Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Postcard #4

Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Introduction

Postcard #1 I’m finding goodness from many sources

Postcard #2 I want to see the whole elephant

Postcard #3 There are many paths up the same mountain

Photo Credit: Mode Images/Alamy

Photo Credit: Mode Images/Alamy

~  Postcard #4  I sense that feeling the Spirit is a universal, not exclusive, gift.  ~

I’ll introduce Postcard #4 with an excerpt from a story:

ONCE THERE WAS A BOY who lived in a village. At the heart of this village was an orchard filled with many kinds of trees. The boy loved to play there. He would dance barefoot under the blossoms in springtime, and when the sun grew hot he would rest under the leafy shade. As the boy grew, he would reach up to the branches and pluck peaches and apples and pears. The fruit was juicy and sweet and filled the boy with joy. When the Village Elders taught him that the fruit’s sweetness proved that their village, and their village alone, possessed the One True Orchard, the boy wept with gratitude.

The boy found it wondrous that he happened to live in the one village in all the world in which The One True Orchard grew. He began to feel compassion for the people of other villages. The day came when he filled his backpack with fruit and set out to let others know about his special village.

One beautiful morning the boy came to a new village. A young man walked by. The boy said, “My friend, if you taste a piece of this fruit you will come to know the Truth.” The young man stopped. “I have been searching for something,” he said, “maybe this is it.” The boy gave him a piece of fruit and after a moment asked, “Is it not sweet?”  “Yes, it is sweet,” admitted the man. The boy’s face shone with light. “Now that you have tasted the sweetness of this piece of fruit,” the boy explained, “you know for yourself that the tree from which it was plucked must be a True Tree. You know the gardener who planted those trees must have been a True Gardener. And you know the whole orchard, and every tree in it, must be the One True Orchard.” The man hesitated. “That is what the sweetness means?” the man asked. “Yes,” the boy answered, “that is what the sweetness means.”

The story, of course, is mine. And it’s the story of millions of other Mormons whose testimony of the exclusive validity of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is rooted in a genuine, personal experiences with sweetness. We tend to interpret these spiritual experiences as a kind of celestial variation that our church must be right. 

Let me explain.

As Latter-day Saints, we are taught that spiritual feelings, such as a “burning of the bosom,” or a peaceful assurance, can be understood as personal revelations from God witnessing that our church–and only our church—is true. 

As a young man, whenever those feelings came to me as a boy—whether singing hymns, reading sublime passages of scripture, engaged in sincere prayer, or passing the sacramental bread up and down rows of saintly white-haired widows–they confirmed I was in God’s One True Church.

Later, as a missionary, this became the logic by which we persuaded others: If someone felt spiritual feelings, it was offered up as proof that our church was true, meaning that the totality of our teachings, practices, scriptures, organizational structure, and founding narratives were divinely and uniquely inspired. This was not done manipulatively; we genuinely understood this as the divine “pattern” for how God would let people know they should become Mormons. Let’s say, for example, that we invited an investigator to read from the Book of Mormon, perhaps the passage where Jesus is blessing the children. If they felt a surge of love and goodness after reading that part, then I guided them into understanding that (1) the Spirit had just witnessed that the Book of Mormon was an ancient record; and therefore, (2) Joseph Smith was a true prophet; and therefore, (3) all his teachings are from God; and therefore, (4) our church has the only legitimate claim to the priesthood authority; and therefore, (5) all other churches are false.

When it comes to spiritual experiences, I’m no cynic. I unabashedly admit that these experiences have enriched my life. But am I justified in citing those experiences as proof that my beliefs are legitimate while someone else’s are not?

Here’s why this is problematic. Firstly, the chain of reasoning itself is deeply flawed: the reality of “A” does not necessarily prove the truth of “B,” “C,” and “D.” Secondly, these supernal feelings don’t just manifest in Mormon contexts. I know people from other faiths who cite their own sacred experiences as proof that their beliefs are correct. How to account for this? Well, I used to chalk it up to their propensity for self-deception—a vulnerability to which members of my faith were somehow immune.  

