Where the World Breaks, Beauty Enters

Everywhere we turn, something trembles.
Headlines hum with sorrow.
The air itself feels charged with ache—
the ache of division,
of voices raised,
of hearts pulled thin.

War smolders across the world.
The earth groans beneath our forgetting.
Even our homes—
once places of rest—
feel restless,
edged with fatigue and quiet worry.

And still—
I stand here, whispering
that we must make art.

Not as escape,
but as a way of listening.
As a way of gathering what has been scattered.
The act of creation,
in its simplest form,
is how we begin to mend the torn fabric of being.

When I speak of art,
I mean anything that brings you closer—
the stirring of a pot,
a song hummed half-aloud,
a patch carefully sewn,
a letter written with care,
a photograph that says, I see you.

If you create, you belong here.

Art is not a privilege of the gifted.
It is our first language—
spoken long before words,
through rhythm, color, gesture,
through the hands reaching,
the heart responding.

To make something with care
is to remember yourself whole.
To meet the world with attention
is to heal the quiet places within.

And in this world
that prizes speed and spectacle,
to create something honest—
something tender and human—
is a kind of rebellion.

You need no permission.
Only willingness.
A readiness to see,
to shape,
to offer light into the cracks.

Because sometimes,
where the world breaks—
beauty enters.

Homecoming

Returning after a brief away,
never sweeter—
the familiar waits,
welcoming, sane,
the quiet holds me close.

A fall evening—
gray sky, cool breeze—
again I feel the first knowing:
these rolling hills,
old poplars standing guard,
oak trees, modest homes,
faces I know—
this is my place.

Rain drifts soft and cool,
ragweed and pokeweed line the street.
On the porch steps—
a red-tailed hawk cries,
kee-eeeeeparr—
our wild companion
loosening silence,
and a quiet gladness stirred.

The wind moves the chimes,
a cool song through open windows,
singing freely,
breathing contentment
into every quiet corner
of home.

Subterranean

For decades, I have been guided by a conversation with voices from across the centuries. These honest writers have been my companions, saving me from loneliness by opening worlds of meaning like unexpected doors.

My thirty-three years in higher education revealed an institution increasingly focused on profession and utility. But my own path was drawn by a quieter, more subterranean current. While the institution spoke of outcomes and applications, I found myself listening for a different frequency—the resonant hum of fundamental questions. My work became not the complexification of ideas, but the patient inquiry into how a simple truth, held to the light, could refract into infinite significance. It was a search less for an explanation than for what the poet Robert Lax called “a vision.”

And the astonishing revelation, the vision itself, is this: the deepest reward for such a search is not knowledge or justice, but joy. Likewise, the fruit of kindness and compassion is not recognition or reciprocity, but joy.

After sixty-seven years, the goal is clear. When I fall asleep with the words of the long-gone resting on my chest, I know it was never about expertise. It was always about that elusive, ever-present joy—my most faithful teacher. I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s insistence: “Joy is not made to be a crumb. It is made to be a feast.” And indeed, it has been.

A Contented Life

Some mornings I wake to a heaviness, a kind of weather system that settles over me, muting everything except the reality of its unwelcome presence. It can feel as though joy or contentment has slipped away. And yet, I remind myself: just because I cannot reach that place of ease in the moment does not mean it has disappeared. A contented life does not vanish—it simply waits beyond the passing front.

Like weather, moods shift and move on, often without our consent and sometimes without our noticing. Warm and cold fronts, gentle breezes and sudden hurricanes, each passes through, reshaping the sky of our lives. Here in North Carolina, we know what it is to wait out storms. Contentment, too, abides on the far side of whatever clouds may be rising from the Gulf.

The real practice, perhaps, is to suspend judgment when the storms emerge. So many of our harshest self-criticisms and conditioned responses are born when we are disoriented in the fog or rushing for cover in the rain. We scramble for answers, as though any response might keep a tornado from tearing through our plans again. But no storm—however fierce—lasts forever.

The truth of impermanence assures us of this. The saints and mystics knew it well, and so does the quiet wisdom of the heart. Beneath the turbulence, something steady remains: the possibility of beginning again, of trusting that even our disappointments and false starts are woven into the larger fabric of becoming.

So I breathe and wait. The weather will turn. And when the skies clear, I see that contentment has been here all along—patient, enduring, and ready to shine through.

In this world of political violence…

I have worked hard to let go of chasing the places others have ordained for me. More often than not, those places lead me into workaholism, noise, restless ambition, and the endless search for outward approval. And truthfully, I have been down that road more times than I care to admit. I know its glittering promises; I know its emptiness too.

