You Deserve Something Better

There are times when I feel an ache in my chest—a kind of quiet sorrow—and with it, a sense that I owe the next generation an apology.

To those emerging into adulthood today, trying to make sense of a world filled with contradiction, beauty, injustice, and mystery, I want to say: You deserve something better than the religion many of us inherited. You deserve a spiritual path that is wise, courageous, and tender—a path rooted not in fear or control, but in wonder, love, and liberation.

You deserve a spiritual path that reveres the earth as holy, sees the body as a blessing, and trusts the quiet wisdom that lives within each of us.  A faith that embraces mysticism, celebrates embodiment, and calls forth radical compassion. A way of being that doesn't shrink from the hard work of justice but sees it as sacred. You deserve a spiritual community that knows how to gather for ritual, for joy, for lament, for silence, and for celebration—without needing to be certain of all the answers.

You deserve a religion that is both simpler and more expansive—stripped of dogma, yet spacious enough to receive wisdom from many wells: Christian, Buddhist, Indigenous, Sufi, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, Earth-centered, and beyond. Our very survival as a species, I believe, depends on recovering this kind of spiritual depth—what the mystics have always known. Practices of stillness. Reverence for mystery. Attunement to the pulse of the planet. Love made visible through action.

The next generation of spiritual leaders—whether they gather in churches or forests, online circles or kitchen tables—will need to carry this embodied wisdom. They'll need practices that ground them in the sacredness of the earth, in the ever-present Divinity that flows through all things. They'll need to be rooted in compassion, in creative ritual, in the contemplative arts, in justice-making, in mindfulness, and in holy silence.

I was raised in a tradition that began the human story with the idea of "original sin”—that we are, at our core, flawed and fallen. But I've come to believe that this was a tragic misreading of our beginnings. Jesus did not teach that. Nor did the Buddha, who gently reminds us that we are fundamentally good—luminous by nature—but we forget. Through trauma, through conditioning, through generations of suffering and disconnection, we fall asleep to our true nature.

But this truth still pulses beneath the surface: We were loved from the beginning. We were born, not in shame or sin, but in Infinite Love. And this love—this innate, luminous goodness—includes the whole of creation. The soil, the oceans, the bees, the forests, the sky. All born of the same sacred breath.

What if we started each day from that place? What if our spiritual communities, our teachings, our gatherings—all began not with a problem to solve or a doctrine to defend, but with a deep remembering of this love?

I still believe in religion—not as an institution to be defended, but as a living, breathing practice of presence, connection, and transformation. And I believe the next generation has what it takes to reimagine it—to recover its soul.

And so, to those who come after us: Forgive us where we’ve failed. Bless us where we’ve tried. And please, lead us forward—into something truer, kinder, and more alive.

Let love be the first word on your lips each morning. It is, after all, where we began.

Tired of the Noise?

We’re often told that to make a difference, we need to grab people’s attention—step into the spotlight, speak boldly, and convince others that our cause is right. We’re encouraged to fight fire with fire, to push back against harmful messages with persuasive arguments of our own. The world teaches us to promote our beliefs like a product—loud, emotional, polished, and persuasive.

But I’ve grown tired of all that noise.

Tired of the constant pressure to prove something. Tired of trying to convince people, as if truth were a contest. Tired of the way performance often replaces presence, and slogans take the place of real connection.

I used to think that with the right words or strategies, we could change minds. But now I see that the endless shouting and persuading is part of the problem. It pulls us away from our hearts. It dulls our awareness. It feeds the ego’s need to be right, to be seen, to win.

Real strength, I believe, lies somewhere else—quiet, steady, rooted in love. It doesn’t need to shine. It doesn’t need applause. It just needs to be real. When we let go of the need to control the outcome, we discover something deeper: the power of presence, of simply showing up with honesty and care.

As the Buddha taught, suffering often comes from craving and resistance. And propaganda feeds both—it creates fear, feeds division, and thrives on our desire to be right and make others wrong. But even a small moment of awakening—a glimpse of our shared humanity, of the deep interconnection of all things—can open our eyes.

