Last post, we meandered around the simple but startling fact that we are all destined to die… if not together, certainly within 100 years of each other.

Before the arrival of our final exhale, seasons of our life will rise and fall. People will come and go. Homes, jobs, expectations, successes, and failures. Even our notions of who we are. These notions will die and require us to shed our skin and become… yet again.

We are always becoming.

We can honor this process as a rite to open our eyes to see and hearts to feel. Or we can resist it, and it will tumble us anyway. We choose how to live.

Sadly, some of us are plagued by a belief that conditions compile the life… not our choices in response. Even stranger, we’ve come to believe that every discomfort has a pill or intervention manufactured to erase it.

Except it doesn’t. Not really.1

We always find conditions beyond remedy— these are the conditions that ask us to surrender our expectations in favor of observation. You might imagine a forest before us: if we expect only bears and snakes in the forest, we won’t spend much time witnessing the song in the trees or the tangled friendships in the underbrush.

Beyond the gifts, we might discover the blessing of balance in the chaos.

We might also remember our place in the ever-renewing cycle.

Truly, we are fleeting creatures— in every moment, we can be called away from life. Even the most enduring of us fade before an oak tree reaches its prime.

We are also so alike. Despite every extravagant attempt to assert our uniqueness and personal freedoms, we mostly share a path: we are born vulnerable, toddle into play, rise into some authority, and eventually return to a new phase of playing, toddling, and vulnerability. And that’s if we’re lucky.

Throughout? We breathe together.

Despite our shared miracle, we protest a great deal about being friends, sharing resources, and forgiving each other. Maybe this waste of breath is the consequence of our collective forgetting that breath is precious. It is the one unmistakable sign that we are alive. And as we live, we choose.

Your next breath? It will be from the mouth of someone you reject, resent, or refuse. Someone who, like you, is just another leaf vulnerable to curious hands, violent wind, or the gentle separation that comes when strength finally wanes.

We are so alike.

So connected.

All of us waiting to love one another on the palm of God’s hand. And still we keep our distance.

As life passes through us, we might pause occasionally to consider who we refuse to see, standing right beside us.

Who among the breathing masses are you neglecting, rejecting, avoiding? And why, exactly, are you bothering?

I love this from Lao Tzu:

Patient with both friends and enemies, you accord with the way things are.

Compassionate toward yourself, you reconcile all beings in the world.

It follows a verse that says, ‘some say my teaching is nonsense.’ Which is often how people often respond to Jesus teaching the same idea in his Sermon on the Mount:

But I say to you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

Parallel teachings from different traditions. Both reminding us: we are made to co-exist.

Especially to figure out how to do it well. Especially through the difficulties inherent in our mortality. Or, even worse, through the mortality of our beloveds.

So, as we prepare for death, we might choose to live. To live well. To look within enough to discover our fears and to humble ourselves enough to ask for the help to face them. To become responsible for our well-being.

It’s a bit of a trope these days, but the truth remains: on death beds, no one complains that they didn’t work enough or scroll to the end. They aren’t bummed to lose ice cream and chips. Yet, this is how we spend our days: working, scrolling, eating (sub-optimal, stress-relieving) food, and submitting ourselves to a health industry that will happily see us for 5 minutes to assign a pill to mask the pain caused by food-stress-boredom.

And, weirdly, we are stubborn about it. We identify as our profession. We won’t put down our phones. We accept a long season of sickness from age 24 and to death. Food has become absurd political theater. And somehow, Doritos are the star.2

If we check with our hearts instead of our habits, we know what our last laments will be: time withheld from children, spouses, siblings. Lost friends. Lost community. Lost God. We will wish for peace… for ourselves and others.

Let’s attend to this.

Let’s look at the ways we avoid connection— not only with those we love, but everyone.

How? By learning to listen.

To our own breath first. And then to our thoughts. Then to the ways they distract us from everything happening right now. That ‘everything happening right now’? Let’s call that Spirit.

Ever notice how you stop listening to someone’s words in favor of your mind’s commentary? Ever notice how rarely you choose the actual human voice over the familiar blabber of your own mind?

We all do it.

People often tell me they can’t hear Spirit. I gently disagree. They can hear… but what they hear is their own mind, loudly yammering about disgruntlements, fears, and offenses. So, before we can listen to Spirit, we listen to the mind. We let it speak and we listen to its relentless stories.

One morning, my mind tried to prosecute all my neighbors for cutting down a tree. Never mind that we were planting other trees or that the tree was unhealthy and likely to fall on a roof. Never mind that I was the one who called attention to the dying tree. My mind insisted they had formed a conspiracy.

And my dear body felt all the agitation— the anger, the injustice, the blame, the judgment.

Underneath it all? I was just sad. I loved that tree.

Whatever it is we think of people is mostly wrong. Regardless of their religion, education, politics, the ways they’ve hurt us, the mistakes they’ve made, their criminal record, addictions, bad dancing, silly ideas. We cannot know the full story of the experiences they carry. Ever.

So here’s an alternative: instead of thinking our wrong thoughts about people, we can learn to love them.

Among the many wonders in this world, I’m not convinced there’s anything more joyful than realizing that every breath we take has been breathed by everyone who has ever lived— all the humans, all the dogs, the cats, lizards, bullfrogs, robins, trees, and the earth itself.

Last week, I rested beside a river as August simmered around me. I sat and slow-cooked in my sweat. Every 20 minutes, the grass beneath me exhaled a heavy sigh of heat. What an intimacy— to feel the earth breathe on my skin. I closed my eyes and napped.

Pure joy.

Pure Spirit.

Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God.

— Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

This is how I want to live my life.

Knowing our time is brief and shared, how do you choose to live? Where are you ready to love more deeply? And what does Spirit sing to you when you listen past the mind’s stories?

Without you, the world would miss a piece of itself.

And still— spoilers— someday, our bodies will die.

Please forgive me if this feels awkward.

And the world will continue. Mother Earth will shake off our abuses. Stars will implode, explode, and swallow worlds whole. And a billion billion celestial bodies will keep dancing— without our bodies among them.

The endurance of our spirit— well, that’s another story.

That’s the story I gleaned from my first yoga teacher when I was 16. ‘Yoga is preparation for death,’ he said. That seemed cool. It’s a story that’s been developing in my heart since.

From the start, it appealed to the nerdy Goth in me… the one who loved picnics in cemeteries and recited Keats while friends smoked cigarettes.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies…

Oh, Keats. I was grateful for the companionship of his youthful misery.

And eager to explore death’s terrain. My yoga teacher’s gift was a welcome invitation. Somewhere out there, I anticipated a dimension beyond an awkward physical existence.

Turns out, his gift was also timely.

The following five years would deliver one loss after another— of beloveds to suicide and overdose, of trust in authorities that wouldn’t or couldn’t help, of stability and future expectations.

Whatever I thought life was supposed to be dissolved.

Even the Goth was overwhelmed.

Of course, it’s easier to understand our paths in retrospect. I can see now that loss— especially, the rage, despair, and sorrow that accompanied it— opened up an essential inquiry: what do I need to feel joy?

Why did I choose joy instead of survival, power, or stability? Maybe I was too young to care about stability and I can’t remember when I wasn’t suspicious of human power. And survival? That’s a meager reason to be alive.

But joy— that was something worthy of life.

I still appreciate that choice.

Joy is a wise reason to live. And a peaceful shelter from the persistence of change. It grows from profound appreciation for every connection— and the ways every connection will transform me.

Once I had my intention, the time of loss could teach me. Not simply for the suffering; if the mere fact of suffering yielded wisdom, the world would be innately wise. Suffering doesn’t teach us anything without the virtues of our understanding, compassion, curiosity, hope, faith. Forgiveness, too.

Suffering gives us a choice.

It’s a catalyst for our free will. We can choose to suffer more, or to heal. The choice isn’t always clear or easy.

Unclear because we tend to externalize solutions when we hurt. We expect others to change so we can feel better; we think someone else is to blame and want redress. Often, when they don’t, we feel betrayed, abandoned, unworthy, and afraid.

Difficult because, unlike the fast fuse of anger or resentment or blame, healing is slow and progressive.

And whether the choice is unclear or difficult, it may take some time to make. Because choosing to heal is choosing to let our hurt perish. To let elements of our past die.

Yoga prepares us for that death. And because yoga is ultimately a practice of shedding our skin to reveal God, I offer a simple exercise.

As you move through your day, consider what elements of your past you won’t allow to die. A gentle acknowledgement here… you might have a strong ‘yeah, but’ that suggests that your past is what formed you. And this is true.

So look for those elements of your past that restrict your growth, inhibit your power, or keep your heart hardened to love. Those are the elements on life support—the ones that may be ready to transition. We can treat them kindly and acknowledge the ways they’ve blessed our path.

Speak with them. Understand them. Honor them. Thank them.

When you’re ready, give them permission to go.