It is usually some loss, some disappointment, some poor decision of my own making that stops me in my tracks—lifting me up by the ankles and giving me a shake. Sometimes it feels humiliating, sometimes heartbreaking. Yet, strangely, it is in those moments of being undone that I remember the contemplative practice of gentleness, which quietly opens a truer, quieter world.

Still, if I’m honest, it isn’t only forgetfulness that draws me away. There is a voice inside—an old piece of software, an unloved part of myself—that keeps insisting I can have both: the outward striving and the inward peace. Out of pride, or perhaps fear of being unseen, I sometimes listen. And again and again, I discover the truth: it doesn’t work. Every time I try, I lose something more precious than success—I lose my own center.

Perhaps you’ve noticed it too: how much of our individual and collective lives seem swept along by currents of noise, distraction, speed, and self-importance—like rounded stones hidden beneath the rush of a mountain stream. I know how easy it is to be carried away. Only when I step away from the incessant pull of social media, only when I soften my anxious need to be productive and admired, do I begin to glimpse what lies beneath. Then, for a moment, the river stills. And in those still moments, I return—however briefly—to something more authentic, more whole.

We will all need more of those moments in the days ahead. In this world of political violence, division, and isolation, what we most need is not more noise, but the courage to breathe slowly before all that frightens us, and to meet it—not with fear or striving—but with gentleness.

Reverence for Life in a World at War

We live in a world torn by violence. As of 2025, reports show over 110 armed conflicts around the globe. In Gaza, more than 64,000 Palestinians have been killed since October 2023. In Ukraine, nearly 14,000 civilians have died, and tens of thousands of soldiers on both sides have been lost. Behind each number are lives cut short, families shattered, and communities left in silence.

In the Plum Village tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh, the First Mindfulness Training: Reverence for Life calls us to another way. It asks us not only to avoid killing, but to actively nurture compassion and protect all beings—people, animals, plants, and the Earth itself.

“Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I commit to protect and cherish all beings. I will not kill, nor support killing, in thought, word, or action.”

As an ordained Buddhist layperson, I believe violence is wrong under all circumstances. Yet I cannot ignore the veterans who return from war. They are praised as heroes when they leave, honored if they die—but often abandoned if they return broken in body or spirit. Too often, society falls silent while they struggle with trauma, homelessness, addiction, prison, and despair.

What can we do for the young people who once carried noble ideals into battle?

First, we must stop glorifying war. We must refuse to declare it, participate in it, or romanticize it. Every flag-waving parade and cinematic celebration of combat only fuels the illusion that war is noble or inevitable. In truth, it is neither.

We can begin by telling the truth about war—about the grief of families, the scars that remain long after guns fall silent, the emptiness that medals and speeches can never heal. We can listen to veterans with open hearts, not just when their stories are tidy or inspiring, but when they are raw, painful, and inconvenient.

We can create pathways of healing—investing in mental health care, community support, education, and meaningful work for those who return home disillusioned and wounded. Instead of silence and stigma, we can surround them with compassion and belonging.

We must also teach our children differently. Instead of raising them on myths of battlefield glory, we can nurture their courage for peace: the bravery to resolve conflict through dialogue, to resist hatred, to choose service that builds rather than destroys. Stories of peacemakers, healers, and bridge-builders should be the ones held high, shaping the imagination of the next generation.

And perhaps most importantly, we must model nonviolence in our daily lives. War does not begin only on distant borders—it begins with fear, greed, and aggression in our homes, our politics, our communities. When we practice compassion, forgiveness, and deep listening, we weaken the roots of war itself.

Ending war and violence is not just the absence of battle—it is the presence of justice, care, and reverence for life. This is the greatest gift we can offer its survivors—and the generations yet to come.

Thomas Merton once wrote:

“The root of war is fear… We are not at peace with others because we are not at peace with ourselves.”

As we witness the devastation in Gaza, Ukraine, and beyond, we need voices of conscience. We need those willing to say no to war’s madness, even at great personal cost. To do no harm—to people, animals, plants, or the Earth—is the only path forward.

For my part, I choose compassion. I choose to protect life in all its forms. And I choose not to kill, nor to let others kill, nor to support any act of killing—in my thoughts, in my words, or in my way of living.

Chasing Validation

Almost every day, I run into someone who asks me how retirement is going. My default response is usually something like, “Great!”—and that’s partially true. But the truth is more layered.

We live in a world where so much of our identity is wrapped up in what we do: our jobs, our affiliations, our loyalties, our roles. We over-identify with being an employee, a parent, a believer, a voter, a fan. These roles can give us a sense of belonging, but they can also tether us too tightly to labels that were never meant to hold the fullness of who we are.

