Radical Welcome

I grew up in a family that never missed church. We sat in the same pew every Sunday at 11 a.m., attended Sunday school, Wednesday night dinners, and youth group. A lot of it felt routine, even uninspiring—but the stories about Jesus stayed with me.

What moved me were the moments when something sacred showed up in the middle of ordinary life: feet washed, bread broken, wine poured, seeds planted. These weren’t grand miracles—they were gestures of welcome, care, and presence. The stories taught me that the divine isn’t found in perfection, but in how we show up for one another. Especially in the mess—the doubt, the crowds, the fear, the loneliness.

Even as a kid, I sensed that these stories weren’t just about belief; they were about belonging.

In a world that often felt rigid and closed, these moments cracked open a different way of being. Our youth minister helped translate them in a way that made room—room for questions, room for people who didn’t fit, room for the ones on the edges. That’s what felt holy to me: the radical welcome.

Thomas Merton once stood on a street corner and saw strangers all around him “walking around shining like the sun.” He wrote that if we could really see each other like that, “the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship one another.”

These days, many of my friends identify as Buddhist. One of my favorite practices is all the bowing. Hands together in gassho, we offer a deep, intentional bow to another person. It’s simple, humble, freely given. And it reminds me: this is what matters. That we truly see each other. That we honor one another’s presence. That we create space—for the stranger, the wounded, the overlooked.

I think that’s what those Jesus stories were always about.

And I hope, in time, I’ll greet every person, every moment, with that same posture of a deep, wholehearted bow.

“Well…maybe”

Oh, I could talk for hours about all things spiritual—books, practices, retreats, you name it. I light up at the thought of a quiet weekend away, tucked into a retreat center nestled among tall pines or beside a still lake. I love holding space in small groups, listening deeply, sharing stories, sometimes in silence, sometimes in tears. There’s something sacred in those early morning hours too—when the world is hushed and I can sit, breathe, and touch into something larger than myself. It’s almost as if I believe there’s a hidden equation: spirituality equals self-sacrifice plus just the right number of incense sticks.

And yes, I still get an undeniable buzz walking into a good spiritual bookstore—the kind that smells faintly of sandalwood, with Tibetan singing bowls on one shelf and Rumi poems on another. A little chant playing in the background, maybe a gong sounding now and then—it’s a whole sensory experience, like walking into an ancient temple tucked into the middle of a strip mall.

At home, I’ve carved out a space just for stillness. There’s an antique Buddhist temple bell that sits near the window, and my shelves are lined with sacred texts from every corner of the world—Zen koans, Psalms, Sufi poetry, bits of the Bhagavad Gita. These things mean something to me. They’re part of the path I walk.

And still—if I’m honest—I don’t know if I’ve ever truly touched what the mystics call pure presence. In fact, the deeper I get into the rituals and the readings and the morning meditations, the less certain I become. I start to wonder if I’m just dressing up my ego in spiritual robes. Am I truly waking up? Or am I just getting better at playing the part?

Ask me if any of this has brought me closer to the Source, and I’ll probably give you a sheepish grin, a little wink, and say, “Well… maybe.”

But here’s the thing: I keep showing up. I keep practicing. I keep searching—not always with clarity, but always with longing. Maybe that’s what faith really is.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, I catch a glimpse. A moment so small it almost slips by unnoticed. The way the morning light hits the steam rising from my coffee cup. The quiet kindness in a stranger’s eyes at Trader Joe’s. The sudden swell of gratitude that makes my breath catch for no apparent reason. And in those rare moments, I remember: this is it. This is the sacred. Right here. Right now.

Maybe the real miracle is learning how to see—really see—the ordinary world in front of me. Maybe contemplation is just that: taking a long, loving look at the real, as it is. No incense required.

And maybe one day, if I keep looking—if I stay soft, open, curious—I’ll fall to my knees before the beauty of a coffee cup or the holiness of a passing smile. Not because I’ve found the ultimate spiritual secret, but because I’ve finally stopped trying so hard to find anything at all.