If this all feels like too much, simply imagine who you might become if you walked through the day with fresh eyes and ears.

What if your senses were free of their old expectations— disappointment, betrayal, abandonment, hurt?

What if your senses could learn, in every moment, exactly what the moment offers?

Then ask gently: What part of me carries these expectations?
And: What does that part need in order to release them into a new season?

To pass into a new realm.

To die.

We’re all going to do it, eventually. We may as well talk about how often we die throughout life. Or how often we resist it. And the space we find for joy on the other side.

I love you. I celebrate all of the parts of you— your spiritual ancestors— who have passed to set you free to this moment. I also honor those parts who linger on… may they find the peace of liberation when you’re ready.

And may we all live joyfully as we prepare to die, loving in fresh ways through every fresh moment.

As always, please be in touch if you want to talk.

(One more plug! Please visit be gooder goods, my etsy store. Let’s clothe ourselves in love.)

I’m grateful for my friends, too— without exception, they are exceptional. Creative, compassionate, open-hearted, and enduring. My friends (I’m looking at you, dear one!) feed my heart with nourishment I could never imagine. How did I get so lucky?

And then there’s the startling richness of the path that continues to unfold beneath my happy feet: lots of adventures among trees, travels to far-off places, intense and profound education by patient teachers, and so many joyful surprises— even in the middle of storms, earthquakes, poverty, and grief.

I am full.

But hear me out, please. Like every other person on the planet, there are things that stick like a thorn in my foot. And no matter how lightly I step, I feel the pain.

I’m grateful for that pain.

Without it, I wouldn’t know what I need to do. And I might not feel obliged to do it. That pain is a helpful reminder: something must change.

These days, I sometimes hear from folks about the hopelessness of it all. The tedium. The downward descent into disappointment. The confusion, stinkin’ thinkin’, and complaint.

The world is a thorny place and we get stuck.

In other words, suffering exists. We feel it.

And while we may not think that’s okay… really, that’s okay.

What isn’t okay, and I say this gently, is to insist on walking around with thorns in our feet.

Every morning, I enjoy reading through Psalms. During COVID, I read a psalm a day for about six months. I read them first as poetry— those divine transmissions that poets channel to momentarily halt our habitual battles with the world. Before long, they ushered me into the celebration innate in the best poems. Not for the poet and not for the words, but for the wild mystery of life living through us.

We are blessed to perceive it.

I love the psalms for their pendular swings. We fling to the extreme of despair and float in the turning point. We fall toward lament before we ascend toward wisdom. Finally, we reach a new extreme: praise. We may float there for a bit as well.

And we fall again.

We are built for difficulty, lament, and wisdom. We are created for praise.1

To persist with the thorn in our foot is to suspend the pendulum’s swing toward our highest potential. To keep ourselves from inspired growth.

It means we hurt with every step.

You know I love a good long walk. So, to ensure you can walk with me, please consider this wisdom from Shantideva, an 8th-century monk and poet:

Where could I find enough leather to cover the whole earth? But by the leather of one pair of sandals, the earth will be covered.

Those thorns in our feet are a given. The world is a thicket.

To move from suffering and beyond lament, we put on some good sandals. That’s wisdom. And it allows us to walk with greater comfort… with an ease in our step that lets us have a look around. We see the clouds forming. We catch a baby smiling shyly. We hear our breath and discover how delightful one deeply drawn breath can feel.

We realize awe.

It is okay, friends, to suffer. None of us will escape it. It’s also okay to complain a bit— to empty ourselves out and let the energy move. We vent, cry, moan, groan. Some of us scream and curse.

Ideally, we let our emotions move in a safe and sacred space. Journaling is effective for some. For those who process verbally, it may be helpful to talk it out. Those of us who process with sound will also benefit from hearing our own words. We might ask a trusted friend to listen and let them know we aren’t looking for solutions just yet; we might call on a trusted coach or guide who will create and maintain a safe space.

However we choose to free the emotion, we do it intentionally. If we don’t, it’s likely to come out on its own, often when we aren’t ready— a sort of vomit of emotion that can become an habitual purge.

(Let’s not get in the habit of accidentally purging on people.)

Let’s allow the energy of our struggle to move until we feel the pain diminish. The thorn works its way out. We feel ready to test a new step.

As the psalmists show us, after the lament comes wisdom. We find meaning in the pain. We learn how we contributed. We untangle our confusion and discover what we need. We may even become grateful for the lessons of our struggle. Having moved through our lament, we’ll be a little less fragile, a little more resilient, and a lot more compassionate. Toward ourselves and others.

We put on our sandals for a walk through the wild mystery of being.

And, when the pendulum swings, and new struggle arises— as it will— we might notice that we step a little more lightly, grateful for our sandals. We might say thank you to all of our past difficulties, for offering us wisdom’s protection and the illumination that comes from walking in awe.

What do you think, my friend? Are you ready to put on some sandals? You might ask yourself:

1. In what area of my life do I expect the world to be covered in leather if I’m to walk safely over it?

2. What lament do I habitually expel without intention and what would it be like to consciously release it?

3. How do I praise and when is the last time I did?

Dear friend, please be in touch if you’d like a safe place to empty yourself out of something you’ve carried for too long.

I love you.

And I want to feel you walking beside me… in awe.

I wonder what new learning you’ve found through this shifting season? I wonder what welcome you offered to change?

Me? I’m reminded of a law professor’s advice. When I lamented that I didn’t manage an A in his class, he poked, “But you’ll always remember the struggle.”

Yes, Professor Dobris, I do. Thank you.

And it’s also true that I didn’t deserve an A. I remember little about Property Law except adverse possession— in which stubborn persistence in claiming land that isn’t yours is eventually rewarded with ownership.

I do, however, remember his practice tips: “A” students become professors, “B” students become judges, and “C” students make money. No situation is ever the same. The conflict of family dynamics, cultural taboos, and personality quirks reveals the real story behind every property dispute. In other words, no one ever sued because they were feeling at peace with the world.

Finally, he suggested that whatever role we take on, the best of us will prepare others to surrender some pride.

As an A-minus student with little interest in teaching or adjudicating, I left the profession and found a better way to live. Still, I’m grateful for the education.

Whether I’m reflecting on lawyer days or yoga therapy days, Professor Dobris was right on all counts. The story of a dispute is never really the dispute itself; it lives in the household, the community, and the relationships, with ourselves and others, that surround it.

Family. Culture. Personality. And, I would add, pain. Nothing provokes resentment— litigious or otherwise— like the unhealed pain of our disappointment with family, culture, and all the ways we interact. We can call it injustice, unfairness, betrayal, abandonment. Deep in the roots of every resentment lies an unresolved hurt.

Which means healing is paramount if we want to avoid resentment.

And, oh my goodness, healing is such a big shift. Sometimes, our egos fiercely resist it.

So, as Dobris suggested, our greatest service— as friends, healers, and humans— may be to gently guide one another to that softer place disarmed of pride. Maybe we need to sacrifice at least an ounce per conflict.

(How many ounces are there in me, anyway?)

These days, in a season of minor struggle, I’ve been wondering what little ounce, here and there, might need to go. To find them, I look at my story and the ways my precious ego tries to defend me. I ask: What part of this conflict am I upholding? What threat do I perceive? And what’s the downside of protecting my status quo?

The benefit of protecting it is always clear: things stay the same.

The downside? Nothing in the world stays the same.

Lately I’ve been contemplating the story of the man at the well (John 5).

Paralyzed for thirty-eight years, he waited by the healing waters, hoping for a chance at restoration. When Jesus asked, “Do you want to be healed?” the man told his familiar story: “I can’t… I’ve been here so long… no one helps me… someone else always gets there first.”

I hear his story.

Do you?

Family long gone. Community absent. Whatever he feels toward himself, it isn’t empowered.

To accept this change, the man would have to sacrifice everything he knew of himself. He would no longer be paralyzed. No longer dependent. No longer waiting by the pool.

And he gets up. So many ounces of pride sacrificed.

I like to think I’d get up too.

But I can hear my story… and feel the fear in it. A story that I’m alone. A story of regret. A story that I should have a plan before I release my status quo.

Then again, God laughs at our plans.

This week, I invite you to contemplate an ounce of pride you’d sacrifice so healing can happen to a lingering pain.

Imagine your freedom from one little struggle.

What’s the best thing that could happen if you lower your defenses? What’s the new possibility that arises? Who might you become if you let your story unfold in ways you can’t fathom?

Wonderful one, we can’t stop change.

But when we befriend it, it offers so many gifts: new people, new patterns, new ways of seeing. New reasons to say thank you. Flowers bloom and die and grow again in unknown fields.

Every new growth is a new reason to love change.

Like I love you.

My friend, you are so essential. Thank you for every way you care for the world… and for yourself.

Please reach out when you want to hear a friendly voice. Or, you know, want to hear a stupid joke. Like this one:

What do lawyers wear to court?