Now that I’ve stepped into retirement, I’m learning what it means to let go of those identities. Over the years I’ve been many versions of “Tim”:

University chaplain—no longer.  Church professional—nope.  Father to two sons—even that role is shifting as they grow into their own fullness.

That former life, this emerging life. And in between, the invitation to ask: Who am I without the labels?

The deepest part of me—the part Zen calls “my original face before my mother was born”—doesn’t seem to care much what name or title I carry now. Titles, achievements, what I say when asked, “So, what do you do?”—I can feel those attachments slowly losing their grip.

And with that loosening comes something surprising: I find myself less interested in the old, grand existential questions that once consumed me as a young seminarian—What is life for? Why are we here? What happens after death?  Is there a God? These days, I sense that life isn’t asking me to figure it out but to wake up.

Perhaps the only real invitation is to participate fully in the moment at hand. To breathe into presence with family, friends, the turning of the seasons. To live as if each moment is the most important moment of my life.

If I’m honest, I wish I had spent less time chasing validation and more time giving the world my undivided attention—receiving its ordinary magic with reverence. I wish, too, that I had spent less time poring over theology and church history, and more time with the treasures of literature, poetry, music, and the visual arts—the places where human longing and divine mystery meet in colors, words, and sound.

I wish I had been introduced earlier to other streams of wisdom that run alongside and beyond my own tradition: the ecstatic poetry of Sufism, the flowing surrender of Taoism, the breath of Buddhism, the mystical pathways of Kabbalah, the silence of the Rhineland mystics, the reverence of indigenous traditions for the land and all living beings. What an expansion of heart that would have been—what a broadening of vision, to see how Spirit moves in countless forms across time and culture.

And yet, even these regrets carry a gentle teaching: it is never too late to see more, to listen more deeply, to honor the vast chorus of wisdom traditions that invite us into presence. Retirement, in its way, is a second apprenticeship—an invitation not to accumulate more knowledge or credentials, but to awaken to beauty, to mystery, and to the gift of being here at all.

Choosing to live fully present in this very short life is no small thing. It will look different for each of us. It will set us apart. It may even feel countercultural—perhaps un-American. And yet, what a beautiful, freeing way to spend the one life we’ve been given.

So, the next time our paths cross, please do ask me how retirement is going. Just know that my answer might be less about what I do—and more about how I am learning to simply be.

No One Escapes Impermanence

I am 67 years old now. That places me firmly in the “older” category, and before long I’ll be considered elderly. My body, though still mostly healthy, offers daily reminders of impermanence—an ache here, a stiffness there, the occasional protest from my back. I used to take health and comfort for granted. Now I see how quickly life moves, each year vanishing more swiftly than the last.

With age comes the awareness that my generation’s season is fading. My father and brother are gone, as are most of my uncles and aunts. Their absence reminds me daily of a truth we all share: no one escapes impermanence.

Death remains one of the last taboos in our culture, rarely acknowledged except in hushed tones. Yet it lingers close by: in the stories that fill the news, in the struggles of friends and family, in the quiet ache of loss. And if we look honestly, we see that a surprising portion of daily life is spent warding it off—choosing caution at crosswalks, avoiding needless risks, attending to our health whenever concern arises.

Even so, awareness of death is not only heavy. It can also awaken gratitude. When we realize there will be a final time for everything—the last cup of coffee, the last shared laugh, even the last load of laundry—ordinary moments take on a quiet radiance.

The Buddhist teacher Sogyal Rinpoche once wrote:

“When we finally know we are dying, and all other beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being. From this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings.”

I want to live with this reminder close to my heart, letting it soften how I move through the world. It changes how I greet the cashier at Target, or listen when a friend tells a long story. It shifts my patience when someone arrives late to lunch, and deepens my tenderness when my wife Heidi sighs at the end of a long day.

Impermanence can be a harsh teacher, but it also offers a rare gift: the chance to cultivate a mind that rests in peace, even while everything changes. I like to imagine such a state of being, where I can watch the whole process of aging and transience with open eyes and still feel gratitude, contentment, and even joy. That seems to me a practice worth devoting one’s life to.

As the poet Danna Faulds reminds us:

“There is no controlling life. Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado. The more we resist change, the more turbulent it becomes. Relax into the changing moment. The only safety lies in letting it all in—the wild with the weak, fear, fantasies, failures, and success.”