Caring for the Future

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a deep sense of powerlessness in the face of everything happening in the world. There’s so much suffering—so much that feels beyond reach. But one thing that has helped me hold all of this was a story my teacher once shared.

It’s about a young monk who set out on a long journey in search of enlightenment. He traveled for years, hoping to find a Sage who was said to live in a hidden monastery high in the mountains. One night, exhausted and uncertain, the young monk had a dream. In it, the Sage finally appeared.

The Sage extended his open hand and said simply, “Take what you can.”

The young monk hesitated. “No,” he said. “It can’t be that easy. Surely, it must be something more difficult—a riddle, a koan I can spend the rest of my life trying to solve.”

The Sage smiled gently and replied, “You’re right—it is something harder.” Then, opening his hand again, he said, “Take what you cannot.”

That simple story has stayed with me. It reminds me that there are things in life that are unreachable. I cannot save another person. I can’t stop the war in Ukraine. I can’t fix the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I can’t solve the crises of food insecurity, homelessness, or systemic racism on my own. And if I believe it’s my job to “save” any of these, burnout isn’t just possible—it’s inevitable.

The story challenges me in a deeper way. It invites me to keep reaching anyway—not because success is guaranteed, but because the effort itself matters. Perhaps that’s the truer path to an enlightened life: reaching for the unreachable, day after day, with no attachment to results.

We can’t shield ourselves from the chaos of the world. We can’t predict what’s coming or plan our way into stability. But we can find a ground beneath it all—a quiet steadiness rooted in our moment-to-moment awareness, in how we live each ordinary day.

So maybe I let go of trying to do it all. Maybe I worry a little less. Maybe tending to this moment—this breath, this interaction, this small act of kindness—is how I learn to care for the future. And maybe, just maybe, we find our way through this mystery together.

The Ancient Art of Slowing

The roots of contemplative photography reach deeply into the soil of Zen Buddhism, where presence matters more than perfection, and attention outweighs ambition. In the 1970s, I was introduced to The Zen of Seeing by Frederick Franck—a book that quietly and profoundly reshaped the way I understood both the visible world and the act of photographing it.

Franck’s insight was disarming in its simplicity: most of us don’t truly see. We draw or photograph not what is there, but what we think is there—images shaped by concepts, assumptions, and mental chatter. His invitation was radical and tender: slow down and see. That one act, he suggested, could become a kind of meditation.

When I later encountered Franck’s Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing, I was moved not just by his words but by the intimate texture of the book itself—handwritten pages, spontaneous sketches, and the quiet call to presence. It wasn’t about becoming a great artist. It was about returning to the directness of the moment. Drawing, like seeing, became a form of prayer—a way of meditating with the eyes.

That experience stayed with me. Eventually, I found myself translating that spirit into my photography. The more I slowed down and truly observed, the more I felt present, calm, and grounded. I began letting go of the inner commentary: Is this a good photo? Is it interesting enough? And instead, I simply enjoyed the act of seeing. Really seeing.

This is the heart of contemplative photography.

It isn’t about chasing the extraordinary. It’s about learning to notice the ordinary with fresh eyes. A shadow stretching across the sidewalk. The golden spill of afternoon light on the kitchen table. A raindrop making its slow way down the windshield. These small moments—quiet, overlooked, and deeply real—become our subject matter.

Contemplative photography isn't symbolic or performative. It’s not about spectacle or story. One form of this practice, known as Miksang—Tibetan for “good eye”—draws from the teachings of Buddhist master Chögyam Trungpa. Miksang images are often striking in their honesty. They’re not crafted to impress. They’re simply offerings: glimpses of reality as it is. Pure perception. No filters. No judgment. Just seeing.

And in this kind of seeing, something shifts.

We become still. Receptive. Awake.

