page thirty-eight: What If the Grapes Were Sweet?

Have you heard of Aesop’s fable The Fox and the Grapes? It tells of a fox who, unable to reach a cluster of luscious grapes, walks away muttering that they must have been sour anyway. As a child, I never quite understood why this was considered a problem. Honestly, I thought the fox was being sensible. I grew up with my mother repeating a teaching from a nun at her convent school: When God doesn’t give you what you want, He will give you something far better and more useful. This had translated into our household philosophy, which meant that whatever you didn’t get simply wasn’t good enough for you.

That belief helped my mother weather her own disappointments, and guided us siblings in dealing with ours. I passed it on to my children. A writing contest, a job interview, a romance that didn’t unfold—whenever they did not succeed, I consoled them that it was probably a good thing and that something far better was waiting for them. And I often returned to Aesop’s fox, wondering what exactly was wrong with his conclusion.

It wasn’t until much later, especially through my study of the Buddha’s teachings, that I began to see the subtle cost of these comforting messages. They soothe us, yes—but they do not strengthen us. They don’t teach us how to digest defeat. They don’t teach us the humbling truth that we will not always succeed… and that we remain whole, intact, and worthy regardless.

Hope and positivity have their place. But when they stand alone, untempered by realism, they can create fragile egos that crack under the weight of life’s inevitable disappointments. We also need messages that tell us: the grapes may be sweet and we may never taste them—and that’s alright. We may give our all, and some people will still not be pleased. Sincerity and effort may not always produce success. And that too is alright.

This isn’t negativity. This is resilience: the ability to hold the outer reality in one hand and our inner truth in the other. It is trusting and remaining open to possibilities even in the midst of adversity.

I failed at this… and I am still capable.

I disagree with this person… and I know we have a lot in common as well.

I hold my opinion… and I genuinely want what is good for everyone.

The fox in our fable might say, I’m disappointed I couldn’t reach the grapes… and I hope someone else enjoys them.

Now this is not our natural inclination. Neuroscience tells us that holding two opposing truths at once is challenging for the human brain, which is why we tend to embrace the reality that we can handle and deny or avoid whatever feels too uncomfortable. But evolving into a wiser, steadier version of ourselves means strengthening the muscle that integrates opposites. With neuroplasticity, we truly can cultivate a mind that stays open in discomfort, tries new things even when afraid, and remains grounded through defeat, dissent, and disagreement.

Perhaps this ability to hold both is exactly the bridge we’re being asked to build—a bridge to a new kind of consciousness. Einstein is often quoted as saying that the problems we face—individually and collectively—cannot be solved from the level of consciousness that created them. When each of us, a single drop in the ocean of humanity, reaches for a more expansive consciousness, we begin to unlock new opportunities for real solutions. And with Thanksgiving approaching, when many of us may be bracing for conversations across differing viewpoints, it might be the perfect moment to practice. Not to win. Not to avoid. But to stay open to our shared humanity. To hold the truth of our experience alongside the truth of another’s. To let our gratitude widen—to include the good and the hard, the joy and the growth. And to be grateful not just for the meal or the gathering, but for the ongoing evolution of our collective consciousness.