In that space, we realize: we don’t need to force anyone to care. We don’t need clever words to prove that love, justice, and compassion matter. As Thich Nhat Hanh said, “The most powerful way to communicate is through your presence.” When we’re at peace, we stop shouting. When we’re grounded, we begin to truly listen.

There are times when we must take bold and risky action. But just as often, we’re called to a quieter courage: to sit still in the midst of discomfort, to watch our anger rise and fall without clinging to it, to respond with mindfulness instead of reacting from fear or pride.

I don’t think we’re quite wise enough yet to create the world we dream of. But I do believe we can grow into that wisdom—together. Through presence. Through humility. Through compassion and non-harming. Not by overpowering others, but by embodying love and justice in our daily lives.

So let’s not fight illusion with more illusion. Let’s meet this world—not with fear, but with clear eyes and open hearts. Let’s remember who we are, and how deeply we belong to one another.

A World Without Enemies

There’s no real place for “us” and “them” in the world I want to help build. I know that may sound idealistic, but after a lifetime of listening, stumbling, showing up, and learning to see more clearly—I’ve come to believe it’s the only path that leads to healing.

Of course, there will be those who, out of fear or pain, see us as the problem. They may call us deluded, dangerous, even evil. But Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us that “When you begin to see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight.” He saw clearly that labeling others as the enemy is the beginning of violence—not just outwardly, but within ourselves. And that kind of thinking narrows what is possible. It stifles the deep creativity and spacious compassion this world so desperately needs.

But what if we chose another way? What if we rooted our revolution in love?

I can hear the pushback. Don’t we need someone to oppose? Some evildoer to resist?

Maybe not. Maybe the real struggle isn’t against people, but against the systems, delusions, and unconscious patterns that keep us separated. As Thầy taught, “Peace in the world starts with peace in ourselves.” We can stand firm against injustice without needing to make enemies of those who perpetuate it. That’s a spiritual discipline. A fierce kind of love.

Someone once said, “A person is not your enemy unless you make them so.” That rings true. Carrying around a list of enemies—real or imagined—just doesn’t feel life-giving anymore. Not for me. Not for the world I want to inhabit.

The path ahead is uncertain. There will be days of confusion and sorrow, days when we feel lost or discouraged. We’ll do our best to do good—but both harm and healing will happen along the way. It’s part of the mystery of being human.

That’s why we’ll need to be quiet, patient, and present—to every feeling, every sensation, every heartbreak. We’ll need to keep showing up in mindfulness, not to escape the pain of the world but to engage it fully, tenderly. As Thầy said, “The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”

We will encounter the awakened and the asleep. We’ll meet kindness in unlikely places and cruelty where we least expect it. But if we stay grounded in love, we need not turn anyone into an enemy.

And this revolution? It won’t look like the movies. No grand finale, no flags waving in triumph. Just a quiet accumulation of small, sacred victories: a conversation that doesn’t turn defensive, a breath taken before speaking in anger, a hand extended instead of a fist.

Defeats will come, too. But each step—each failure and each grace—will help weave a net of freedom, compassion, and understanding wide enough to catch us all.

As Thầy said, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”

And that awakening, slow and imperfect though it may be, is the revolution.

It is a path of nonviolence—not just in action, but in thought and word. It asks much of us: humility, discipline, courage, and the willingness to be wrong. But make no mistake—this is sacred work.

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.

May I have the courage to walk that path.

“Lucky me, too.”

Most mornings, before the noise of the world has a chance to settle in, I sit with a warm cup in hand and have quiet conversations with a circle of old companions—Thich Nhat Hanh, Ryōkan, Lao Tzu, the psalmist, Thomas Merton, Hanshan, Danna Faulds, and other poets and mystics who have become like soul-friends over the years.

They don’t seem to mind if my mind is restless or my heart heavy. They meet me exactly where I am—patient, faithful, kind.

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.

Now and then, I remember to set my meditation timer for 20 minutes and just sit. Not to achieve anything—not enlightenment or transcendence—but simply to stop. To breathe. To re-center.