Lawsuits.

Heh.

Now, go get a friend an awesome hat. Or a shirt. Or just some flowers.

My dear wonderful yogis… thank you. I’m so grateful you’re here.

Please tell me: How are you doing with your practice of connecting with everything? What little and big birds have gained your attention lately? What little and big habits have come into view?

No matter what we may think, everything awaits our awareness. We may think about a few things a lot or we may think about a lot of things a little. Beyond all our thinking is the blessing of a breathing creation, living and moving, as much a part of us as we are of it.

Our yoga reminds us of our belonging— if we’re willing. Willing to what? Willing to surrender to the mystery of our place in creation.

We may not like it. We may not understand it. Creation doesn’t need us to do either. It only asks us to breathe with it for as long as we’re here. And that, my friends, is another incomprehensible part of the mystery.

(Maybe the most important question we can ask ourselves: ‘how do I say no to Creation?’)

In our last yoga lesson, we learned that the Yoga Sutra of Patanjali calls us to cultivate trust; it is an essential component of our practice as we remember how to connect with everything. Trust is part of our willingness to say yes to Creation’s invitation. Along with trust, we explored the four other resources—energy, memory, concentration, and wisdom—that support our practice.

So we examine our trust. For some of us, we may not feel confident in much. For others, we might have strong faith… in some things. For many of us, our trust might be invested in entities and ideas that disconnect us better than connect us.

Okay! Connection starts with awareness.

And when we’re aware, we may choose to shift our focus to the few things we can control: our perception, our response, our words. We can say yes or we can say no.

When we turn down Creation’s invitation to live, what happens to our connection?

Patanjali has a thought on this and it comes as his big, first-chapter pivot. In a nutshell, he wants us to think a little less of ourselves and a little more of Creation. Specifically, the way the Creator connects us through, with, and for… EVERYTHING.

Until now, Patanjali has been sharing with us the qualities and resources we need to find our yoga— that full absorption in the way things are. We’re advised to watch our thoughts, and evaluate their benefit. We must earnestly practice distance from these thoughts— over a long time. And we need to give ourselves grace as we learn, understanding that we might be overcoming patterns established over many lifetimes (and this one!).

It’s a complex task to even contemplate, much less encounter.

Today Patanjali offers us another option. A gentler route. A lifeline.

He calls it Īśvara-praṇidhāna — dedication, surrender, or wholehearted devotion to God.

In the sutras we’ll examine today, we’ll receive guidance to help us identify, relate to, and call on God. Let’s acknowledge at the outset… defining God is no simple task. The Creator and its Creation is a complexity so far beyond us that trying to do anything other than devote ourselves to it is a fool’s errand.

Still, we humans are mostly foolish. So, here goes.

1.23 īśvara-praṇidhānād vā
Or, by surrender to God.

1.24 kleśa-karma-vipāka-āśayair aparāmṛṣṭaḥ puruṣa-viśeṣa īśvaraḥ
God is special Consciousness, untarnished by afflictions, actions, their fruits, or their underlying impressions.

1.25 tatra niratiśayaṃ sarvajña-bījam
In Him, the unsurpassed seed of all-knowing.

1.26 sa pūrveṣām api guruḥ kālena anavacchedāt
Īśvara is also the teacher of the ancient teachers, unbound by time.

1.27 tasya vācakaḥ praṇavaḥ
His expression is the sacred sound Oṃ.

1.28 taj-japas tad-artha-bhāvanam
Repetition of that sound, along with contemplation of its meaning, cultivates the presence of God.

Thank you, God.

I wonder how you feel now, having encountered Patanjali’s introduction of the divine to your yoga practice?

It’s not uncommon to feel surprised—or even resistant—when God suddenly appears in the Yoga Sūtra. Many of us in the West were taught that yoga is secular, that God is optional or an afterthought.

Of course, folks will do their thing arguing about whose God. Patanjali uses the term Īśvara… an ancient word used to define the category of God. The word denotes the most exceptional sovereign— the Lord. It’s a term used in older Vedic texts to indicate a personal and unnamed God. Your Lord. Your highest.

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Thank you for your presence and kindness. I’m always grateful for the messages you write—whether in the comments or by email. Some of you are awesome penpals, and I love you for it.

In my last, well, let’s call it correspondence, I shared a bit about being. And how easy it is to get lost in the doing. It’s right here…

Today I want to carry the conversation a little further— a bit of doing in the service of being— to highlight the quiet hunger of our hearts.

In a time of hungry hearts, we might learn to feed them. That’s another doing in the service of being. And it’s so necessary.

Let’s begin by acknowledging a few honest realities. None of them are wrong; they’re simply the sound of a heart rumbling for nourishment.

How often do we feel lonely or scared or angry or hopeless? How often do we complain— aloud or silently— about the way things have gone?

Underneath the complaints, there’s a heart yearning… for us. For our presence. For our care.

When the emotions rise and the complaints begin to form, we have a choice. Be with the heart or abandon it?

Arrive or run?

Too often, we run. We ignore the heart and look to everything that feels wrong: an absence of friends (or the right friends!); the failure of security (or the security we want!); the impossibility of peace (or our ideas of it!); or the righteousness of despair (what fool would hope?). The inventory justifies the complaints: people are no good; safety is lost; peace, extinct; why do we even bother…

It hurts to write. It hurts to say. It hurts to even think. And the heart grows hungrier in our pain.

I’d like us, for a moment, to imagine the love we give to our hearts. Without waiting for someone else to offer it, or demanding it of anyone, what if we love our own hearts. What do they have to say? What would it be like to listen and to love that beautiful heart in its yearning to love and listen?

And what else will we offer?

Let’s prepare some simple meals to nourish our hearts’ work in our lives. Let’s set the table and be together. What would you choose to feed your heart?

If you aren’t sure, you might contemplate the broad categories of universal human needs: sustenance, security, love, understanding, creativity, play, belonging, autonomy, purpose. Or you might contemplate from the transcendentals: truth, goodness, beauty.

What you imagine, you can begin. Like so…

Let’s say your heart craves play. Would you be willing to take yourself for a bike ride, a walk on the shore, a trip to the zoo or a garden?

Or maybe your heart craves safety. Would you be willing to make the space to sit quietly with it, to rest your hands on your chest, to breathe and feel the breath gently soothing the heart?

Or how about belonging? Are you willing to tend to the relationships you keep, to call on your people and invite them to give and receive of the world with you?

If the heart wants beauty, create it. If the heart wants purpose, contribute.

There is, truly, so much to be done, and these doings are often the last or absent items on the ‘to-do’ list. Still, they are important. They are the truth of those transcendentals— the essential actions that grow the fruits of goodness and beauty. They are the source of our highest potential: to serve the spirit of our hearts so our hearts can serve the world— confidently, joyfully, eagerly.

So, what will the fortified voices of our hearts sound like?

Maybe like this:

• We send more thank you notes to the friends we have or pick up the phone to check in.

• We thank our good fortune for the home over our heads and the protection it offers from the elements. We bless the food in our fridge and our neighbors who share.

• We take and encourage moments of quiet in our families so we can practice peacefulness together.

• We honor with each other how faith dares to tread in every new experience, and every new morning, and every next moment. And we endeavor to promote faith over despair.

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Notice how each of these doings serves our deeper being — a being that is connected, grateful, peaceful. A faithful being. A being with a heart ready to love.

Take a moment now to consider: How often do we lose sight of the beloved aspects of life because we fix our gaze on performance or perfection?

No judgment, friends, we all do it. We all sometimes prioritize our ideas about love over love. We want it to look a certain way instead of the way it is. We don’t call the friend because she didn’t call first. We don’t appreciate our home until it’s perfectly clean. We withhold our presence until we feel understood.

It happens.

And when it does, it simply shows us the hunger of our hearts.

So let’s feed them.

Call the friend. Appreciate the home. Listen in the silence. Give your heart every opportunity to walk beside you and your heart will be nourished.

The perfection is already here. The only performance required is love.

Let’s make ready our hearts.

To love.

I love you.

Which leads me to ask… how have you been present lately? I wonder how you’ve attended to your body, your mind, your soul? Please share in the comments. It’s so important that we can be together!

Speaking of…

My friend, let’s talk about doing versus being.

Over the last couple weeks, I’ve noticed a strong inclination in some friends to DO more and let being fend for itself. Maybe one of those friends is also me…

Here’s an example. Last week was full: lots of blocks on the calendar, very little empty space. Some stuff happened in my family, too. It was a week of emotional weight. A free hour appeared and my first instinct was to fill it: a trip to the store, laundry, emails. The hour would be done in an instant and I would rush into the next thing.

Then I paused and remembered something.

I’m a human being, not a human doing.

The expectation that I must do ALL the things would in no way benefit the human being I wanted to be. It would only keep me in motion.

So instead of doing all the things, I did two: I folded some laundry and I made space for being. I sat my bum down on my pillow. I breathed, watched my breath, settled my heart, and watched its settling.

