“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.