Now I’ve found myself “feeling the Spirit” both inside and outside a Mormon context: meditating with Buddhists; reciting scripture sacred to Hindus; listening to the liturgical chant of Benedictine monks; attending a Suquamish tribal funeral; visiting Grace Cathedral in San Francisco; holding signs at Pride Parades that express God’s love; participating in the Episcopalian Eucharist; awakening to a neighborhood mosque’s call to prayer in Jaipur; visiting Gandhi’s ashram in New Delhi. Each of these moments invokes its own sense of grace, of devotion, love, and peace. 

So what shall I make of those unbounded, profligate feelings? Should I interpret them as the Holy Ghost prompting me to flip-flop from one religion to another? Is it possible that, if these feelings do have a divine provenance, perhaps a heavenly Seal of Approval is getting stamped liberally across everything that’s good? And what if neuroscientists are right, that humans are hard-wired for these sort of phenomena? Should my own subjective experiences, while precious to me, be privileged above another’s subjective experience?

These are not easy questions, and I don’t have any definitive answers to them. 

My heart tells me that spiritual experiences are not exclusive experiences that prove something is true, but are universal experiences that witness something is good

Whatever their source, I continue to cherish the feelings I’ve come to associate with the Spirit. I continue to cultivate the attitudes and habits of mind that lead me to feel more love and more compassion and more joy in the happiness of others. These are the Fruits of the Spirit. To me, they are sweet above all that is sweet.

I’m grateful for the Orchard that surrounds me. And I’m grateful for the Orchards that surround us all.

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Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Postcard #3

     Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Introduction

     Postcard #1 I’m finding goodness from many sources

     Postcard #2 I want to see the whole elephant

~ Postcard #3 THERE ARE MANY PATHS UP THE SAME MOUNTAIN ~

(Photo credit: Mary Ellen Mark) Mother Teresa caring for the sick and dying.

(Photo credit: Mary Ellen Mark) Mother Teresa caring for the sick and dying.

THERE ARE 7.3 BILLION NON-MORMONS currently on the planet. I’ve met some of them. In India, we worked together in the leprosy colonies. Some of my fellow laborers found inspiration in the teachings of Guru Nanak or Muhammad or Jesus or Swami Vivekananda. Others were motivated by a love for Vishnu or Shiva or the Mother Goddess Devi. A few held no religious convictions at all, yet seemed as devoted to serving humanity as their god-fearing counterparts. In serving together, I never noticed a hint of difference in the love conveyed by Sikhs, Muslims, Buddhists, Roman Catholics, Baha’is, Seventh-Day Adventists, Hindus, or non-theists. Any notion I’d carried into India that we Mormons were going to radiate a unique quality of goodness quickly evaporated in the sweltering heat, along with any lingering cultural arrogance. 

My Mormon beliefs have provided a well-spring of goodness in my life, and I continue to be grateful for the ethical grounding and strong sense of moral purpose that my faith system has endowed me with. But when I look around, I witness the same measure of goodness, the same infusion of moral purpose, in my non-Mormon brothers and sisters. I can’t honestly claim that my religious beliefs have been more fruitful in my life than theirs have been to them. This is not easy to admit, having donated tens of thousands of dollars and two years of my life as a full-time missionary inviting people to change their beliefs. Had I been more wise, I might have helped them connect to that well-spring of goodness found at the heart of their own tradition instead.

There is goodness everywhere. But within any belief system, there are lower laws and there are higher, more elevating laws. If we, like eagles, could find in the landscape of our own traditions those rising currents of warm air, those spiritual thermals, we might use them to soar to higher and higher states of consciousness. It was, after all, a rabbi named Jesus who pointed to the higher laws in his own Jewish tradition—leading no one out, but only up.