This quiet practice stands in stark contrast to the world we live in. According to research from Vision Direct, the average American now spends the equivalent of 44 years of their life looking at screens—about 382,000 hours, or more than half a lifetime. Let that sink in. Over 50% of our lives, absorbed in glowing rectangles. No wonder we’ve forgotten how to look.

Japanese theologian Kosuke Koyama once wrote about the spiritual wisdom of living at “3 mph”—the pace of walking. He called it the speed of love. That phrase lives in me. It reminds me that to live well, to see clearly, we must move more slowly. To photograph at 3 mph is to return to the rhythm of the soul. It’s to trust that life doesn’t need to be rushed or mastered. It simply needs to be noticed.

When I allow my camera to follow my eye—not my ambition—something beautiful happens. I begin to see again. Not just with my eyes, but with my heart. The camera becomes a companion, not a means of control. The world unfolds quietly, in its own time.

Contemplative photography is more than a creative practice. It’s a way of life. A gentle reminder to pause, to be present, to see what’s here. And in that simple act of seeing, I often find something even deeper: I rediscover myself.

And That Is Enough

By Tim Auman

You don’t pick up your camera to capture, shoot, or take.
You pick it up to come home—
to this breath,
this patch of light,
this moment
this flash of perception.

You walk alone,
but not lonely.
Each step is a contemplation,
each pause a gesture of reverence
for the world as it is,
unconditioned,
unfiltered, unexpected.

You know this now:
you are not looking for something.
You are waiting to be found.
By peeling paint,
by tangled weeds,
by a reflection that startles
with its honesty.

You press the shutter
not to say “I got it,”
but to say “I see you.”
And in seeing,
you are seen.

Remember:
every poem is a self-portrait,
revealing every thought, feeling, emotion, and sensation.
And the same is true of your photographs.
The lens always looks both ways.

What you notice
reveals something of what’s stirring in you.
The fog may speak of grief.
The sharpness of a branch against the sky—
a yearning for clarity.
A patch of gold on the sidewalk—
a sudden surge of joy.

This is the beauty of our practice.
You are not trying to make anything happen.
You are allowing it.
You are allowing yourself
to be touched by the ordinary and mundane
until its sacredness is revealed.

Some days you return home
with no images,
but a heart filled with light.
Other days,
you find a photograph that aligns                                                     with your Buddha-nature,
whispered without needing words.

And that is enough.

So, walk gently.
Frame your world with care.
Keep the aperture of your heart wide open.
And trust this:
what you see matters—
because it reveals
not just the world,
but the one who is learning how to see.

Everyday Sacred

Within the Japanese Shinto tradition, the world is alive with spirit. Every stone, tree, stream — even things we might consider inanimate — is believed to carry a spirit called kami. Nothing is without significance; nothing is without life. What moves me deeply is that this belief is not unique to Shinto. We find it echoed across many ancient and indigenous spiritual traditions around the world — a shared understanding that the sacred isn’t reserved for temples or rituals alone, but is woven into the fabric of everyday existence.

I experience this same reverence whenever I spend time at one of the monasteries in the Plum Village Tradition of Engaged Buddhism. There, every act — entering a meditation hall, placing your shoes neatly outside the door, walking slowly across a garden path — becomes an expression of mindfulness and respect. We bow to the hall not out of habit or formality, but because we recognize the space as sacred. And by extension, we recognize that everything is sacred.

This is not just symbolic. It’s a mindset — a way of seeing that holds everything and everyone in dignity. It’s an invitation to awaken to what is already true: that spirit is present in the ordinary. That nothing is beneath our reverence.

And yet, in our high-speed, hyper-productive culture, this sacred way of seeing is often lost. We’ve become conditioned to see only utility and status — to prize what’s fast, loud, and new — while the slow, quiet, and humble is overlooked. Crass consumerism, endless ambition, and pop culture trends distract us from the sunlight falling through the blinds, the hush of trees in the afternoon breeze, or the softness of our own breath. When we forget the sacredness of the world around us, we also begin to forget the sacredness within ourselves.

