And those who choose presence over power, compassion over contempt, and justice rooted in love over righteousness rooted in ego—they are the true revolutionaries.

When my despair for the world grows—and lately, it grows more often than I’d like—when headlines overwhelm and the din of the world feels relentless, I grumble to anyone nearby or pour myself a glass of Shiraz and sit for a long while on the front porch.

I’ve made my share of mistakes. Some of them were painful — wounding me, and at times, those I love. And all the while, I was haunted by that old inner voice: “Don’t mess up. Don’t let them down. Be good.”

At this stage of life, what matters most—aside from my extraordinary family—are the friendships that sustain and surprise me. The real ones. The quiet coffee conversations, the walks that wander into silence, the friends who’ve stayed through the storms and celebrated the dawns. The people who didn’t try to fix me or convert me or explain me to myself—but simply loved me.

Time and again, acts of violence and exclusion have been cloaked in sacred language and adorned in holy garb—all in the name of a God who embodies pure Love.

Watching my father taught me: love sits at the kitchen table. It listens. It stays. It shows up without needing to fix the unfixable. And there, in those quiet visits, I began to believe that whatever God is, it must be personal—found not in theories, but in presence.

They call it cherry bounce,
a cordial from centuries past,
once sipped by Washington himself,
now passed quietly
from one friend to another,
like a secret,
like a blessing.

Sometimes I feel like a fraud, like I’ve somehow tricked people into believing I’m more capable or wise than I am. That’s what we often call imposter syndrome—that voice inside that says, You’re not enough, or You don’t really belong here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.