Huston Smith made the study of world religions his life’s work. The introduction to his popular and illuminating book, The World’s Religions, begins with this observation:

“..the various major religions are alternate paths to the same goal…. It is possible to climb life’s mountains from any side, but when the top is reached the trails converge.” 

(Photo by Kristofor Gellert) Puu Keahiakahoe summit in Oahu.

(Photo by Kristofor Gellert) The famous “Stairway to Heaven” to Puu Keahiakahoe summit in Oahu.

This idea of elevation and convergence echoes the experience of Ramakrishna. The Indian mystic earnestly practiced Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity and discovered that, by shedding any religious biases, he could find God in each tradition. He insisted that

“As one can ascend to the top of a house by means of a ladder or a bamboo or a staircase or a rope, so diverse are the ways and means to approach God, and every religion in the world shows one of these ways.” 

Photo credit: Thinkstock

Photo credit: Thinkstock

While my Mormon beliefs provide me with a sturdy ladder, well-suited to its task, I now must acknowledge that others are climbing just as high by means of bamboo, stairs, or rope. 

Happily, as we ascend, the fog of provincialism fades, and we find our narrow views giving way to more expansive vistas.

Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Postcard #2

Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: An Introduction

Postcard #1 I’m finding goodness from many sources.

Postcard #2  I WANT TO SEE THE WHOLE ELEPHANT

Our revealed truth should leave us stricken with the knowledge of how little we really know. It should never lead to an emotional arrogance based upon the false assumption that we somehow have all the answers—that we in fact have a corner on truth—for we do not.”       

–Hugh B. Brown

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DO YOU KNOW THE HINDU PARABLE of the blind men and the elephant? It has come to express a core element of my spiritual philosophy, which is the need for epistemological humility. That’s just a fancy way of admitting we all see through a glass darkly, that our vision of reality is limited by what our particular perspective allows us to take in.

In the parable, one blind man after another goes into a room. Each comes out again in breathless awe at what he has experienced. Eager to share his new understanding of the nature of God, the first man describes God as a long, smooth spear. The second interrupts, revealing that God is more like a flapping fan. The third patiently explains that, no, God is a stout pillar. You’re all crazy, the next says; he’s learned from direct experience that God is actually a tasseled rope. Soon the blind men are clenching their fists and calling each other names and swearing up and down that the others must either be lying or delusional. Eventually the men go their separate ways and, with their partial descriptions of God, each starts his own religion. To this day, their followers argue about who’s right and who’s wrong, certain they have the whole truth.

I retold this parable once in India to a crowd of children from the leprosy colonies. Something about their earnest faces and their willingness to learn from a stranger inspired me to change the ending. I brought up a little girl from the crowd and explained that when the blind men stumbled out of the room and described their separate visions to the villagers, a little girl like this one sat and listened with her whole heart. She believed each man when he described God as a spear, or a fan, or a pillar, or a rope. And each description stretched her imagination, creating a little more space in her heart and in her mind. By listening, she made room for the whole elephant; she made room for God.

Yesterday I said I find myself listening more and more to the stories of others. I suppose I’m making room, too, like the little girl. But this receptiveness rubs against a key tenet of Mormonism: we are taught that only within the LDS Church can we come to a correct understanding of the nature of God. The founder of our religion came out of that room and told us he could see the whole elephant. And so we stopped listening to everyone else. 

I want to keep listening, to keep learning. My spiritual imagination is only enhanced when I allow for new possibilities, new ways of understanding something I thought I knew.  

I’ve come to realize that any conception of God I can wrap my arms around is still too narrow to take in the whole elephant.