There are days I long to disappear into the quiet, to slip away and join Ryōkan in his humble mountain hut. He once wrote, “My life is like an old run-down hermitage—poor, simple, quiet.”

Yes, Ryōkan. That’s the kind of life I’ve reached for again and again—sometimes clumsily, sometimes with clarity. I’ve left one world in search of another, a quieter world, where “the only conversation is the wind blowing through the pines.”

That longing has never quite left me. I’ve carried it most of my life—a deep yearning for stillness, for the gentle hush of presence, for a simpler, slower way of being. And when I touch it, even briefly, I find I’m more grounded, more tender, more whole. I become a better partner, a more patient father, a truer friend.

Wendell Berry speaks to this sacred return when he writes:

“I come into the peace of wild things…
I come into the presence of still water…
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”

Oh Ryōkan, show me again how to find that still water—that quiet life tucked beneath the rush.
And Wendell, thank you for the reminder that it’s never too far away.

Even in this imperfect life—this cluttered house, this aching world—I catch glimpses.
And when I do, I whisper, “Lucky you.”
And then, with a smile and a full heart, I add, “Lucky me, too.”

You Are Enough

Over the course of my 67 years, I’ve poured so much of my life energy into the pursuit of love—trying, in every way I knew how, to earn it.

As a boy, I was the quintessential “good kid.” I became an Eagle Scout, my sash lined with merit badges like medals of honor, proof that I was trying hard to be the kind of son who made his parents proud. I studied diligently, got into the “right” schools, and sat dutifully in a church pew every Sunday morning—unless I was running a fever and couldn’t get out of bed. I played by the rules. I did what was expected. And I took great pride in being the boy who never caused trouble.

“You’re such a good boy, Tim,” my mom and dad would say, their voices filled with affection and hope. “Just apply yourself, and there’s no limit to what you can achieve.” At the time, I clung to those words like a lifeline. I believed them. I needed to believe them. But over time, I started to notice the hidden cost of such praise—the way it implied that love might be conditional. That being loved meant always performing. That the minute I made a mistake or slipped up, I might lose that approval.

Praise, as kind as it often sounds, can carry a shadow. And I began to understand that beneath every “good boy” was the fear of being seen as bad, of disappointing the very people I loved most.

So I played it safe.

I put my childhood dream of becoming an artist on a high shelf and left it there to gather dust. Instead, I went to divinity school. It was a respectable path. Noble. Sacred. It felt like something God—and my parents—could get behind. I was ordained as a Christian minister and spent the next few decades trying to embody that calling. And while there was great beauty in that journey—the joy of serving others, the sacred rituals, the moments of connection—there was also a quiet, aching loss that I didn’t fully recognize at the time. Somewhere along the way, amidst all the roles and responsibilities, I lost touch with something deeper… something older than creeds and doctrines, older even than words. A kind of primordial, ancient wisdom that once whispered to me in childhood moments of wonder—in the rustle of leaves, the silence of snowfall, the way light streamed through the kitchen window or flickered across the surface of a lake.

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.”

But slowly—sometimes painfully slowly—I’ve begun to learn something far more liberating than anything I was ever taught in Sunday School: I am not “good” or “bad.” I am simply… me. Tim. A human being, beloved not because I followed the rules or made the grade, but simply because I exist. That’s enough.

I think we all know how blame can wound us. But I’ve come to see that praise—especially when it’s tethered to performance—can hurt just as much. It teaches us to measure our worth by how well we meet others’ expectations. It teaches us to stay small. To play it safe. To avoid risk. To hide the messy parts of ourselves for fear of losing affection.

These days, I find myself less interested in being “good” and far more interested in being real.

I no longer want to live under the weight of evaluation—whether it’s from others or my own inner critic. I don’t need gold stars, titles, applause, or divine approval. What I crave now is presence. Honesty. Wholeness. I want to show up fully, unguarded, even when I’m uncertain or afraid. I want to risk being seen—truly seen—without the armor of perfection.

