a kind of comfort I never found in dogma.

    Awareness Without Belief

    What I’m drawn to isn’t a belief system. It’s lived experience. I don’t need to believe that the forest is alive to feel something real when I walk among trees. I don’t need doctrine to sense presence when a raven passes overhead, or when the mountains hold the horizon in their timeless, patient way.

    This way of seeing doesn’t ask for faith in propositions. It only asks for attention. That matters to me more than I could express.

    Animals and Other Ways of Knowing

    Modern science is slowly catching up to something older cultures always knew and never forgot… that humans are not the sole possessors of mind.

    Animals feel, remember, plan, grieve, and relate. Their awareness may not look like ours, there are no abstract theologies or inner monologues that we know of, but their awareness isn’t less because of that. In some ways, it is more grounded.

    Human consciousness is very narrative heavy. We live in stories, worries, and imagined futures. Animal awareness tends to be more embodied and present I think. Not lesser, just different.

    Sometimes I wonder if we didn’t so much gain consciousness as we traded one form of it for another.

    Landscapes as Presence

    And then there are places themselves. A forest isn’t inert. It communicates, adapts, and responds. A mountain shapes weather and water flow direction. They aren’t objects in the way a chair is an object, they are processes that unfold over centuries and millennia.

    Do mountains “think”? Probably not in any human sense. But asking that question probably misses the point entirely. A better question might be something like, “What kind of awareness belongs to something that moves at the pace of geology rather than heartbeat?”

    When I’m anxious, unsettled, or afraid, being in the mountains calms me. Not because I believe something about them, but because they aren’t in a hurry and that gives me peace. Their timescale is larger than my fear, worry, or anxiety.

    A Buddhist Thread (Without The Metaphysics)

    What I find reassuring is how well this way of experiencing the world aligns with certain strands of Buddhism, especially Chan/Zen Buddhism.

    There’s no insistence on believing specific cosmological claims. No demand to define God, soul, or ultimate reality. Instead, there is a gentle invitation to look directly. Walk. Breathe. Listen.

    Awareness isn’t owned by the individual, it arises through conditions. It appears wherever it can. Humans are just one expression of it, not its origin or its goal.

    Nothing special needs to be believed for this to be true. It only needs to be noticed.

    Why This Brings Me Comfort

    A distant, abstract God always felt unreachable and unavailable to me. Something I had to convince myself was real. But the Earth doesn’t require belief. Animals don’t demand allegiance. The mountains don’t judge. They simply include me.

    That inclusion, felt instead of argued, has been profoundly healing for me. Especially during times when my nervous system is fragile and my mind prone to fear because of PTSD and withdrawal symptoms.

    Not Alone

    Whether or not there is life “out there” in the universe, I don’t experience existence as empty or abandoned. Awareness seems woven through reality (scientific version of panpsychism), appearing wherever conditions allow, in countless forms, at countless scales.

    Maybe we aren’t alone, not because someone is watching us from the stars, but because consciousness itself is everywhere, patiently learning how to “look”. And for me that is enough to calm my damaged-from-drug-withdrawals nervous system.

    Thank you for reading! If this resonates, you’re not required to believe anything only to notice what feels real in your own experience.

    ~Buck

  • Ancient Spiritual Technologies That Still Calm Us Today

    I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how sound has helped me heal. At almost a year off benzos now, my nervous system is still relearning how to be at peace. And what surprises me, maybe more than anything else, is that one of the most powerful tools I’ve found for recovery isn’t modern or medical. And it certainly isn’t pharmaceutical.

    It’s sound. Simple, human sound. Breath shaped into rhythm. A chant, a whisper, and/or a repeated phrase.

    And the more I study early cultures like Anglo-Saxon, Germanic, Norse, (because those are my ancestors) the more I realize this wasn’t an accident. Sound was one of their oldest forms of healing. It wasn’t called “therapy” or “mindfulness,” but it was something very close. I’ve started thinking of these practices as spiritual technology, the kind our ancestors built long before pills and prescriptions existed.

    What I Mean by “Spiritual Technology”

    When ancient cultures needed calm, grounding, safety, or clarity, they turned to practices built on;

    • vibration
    • breath
    • rhythm
    • intention
    • spoken word
    • connection to something larger

    These weren’t superstitions. They were finely tuned tools for emotional regulation, discovered, refined, and passed down over generations.

    The Anglo-Saxons used galdor (galdr), rhythmic chants and spoken invocations that steadied the breath and brought the mind back from fear. The Norse would “call the hugr home,” gathering scattered thoughts by using repeated sound. And in Chinese Pure Land Buddhism, which I also practice, nianfo (“Namo Amituofo”) works in the same way. It brings my attention out of the panic spiral and into something bigger, steadier, and kinder. Of course, galdor or galdr was also used for magical purposes whereas nianfo was/is not, they both can soothe the spirit and bring calm.

    Different cultures, same wisdom.

    Why Sound Works

    You don’t have to believe anything mystical for this to work or make sense. The human nervous system responds directly to slow exhalation and chest vibration. It also responds to predictable rhythms, repetitive sound, and a soothing cadence.

    Chanting sends a message to the body that words alone can’t deliver. It tells your nervous system that you’re safe now, you don’t have to be ready to fight right now. This is extremely important because it helps break the self-feeding loop of fear/dread/fight-or-flight.

    Sound bypasses the overthinking part of the brain and goes straight to the places where fear lives.

    A Personal Reflection

    I was on a very high dose of benzos for more than twenty years. Eight pills a day. It numbed everything. It stopped the nightmares from PTSD, yes, but also numbed joy, clarity, connection, and even life itself. No one taught me healthier ways to cope. No one gave me tools. They just gave me pills.

    Now, almost a year off benzos, I’m slowly rebuilding my nervous system using practices that humans used for thousands of years before modern medicine existed.

    It turns out those “primitive” tools like breath, chant, and spoken rhythm are some of the most powerful technologies we’ve ever created.

    May the old wisdom steady your breath, and may every sound that leaves your lips lead you gently back toward peace.

    ~Buck