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Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: Postcard #1

POSTCARDS FROM A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY: AN INTRODUTION

POSTCARD #1 I’M FINDING GOODNESS FROM MANY SOURCES

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YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED THAT I’m as enthusiastic about pursuing wisdom from outside the Mormon tradition as from within. Paul’s admonition to seek after anything that is “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy” has become an invitation to shed my prejudices about how and where such things may be found. When it comes to discovering truth, I’m learning there’s no monopoly, no intellectual copyright, no exclusive contract with one provider. I’m understanding why Hugh B. Brown, a Mormon apostle, taught that we should search for truth everywhere:

Revelation does not come only through the prophet of God nor only directly from heaven in visions or dreams. Revelation may come in the laboratory, out of the test tube, out of the thinking mind and the inquiring soul.

Now, whenever Beauty and Truth reveal themselves, whether they wear the garments of religion, science, literature, philosophy, or even sacred myth, I will welcome them as honored guests and listen to whatever they’re willing to teach.

If a religion aspires to encompass all truth, its boundaries must be as wide as the universe. The same holds true for the spiritual life. My spirit can’t expand when I’m too provincial in my thinking, too fearful of new ideas. Didn’t Joseph Smith teach “we have a right to embrace all and every item of truth, without limitation”?

I love that welcoming stance. It’s expansive, unbounded, limitless.

That’s what I’m choosing. That’s how I want to live.  

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Postcards from a Spiritual Journey: An Introduction

~ INTRODUCTION ~

DSC_0092 copyAS YOU KNOW, SPIRITUALITY HAS always been a vital part of my life. To some, then, it comes as no surprise that my spiritual life would be dynamic, evolving, and responsive to new perspectives. To others, especially within my Mormon community, the changes I’ve undergone over the last few years leave them confused, disappointed, or indignant. While I hold others’ opinions in high regard, I don’t want to become enslaved by them. I’d like to live more courageously, which includes showing faith in friends and family to suspend judgment as my heart and mind continue to stretch.

I am stretching. I’m discovering new ways of understanding myself and the world around me. For me, that’s the essence of spirituality—the willingness to remain open and curious, following my heart and mind to new places. My spiritual journey isn’t finished—hopefully it never is—but I’ve changed enough that you might like to know my new perspectives on life.

Over the next several days, I’ll be sharing some of those new perspectives. Even though they’ll take the form of mini-essays, they’re not intended to convince or persuade. Think of them as postcards from various vantage points along my spiritual journey.

Check back here each day this week.

Poem: Biography

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Biography

When I was a boy, and the glory of the Lord

burned blue and bright as day,

when angels swam in the plasma of my eyes,

swam in clear pools like children,

unsandaled, joyful in their bellies,

when I was a young man, and the glory of the Lord

snapped above me like the sails of a ship,

and angels buzzed like gnats above my head,

hummed sweet wax down the whorls of my ears

to keep me in a straight course,

when I was a man, and the glory of the Lord

paled like cold fire west-fallen behind cloud,

when angels blew from my shoulder and face

the veil of ash that fell,

when I slept,

when I’d have doubted,

when they lifted my lids to visions,

when I grew old, and died, and the glory of the Lord

spread wide and gold as leaves,

Angels bore me lightly away,

and I became a boy, blue and bright as day.

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The poem “Biography” was first published in BYU Studies, Vol. 50, Number 2, 2011.

…angels swam in the plasma of my eyes: As a boy, I could see bizarre ghost-like squiggles floating through the ether of space around my head. They had the transparent look of simple-celled organisms under a microscope. I believed they were spirits, a belief borne from an early Mormon teaching that the “spirit world is all around us,” rather than existing in a separate and distinct sphere. My ability to see these spiritual floaters was one of many proofs I had a special gift. I’m more than a little disappointed to learn that this “eye-floater” phenomena is explained by light passing through the jelly-like vitreous humor and casting shadow blobs on our retinas. But what do the so-called scientists know? Maybe I do have a gift! I see dead people.

…wax . . . . straight course: This allusion is to Odysseus’s solution to the perilous temptations of sirens. He counseled his crewmen to plug their ears with wax so they wouldn’t be tempted to veer off their course. How fervently I prayed not only for chaste behavior, but chaste thoughts as well.