Then I asked it to speak to me about being.

Here’s what it said:

Here I am.

Just that.

Here I am.

Which says a lot about the faithfulness of the heart, doesn’t it?

There it is, always waiting for us, always prepared to be with us, always steady and yearning to love us. Just a smidge of attention offered to it— just one question— and the wisdom it offers is pure being. No requests, no judgments. No point of contention or where-have-you-been’s?

Only presence.

Our highest powers— by whatever name you call them— want to be with us.

So ask yourself, are you willing to be with them?

Once upon a time, I envisioned a universe that would be with me only if I deserved the company. Honestly, I wasn’t anxious for it. Being with the infinite felt like being caught by authority: I was either trying too hard or caught red-handed. My body closed shop around power structures. I sided instead with the trees, who seemed to grow upward persistently. Whether they grew a little bent or became the tallest tree in the world didn’t seem to matter to the tree. I could be like that.

And for many years, I did okay. Except trees keep good company with each other. And I became a lawyer… always poised for conflict.

Fortunately, I surrendered that profession. And I started the hard work of freeing my body of old fortifications. As the walls came down, my heart found relief. As my heart found relief, I found the divine. I am always in awe of its faith in me.

In all of us.

Which is why this inquiry into being versus doing feels important.

Imagine the quality of your presence to those waiting to love you, to connect with you, even to simply be with you. How do you show up? Are you hustling with activities and bursting with ideas? Do you come with suggestions, advice, and a long list of errands to share?

Or do you offer your ears and eyes to your waiting friend? Do you offer space to let things happen?

A while back, I created a Daily To-Be list. I share it with you now and encourage you to play with it. We all have lots of things to do. And it’s important that we do the things.

It’s also important that we remember our nature: we are beings, being. We are beings, being together. Most importantly, we are beings, becoming.

Sometimes, in all of our doing, we let our activities define us. What we do, we become. Driver, chef, housecleaner, warrior, teacher, lover. Our practices become us. Our worthiness requires activity.

But maybe the practice we miss is the practice of being. The practice that only our presence and reciprocates by bringing the profound within reach: to become complete human beings.

We are meant to be fully alive. We are meant to be connected and supportive and whole.

So how will you practice being?

Here are a few simple suggestions:

• Sit quietly and ask your heart to speak to you.

• Listen to the wind, or the words of your friends, or the song of the birds.

• Contemplate the ways you open yourself to love, and the ways you don’t.

• Contemplate the ways you share love, and the ways you don’t.

• Contemplate what you expect in exchange for love shared or received.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and discoveries. How are you practicing being these days? What does your heart say when you give it a little space?

A gentle reminder to anyone interested… The second Caravan begins April 10 at 10am PDT/1pm EDT. Please join. We’ll meet on Fridays for six weeks. The cost is $50. Our topic: Yoga’s Rules of Conduct: the yamas and niyamas as guideposts on the path. Please send me a note if you’re interested. I look forward to being together.

I love you!

I love you.

And I’m not just whispering sweet nothings!

Okay, first, an invite. I want YOU to join the Caravan, a weekly meeting of friends who walk together along a shared path for a bit. Together, we look into life, our understanding of it, and the Yoga Sutra of Patanjali. We meditate on the sutras to help us understand our behaviors, emotions, thoughts, and actions— especially those that get in the way of our purpose.

The second Caravan is forming soon. Please join. We’ll meet on Fridays, 9:30am PDT/12:30 EDT, starting April 10. Six weeks. Our topic: Yoga’s Rules of Conduct: the yamas and niyamas as guideposts on the path. Please send me a note to reserve your spot. I look forward to being together.

Today, we’ll move through three very practical sutras. These three, from 1.20-22, offer the framework for us regular folks to experience a deep merger with all that is. That’s an elevated state we may not always look for in our day-to-day.

But maybe we start?!

You’ll recall that this elevated state— asamprajñāta samādhi— is the promise of yoga. It indicates that condition of liberated consciousness unbound from object or knowledge, yet completely absorbed. We proceed in that direction by and through the path of yoga.

You might say the way and the destination are the same, just in different sizes. Asamprajñāta samādhi is like the super extra grande of mind clarity. Most of us are nursing quiet mind from tiny sippy cups that barely satisfy an ant.

I’ve always found it really generous— also slightly humorous— that these practical tidbits are offered in service of such an exceptional state. Sort of like, avoid nachos before the E-ticket ride.1

Necessary, but mundane advice.

It reminds us that we’re meant to live in this world, and it’s full of carbon becoming diamonds. It’s a place of immanent practicality becoming eminently precious. The dirt grows the flower, right?

This world is our home for practice. Every form we take provides the structure and the debris that lets everything come alive and die again. Consider the wildflowers springing with the season into our meadows. They have their time of arising. Soon enough, they fade and fall. And in a deep grief for their fleeting nature, we might also realize the efficiency of their beautiful lives. They rise, shine, contribute, fall, contribute, rise, and shine again.

We’re all wildflowers, my friends.

We’re all, I propose, little mechanisms of change enlivening our absorption in God. And that’s what St. Paul might call the love that surpasses knowledge. It’s the same thing that Patanjali calls asamprajñāta samādhi— the connection uprooted from intellect.

And while some folks may have experienced a bit of practice in previous lives that gives them a headstart toward this state, Patanjali invites everyone to take this ride. He even reminds us that we’ll all get to the end of the ride eventually— faster or slower depending on our enthusiasm.

These three sutras are for all of us:

So, just what do we need to become completely absorbed without tether?

1.20: śraddhā-vīrya-smṛti-samādhi-prajñā-pūrvakaḥ itareṣām
We need faith (śraddhā), strength/vitality (vīrya), memory (smṛti), concentration/absorption (samādhi), and wisdom (prajñā). This sutra says these resources come before success for others without previous experience.

1.21: tīvra-saṃvegānām āsannaḥ
If we have intense ardor or enthusiasm, that samādhi is close.

1.22: mṛdu-madhya-adhimātratvāt tato’pi viśeṣaḥ
Whether our application of these resources is mild, moderate, or intense makes a difference. Our intensity determines the rate of change.2

It comes down to this: faith, strength, memory, contemplation, and wisdom—all to be practiced with keen interest. If we practice in a lukewarm manner, it’ll take some time. If we practice fervently, the ride picks up steam.

Makes sense.

So, how do you use these resources? We all have them: trust, vitality, memory, the ability to concentrate, and access to wisdom. But we may not always call them to action. Or, if we’re honest, we may recruit them in service of consequences we don’t really want.

Let’s linger on śraddhā first—because Patañjali always places the priority element first.

Many people today bristle at the word “faith.” It can feel too tied to religion—or A religion—and religion has walked a challenging path over the last century. It’s been the prompt for wars and isolation, for hostility in friendly communities, and betrayal. I get it; I was raised Catholic, and my path to make peace with the church was leagues longer than the leap to escape it. Yoga has offered my path of return, and I will always be grateful.

But śraddhā isn’t necessarily religious faith. It’s a deep trust— and we all place it somewhere. While I may not have had faith in God when I started yoga, I did have faith in learning, teachers, and love. Faith saved me and gave me stable ground when the conditions of my world became quicksand.

Other words to expand the notion might be: confidence, reliance, conviction, wholeheartedness. It’s an inner certainty that a path is worth walking, that the practice will bear fruit, that something greater than our small self is holding us, will hold us, and loves to hold us.

We practice some śraddhā every day—whether we call it that or not. We trust our phones to guide us, our brakes to stop the car, our medicine to heal us. In those shadowy places of conviction, some of us may feel confident in our political divides or trusting in our finances to keep us safe. We rely on science, relationships, routines— sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

A question Patanjali might encourage us to ask ourselves: where do we place our deepest trust? What do we rely on most? Who or what have we turned into a god in our lives, and does this god have our highest good at heart?

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Thank you for being you. And thank you for lending your eyes and ears to a moment of quiet introspection. I won’t go on and on today. What I will do is encourage some listening.

Let’s discover the voice in service of your soul.

We can all hear the shouting of louder voices: the righteously indignant, anxious, and protesting. We can hear the voices afraid of change, pain, strangers, and neighbors.

Our voices may be well-practiced here, and this may be appropriate.

To everything there is a season,

a time for every purpose under heaven.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

It may also be appropriate to listen beyond the sounds of our rehearsed raucous to discern the common music of our lives.

The whisper of our bodies breathing together.

The sighs of relief at the sun’s return and our awe as it melts into the horizon.

The contentment, even, when our bellies and senses are satisfied by creation’s abundance.

Or, the wailing when we lose what we love. Because the heart’s dirge is also a necessary song in a season of loss.

Don’t we all share in this? Aren’t we all, at the essence of our being, all dancing to these soul songs? And though we may feel ourselves divided, aren’t we all dancing together?