This is part of why I’m drawn so deeply to contemplative photography. For me, it's a spiritual practice — a way of honoring what might otherwise go unnoticed. I love creating images that lift up the holiness of the ordinary: a chipped teacup, a shadow on the sidewalk, a wrinkled face, a dandelion in the cracks. Every subject is worthy of our full attention. Every object, every being, has presence — agency, even. In the lens of contemplative seeing, nothing is too small, too plain, or too broken to be beautiful.

We often draw lines between what’s “sacred” and what’s “secular,” as if one deserves our awe and the other does not. But life doesn’t work that way. Everything that we see, hear, touch, or feel has something to offer us — if we’re paying attention. As the Buddhist teacher Chögyam Trungpa described it, this is the recognition of basic goodness: not goodness in contrast to badness, but goodness as the fundamental nature of reality itself — things just as they are.

This basic goodness is not something we have to earn. It is our birthright. It’s present in the color red, in the sound of birdsong, in the feeling of fresh air after a long day indoors. Trungpa writes:

“We are speaking here of the basic goodness of being alive — which does not depend on our accomplishments or fulfilling our desires. We experience glimpses of goodness all the time, but we often fail to acknowledge them.”

To see the world this way is to walk through life with reverence — not reserved for mountaintops or cathedrals, but for breakfast dishes, sidewalks, and the silence between words. It is to bow inwardly — again and again — to everything.

And in doing so, we return to something essential: we remember that everything, animate and inanimate, has spirit. And that we ourselves are not separate from that sacred wholeness.

14th Steet - Union Square

14th Street – Union Square

Every time I visit my oldest son, Jon, in Brooklyn, I make a ritual stop in Manhattan. I get off the subway at 14th Street–Union Square, not because it’s the most direct route, but because I want to spend an hour or so at the Strand Book Store on Broadway. There’s something comforting—almost sacred—about being surrounded by books. They ground me.

One winter afternoon, before heading into the Strand, I sat on a bench in Union Square Park. It was cold—January—and the wind cut through the trees with an indifference that matched the city’s usual pace. Across from me, an elderly man approached a trash can, rummaged through it, and pulled out a half-eaten burrito. He ate it slowly, standing there in Nike sandals and clothing far too light for the weather. He looked about my age. I sat frozen, unsure whether to offer him money, not wanting to offend, not wanting to make assumptions—but also painfully aware of my own hesitations. Before I could decide, he was gone.

The scene felt almost absurd. A McDonald’s on one side of the street. A Whole Foods on the other. And directly in front of me, a statue of Mahatma Gandhi—the man who championed nonviolence and simplicity—cast in bronze, unmoved. I later learned that Union Square, known in the 19th century as Union Place, was once a burial ground for the poor and unidentified. Somehow, that felt right: a place where the forgotten still linger.

Feeling conflicted and honestly a bit hypocritical, I went to the Strand anyway. I needed the comfort of something familiar. As I climbed the steps to the second floor where the photography books are, I stepped aside to let someone pass—and there he was. The same man from the park. Standing right next to me.

I gathered myself, walked over, and quietly said, “Excuse me, would you accept some money if I offered it to you?” He looked me directly in the eyes, took the cash without a word, and walked away. I’ve seen that look before—in my own neighborhood, even closer to home than I’d like to admit. And more times than I can count, I’ve looked away.

Thomas Merton once asked whether we’re just “guilty bystanders.” I felt that question echo in me.

I’m reminded of something John Lennon once said when asked why he devoted so much energy to peace—wasn’t it just a pipe dream? He responded by pointing to Leonardo da Vinci, who imagined human flight centuries before it became reality. “What a person projects will eventually happen,” Lennon said. “Therefore I always want to project peace. I want to put the possibility of peace into the public imagination.”

