Mark Sherman

I write this newsletter on February 11, 2026.  It is one day after the tragedy in Tumbler Ridge where 10 people lost their lives in a high school shooting that has ripped through the fabric of that community, and has left so many of us laden with grief, sadness, fear and incredulity.  When I read about the tragedy, my first reaction was that of disbelief and compassion, trying to fathom just how much suffering the person who committed the acts of violence must have been experiencing in order to take the lives of children, her family, and that of herself.  How do any of us get to such places of disconnection and desperation? Premier David Eby described the sentiment many were feeling, expressing how this is something we think only happens somewhere else than here – in our home town, in our province, our country, our lives.  Just as it is easy to mentally segregate such tragedies to other places, so it can be enticing to isolate such acts of violence, and the suffering that led to them, to other people.  This kind of othering, however, only blatantly denies our common humanity, and ignores the seeds of violence, hatred, and desperation that are within us all.   The separation into an ‘us’ and a ‘them’ dangerously isolates those in our community who are experiencing deep despair, and hinders ourselves from compassion and understanding, blinded as we are by our quiet judgement.

This morning, as I facilitated my class for the BC Association for Living Mindfully (bcalm.ca), the theme was Aversion: Learning to be with and let be.  As 15 human beings logged onto the Zoom meeting, the weight of emotion was palpable.  And so we addressed it all head on – the grief, the anger, the sadness.  Our meditation provided a space to recognize our feelings in the safe container of practice.  In the body scan we were able to notice sensations and to release areas of tension.  As we moved to a focused practice upon the breath this allowed a sanctuary to rest our attention.  And when we finished with loving kindness meditation, it was offered to ourselves, to loved ones, and to those in Tumbler Ridge who are facing unimaginable loss and uncertainty at this time.

At first glance, meditation may seem just another self-help practice of relaxation and personal contemplation – a luxury of distraction from the real work of advocacy and action.  And yet this could not be further from the truth.  Our outward behaviors are always reflections of our inner world.  If we are harbouring anger, then anger will — subtly or overtly — be expressed in our words and behaviors.  If we are harbouring fear, then worry, anxiety and panic will manifest in how we show up in relation to ourself and others.  And if our inner experience is that of shame or unworthiness, then this is surely what will spill over into all we say and do.  On fMRI imaging, the area of the brain that controls fine motor movement of the fingers is larger in violin players than in people who do not play violin.  The area of the brain which controls visual-spatial orientation is larger in taxi drivers than in those who do not drive taxi.  As we habitually repeat certain ways of thinking, belief and behavior, so we create greater synaptic connections in our brain which, in turn, make this pattern more likely to repeat itself in the future.  The next time you take a shower, try observing how you wash your body. What hand is the soap or cloth in?  Which part of the body do you begin with, and how does the whole washing routine proceed? Essentially, we are all creatures of habit.  What you practice — consciously or unconsciously — you hone.

Mindfulness and meditation are human skills in cultivating presence, love and acceptance in our lives.  Practices focusing upon body sensation and breath allow us to build our capacity of present moment awareness, translating into our lives as attention and concentration.  Meditations on loving kindness lead to more loving and compassionate ways of thinking and being.  And as we learn to accept the ever-changing array of thoughts, sensations, sounds and feeling states which arise and pass away in our practice, so we are better able to find acceptance when difficult moments arise in our outer world.  This is what we can do when faced with tragedy such as Tumbler Ridge.  As we nourish a more wakeful and kind inner posture through mindfulness, so we are better able to speak and act with greater skill, wisdom and care as an outer posture.  In turn, this might translate to a GoFundMe donation, a letter to the Mayor of Tumbler Ridge, or even a commitment to reach out to someone in our own community who might be suffering silently.

In the face of the horror of Tumbler Ridge,.. of Iran, Ukraine, Gaza, or any of the other places of deep suffering in our world, meditation offers an indispensable place of refuge and healing.  Amidst the cacophony of challenge and uncertainty, contemplative practice is a sanctuary.  Within the clarity of this sacred pause, I can better tend to my own pain, to understand the pain of others and to remember the beauty, blessing and miracle still happening all around me.

Often, at the end of a group meditation practice, the teacher and practitioners will bow with joined palms to one another in gratitude offering, “Thank you for your practice”.  This gesture is no small act, but rather recognizes that how we take care of ourselves and each other has meaning.  Hurt people hurt people, …and healthy people can heal people. When we are unable to attend to our pain, or feel isolated in our desperation, the cycle of suffering and tragedy continues to play out within and without.  As we cultivate our human capacity for presence, skillfulness, compassion and love, so this radiant light shines forth in how we think, speak and act in our lives, and in the world. 

“If the only prayer you said was “thank you” that would be enough”

Meister Eckhart

It is easy to feel the dense weight of sadness, fear and despair when faced with the enormity of challenge in the world, and in our lives.  And feel these we must if we are to honour the caring and compassion that binds each of us to each other, and to all of Life. Gratitude is a deep recognition and appreciation for the goodness of life. Gratitude does not deny the hardship, but rather holds it in a bigger container.  It asserts the blessing amidst, and alongside, the challenge.  Gratitude is a testament to the light that is framed and birthed by darkness.