Listen… I hear it too. The noise of the mind’s terrain is like a persistent leaf blower. It’s one of my least favorite inventions but redeems itself as a perfect metaphor (for me, anyway) of stupid, loud noises that serve no purpose but a pretense that we can shift the wind. Silly.

And isn’t that what we do with our persistent scoffing, complaining, condemnation of those who think differently than we do?

We make loud noises pretending that we can shift the wind.

Here’s what Jesus had to say about that:

Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn others, or it will all come back against you. Forgive others, and you will be forgiven.

Luke 6:37

His guidance reiterates older teachings from the East:

When people see some things as beautiful,
other things become ugly.
When people see some things as good,
other things become bad.

Tao Te Ching 2 (Stephen Mitchell translation)

It occurred to me— because someone said it— that writing like this, here, proposing that you know thyself, could lead some to believe that I know something about your path.

I don’t.

I know nothing about your path.

But I know a way has been laid for us.

Lao Tsu’s teaching is called ‘the way.’

Well before Christians were called Christians, they were called practitioners of the Way.

What I take from this? There’s a way… and it helps when we intentionally follow it. The way unwinds beneath our feet and trail angels will offer us comfort, shelter, and advice when it’s tough. We may also encounter a beaming bearer of light or two. These saints remind us (again and again) to lift our faces to warmth and radiance. Maybe also to learn methods of navigation— like entering through the narrow gate1— or how to dress— like clothing yourself in love2— or what to carry— nothing burdensome.3

To me, the most important learning I’ve discovered on my way is to accept the wisdom, consolation and encouragement of those who came before me. And because I listen to them, I’ve learned to listen to the same song singing in my heart.

As for the rest of the noise, like with leaf blowers, I whistle through it. Or laugh a little. And, sometimes, when it’s particularly difficult, I shut the windows, cover my ears and put on a better song.

Like this:

I admire you, friend. I respect you. I encourage you.

I love you!

Let your soul sing your song so we can all hear it. And may you walk your path with ears to hear the music of your fellow wanderers.

Whatever! Here we are, and I appreciate you.

I’d like to give a special shout-out to those dear travelers who came along on for a Yoga Sutra adventure through the start of the year.

I called it the Caravan because we all got to meet to walk together along a shared path for a little bit. Together, we looked into the Yoga Sutra of Patanjali, especially with reference to how we end some behaviors, emotions, thoughts, and actions that get in the way of our connection to ourselves, life, God— and how we begin again with true aim.

I look forward to another Caravan forming and I invite you, well in advance, to contemplate joining our next session. This time, we’ll meet on Fridays, 9:30am PDT/12:30 EDT, starting April 10. Six weeks. Topic: The Yamas & Niyamas: Our Practices to Find Meaning. Please send me a note to reserve your spot.

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Thank you for being here. You are a precious soul venturing forth in an ever-changing human body. How much does your soul’s mission amaze you?

If it doesn’t, maybe let’s talk?

It might change things, you know, to remember that every human you will ever meet is carrying a soul in there. You might even let your souls meet and play. If you do, I’m pretty sure you’ll remember true love.

Which brings me to a question:

How do you give your soul room to roam?

We like our chickens to be free-range. What about that indwelling spirit of ours?

I ask because I spent six wonder-filled weeks contemplating the Yoga Sūtra of Patañjali with some yogis. Specifically, we looked at the ways and means of yoga, and the human conditions that trouble our progress. According to Patanjali, these obstacles arise due to our ignorance, ego, desires, and fear of change.

I found the discussion about the guidance of sutra 1.33 most informative. Here’s the verse with a standard translation:

maitrī-karuṇā-muditopekṣāṇāṃ sukha-duḥkha-puṇyāpuṇya-viṣayāṇāṃ bhāvanātaś citta-prasādanam

By cultivating friendliness toward the happy, compassion toward the suffering, delight toward the virtuous, and equanimity toward the unvirtuous, the mind remains clear and serene.

While folks felt comfortable sharing attitudes of friendliness, compassion, and delight, we stumbled a bit at the invitation to practice equanimity.

Specifically, and importantly, my wise friends asked for a definition of virtue in order to understand what might be unvirtuous. So, what is virtue?

I shared the Socratic six: goodness, wisdom, moderation, courage, justice, and faith. Of course, Socrates believed that you couldn’t have one without all… and his list has been expanded over time to include other qualities. Maybe silence and cleanliness. Maybe order and punctuality. Maybe tranquility, sincerity, kindness, and gratitude.

The virtues I hold dear? Compassion, unconditional love, sincerity, courage, and faith.

What behaviors demonstrate goodness on earth to you?

Whatever they are, can we agree? We all value goodness, and we all stumble, from time to time, creating it.

What can I say? We’re souls inhabiting heavy, sentient human bodies. Something or other is going to get us hurting. And when we hurt, our souls often lose their freedom.

We constrict.

And with good reason, right? We live in a world balancing light and dark.

This understanding brings me to a question.

When we’re tense, constricted, restraining our souls from their adventure, who do we become?

First, here’s what we seem to do:

We scroll, trying to impress, suppress, or punish. We bristle, upset at news in the home, community, or abroad. We are neighbors reporting neighbors for rolling through stop signs. We are community players hollering at community players. Earthlings upset at earthlings.

And everyone yelling believes they’re the virtuous ones. And everyone getting yelled at thinks it’s them.

Meanwhile, we’re all crouching a bit on the inside, hurting. Certainly not steadfast in our equanimity practice. Maybe the only steady part of us is the finger pointing at someone else.

And so, before the equanimity… a little bit of healing. We need a little space, a little quiet, a little rest. Some encouragement to the body to soften; an invitation to the mind to look beyond these patterns of hurt.

Let’s learn. Together.

First things first… we take responsibility for our healing.

We may need to enlist the support of friends, family, caregivers, therapists, coaches, trainers, teachers, dogs, trees, flowers, oceans, all of it. Importantly, we enlist the support of our higher power— the one coursing through us in every moment, animating every breath and heartbeat, every glimmer of connection with life and love. With that power, by whatever name you uplift it, healing is ours to navigate.

Likewise, the source of our hurt. That’s ours to investigate, too.

And it may not be what we think—especially if we assume it comes from elsewhere.

We forget that it’s our bodies that feel the pain. It’s our minds that provide the context. It’s our history in the world that tells the story. Something outside us may inspire our pain to cry out, but our pain resides within us.

It calls on us to pay attention. What a blessing.

While our pain has value, our attachment to it diminishes its worth. We may hold on so we don’t repeat the mistake—but there we are again, contracting in hurt.

All of this? Ours to experience. Our pain, our resistance, our softening, our healing.

We may love to blame everyone else, but it’s ours.

Consider how often we collectively point outside ourselves when difficult emotions arise? Partners are meant to improve for us. Friends are meant to agree politically and spiritually with us. Family, even, is expected to behave in particular ways or risk a beloved going no contact.

And even though we live in a time of safe spaces and trigger warnings, we can barely practice the virtue of moderation when it comes to our national dialogue. Everyone just keeps yelling at each other, demanding everyone else to change.

Well, my friends, it seems our equanimity is troubled. Our suffering is clear. Our souls are confined.

So let’s offer ourselves some compassion.

As gold requires the crucible and success requires mistakes, our hearts require some hardship.

Mended hearts are the strongest.

We’re all in the same boat. A bunch of perfectly imperfect beings meant to coexist. And try as we might to cultivate our own inner peace, once we’re in the dynamic of relationship— a party of 2, or a festival of 8 billion— we’re sailing a sea of potential. Still waters give way to a storm; the storm fades into serenity. It couldn’t be otherwise, really.

So here’s a reminder.

Failure is an opportunity.

If you blame someone else, there is no end to the blame.

Therefore the Master fulfills her own obligations and corrects her own mistakes.

She does what she needs to do and demands nothing of others.

— Tao Te Ching, verse 79 (Stephen Mitchell translation)

Let’s do what we need to do. Let’s see what happens when we demand nothing of others for a day. And to practice, we might try one of the following:

1. Practice gratitude. Sit quietly and find the ever-present light shining on your path. Search for it. Wake up early and witness the sunrise. Sit on the grass and listen to it hum. Stand at the mirror and gaze into your own eyes— see every dearly beloved person shining back from them. Whatever you find, say thank you. Our willingness to say thank you shifts everything in our brains to accommodate positive news and then generate it. Imagine: if you generate positive news, what would change in your life? And if everyone you know did the same?

2. Accept responsibility. I know it sucks to feel difficult emotions. And I’m sorry. But they’re yours. I can’t say it anymore simply. What we feel is ours to feel. And it’s okay to feel. We’ve been fed so many lines for so long about the perils of pain— medicate it away, create the safest rooms, demand kid glove behavior from all. But we’re meant to feel our pain. Not to push through and not to suppress but to learn about solace. Consider: How do you find solace? How do you give yourself to your solace? What do you call that solace?

