I didn’t stay up the evening of the election. I decided that, whatever happened, I would be better prepared to deal with the results with a good night’s sleep. Sadly, that sleep evaporated at about 4 a.m.

When this kind of thing happens, I tell my body, “Look, I’m always battling sleepiness when I try to meditate, so if you refuse to fall asleep, I’m going to hit the cushion.”

Usually the threat works. But not this time, and so—without checking the news—I sat down and tried to focus on my breathing for 45 minutes. 

It wasn’t my best session. I was still sleepy, and fear lurked behind the thoughts I was trying to ignore. But after this time of relative stillness, an idea came. “You should try a loving-kindness meditation.”

I balked at first because I’d never done one before. It seemed a bit too Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood to me. In it, you picture a person and tell them, “May you be free from suffering. May you be free from ill will. May you be filled with loving-kindness. May you be truly happy.” The materialist in me couldn’t imagine that such thoughts could actually affect the person being thought about; the only result I could conceive of was that the thoughts would make me feel more kindly disposed toward that person.

But a book I had been reading insisted that this was a very powerful meditation. So, as the book suggested, first I directed the words toward myself; then I directed them toward my wife and children; and then toward my brothers and sisters. That was fine. I liked all these people. It was easy to say those things.

But then it occurred to me that the presidential candidates might need a loving-kindness meditation, too. I resisted this idea; mostly because I didn’t want to even think about one of the candidates, much less try to direct loving-kindness toward him. But my relatively calm mind insisted.

I admit it; I had a very hard time speaking the mantra to the Republican candidate. I was tempted to just rattle it off and move on, but instead I mentally walked around him, trying to find a way to approach with any degree of authenticity. Finally, the words of the meditation gave me some help.

“May you be free from suffering.”

Did this man ever suffer? It was something that had not occurred to me before. Since he is human, I suppose it is inevitable that he suffer—despite his titanic wealth, power, and ego. In fact, much of his suffering probably has its roots in precisely those things.  It made sense since most of my suffering is born of my attachment to the same elements, though in lesser quantities.

That last thought disturbed me: I harbor the same tendencies that created a man deeply repellant to me? If I had been born into such wealth, if I had never known what it was like to worry about where next month’s rent was coming from, if I had only ever known unquestioned power, would I be any different than he is?

Probably not. After all, I live a life built on privileges invisible to me as well. I had a stable, healthy childhood and an education. I have a tall body, white skin, and an American citizenship. I treat all these things the same way this man I dislike so much treats his wealth and power. They are an unquestioned part of me.

In other words, I realized that this man was my shadow, an unignorable manifestation of my own tendencies. An irrevocable part of me.

So I finally said it. “May you be free from suffering.”

I could say it honestly because I could see that actual suffering was occurring. Does the President strike you as a happy person? Does his aggressive, disdainful manner suggest a peaceful soul? Is he going to be any more serene now that the entire world is judging him? This man needs all the loving-kindness meditations he can get. And frankly, so do I.

In fact, the separation I felt between the president and me started to grow thinner. As I wished him freedom from suffering, I found that I was wishing a part of myself the same freedom. I realized that our suffering and our freedom were bound together.

If I wanted to get all Mormon on you, I guess I could say that I started to remember that—unlikely as it seems—the President and I are spiritual siblings. We spring from the same divine source; we share the same spiritual DNA; we have the same celestial potential. And Joseph Smith insisted that the human family must be saved together. Each soul is essential to the creation of heaven. Including, yes, the soul of the candidate I did not vote for.

I’ll admit that my sense of equanimity didn’t last long after my wife told me how the election had shaken out. I had to do a loving-kindness meditation in addition to my 45 minutes every day for a few weeks just to avoid outright panic. And I had to wrestle with the other parts of the mantra, too. Especially, “May you be free from ill will.”

At first, that sentence sounds like a passive-aggressive rebuke: “May you get over yourself!” “May you quit being such a jerk!” But I’ve started to notice that suffering emits ill will just as a car emits fumes. You look outside yourself to detect the origin of your suffering, and it’s really easy to find someone to blame. Especially if you didn’t vote for him. But I’ve noticed that when I succeed in detecting the similarities between myself and the President, and when I can honestly wish him freedom from suffering, some of my fear evaporates—which reduces my suffering. And as that suffering dwindles, my ill will starts to disappear as well. One seems to follow the other.

And when ill will isn’t clouding my vision of a person, when it isn’t forming a pre-emptive judgment of them, I can be slower to take things personally, slower to assign nefarious motives, slower to expend emotional energy on getting ready to be angry. I hadn’t realized how heavy judgment is or how much energy it takes until I started letting go of it. Jesus suddenly made sense, “Judge not that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged” (Matthew 7:1–2).

It’s restful to not be under the thumb of ill will. So when I wish the President freedom from it, I’m wishing him this same rest—this same room to dwell with an issue at hand rather than feel compelled to deliver immediate judgment. I’m wishing him the gift of being surprised and delighted by the spirit and creativity of the people he meets (even if he doesn’t agree with them), of gratitude for how many of them improve the quality of his presidency—and perhaps even become his friends.

When you’re free from suffering and ill will, you’ve cleared enough space to be the recipient of “May you be filled with loving-kindness.” I admit that I don’t know much about this state. It’s a big enough job just to begin contemplating one or two causes of my own suffering each day. But I have felt the intimations of loving-kindness—a seemingly bottomless source that allows me to give generously to both myself and other people. 

And that seems to be the most important quality of loving-kindness: that we ourselves are already filled. We aren’t giving as a way of gaining people’s approval, or because our church leaders tell us we should, or because we owe someone a favor, but simply because we overflow. Maybe it’s something like what Jesus said, “whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:13 NIV).

I imagine it might be a great boon to have an inexhaustible source from which to draw if one were President of the United States. Especially if that source brims with life. I truly hope that the President can become the vessel of such a source, just as I truly hope that I can be.

“May you be truly happy.”

It seems that being truly happy would occur spontaneously after one had escaped suffering and ill will and become a vessel of loving-kindness.  It’s the logical conclusion. But how does one achieve such a state? Well, I know the steps—I repeat them to myself every day. But a lot still seems to stand in my way; just as much as probably stands between the President and happiness. 

I admit it; the thought of our current president running the country terrifies me. Some of his actions have already run deeply counter to my values. But his looming presence will force me to consider myself every day: the hidden roots of my own shadow as well as my possibilities.

Frankly, I would much rather have taken the next four years off from terrified self-scrutiny. But there’s nothing I can do about it. So I’m going to say as often as time permits, to the President and to myself: “May you be free from suffering. May you be free from ill will. May you be filled with loving-kindness. May you be truly happy.”

Keep an eye out and tell me if you think it’s working.