Now, whenever I step off the train at 14th Street - Union Square, I feel a familiar surge of anxiety. And rightfully so. To truly see someone—to give another person your undivided attention, even for a second—can undo you. It can change your life. It has changed mine.

I’ve come to believe that the more we grow in awareness of others—their pain, their dignity, their stories—the more tender and nonviolent our hearts become. Compassion isn't something we have to force; it begins to rise naturally when we’re truly paying attention.

If something sacred and wise is always present—within me, within you, within all of creation—then how can we turn away? How can we harm, ignore, marginalize, or dismiss anyone? How can we fail to see their worth?

For me, this is the aim of all genuine spiritual practice: to reach that moment—maybe slowly, maybe all at once—when we begin to see the sacred in every single person we encounter. Not as a lofty idea, but as a living reality. That’s when the heart truly begins to soften.

How Much Is Enough? Rethinking Home, Simplicity, and the Pace of Our Lives

In 1950, the average single-family home in the U.S. was about 1,500 square feet. By 2023, that number had grown to 2,286 square feet—even though the number of people living in each household has gone down.

It’s natural to want a comfortable space to live. But sometimes I wonder: have we been quietly conditioned to believe bigger is always better? Have we equated square footage with success, even if it means taking on crushing debt or living with constant financial anxiety?

Somewhere along the way, many of us began to see our homes not as places of rest and grounding, but as investments, status symbols, or checkboxes on a cultural to-do list. But what is a home really for? How much space do we actually need? And what happens—especially now, in the midst of a worsening housing crisis—when the dream of homeownership becomes unaffordable or unattainable for so many?

These questions have been on my mind a lot lately, and they’re deeply tied to something I’ve been exploring in my own life: the power of living more simply.

One of the greatest shifts I’ve experienced in simplifying my life has been learning how to slow down. I used to rush through everything—walking fast, talking fast, eating fast… even trying to sleep faster! I was constantly pushing to get everything done, as if productivity were the only thing that mattered.

But that pace was exhausting—and unsustainable. And somewhere deep down, I knew I was rushing right past the actual experience of living.

Slowing down didn’t happen overnight. It’s been a gradual process—tiny steps over years—but it’s completely changed how I live. Through a more mindful and minimalist lens, I’ve begun to let go of the noise, the clutter, and the pressure to keep up. And in doing so, I’ve found something I didn’t expect: space to breathe, clarity about what matters, and a deeper connection to the present moment.

Minimalism, for me, isn’t about stark white rooms or owning a specific number of things. It’s about making room for what really matters—and letting go of the rest. Mindfulness helps me stay rooted in that choice, moment by moment.

Cultivating a New Vision

The basic fabric of reality is, and always has been, astonishing in its brilliance—vivid, textured, and alive. Yet most of the time, we move through the world without truly seeing it. Our minds are so full—spinning with plans, judgments, memories, and internal narratives—that what’s right in front of us becomes muted, flattened by the noise within.

But something shifts after a period of meditation, solitude, or stillness. Many people returning from retreat describe the same phenomenon: the world appears brighter, sharper, more vibrant. A single leaf can seem lit from within, and even the most ordinary spiderweb seems to shimmer with significance. It’s not that the world has changed—a spiderweb is still a spider web. It’s that we have changed.

The mind, no longer hijacked by the endless loop of thought, softens. It opens. In that openness, we begin to notice what was always there. The gap between thoughts becomes a doorway to direct perception. We’re no longer looking through our thoughts but beyond them. We begin to see—not just with our eyes, but with our whole presence.

In those moments, perception becomes an act of intimacy with the present. The veil lifts, and we are reintroduced to the world with a kind of childlike wonder, not because the world has become extraordinary, but because we are finally seeing it as it is.

That clarity, that vividness, is not a special effect—it’s the natural radiance of reality, revealed when we remember how to pause, how to listen, how to look.