At the end of the day, I try to let go of it all: the striving, the self-judgment, the stories I once believed about who I had to be. I rest in the quiet. I breathe into mystery. And I allow myself to welcome the grace of this moment—not because I’ve earned it, but because life is a gift. A breathtaking, fleeting, fragile gift.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us:

To shed the labels and the roles.
To take the risk of being real.
To breathe each breath as if it were sacred.
To remember—gently, fiercely, imperfectly—that we are already enough.
Already loved.
Already home.

Soul Friendship

Ananda, the beloved attendant and cousin of the Buddha, once asked his teacher a question that has echoed through the centuries. “Master,” he said, “is friendship half of the spiritual life?” And the Buddha replied, without hesitation, “No, Ananda. Friendship is the whole of the spiritual life.”

I didn’t fully understand the depth of that teaching when I was younger. Back then, I chased other things—approval, achievement, a sense of purpose tethered to doing rather than being. I played the roles, wore the masks. I tried to get it all “right,” whether in ministry, in family life, or in some polished version of spirituality. I don’t regret the journey—each part of it shaped me—but I’m so grateful those days are over.

These days, I find myself letting go. Letting go of the need for recognition, the craving for certainty, the grip of performance. Even theological systems—however well-meaning—have less hold on me. I’ve grown less interested in proving or defending belief and more interested in presence, in kindness, in soul-to-soul connection.

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.

It’s only when someone truly loved me that I began to believe I was lovable. That simple, brave love broke something open in me. It helped me trust that maybe—just maybe—God’s love could be that spacious, that kind. And once you’ve tasted that kind of love, fear starts to lose its grip.

I no longer believe that the spiritual life is about climbing some ladder or acquiring secret knowledge. It’s about showing up—honestly, imperfectly—with and for one another. The sacred is found in the companionship of those who see us clearly and still choose to stay.

So yes, Ananda, I understand the Buddha’s words more clearly now. From where I sit—older, hopefully a little wiser, and more tenderhearted—I see it plainly. Soul friendship isn’t part of the spiritual life. It is the spiritual life.

And from this retired university chaplain, you’ll get no argument.

“From Fanaticism to Barbarism”

How is it that some Christian ministers—and many faithful followers—can support disinformation that is steeped in racism and xenophobia, distorting the very essence of the gospel? How do they promote an anti-Black and anti-immigrant vision of America while claiming divine approval for their actions?

It genuinely breaks my heart. Yet, I cannot say I am surprised.

History is littered with instances where faith has been wielded as a weapon instead of a source of healing. We have witnessed the Crusades, the Inquisitions, the justification of slavery from pulpits, and colonization draped in the guise of a divine mission. 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.

I share these thoughts not out of judgment, but from a place of deep concern and profound sorrow that stems from seeing sacred truths distorted. As someone who has been shaped by the Christian tradition, I feel an even greater weight of responsibility to speak truthfully. If we, who are part of this faith community, do not confront its darker aspects, then who will?

I am continually reminded of the need for vigilance—guarding against fanaticism, whatever form it may take: be it a white collar, a priestly stole, a cardinal’s hat, or even a uniform or a politician's flag pin. Sometimes, this fanaticism masquerades behind selectively chosen scripture passages, twisted and manipulated to target those whom Jesus instructed us to love.

Be cautious of those who assert they possess “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” as if it were a trophy to be claimed rather than a profound, mysterious journey to be engaged with humility.

There’s a poignant quote that resonates deeply within me, a somber reminder inscribed at the site of a tragedy in Paris. An anonymous mourner left a bouquet of roses accompanied by words from the philosopher Diderot: “There is only one step from fanaticism to barbarism.”

Each time I reflect on that quote, it halts me in my tracks. It serves as a stark reminder that our convictions—no matter how spiritual they may appear—can lead us down a path to cruelty if they are not tempered by compassion, curiosity, and humility.

I continuously return to the essential question: Does this path lead to love? Does it honor the sacredness of others, especially those who are vulnerable and marginalized?

Because if it does not, then it cannot possibly be of God.