I have a determined faith that we all rise together. I know our souls absolutely love one another.

Which brings me back to our free-range souls.

My little voice is a small one in the wilds; far and wide may it roam. But here’s the thing: I used to hear the noise over truth, too. My soul used to be tightly held in a hurting body. And, good Lord forgive me, I was an eloquent complainer. About the ways someone, some thing, some past event left me scarred. About the state of the world. About every burden of life.

One afternoon, thanks to the arrival of one free soul at my side, I realized I could heal. Thank you, God, for sending a message. Thank you, friend, for delivering it.

One solitary voice in the wilds opened my ears after a decade of keeping them shut tight.

This is why we’re meant to heal— so we can share. So we can hold our collective failures in forgiving hearts and set our souls free. We never know where they need to roam, and how our little voices may share a truth beyond the noise.

We can be steady. We can be virtuous. We can also fail—and when we do, we can set our souls free to understand, while we remain steady and virtuous.

Please let me know how you’ll give your soul some room to roam. I want to hear from you.

I love you.

Thank you for your kind support. If it feels right, please share this with a friend. Your soul is a messenger, too. Your love is required.

Dear friends.

I’m so grateful to you. It’s a true kindness that you take this moment to read a post that won’t lift blue over red, or red over blue, or your right versus my wrong, or this devastation over that one.

I’m grateful because there’s good news, too. And you’re here and I’m here so let’s share it. Consider this a pause from regularly scheduled programming.

For a moment, we can just be. Together.

Because, and forgive my zeal, I love life. I love that we get to be. Together.

I love the microcosms we keep in our homes, and the macrocosm that will eventually devour our homes.

And us.

I love the redwoods and the AI, the rainbows and the chemtrails.

I love lamps and bonfires, fast cars and slow walks.

And the creatures?

How about lizards doing push-ups?

Or the cardinal in my winter yellow yard?

Dogs fussing at the window. Cats, aloof.

And the humans, too.

Doting and dazzled fathers wring out my heart, but the mothers— the divine speaks through a mother’s devotion.

Or inventors? Courageous and insistent hands persuading an idea to live.

Or soldiers? Booted and brave men and women holding hard lines so the rest of us can wander and rest, mostly safe on soft ground.

Or farmers? Adoptive parents of the land, caretaking our dirt and tending its children.

I love engineers, too, for their trust in the order of the world, and attempts to temporarily relieve it of our weight. And teachers, so long as they let the children fish in all the wild ways they will. Because what do teachers know, anyway, that children didn’t demand they learn?

Or the young men in trucks in the morning, waiting at the light and dreaming of ways to provide for a family they haven’t encountered.

And the old women knitting hats for unsheltered heads.

And neighbors making cookies to leave on a doorstep.

And a delivery driver willing to take thanks.

In the wintertime, especially, in the long third week of a meandering January, I love conversations about weather and the layers we wear and remove, depending.

And I love the aching, dry bodies beneath the layers, too.

Or the lithe and willing bodies.

Or the robust and resilient bodies.

All the bodies awaiting care. Or touch. Or some quiet nod from empty spaces that a body belongs here.

And the hearts, too.

Down the street, a church building opens its doors so neighbors can sleep warmly. Except the doors don’t open on their own but by the hands of a machinist who shapes car parts, and a great-grandmother who cares for her disabled husband, and a retired government worker, an adolescent eager to be acknowledged, a medical assistant in scrubs. Someone makes the dinner and someone else makes the beds and this family spends the cold evening together, talking or resting and finally sleeping while the grass ices over.

How much wonder can I bear?

Every wonder the world is capable of creating is the wonder we bear.

I’m fascinated, not fathoming.

Fascinating, too, unfathomable.

Finite and fleeting and small; reflecting, conducting, and empty.

A miracle and a devastation and a healing.

A journey and a homecoming.

A balm, a bomb— you and me, both.

And the only truth seems to be darkness and light and the choices we make between them.

Usually, inconsistently. Often, unknowing.

So the celebration might be reserved for the light’s return. Especially in the darkest hours.

So, my friends, I celebrate you.

A shooting star and a firefly.

A sun and a rocket.

A proton, carrying on.

Thank you for reflecting here.

I love you.

Here we are at lesson six of this pilgrimage through the Yoga Sūtra of Patañjali. We’ve encountered the promises of yoga, a description of the thought forms that busy the mind, and an introduction to the means of practice.

Now, it’s time to let Patañjali guide us into a deeper appreciation of what we see as reality.

That’s awesome, right?

Before we begin, I want to thank new subscribers to knowing thyself. Dear Barb, dear Paula, dear Andy—you are all so appreciated. Thank you for being here. If you’re already a subscriber and enjoy what you discover here, I encourage you to share with friends. There’s just nothing better than meeting friends of friends.

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Here we go.

To understand the content in the four sūtras we’ll discuss today, we need a little foundation in the yogic cosmological scheme. Let’s enter into the thought experiment shared by the great ṛṣis (seers or, literally, listeners) who encounter and pass along the wisdom of the world:

How did the world come about?
What do you really know about the impulse of creation?
What have you been taught?
What do you suspect?
What do you imagine?

Whatever construct we envision, notice how any examination of the beginnings of existence tends to remind us of two things at once: we are, as individual humans, incredibly fleeting; and it is absolutely miraculous that we exist.

Here’s the world’s origin story from a yogic perspective. (Please forgive my errors in understanding and give grace to my teachers for continuing to guide this energetic student.)1

First, there is consciousness. This is called Puruṣa. It exists without form or force and evolves nothing more than consciousness itself. Consciousness simply is.

Alongside Puruṣa is the pure potential of creation. This is called Prakṛti. It is unmanifested energy and form; its nature is to evolve and dissolve. Here is our mother—the source of everything we perceive, think, know, are, and will be.

I imagine our eternal mother gestating a trinity of unmanifest energies. These are the guṇas—the power of change, the power of light, and the power of darkness. From these energies, first the will, then the ego, then subtle elements of sound, touch, form, taste, and smell evolve. It is from these subtle elements that the gross construct of what we call our world takes shape: space, wind, fire, water, and earth.

Understanding the duality—of consciousness as it is and the ever-shifting cycle of energy in motion—is essential because the union of yoga is a process of involution. We follow the breadcrumbs of creation back to its source.

We find, at the source, that we only know it as consciousness.

I know. That’s a lot.

Let’s pause here and do an exercise.

Please grab something at hand—a pen, a rock, a flower, your dog, a glass of water.

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Dear friend.

Surely, in every moment, a choice awaits us. We may not step up to greet it, but there it is, a wallflower at the dance, just as pretty as can be while we stumble over our feet to avoid it.

Last night, on a drive to downtown Charleston, I watched the tail lights of so many unique journeys and understood something about the wilderness of human perspective. The something? Our perspective can be a kaleidoscope or a wet blanket thrown on the light of the world.

And the world tolerates us, still.

Here is a strip of concrete among trees; they bide their time until they retake the land. High above, a gallery of billboards curated and arranged so cynically along the road to promote eager personal injury attorneys. And out in the dark, a vast convergence of waterways, all humming with life unconcerned by whatever cause macabre the humans on the road bemoan.

Because, gosh, the bemoaning.

That’s some perspective.

To offer another, I offer this thank you letter.

Dear World, dear Wind, dear Water and Sky, dear Emptiness and Completion, dear God of all beings, Creator and Guide…

I’m so grateful for the joy and the sorrow. Thank you for golden sun on grass and the smell of dirt. Thank you for fat babies giggling and toddlers screaming in the cereal aisle. For adults— fat or skinny— who laugh heartily, and those who throw their tantrums, too. Thank you for the surprising kindness of men who used to dance disco and the old women who unwind the threads of wisdom instead of keeping the tapestry to themselves. Geez, dear God, I’ve loved how the leaves of young and old trees take their time unfurling and how nieces and nephews also grow into starlight.

Which brings me to my appreciation for your heave and rest, your storm and calm, your red sky at night and dawn. For the persistent spinning and spinning and hurtling through space. For the light and the dark. The noise and the silence.

Thank you for the ease that settles my heart and the pain that paves unknown paths to peace. That laughter that made my stomach ache? I like that. And the sobbing that swelled my eyes? Yes, that, too. Thank you for the unkind words that escaped me and rebounded like a boomerang. I’m glad you didn’t let me duck. Thank you for the loving words I also did not see coming— the sound of You, creating worlds. For the infinite uncertainty and limitless love. For the hand of help stretching out— sometimes mine, sometimes someone else’s— each of us finding ourselves receiving more than we gave.

Thank you.

To my beloved Maker of All Things, seen and unseen, I may not always understand. You, Keeper of the warp and weft, Caller of the dance, Sculptor of treetops and pinnacles.

I’m grateful to perch here for a moment, seeking the boundless.

Come what may.

Thank you for every blessing.