All Things Considered…

I’ve been reading The Way of the Dreamcatcher: Spirit Lessons with Robert Lax by S.T. Georgiou. Lax—an American poet and close friend of Thomas Merton—spent his later years living simply on the island of Patmos. Though some saw him as a hermit, he quietly welcomed visitors with kindness, his life itself becoming a poem of presence and simplicity.

Georgiou tells of a fly entering Lax’s home. Instead of swatting it away, Lax carefully caught it and released it outside. He treated even the smallest beings—spiders, ants, flies, cockroaches—with reverence, stepping carefully so as not to harm them. When asked why, he replied: “All creatures are my friends, and all creatures hate pain… Nothing dies. Perhaps if we lived as though everything were alive and exquisitely sensitive, we might become more gentle.”

This echoes the Buddhist teaching of ahimsa—non-harming—which honors all life as sacred. To take life is to forget our interdependence; to act with mindfulness toward even the smallest creature is to practice compassion in its purest form.

I confess I am far from this way of being. Exterminators still come to my home, a reminder of the distance between the life I live and the one I long for. Yet Lax’s words awaken in me a yearning for that spacious goodness—a gentleness wide enough to embrace every living thing. His example shines like a lamp in the dark, reminding me that another way is possible.

This is why resisting cruelty and hate is never wasted. It is always a choice between life and death, between indifference and care.

So let us remember:
All things considered, choose life.
All things considered, choose kindness.
All things considered, stand against cruelty and hate.

And in doing so, perhaps we step a little closer to the gentleness Robert Lax embodied—living as if all creatures are our friends.

Labels That Once Defined Me

I recently ran into a former student at the grocery store. We hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years. When we finally recognized one another, she turned to her daughter and said, “This is Reverend Auman.”

Reverend Auman? I haven’t been called that in years. It felt unsettling—like a voice echoing from a previous life.

We all create identities, and then we cling to them for the sense of safety they seem to provide. Eventually, though, we loosen our grip. We let them fall away. New identities rise up in their place—sometimes shaped by who we are, sometimes by who we no longer wish to be. I was that, but now I am not that.

The mind, of course, delights in this sorting game. It can play it endlessly: I was that, now I am this. They’re on that side. She’s one of those. He votes with them. I used to believe this, now I believe that. What do you believe? Around and around it goes.

Over the years, I’ve shed many of the labels that once defined me: Reverend, personal coach, spiritual advisor, chaplain, visual artist. That old life has given way to a new one. And if I’m honest, most people don’t care much about those distinctions anyway.

What I was then, what I was in that grocery store moment, what I am now—it’s all me. Every version, every story, every square inch of these sixty-seven years belongs.

I suspect the deeper wisdom within us doesn’t worry about sorting all that out. It doesn’t keep score of whether we’re this or that. It simply holds it all in a kind of spacious embrace.

Of course, there are times when regret stirs. When my friend Larry recalls our college days, my stomach tightens. When I think of poor decisions I made as a father or husband, the ache still surfaces. Some wounds never quite close. There are days when I find myself at odds with my own story, not sure what to do with certain chapters.

But even those difficult pieces belong. The awkward memories, the scars, the patterns of thought I’ve left behind—they’re still mine. I am all of it. Every part folded into this one singular, beautiful, imperfect life.

Mary Oliver once wrote: “You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.”

And perhaps that is the heart of it. We do not need to perfect our story. We only need to live it—honestly, humbly, and as fully as we can.

An Artist’s Manifesto

Let’s make a pact, you and I: let’s choose to romanticize our lives.

Let your days be gently decorated with drala (ordinary magic)—seek out those everyday miracles waiting in an ordinary glance, a quiet breath, or a moment of sudden peace. Indulge in a sense of wonder. Invite more softness and joy into your art, whatever form it takes. Write the story your heart has been whispering for years. Look at the world with the tender, compassionate eye of a photographer like Martine Franck. Wear something that makes you feel wild and luminous, just because, and laugh with the sheer freedom of it.

 But here is the gentle, crucial part: don’t place your creative practice on a pedestal so high it feels unreachable. Please don’t sacrifice your joy to the harsh myths of “all or nothing.” Your creativity was never meant to be tidy or perfect—it is gloriously, beautifully human. It’s messy, full of wrong turns and small, brilliant triumphs. And that is exactly as it should be.

 Never forget: you are an artist simply by being alive. Your desire to create—to write, to paint, to sing, to dance—that yearning in your heart is more than enough. In fact, that longing itself is holy. Prioritize it. Nurture it. This is sacred work. Don’t talk yourself out of it, or shrink into silence. You were not put on this earth to live small. You are not here to disappear. You are here to take up space, to claim your voice, to create.