House Calls

As kids, we were lucky. When we were sick or cranky, our moms were there with cool cloths and warm soup. And sometimes, the family doctor came to the house. That phrase—“house call”—feels like a relic now, but it wasn’t back then. My father was that kind of doctor.

He carried a black leather bag and a quiet, steady presence. If my mother had a conflict, he’d take me along. We’d show up at someone’s home, and he’d sit—always at the kitchen table—open his bag, and listen. To hearts, lungs, and stories. He didn’t rush. He didn’t fix. He simply showed up, fully present. And often left with a slice of pie.

I was just a kid, but I noticed. His presence calmed the room. He didn’t chase after answers or explanations. He simply stayed—with grief, with pain, with uncertainty. And somehow, that was healing.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been drawn to the “why” questions: Why did this happen? Why do good people suffer? Life just is. And when my brother Ed died of pancreatic cancer, that truth struck hard. No reasons, no tidy answers—just the ache of absence.

What matters more to me now is the “what now?”
What will be born of this grief?
What can love still do?

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.

Looking back, it’s clear: my life was shaped in those sacred, ordinary moments—my dad tending to the hurting, me nibbling on pie crust, both of us unknowingly seated at the altar of what really matters.

Love in a Bottle

Each July, like clockwork, it comes—
A small glass bottle,
sealed with care,
and filled with something more than cherries.

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.

I picture Larry in his kitchen,
red-stained fingers working through
quart after quart of sun-warmed cherries,
their flesh soft with summer.
He pits them by hand—
slowly, patiently—
then stirs in sugar,
pours in bourbon,
and lets it all steep
in stillness.

But what he's really steeping
is time.
Memory.
Friendship.

Most of it he gives away,
a gift that tastes
like laughter and porch swings,
like music floating from a back room,
like years of knowing and being known.

And when I hold that bottle in my hands—
amber liquid catching the light—
I don’t just taste cherries.
I taste presence.
Sacrifice.
Care.

Aged to smoothness,
sweet with story,
warm with love.

That’s what it really is—
not just a drink,
but love in a bottle.

And every July,
it finds its way home
to me.

Imposter Syndrome

 I’ve come to understand the ego not as something bad or broken, but as a collection of masks—personas I’ve developed over time to help me navigate the world. These masks shape how I show up: as a visual artist, a mindfulness educator, a caregiver, a progressive. Each one has its purpose. Each one has served me in some way. But the trouble begins when I start to believe those roles are who I am. When I forget that they are just parts of the story, not the whole truth.

Sometimes I pause and wonder: are all these roles necessary? Can I set them down, even for a little while, especially when I’m with someone I love and trust? Can I do it when I’m alone—can I stop performing even for myself? And underneath all that, the real question lingers: If I’m not these masks, then who am I?

It’s such an astonishing thing, this life I’ve found myself in. A mystery, really.

And yet, despite all my training, my years of practice, and the many ways I try to live a meaningful life, I still find myself facing doubt. 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.

But I’m learning to recognize that voice for what it is: the inner critic, not my true self. It may sound familiar, even convincing at times, but it’s not rooted in reality. And it certainly doesn’t speak with the voice of compassion or truth.

The truth is, I do have something to offer. We all do. My gifts are unique, not because they’re perfect, but because they’re mine. And so are yours. I try to remind myself often: think beyond the roles, beyond the titles. What do I offer just by being who I am? In quiet moments, I’ll make a list—not of achievements, but of ways I’ve shown up for others, for the world, for myself.

It helps. It helps to remember that everyone I admire has probably felt this same way at some point. That we’re not alone in this strange dance of self-doubt and longing.

With practice, with mindfulness, I’ve found that imposter syndrome doesn’t have to run the show. It might still show up from time to time, but it no longer gets to steer the ship. Instead, it becomes a kind of signpost—an invitation to remember who I really am beneath the masks. A reminder that I do, in fact, belong. That you do too.

We’re not here to be perfect. We’re here to be real. And that, in itself, is more than enough.

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.