I love you.

m

May your new year afford you with a high perch. And may you look, always, for the face of God.

How we rush.

I bet some of you aren’t even reading this because, well, who has the time?! Errands to run, laundry to fold, social media to scroll. And has anyone decided on dinner yet?

To those of you carving out a moment to read… thank you. I appreciate how you meet the friction of your schedule and gently craft space to linger and contemplate.

First, an invitation: I’d love for you to join me and a few friends tomorrow evening for a six-week adventure through Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra. We begin Monday, December 29 at 5:15 pm Pacific / 8:15 pm Eastern. I’m calling it The Caravan because we’ll travel together, sharing the nourishment of our wisdom and feasting on the brilliance of the text. A couple of spots remain—maybe one has your name on it. Send me a note and I’ll send you the Zoom link.

Now, let’s savor this moment.

To get us started, let’s agree that dinner can be made slowly at home, with whole foods we chop joyfully while holding kind thoughts. With dinner sorted… let’s move on.

What follows are eight gentle strategies I’ve gathered to remedy the rush. They’re distractions, yes—but these are worthy of you. In them, you’ll be returned to the quiet calm of your precious life. While our days are finite, our relationship with time can become more flexible and fluid. We need only choose, with a little faith.

Before we get to them, let’s observe the universal signs of hurry.

What do you look like when the rush takes over?

Me: less patient, curt responses, a world drained of color. I drop things—cups, tasks, presence. I forget to eat (old habit). Even in meditation, my mind counts seconds, eager to escape the calm.

My least favorite part? In the tunnel vision of hurry, I miss the moment holding me. I miss love loving me, God in a friend’s face, the perfection of a gentle word trampled by my clumsy speed.

In short, I become a smaller, tighter, sharper version of myself—stepping on the neck of my best self, who waits patiently for the bully to tire out.

Because my everyday self is a big fan of my best self, I reach for these tools quickly. I share them hoping you’ll improve on them and pass them along.

Maybe you’d care for a song before we begin? Here’s Simon & Garfunkel to set the mood:

First, breathe… attentively.

A few mindful breaths—following air in and out through the nose—expand a tense moment into a spacious one. Sense the breath breathing you. Savor the sensation. Watch what happens to the rush.

Second, start the day with quiet time.

Every morning, gift yourself silence. This can look like a few minutes of body scanning upon waking, a gentle stretch, a walk without a phone, meditation, prayer—whatever fits. I give myself an hour: reading, journaling, no screens. It means rising earlier, but this priority has built more acceptance in me than anything else.

Everyone will find their own way. The quiet will befriend you if you give it space.

Third, feel your feet on the ground.

I sometimes think we’ve been trained to race the spin of the world. Somehow, we think we can exceed its pace. But wait… we’re already spinning at 800 mph with our earth, orbiting the sun at 67,000 mph, racing through the galaxy at half a million mph. We’re moving fast enough. Plant your feet and remember.

All us earthlings are moving quickly enough. Maybe we don’t need to go any faster.

Fourth, rub your head.

This bit of self-care not only reduces stress hormones and tension in the neck and shoulders, it promotes clarity and focus. Seriously, it just feels good. You can do it now.

Feel that?

Fifth, eat quietly.

Not in the car, not while walking. And, importantly, not while scrolling.

Even if you have people to eat with, ask for a few moments of quiet. Let them join you in the experience. You don’t have to enjoy the whole meal this way, though you may find you want to.

Sit down, look at your food, imagine everything— sunlight, rain, soil, wind— and everyone— farmers, drivers, stockers and stockbrokers— that contributed to its arrival on your table. Be in wonder and gratitude for a moment. Just as you savored your breath, savor the smell and sight of your food. As you lift your first bite to your mouth, notice the change of moisture in your mouth and the readiness of your tongue. Experience food as a gift of the Creator.

Sixth, stretch your body.

Expanding the body expands the moment. An expanded moment becomes a slow moment. It doesn’t scurry out of awareness to make space for the next distraction. Instead, it becomes a vast meadow— we see farther and clearly, hear the world singing as it zooms along, and appreciate new paths.

All from a stretch.

The body holds us tenderly when we give it the chance.

Seventh, ask the polite question.

For this one, my friends, please allow me to step up on a soapbox.

Now, please, listen up.

When you go into the store and wait impatiently in the line, or call the customer service line that you don’t want to call, there is (for now, mostly) a human waiting to attend to you. When you come into contact with this person, ask the polite question—‘how are you today?’ or ‘what has been the best part of your day?’

Treat them as a friend and watch the hurry dissolve into common ground. And when your interaction is complete, you both will carry each other in your hearts for a little bit.

The world will continue to rocket through space but you and this person will be ephemeral stars— lighting the way for others.

Okay, thank you for listening to that one. I will step off the soapbox now… slowly.

Eighth, love everyone.

Actually, let me get back up on that box for a moment.

My friends, when you decide to rise up to this call, hurry will no longer be attractive. You’ll be so smitten with the radiant faces and wonder-filled ideas of the creatures hurtling through space with you that you will no longer feel the compulsion to race past them. You’ll want to observe, to witness, to admire.

To love.

These creatures are your family. We belong together, each of us breathing for one another as we circulate through the universe.

Love everyone.

Okay, now I’m done. (I’ll just put the soapbox over there for now.)

So, dear friend, who are you before and after every hurry? Who are you when you let time expand around you and sit quietly in the presence of the infinite?

As we step into a new year that will ask us—as every year does—to be attentive, kind, generous, wise, and loving, let’s keep these tools close.

We can only meet the call if we moderate our pace and let the world move us as it will. Fast and slow, without us complicating the trajectory.

Except to contribute our light. And so, in honor of your immense brilliance:

Happy New Year, dear friend!

May it be slow and purposeful.

May every step be quiet and faithful.

May you love in new ways that surprise you daily.

Happy Holy Days. Happy Solstice. Happy Light-Bearing and Sharing.

May the return of brilliance to these dark, winter days also illuminate your heart.

As you immerse yourself in the festivities of the season (or restrain yourself from them… I know how some of us get prickly), I hope you’ll carve out moments to pause.

This is the lesson of the solstice: the sun pauses. The ancients, attentive to the sky’s guidance, watched as it seemed to halt on the horizon for a few days—this is the solstice, from sol (sun) + sistere (to stand still). Then it begins its slow journey along the horizon again, changing our days and seasons.

Light travels with us on a path; it never disappears, only expands and contracts in our awareness.

Of course, everything expands and contracts, doesn’t it? That’s the story of every breath, relationship, life, the whole universe.

I’ve been mentored this year by King Solomon.

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
    a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
    a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
    a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
    a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
    a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that people will revere him.

Whatever is has already been,
    and what will be has been before;
    and God will call the past to account.

— Ecclesiastes 3

We spend so much of the year believing that our achievements will prove us somehow worthy that we forget how worthy we are… of every season, every morsel to eat and water to drink, and the satisfaction of our efforts.

Worthy, too, of the quiet that opens us to wisdom.

Wise Solomon reminds us that nothing can be added to this divine dance, and nothing taken away.

We expand into motion and we contract into stillness.

We expand into stillness and we contract into motion.

In the transitional space, we simply are. Maybe this is the eternity planted in our hearts. Maybe this is where we meet the unchanging. Whatever it is, we touch it only when we surrender to the divine rhythm.

The rhythm we create— of rushing, of busy-ness, of multi-tasking and all the distractions that come with it—leaves us sick and forlorn. We’re at epidemic levels of ‘hurry sickness’ and we barely take a moment to acknowledge the cure carried on every breath.

There is a time to rest.

There is a time to rest.

There must be a time… to rest.

And yet, we feel compelled to do more.

Great. By acknowledging the compulsion to keep busy— or, for some of us, the addiction— we can experience the wonderful friction of failure. That is, we aim to do something new and we don’t. We try to rest… and we book another appointment. We put the phone down… and we pick it up to keep scrolling.

We’re meant to feel the texture of that: the weight, the rough edge.

Our choice is a beautiful first step; returning after we drift away is our first triumph. It isn’t easy but we do it and grow stronger. As we grow in strength, we also grow in compassion. What we’ve learned to do, we will eventually share with someone else on the path.

As the light travels, so do we.

Expand. Contract.

And in the middle of it the dance, let’s make the space… to pause. To rest. To be still as the season changes, yet again.

Let’s honor the sun and its divine brilliance with one of these suggested pauses.

Like the sun, for just a moment… let’s be still.

.

.

.

Now… listen.

.

.

.

Breathe in… Pause. Breathe out… Pause.

What happens?

For some of us, we may hear a long list of obligations, expectations, and doubts. We may decide we have too much to do. For some of us, we may hear the sound of our breath, our hearts beating, or the passing of untouched thoughts. We may even catch a whisper of wisdom— something waiting for us to listen and care enough to hear.

Wonderful.