And you get to share it all on your own terms. Self-publish. Take a pottery class. Start a blog. Turn your Instagram—or even your kitchen wall—into a gallery of your own wonders. Let your home be an altar to the things you truly love.

And then—do it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Create as though it is your daily bread, because in so many ways, it is. This is the work that roots us, that keeps us awake and truly alive. It is how we find steadiness, even when the world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

Remember: Art is resistance. Creativity is revolution. And your beautiful, imperfect life is the most important canvas you will ever have.

I give thanks—for those who refuse to let democracy fade without a fight!

Two friends were walking through a golden-lit pasture when an angry bull suddenly charged toward them. Heart pounding, they sprinted for the nearest gate, but the bull was closing in fast. Desperate, one friend gasped, “We’re in serious trouble! Say a prayer—quick!” The other cried out, “But I’ve never prayed before! I don’t know any prayers for a moment like this!” His friend shouted back, “Doesn’t matter! Any prayer will do!”

So the first man, breathless, reached for the only words he could remember—his mother’s blessing before meals: “For what we are about to receive, O God, make us truly grateful.”

That little story never fails to make me smile. And beneath its humor lies a quiet truth: in the end, every prayer is a prayer of gratitude.

But let’s be honest—living that truth isn’t easy. Not now, when the world feels heavy with sorrow and struggle. I’ll admit, I often forget to pause in awe of the ordinary miracles around me—the way dawn spills light across the sky, the burst of sweetness in a ripe orange, the steady hand of a friend when I need it most. These gifts arrive unearned, undeserved, yet I rush past them as if they were owed to me. They are not. They are grace.

And then there are the harder days—when the news leaves me hollow, when power is twisted against justice, when fairness is carved away by greed. How can I whisper thank you when so much is breaking?

Brother David Steindl-Rast, a Benedictine monk who has spent a lifetime teaching gratitude, offers a gentle wisdom: We need not be grateful for every circumstance, but we can choose to be grateful in every circumstance. Even in darkness, we can give thanks for the chance to respond with courage, to meet cruelty with compassion, to answer despair with creativity. Gratitude anchors us in the present, and from that stillness, new paths unfold.

And so, I look for the light—not in grand gestures, but in the quiet ways love shows up. Communities wrapping arms around immigrant families, offering shelter, legal aid, safe harbor. Neighbors becoming guardians. Strangers becoming kin. When I witness these acts of mercy, gratitude rises like a tide within me.

The truth is, I am still learning. Some days, gratitude comes easily; other times, I have to dig for it like a hidden well. But I keep returning to that simple prayer: “For what I am about to receive, O God, make me truly grateful.”

So today, I give thanks—for those who refuse to let democracy fade without a fight. For those who trade comfort for courage in the name of justice. For those who carry hope like a torch, even when the wind howls against it.

Thank you—yes, you—for your presence, your kindness, your stubborn, radiant hope. I am grateful, deeply and truly, for each of you.

“Are You Sure?”

Mary Lou Kownacki, a Benedictine nun with a gift for holy mischief, tells one of my favorite stories.

A poet-mystic, known for his deep piety, was often asked the secret of his holiness. His answer was always the same:
“I know what is in the Bible.”

One day a new disciple asked the obvious question:
“Well then… what is in the Bible?”

The poet-mystic smiled.
“In the Bible,” he said, “there are two pressed flowers… and a letter from my friend Jonathan.”

I love how this answer gently undoes our grip on certainty. It reminds me that truth is not always found in tidy explanations or well-rehearsed doctrines, but in the tender, ordinary things that carry love across time.

Thich Nhat Hanh once wrote:

“Are you sure? Are you sure of your perceptions? Most of our suffering comes from wrong perceptions.”

Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo puts it another way:

“We see the world not as it is, but as we are.”

So perhaps the next time we are ready to speak with certainty—about immigrants, the poor, Black and brown bodies, or anyone whose truth is different from our own—we might pause.

Breathe.
Ask quietly, Am I sure?

Maybe that question belongs in every Bible—tucked like a pressed flower, a letter from a friend, a reminder that love is always more important than being right.

Guarding the Spirit in Troubled Times

One of the quietest, most effective weapons of oppression is not always brute force—it is exhaustion. Wear people down enough, and they grow too weary to resist. The violent “new normal” becomes ordinary. The moral lines we thought could never be crossed fade into the background.

Today, we see this tactic in plain sight—through a flood of noise, outrage, and distraction. Social media, while sometimes a tool for connection and truth-telling, is also engineered to keep us scrolling, reacting, consuming without pause. And when the platforms themselves are shaped by forces that align with white supremacy and exclusion, the harm multiplies—especially for our most vulnerable neighbors.

Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us, “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence.” But constant stimulation robs us of that presence. The Dalai Lama says, “Do not let the behavior of others destroy your inner peace.” In moments like these, protecting that peace is not selfish—it is how we keep the fire of compassion alive.

Gandhi taught, “In a gentle way, you can shake the world.” But gentleness is born in rested, grounded hearts. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Yes, yes, yes, we must speak—but we must also learn to step back, to breathe, to listen deeply.

This is not disengagement—it is resistance. By tending to our own aliveness, we make it impossible for any regime, any platform, any campaign of fear to kill our spirit.

So, breathe. Step outside. Sit with a friend. Let the sky remind you of its vastness. And return—ready to do the work, steady and unafraid.

Breathing Our Way Into Justice

Take a breath. And another.

This moment, this life—we didn’t earn it. It is a gift.

Howard Thurman once said, “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive… because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

Mindfulness may not seem fierce enough for dismantling systemic racism. But in truth, it offers a radical foundation—an inner discipline that sustains outer transformation.

It starts with seeing clearly. Mindfulness reveals our inherited judgments and biases, the filters that shape the way we see the world. As Cheryl A. Giles writes in Black and Buddhist, “The First Noble Truth invites us to welcome our wounds and meet our suffering with courage and compassion.” This inner meeting prepares us to meet the wounds of the world.

It teaches us to respond instead of react. To act from truth, not ego. From presence, not performance. Compassion grows. Thurman reminds us, “Community cannot feed for long on itself; it can only flourish with the coming of others from beyond, their unknown and undiscovered brothers.”

We learn to listen deeply—without defense, without rushing to fix. We discover our deep interconnection. Systemic racism thrives on the illusion of separation, but mindfulness insists: your liberation is bound up with mine. Thurman calls it “an unrecognized kinship” waiting to be embraced.

This work will be uncomfortable. It will stir fear, shame, and confusion. Pamela Ayo Yetunde writes, “When there is space around the difficulty, we have agency.” Mindfulness gives us that space.

It will not dismantle racism alone. But it can keep us awake. It can keep us clear. It can help us love more deeply and act with courage and integrity.

So take another breath. Let it root you. Let it soften you. Let it wake you up.

As Giles reminds us, “We are complex: we are not just filled with pain and rage but with well-being… we attend to both.”

That is where the work begins.

Enemies—fabricated, projected, chosen

The world we inhabit is aching. Violence—once shocking—has become the background hum of our politics, our religious rhetoric, and our entertainment. We see it, hear it, absorb it until it begins to feel normal. But it is not. It has never been.

And more and more, the violence we inflict is turned inward—on our bodies, our spirits, our communities. Still, we cling to what theologians call the myth of redemptive violence—the belief that if someone harms us, the way to set things right is to harm them in return.

They shoot at us, so we bomb them.
They mock our candidate, so we mock theirs.
They hurt our pride, so we strike back—online, in the pulpit, in policy.

But has this ever brought us closer to the world of our dreams?

As Thich Nhat Hanh taught,

“Violence is never the answer. It brings more violence, more hatred, more misunderstanding. Only understanding and compassion can dissolve violence.”

When we answer harm with harm, we keep the wheel of suffering spinning. Like children on a teeter-totter, each side tries to push harder, climb higher, win. But no one ever gets off. No one ever learns. And as the cycle deepens, we start to believe in enemies—fabricated, projected, chosen.

Because that’s the painful truth:
We choose who our enemies are.

Every single day, we make that choice.
And the more enemies we create, the more our hearts shrink.
The scar tissue forms.
We mistake it for strength, but it’s only armor.

But there is another way.

Jesus showed us. So did the Buddha. Lao-Tzu, Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, and Martin Luther King Jr. all insisted there is a path that does not demand a sacrificial victim. They were ridiculed, dismissed as naive. And yet their teachings have endured because they speak to something eternal in the human spirit.

Loving-kindness.
Compassion.
Generosity.
Solidarity without enmity.

These are not weak responses to violence.
They are revolutionary.
They are courageous.
They are the only way to truly interrupt the cycle.

Martin Luther King Jr. once said,

“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate… Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

And Thich Nhat Hanh echoed,

“When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence. How can you love if you are not there?”

We must be present—to our grief, our rage, and our longing for a different kind of world.

So, what if we stopped feeding the machine?
What if we laid down our armor and refused to play the game?
What if we let our wounds teach us tenderness instead of vengeance?

We don’t have to live like this.