Reflections during our family’s year-long stay in India, working among the leprosy-affected.

In June 2014, our family moved to southern India to volunteer among leprosy-affected communities. We ended up spending almost a year there, providing basic hygienic care and dressing wounds, building latrines, combatting stigma and social isolation, alleviating poverty through micro-lending, and empowering children from the leprosy colonies through education and talent development.

It was our privilege to work alongside inspiring volunteers and committed staff in situations that called for our deepest compassion, and every day was an invitation to stretch far beyond our selves. My five children, aged from 19 years down to 8, earned my life-long respect for how they rose to the occasion; and Rebecca, of course, was amazing–a natural born Mother Teresa. I, on the other hand, spent most of the year attempting to piece back together the shattered fragments of a naively-held Messiah Complex that couldn’t survive even the first week intact. By the end of the year, I’d given up trying to be that person; instead, I began allowing myself simply to show up, vulnerable and open. The following essays, written while we were in India and gathered here chronologically, reflect that journey towards presence, learning to sit as one wounded among the wounded and discovering the miracle of wholeness.

Beep, Beep. We are Here.

. . . I’m shaken by this. Not our safety–it’s becoming increasingly clear that Rajendiren will expertly navigate these perilous waters–it’s the sense that here, with a billion plus people, life is cheap. Like ants crawling over ants to get to work. I know this is only apparent, but that’s how I’m feeling as we drive. A collective sense that the stream of traffic, that ravenous beast, must continue to flow, even if must be fed a few lives from time to time. Read More

A Tale Cut Short

. . . there’s some tumult in the kitchen. Rebecca points up in the corner near the fan vent. There’s a gecko, the size of a pinky clinging to the wall, panting. And where a tail should be, there’s only a stump. I know tails regenerate, but none of us hold out much hope for this little fella. Rebecca points out a gash from the fan blade on its torso.

“I saw it skittering into the vent and then . . . . chink . . . it skittered out without a tail.”

One of the kids says they think they saw it fall.

“Saw what?”

“The tail.”

“Where?”

They point at the counter-top space next to the gas burners. “There.”

We look.

It’s twitching.

It’s the size of a chow mein noodle, translucent, and it’s arcing back and forth like a miniature windshield wiper. Read More

I Meet “Mountain of Wisdom”

. . . “God in me, God in them. No difference,” he says.

I’ve read similar sentiments from Mother Theresa, but Vedadhri says it as if asserting water is wet. This wasn’t some theological article of faith, but a basic fact of the universe. I think how the same religious world view that justifies the stigmatization of leprosy as cosmic payback for some karmic misdeed in a previous life could also provide the insights motivating compassion and charity. Hinduism is no different than Christianity and Islam in this, it seems, with some of us beating swords into plough-shares and some sharpening those plough-shares back into swords, depending on how our heart is swayed by our scriptures. Read More

Right Hand, Left Hand

. . . A meme has been floating around Facebook, suggesting that we are God’s hands. I don’t whether that’s true. If it is, then about half of us must be God’s left hand. My service so far is mostly of the left handed variety: digging holes for toilets and septic tanks; dumping basins of water made foul by oozing ulcers; clipping toenails of feet on which only one or two toes remain; emptying our bathroom bucket of used squares of imported toilet paper; tearing off a piece of chapatti when no one’s looking; and killing scorpions in the middle of the night with the same sandals that I take off every morning at the door of the meditation hut where I wish all living beings peace. I’m okay with that. And every morning, with hands pressed together into a lotus bud to begin my prayer of peace, it’s the left hand that most feels the throbbing of my heart. Read More

Still Life: A Study in Green

. . . Cohen depending on the tooth fairy to find her way to India, which she does, unbelievably, three times already. Lifting the pillow and placing three 10 rupee notes under his sleeping head, each bearing the likeness of Gandhi who will bring dreams of peace. And already the new teeth pushing through, each emptiness filling, slowly. Somewhere between hole and whole.