If only we waited as patiently as these messages wait for us.

Now, will you do it again?

This morning, I glanced at my bedside table to see two principles that I keep close by:

Be still, and know that I am God.

and

Peace is the way.

I keep them close because I need the reminder, too.

And sometimes life simply provides it.

This season of sadness— missing my brother and fathoming the space that remains— has also allowed a the expansion of peaceful stillness. I’m grateful for the contraction I’ve experienced… to settle into quiet, to walk slowly, to watch. I’m grateful for the expansion, too… memories bubbling up, old longings erupting, and a heart like a tour guide, pointing out every which way my brother impacted my life. This grief is a treasure.

Thank you to all of you who checked in on me and comforted me through this quiet season. You sent songs and thoughts, prayers and blankets. Thank you for your kindness, love, and support. I love you, too.

I’m also aware that this season will pass, as all seasons do. Before it does, a pause.

May the returning light hold you gently, and may you find, in the quiet pause of these holy days, the peace that is already your way.

May you hear your heart in the stillness. Even in the delights of the season, may you hear the silence.

Always loving.

Thank you, friend, for being here.

Maybe for you, too?

Let’s see.

A quick invitation with strong encouragement!

Those of you reading this are special beings. Karma and Patañjali might suggest that you carry these teachings from previous encounters, drawn to them now.

Plus, it’s not every human who engages proactively in spiritual formation. While we’re all in progress—all being formed by everything, all becoming someone—occasionally, we remember the power of beautiful, intentional sculpture. And, like all scripture, these sūtras offer tools for smooth edges.

To facilitate our journey, I’m starting The Caravan (click and scroll down to read more). We’ll meet on Zoom for six weeks to embody, celebrate, and share the wisdom we’re gathering.

• When: Monday, December 29, 2025 and five following Mondays at 5pm PT / 8pm ET for 75 minutes

• Theme: Our Endings & Beginnings, guided by the Yoga Sutra

• Price: $188 for 6 weeks or as your heart desires

There’s a space for you—please message me to save it and learn more.

A Return to the Text

In this series, we’re reading, chanting, and learning with Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra, wandering through the Samādhi Pāda (book of absorption). Today, we’re looking at four pivotal sūtras. They turn us from the variety of thoughts that disturb the mind toward an appreciation of our ability to manage these thoughts… and to quality of practice required to do so.

This is the point when our contribution to yoga expands and evolves. In these sūtras, we begin to choose our response to the mind’s restlessness. This is when the trail turns towards a strengthening union yourself, with life, with God— and all that entails.

Read more

And you, like me, and everyone we know, are shooting stars… Someday in the next 100 years or so, we will be returned to stardust.

(Shall we promise to find each other there?)

We are light and we are darkness. We are coming and going. We are breathing in and breathing out. All at once, in a harmony we rarely pause to appreciate.

Still, at certain times of the year, we mark the moment. During these dark December days, we look toward the solstice, when the sun pauses in the sky before reversing its darkening trajectory in favor of longer days. Or we might celebrate Advent— the coming of an anointed one, bright with wisdom, love, and oil.

We’re reminded in these days that we, too, might imitate the brilliant shifts. We arrange lights in the trees and build fires in the hearth. We share food, laughter, gifts, and presence.

We become light in darkness.

Isn’t this a lovely way to honor the teaching of Jesus… which somehow often becomes obscured by centuries of programmed ritual and doctrine?

‘I am the way, the truth, and the life,’ said the rabbi to his students. ‘Come and see,’ he advised. And the invitation was persistent: ‘if anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.’

In other words, let go of the stories we tell about who we are, deal with the hard work of sacrifice, and walk this loving path with me.

Or, you, too, friend, are the light… when you’re willing to give up the darkness.

This reflective season offers so much more than festivities and overwhelm, family fun and familiar disappointment. This is a time to come home, certainly, but not just to long-held traditions, new loss, and uncertain futures.

Let’s come home to ourselves.

We return to an awareness of our purpose, a celebration of achievements, an acceptance of all we’ve learned, and an appreciation for all that truly nourishes us. We come home to presence— the infinite light within us, the love within us, always loving.

I like to think of this as a winter inventory. If I don’t know what I have, how will I ever realize what might be missing?

So, let’s all find a moment to pause and be still. The songs will tickle our ears; the sweets will delight our tongues. And the silence we allow? The silence will soften our bodies and minds so the heart can lead us to presence.

I like the following inventory questions:

• How well did I love this year?

Who and what did I miss? Isn’t it amazing how we can hold entire people or communities at a distance just because their opinions or beliefs differ from ours? I wonder what love we missed by keeping that distance.

• How did I change my mind?

What new, challenging ideas did I come to accept — even appreciate? Who have I become as a result?

• Who are my cheerleaders and who are my detractors?

Not everyone is ready to support our wildest ideas or our difficult emotions. Likewise, not everyone is a drain on our energy. We get to love them all and still find our way to peace.

• How am I more abundant this year, and how do I intend to share what I’ve gathered?

Sometimes we forget to count the treasures that never appear in our investment portfolios. These are the quiet riches: the love we give and receive, the presence we offer, the kindness we scatter. It’s these gifts that most nourish our hearts, bless our families, and quietly mend the world.

Of course, take stock of your health, your family connections, your commitment to friends, your financial well-being, and your own self-care. Discover what you have so you can see where you’d like to go. And most importantly, spend some time with this question:

What do I think about most frequently?

Our dominant thoughts guide us— they shape our reality, our relationships, and our personality. If you think about the beauty and wonder of love, you will see it everywhere. If you think about the horrors of the world, there they are for you.

So, please take stock.

The loving path awaits us all. Let’s boldly choose, gently and wisely, what we carry or leave behind as we walk it. And let’s remember… it’s the light that guides us. But without us, the light will not appear.

Once you’ve completed your winter inventory, join me and some friends on a new year journey I’m calling The Caravan. This is a 6-week sangha for folks interested in learning how to refine daily practices so they can walk their path more gracefully. Our focus is OUR ENDINGS & BEGINNINGS. Anticipate discussion, breathing, visualization, accountability, and LOVE.

We start on Monday, December 29 at 5pm PST/8pm EST. Sign up here or send a note with questions.

For those of you who live in the Charleston area, please come along for a winter retreat on Saturday.

I love you! And I thank you for your love.

We’ve arrived in our season of thanks—sure can take us a while to get here, right?

It’s a season that might guide us to the truth about gratitude: it waits for us, always. Gratitude doesn’t need a day, a month, or a season. Gratitude needs nothing but us. And, more importantly, we need gratitude.

Not in small doses, either.

We need gratitude in excess.

Our indulgence on Thanksgiving points to a good strategy, but we might amend the consumption.

While you may or may not consume 5,000 calories of food and wine, please help yourself to 20,000 grateful breaths. And, hey—tomorrow the leftovers are still fresh; go ahead and take 20,000 more.

For as long as breath comes and goes, may it be sweet and grateful.

And maybe that grateful breath will find its way to a song.

Here’s an old one:

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.
Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs.
Know that the Lord is God. It is he who made us, and we are his;
we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through all generations.
— Psalm 100 (A psalm for giving grateful praise)

And if an old psalm and I can’t persuade you, maybe your ears can hear Thoreau:

“I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual.
It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite—only a sense of existence.”

Every sweet breath makes space for thanks. Every rough experience awaits our thanks. We’re wealthy with love and the perpetual spin of the world.

Let’s take this one day to remember that every day is a gift of creation… and we can receive this abundance with delight, praise, and a courageous thank you.

Through it all, we’re created to be thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. Please delight in the treasures that live in your heart. Share them with everyone you encounter.

I love you.

A quick invitation

For the pilgrims among you who want to share your spirit journeys for the good of all, I’m forming a small intentional sangha called The Caravan (click and scroll down to read more). We’ll meet on the Zoom for six weeks to embody, celebrate, and share the wisdom we’re gathering. Start: Monday, December 29, 2025 at 5pm PT / 8pm ET. Theme: Our Endings & Beginnings. I’m capping it at 8 people—please message me to save a spot and learn more.

And to new subscribers—welcome! You’re legendary. You’ll be able to say, “I remember when…” (and we’ll also remember from Lesson Three that memory is one of mind’s movements—sometimes helpful, sometimes not).

Where we are in the text

In this series, we’re reading, chanting, and learning with Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra, wandering through the Samādhi Pāda (book of absorption). Today, we look closer at the five mental fluctuations (vṛtti) that can disturb the peace—or support it. That peace of mind? That’s yoga. The poses and breathing may get a lot of attention (and we’ll see how that’s a viparyaya) but here we are, talking mind.

Deep breath… here we go.

Last time, we learned there are five kinds of movements, and each can be kliṣṭa (harmful/binding) or akliṣṭa (non-harmful/spacious): right knowledge, error, imagination, sleep, and memory.

Today we look at how Patañjali defines them:

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