Violence—whether in word, policy, action, or silence—has no place in our sacred traditions.
We can step off the wheel.
We can say no to revenge, cruelty, militarism, and bloodshed.
We can break the cycle.

Because there are other forces at work—quieter, yes, but more enduring.

Love.
Compassion.
Kindness.
Presence.

And as Thomas Merton wrote:

“The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves… not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise, we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.”

Let’s begin again—gently, humbly, courageously.

Together, we can imagine a world where no one is made the enemy.
And then we can help bring that world into being.

What beauty are you called to birth?

You may not yet know the name Maria Rosario Jackson—but her work offers a profound invitation to those of us who care deeply about healing, community, and justice. Jackson understands something that many systems overlook: that art is not a luxury—it’s a lifeline.

In communities that have been marginalized, colonized, or displaced, the wounds run deeper than policy. They’re embedded in memory, language, and spirit. When the songs of a people are silenced, when their dances are mocked or forbidden, when their stories are erased from the landscape—it’s not just culture that suffers, it’s the soul of the people.

Jackson helps us remember that art is a form of return. A return to voice. A return to dignity. A return to belonging.

In the contemplative life, we often speak of returning to the breath, returning to the body, returning to presence. But what if part of that return also means coming home to the stories, songs, and symbols that shape our communities? What if justice is not only about reforming laws, but also restoring memory?

It’s tempting, especially in times of crisis, to focus only on the “practical”—to think that budgets and legislation are the only meaningful work. And yes, we need those things. We need fair housing, healthcare, education, immigration policy rooted in compassion. But we also need color, movement, melody, and metaphor. We need sacred symbols and shared space. We need beauty—not as escape, but as resistance.

As Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us:

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”
And it is artists—musicians, dancers, poets, painters, photographers—who help us become attentive to what is already here. They awaken us to what is most human. They remind us of what still pulses beneath the noise.

And in doing so, they challenge the systems that would reduce people to data points or dismiss their cultural expressions as trivial. Art is not extra. Art is essential.

Art slows us down. It makes space for grief. It makes room for joy. It asks us to listen, not just fix. And it teaches us how to see with the heart, which is what contemplative practice is all about.

Dipa Ma once said:

“If you cannot find the truth right where you are, where else do you expect to find it?”
Art does exactly that—it reveals truth, right where we are. It gives shape to our joys and our sorrows, and it does so in ways that words alone often cannot.

In this moment in history, we need more than protest and policy. We need rhythm. We need ritual. We need to pick up brushes and drums and cameras and write the world anew.

We are the artists.
We are the breath-makers and bridge-builders.
We are the ones shaping the story.

So I ask you—not just as an artist, but as a contemplative, as a human being—
What beauty are you called to birth?
What truth are you ready to reveal?
How do you want your art to help mend the world?

Let that be your practice.
Let that be your revolution.

To Love Without Agenda

For most of my adult life, the Christian church wasn’t just my vocation—it was my heartbeat. It shaped my days, cradled my family, and taught me the language of devotion. My children grew up wrapped in its rhythms—Sunday hymns rising like incense, Wednesday night potlucks where laughter and prayer mingled, youth group retreats where faith felt alive and messy and real. We gave ourselves to it, wholly and willingly.

After college, I followed the call to divinity school, then ordination, and over the years, I stepped into many roles: youth minister, associate pastor, chaplain to the grieving and the searching. In each place, well-meaning conversations circled around numbers, strategies, growth—how to fill pews, how to keep the institution thriving. And yes, some of that mattered. But over time, a quiet ache grew in me—a sense that we were missing the sacred forest for the well-pruned trees.

Because here’s the truth I couldn’t unsee: The Divine doesn’t wait for perfect sermons or packed sanctuaries. It meets us in the stillness between breaths, in the pulse of our own unguarded hearts. It’s there in the hospital room where no one quotes scripture but everyone holds silence like a prayer. It’s there in the backyard where sunlight falls through leaves like a blessing no doctrine could contain.

And so, I found myself torn—grateful for the tradition that raised me, yet restless for something deeper than its structures. I longed to point people past the rituals to the Radiance behind them—the love that whispers beneath creeds and committees, the presence that doesn’t need labels to be felt.

Jesus didn’t come to start a religion. The Buddha didn’t either. They came to wake us up—to a love that dissolves borders, a spirit that won’t be boxed. Yet here we are, still building walls with our theologies, still confusing the map for the territory.

What if faith isn’t about defending a tradition but surrendering to wonder? Not about belonging to the right group but becoming a vessel for loving-kindness?