And Stumpy our gecko, fan-blade survivor, depending on the voodoo of cell regeneration. The brown-green bud sprouting like an onion bulb into another tail, until we can’t tell him apart from any of the other geckoes we see skittering across our bedroom walls at night, or, unseen, hear snickering behind curtains in the evening as the kids form words in their nightly round of Banana Grams. Tile by tile, cell by cell. Forming and reforming.

A baby tooth is lost no sooner than a new one is ready to take its place. A tail reforms, faithful to the genetic specs printed in the DNA of every cell of the gecko’s body. Without searching, what is lost becomes found; without mending, what was rent becomes whole. When wood is green, it’s alive, supple, vigorous. Lop off the trunk and the sap bubbles up, heals the wound, feeds new branches.

I wonder at the resilience of life. And now, here in India one month, I think of the people at the leprosy colonies, what their leprosy has cost them. The pinnacle of evolution, and their DNA as Homo sapiens doesn’t provide a lizard’s worth of instruction on how to regenerate a toe, or how to return the club of a hand back into sophisticated digital technology.  Read More

Cohen and I Spend the Morning Getting Buzzed at the Local Saloon

. . . Kumar’s scissors open and close, snick, snick, snick, in the same steady but unhurried way. Periodically he tilts Cohen’s head up back. A few young men step out of the street and into the saloon, pick up a spare comb from the barber’s grimy counter, and groom themselves in front of the mirror for a minute or two and then, as suddenly as they came in, they toss the comb back on his counter and step back out into the street. This happens twice more during Cohen’s haircut. I’m guessing they’d got haircuts from Kumar in the past, may have standing permission to come use his comb and mirror whenever they’re in the area. But seeing random people swooping in and sharing the same comb makes me a little uneasy, especially for a population where it’s not uncommon to see children and even some adults shorn to the scalp to rid themselves of nits. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lice.   Read More

What’s in the Bag?

. . . “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve pulled out of the bag a Tibetan singing bowl, a toothbrush, a Native American flute, a blister pack of Mefloquine (anti-malarial medicine), a pound of uncooked basmati rice, and a stainless steel tea cup. And every day the mystery leads us to a story and the story leads us to a lesson. Actually, the story IS the lesson.

Today, I’ve brought a snake. A life-size, weighted, coiled, realistically painted, rubber snake. Cohen brought it along to India with him because we allowed each child to bring one “comfort animal” on the plane with them. And he wanted to bring his snake. Not a problem in LAX, nor at Amsterdam, but when we tried to get through security to board our final leg from Delhi to Chennai you’d have thought the X-ray specialist pausing at Cohen’s backpack had discovered a nuclear detonator. Soon a military guard was interrogating us.

“What is in the bag?” he asked us.

“Um . . . lot’s of stuff. It’s our little boy’s carry on,” Rebecca sputtered. “Is there a problem?”  Read More

Abraham’s Song

. . . I met Abraham in the Vandalore Leprosy Colony. He and I hit it off because we’re both musicians. I’d brought my Native American flute along, thinking it might be nice to play something soothing for the patients while their wounds were being treated by our medical team. I’m covering holes on the cedar flute with my fingertips, making up a melody, when Abraham steals the show. Now, I’ve studied the jazz art of improvisation in college, but this was improvistation in its truest form. Having no money for a proper instrument, and no intact fingers to play one with anyway, Abraham devised a way of humming while alternately plugging the stubs on his hand into his nostrils, as if pushing valves on a trumpet. The sound is, well, not exactly what you’d call beautiful, but I found myself entranced, snake charmed. Later, he took me to his home and banged on a plastic tambourine for me, singing full-throated. Pictures of the Virgin Mary floated along the walls. Read More

