“If You Can’t Say Something Nice…” and Our Online Behaviours

It sounds inconceivable, doesn’t it? That people would be plain old nasty to you. People who’ve never met you, don’t know you, have no idea who you are or what your day has been like. And here’s the part that gets me: some of those people are Reiki people.

I know. We’d like to think our practice inoculates us against pettiness. It doesn’t. Reiki people are far from perfect (hey, that’s why we all decided to study the practice in the first place), and anyone who’s spent five minutes in a comments thread online knows it. This is life, and our practice just sits in there somewhere among the rest of our very human selves.

Social media makes it worse, of course. There’s a sense of anonymity, a distance where the behaviour is never really seen and its repercussions never felt. It lands somewhere the other person will never see, in one tiny speck of a place on the internet that they’ve already scrolled past. No consequence, no cost. Just a little jab thrown into the dark.

I was laughing about this with friends yesterday. Every one of us, it turned out, had the same mother, well our mothers had the same line, anyway: If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. Wouldn’t it be something if the world took notice of our mums?

I’m strong enough to deal with it. But being strong enough to move on from others cruelty isn’t the same as thinking I should have to. I don’t like watching people get away with it. It’s not because I need revenge, but because letting cruelty pass unremarked subtly tells everyone watching that this is fine and normal, that this is what we do here. And I don’t think I have to put up with it, any more than I’d expect anyone else to. My Reiki practice doesn’t ask me to pretend otherwise.

So what should our response be? The tempting move is to remind a Reiki practitioner of the precepts. You know… For today only, just try being kind.

Guess what? They already know that. Reciting the precepts at someone doesn’t land as wisdom, it lands as a lecture. It comes across as pious rather than well-meant, and the moment it does, the behaviour doesn’t change and may worsen. Now you’re the sanctimonious one and they get to roll their eyes. No-one wants to hear they’re failing at their own practice.

The precepts were never meant to tell anyone off anyway. For today only is pointing inward, not at others. It’s a mirror to hold up to yourself. So the real Reiki question in these moments isn’t why won’t they follow the precepts? It’s how do I stay in my own true nature while this is happening?

We are human, we feel things, we just need to learn how to be with these feelings in a way that reflects our Reiki precepts in action.

Firstly, don’t get stuck in them (try not to worry) and secondly, try not to disconnect from yourself and everyday life (be true to who you are). So feel it. You can name it. Don’t be ashamed, we are always learning. Breathe into your body, that steady place below the noise, and give any reactivity the time to meet your true sense. A spark of anger or a moment of anxiety is information, not instruction. It tells us something is not right. It doesn’t get to write the reply.

Take the time to come home to yourself before responding.

There’s an old Japanese idea that I was recently reading about on Wakatake-san’s Facebook page. It described the tradition of Goryō Shinkō which is the belief in wrathful spirits. What struck me is what the Japanese approach doesn’t do: it doesn’t try to destroy the angry spirit or drive it out. It welcomes it, honours it, and in doing so converts its destructive power into something that protects.

I think our own anger works the same way. The spark that rises when someone is cruel isn’t a demon to be banished, it’s a spirit to be received with respect. Try to crush it and it goes underground and sours. Give it a seat, treat it as information, and its fierce energy turns from reactivity into a clean and helpful boundary. Honoured rather than exiled, it’s like your own precious guardian. That inner honouring has an outward face too and it is what the Dalai Lama calls wrathful compassion. This is your practice in action.

We tend to imagine compassion as soft, gentle, endlessly patient, a little bit of a pushover. But compassion can be fierce. It can stand up straight and say no, not like that, not to me. Standing up for yourself is not the opposite of compassion. It can be compassion, first for yourself, and then – because that’s how it works – emanating outward from there.

Ultimately, letting someone get away with being cruel isn’t actually kind to them. It confirms them in a habit that’s costing them their own peace. Meeting it clearly with a boundary, without matching their cruelty, is more compassionate than smiling and swallowing it. You can hold your ground and wish them well. Those aren’t in tension. A good parent does it a hundred times a day. Thanks mum!

And truly, their nastiness is almost never about you. It’s the overflow of something in them, maybe they’re feeling hurt, envious, had a bad week, or have a difficult life you can’t see. You know the saying: hurt people hurt people. Understanding that isn’t the same as condoning it. It just means you can decline the invitation to take it personally, and respond from steadiness rather than wound.

So, what do I do? I ignore a lot of it. Ignoring genuinely works, right up until it doesn’t. When something is a one-off bit of grumpiness thrown into the void (and yes, I’m sure I’ve done this myself), silence is often the most dignified reply going. Not everything deserves my energy or a response.

But when it keeps coming, or when staying silent would mean condoning something that shouldn’t stand, I respond (if all goes to plan) in a short, calm, and clear manner. That’s not okay, and I won’t be spoken to like that. No essay. No score-settling. No precept-quoting. Just a clean line drawn in daylight, from that centred place, and then I move on with my day.

That’s wrathful compassion in ordinary clothes: love for myself, firm enough to be heard, generous enough not to wound in return.

Maybe our mothers were the great Reiki teachers all along. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. That’s the precepts dressed in my mum’s best outfit.

We can’t make people be kind. What we can do is refuse to be knocked off our own ground and draw the line where it needs drawing, then let the steadiness spread out from there.

x B

PS: And sometimes you’ve just got to block people for everyone’s sake.