Now, I’m drawn to spaces where hearts are soft and doors are wide—where a shared silence or a cup of tea can be as holy as any hymn. Because Spirit doesn’t need a stained-glass window to shine through. It only asks for our attention. Our courage to be still. Our willingness to love without agenda.

That’s the invitation, always:
Just breathe.
Just open.
Just love.
The rest was never the point.

Ladder-Climbers

At a very young age, I learned how to climb ladders. Not the kind you find leaning against a barn or tucked away in a garage—but the invisible kind. The ladders we’re told will take us somewhere important. Ladders that, in truth, were never mine to begin with.

They were handed to me—passed down like heirlooms from well-meaning parents, scoutmasters, Sunday school teachers, each pointing skyward and saying, “This is the way.” And so I climbed. We all did.

With each new season of life came another ladder: professors, advisors, mentors, therapists—all offering their own version of “success” or “healing” or “meaning.” And I got good at it. Really good. Drop me into any room, any institution, and I could spot the ladder. I knew how to climb—how to meet expectations, hit the marks, collect the badges.

Sometimes the ladder looked like pleasing a boss. Other times it meant collecting credentials, working late nights, neglecting time with those I loved. Sometimes it was about productivity—serving on the right committees, presenting at the right conferences. Other times it meant aligning with an institution’s mission, showing up to the events, playing the part. The ladders changed shape, but the climb never stopped.

Until one day, I started asking a question no one had ever asked me: Are these ladders leaning against the right buildings?

That question unraveled something in me.

And then, like whispers from some deeper place, the real questions began to surface. The secret ones I had tucked away for decades:

What really motivates me?
Do my words and my actions reflect the deeper wisdom I sense just beneath the surface?
Am I the person I pretend to be in public?
What parts of myself am I ashamed of, and why?
What do I truly believe—and am I willing to say it aloud?
And maybe the hardest one:
What would it mean to stop climbing altogether?

What if I simply stood still, both feet on the ground?
What if I didn’t flinch when asked, Who do you want to be with the time you have left?

Just writing these words feels like a release. A kind of healing.

Because the truth is, I’ve carried more than a few chains—unspoken expectations, self-imposed pressures, old beliefs about who I need to be in order to be loved, accepted, successful. But what if those chains could finally be unlocked?

What if, on the other side of all that striving, there is a place of radical belonging? A place without barriers or fences. A place where the truth of our shared humanity dismantles every “us vs. them.” A place where strangers are welcomed as kin, where all voices are honored—not just the Christian ones—and where creativity, compassion, and curiosity flourish.

This world is aching for that kind of presence.

It doesn’t need more ladder-climbers. It needs grounded, authentic people. People who’ve made peace with their shadows, who know how to listen, who dare to live from their center.

It’s time. Time to climb down.

Time to write the book.
Paint the painting.
Show up with your whole heart.
Expand your circle.
Sit in silence.
Love without conditions.
And treat each moment—and each person—as if they are the most important in your life.

Because maybe, just maybe—they are.

And when we live like that… who knows what could happen?

A Simple Blessing

Friends, dear ones—welcome.
As we begin this time together,
I invite us into a blessing.

Not a request,
Not a wish or a plea,
But a quiet honoring—
a sacred acknowledgment
of what already is,
and perhaps has always been.

No matter your spiritual identity,
your religious roots—or none at all,
your politics, your past, or your present—
you are welcome here.
You belong here.
And you are already, deeply, blessed.

With each breath—inhale, exhale—
Life moves gently through us.
The pulse of being continues.
Blessing is not something distant. It is here.

In every kind word,
in every moment of shared silence,
in every warm embrace,
in every story that softens the heart—
blessing finds its way.

With the steady rhythm of your heart—
faithful, unearned, and freely given—
you are being blessed.

In the mystery of your being—
your questions and longings,
your glimpses of clarity and your doubts,
your unfolding, your becoming—
you are being blessed.

And so, as we gather—
in this hour, in this space, with these companions—
may we not only receive blessing,
but remember that we carry it,
and can extend it
to friend and stranger,
to the weary and the hopeful,
to those who feel at home,
and those still searching for a place to belong.

May you know peace.
May your body be at ease,
your mind spacious and clear,
your spirit nourished and alive.

May you and your beloveds be safe—
in your coming and going,
your resting and your rising.

May joy find you
in the small and ordinary moments.
May wonder greet you
when you least expect it.
May love meet you—again and again.

And may you awaken often
to the sacred truth of who you are:
not what you produce,
not the burdens you carry,
not what the world demands—
but the luminous, blessed presence
you already are.

Blessing is your birthright.
It goes with you wherever you go.

So until we meet again—
We are blessed.
We are blessed.
We are blessed.
Amen.