Sri Lanka, Part I: Mud and Mudras, Lotus and Dulip

. . . WHEN WE ARRIVE IN SRI LANKA, the first one to welcome us is the Buddha. I get the feeling he would have been just as content with us staying in India, but he doesn’t seem to mind that we’re here. He’s sitting in the lotus position, upturned soles resting on opposite thighs, gaze lowered. Passengers from our flight push past me, anxious to reclaim their baggage. I’m pausing, hoping to be rid of mine. A reverential spirit alights on the twig of my heart and then flutters away once I see the statue more closely. First I notice the pendulous lobes of the Enlightened One’s ears. They stretch so low he must have hung buckets of water from them as a boy, thus freeing his hands for gesturing. Which leads us to the second detail: the Compassionate One is flipping us off. Read More

Sri Lanka Part II: Climbing Up the Buddha’s Back with 400 Pounds of Poop

. . . They simply reasoned that if an elephant’s diet is mostly fiber, its poop must be, too. With that insight, the Mr. Ellie Pooh paper company was born. An employee gave us a tour of their factory, which borders the elephant sanctuary. The system goes something like this: They spread out the poop to fully expose it to the sun. Then they cook it, subjecting it to intense heat that sterilizes all the yucky stuff. What’s left is a slurry of fiber that’s dried over a screen, pressed smooth, cut, and sold to eco-conscious consumers at healthy profit margins.

Hearing the man talk about this process, I’m reminded of the Buddha’s most fundamental teaching, the 4 Noble Truths. The 1st Noble Truth? Poop happens! When we understand the nature of that poop and what it’s made of, we’ve arrived at the 2nd Noble Truth. Believing that we can transform that poop into something useful moves us to the 3rd Noble Truth. Then, following the path outlined in the 4th Noble Truth, we can bring sufficient energy to bear, transforming something stinky and toxic into something pure and productive. Read More

Divine Union: A Hindu-temple inspired reflection on twenty years of marriage.

. . . Large enough to make even the most confident of men more than a little insecure, the lingam symbolizes the god’s male potency and virility. But on this late afternoon, twenty years since Rebecca and I, twain, became one flesh, I can’t help but reflect on a temple symbol that foreigners often miss: Shiva’s lingam is always set in and circumscribed by a divine womb, or Yoni. It is only together, Yoni and Lingam, that the Divine is fully expressed. Read More

That’s Where the Light Enters

. . . If we’re lucky, we shed any silly notions that we (the supposed “whole”) are bringing healing to them (the presumed “broken”). We simply share a space where healing happens, and it happens as much to us as to them, though one of us wears a mask and one wears a wound. Healing becomes another name for wholeness revealing itself. Read More

Brooklyn leaves (with a Matriarchal Blessing)

. . . So here I share a poem I’ve written for Brooklyn, in which I imagine she finds herself quite unexpectedly visited by a goddess in the form of the fearless Durga, who has come to endow her with the courage and wisdom she’ll need as she continues conquering the world.  Read More

A Few Notes Before We Leave . . .

. . . You seem like a very nice razor blade and I’m sure if we’d met under different circumstances, we would have hit it off handsomely. But see, I was next in line when the customer in the barber chair pulled off his t-shirt, lifted his right arm high into the air and grunted for Kumar to scrape his greasy pits with you. Read More

Vivid Dreams: A Valediction

. . . How much will stick? If I’ve come to recognize Jesus (or Infinite Worth or Buddha-nature) in the faces of the leprosy-affected, will I recognize it back home in the face of the grimy man holding a cardboard sign, the obnoxious neighbor, the surly skateboarder loitering in the school parking lot?

Obvious suffering engenders compassion–and in this way, serving the leprosy-affected required from me no special force of will–but how do I respond when someone triggers my contempt, my revulsion?  Already, I have to admit, back in Gate C-19 waiting to board, my small self, the smug, disconnected ego self, was chiming in with snide remarks about that passenger who could have been from Duck Dynasty. I caught myself feeling smarter, more sophisticated, more enlightened than him. And so I shrunk by just exactly that much.  Read More