My first psilocybin journey offered me this gift of gratitude.  After hours of journeying with the medicine, I remember opening my eyes and beholding the photos of my family and teachers that were laid before me.  With tears of joy pouring down my face, I was overflowing with a sense of humbled appreciation for those my life had touched, and for everything the years had offered – pleasant, unpleasant,  and painful.  I opened my journal and scribbled, “GRATITUDE” upon a waiting blank page.  I was brimming with a gratefulness for the perfection of all things, and the beautiful, bumpy road I had hitherto trodden.  “JOY” emerged confidently below this first word and I recognized, as if for the first time,  gratitude as the gateway to joy – a joy less fragile than happiness; less tied to external circumstances and the ever-changing tides of preference.   It was then that my hand scribed, “LOVE” upon the page, below the first two words.  Gratitude,… Joy,… Love… The joy that sprouts forth from the soil of unconditional gratefulness blossoms effortlessly into Love.  It is this love that connects us to ourselves, each other and to all things.  Love affirms our belonging.
 
The cultivation of joy and love can only occur once we allow our experience of gratefulness to embrace all things, becoming absolute, unconditional and unwaivering.   It is oftentimes difficult to remember gratitude when caught up in the dense busyness of our lives, or when overwhelmed by suffering within and all around us.  This gratitude must therefore be tended to daily, as you would a garden – offering the light of mindful awareness, clearing the weeds of apathy and judgement, and creating space for the miracle of it all to reveal itself in the ordinariness of this moment.   Hidden within the course, hardened exterior of challenging experiences lies a beautiful blessing – like a pearl cloaked within an oyster shell.  It is easy to feel grateful for a beautiful sunset, a kind gesture, or a delicious food.  However, can you discover the gift within your challenging moments as well?  When you are sick, can you gratefully receive the care of others, and better recognize the miracle of health that you had taken for granted?  If you and your partner have an argument, can you remember the blessing of having someone to love, and to be loved by?  As you feel anger or sadness at events upon the world stage, can this foster your agency to care, to connect with others, to advocate, to speak up?  

In Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl courageously recounts his experiences in the concentration camps of World War 2, and what he learned about himself, and of humankind, in the face of such atrocity.  In one particularly moving passage Frankl writes about how — amidst hunger, fear, suffering and death all about him — he had become overwhelmed by the blessing of loving his wife. “I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had no means of finding out, but at that moment it ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; nothing could touch the strength of my love…. Love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which a man can aspire… Love is as strong as death.”

Anais Nin once wrote, “We do not see things as they are. We see things as we are”.  When we have strong beliefs of fear, the world seems fraught with danger.   When we believe that we are unworthy, we see our lacking everywhere.  Such beliefs inevitably give way to judgement.  Judgement impairs our ability to experience gratitude.  It blinds us to the miracle and abundance that surrounds us.  Judgement arises in the part of the brain scientists refer to as the Default Mode Network (DMN).  The DMN frames our experience of reality as thought, evaluation and story.  It is the seat of planning, remembering, ruminating, judging, as well as the source of our sense of a separate self.  We first come to gratitude as a concept.  If you think of what you are grateful for in your life — moments, experiences, people – a thought structure, known as ‘memory’, will arise in your mind, along with an associated story or image.  This is the Default Mode Network in action.  However, if you lean in, you will also notice there is a palpable experience in your body right now.  Perhaps a feeling of lightness or ache in your chest; an emotion of appreciation or joy?  As we cultivate our capacity for moment-to-moment awareness so we are able to see things more clearly, as they really are.  The late afternoon light that streams through the living room window; the joy of satiating our hunger; the delightful sensation of warmth as a blanket sits upon our lap… become lived experiences of union, felt within the depth and breadth of this moment.  Beyond a mere concept of gratitude, we become gratitude — gratefulness experienced and embodied. 

I have learned so much of the power of grattude from the many patients and friends whom I have had the privilege to sit with towards the end of their days.  Often, such people are filled with a gentle and unwaivering appreciation for their lives, for simple kindnesses, and for the myriad blessings of Life that surround them, with sudden clarity, as they face their own mortality.  When the busyness ceases, the mind quietens and the body’s vitality fades, gratitude reveals itself — in all of its mundane beauty — to the unfettered soul. 
    
Today is the 2 year anniversary of my own father’s death. This past week I have been moving through waves of grief in my body and mind.  I notice that I am more tired, more irritable, and that there is a sadness weighing heavy upon my chest.  A swell of tears awaits its space to emerge.  I miss my dad.  Our relationship was complicated and simple, colored with hues of humour, music, and a longing for connection that never seemed satiated.  Grief is difficult,.. and is also a testament to the love I feel for my father, and the years we shared together. And so I am grateful for my grief, even though it feels painful and awkward at times.

Today I finally received the urn I had ordered to place my father’s ashes in.  I have procrastinated this decision for 2 years now — Dad’s remains sitting in a nondescript plastic container upon my office desktop. The urn is a beautiful, handcrafted, dark wooden box.  An ornate Tree of Life is carved into its front face.  And upon lid lies a simple inscription that honours my father’s memory and the gift he was, and continues to be, in my life. “Thank you.”

It is December 20^th and I awoke this morning to a darkened sky and frost upon the windows.  My hands feel colder at this time of year and my body craves warm food, cozy blankets and generous sleep.  Each morning it is harder to get out of bed, and ‘to-do’ lists feel ever more daunting.  Grief and sadness for the world somehow feel closer — emotions rising readily beneath the surface of my skin — and I yearn for quiet and solitude. 

The darkness envelops the light at this time of winter solstice, inviting us inward towards rest and contemplation.  We are so removed from the rhythms of the natural world.  In a culture that celebrates perpetual movement and an outward focus, we have mostly forgotten how to listen to the whispers that beckon us to slow, and to honour the lessons that darkness offers — lessons of courage, of compassion, and of how to turn towards that which frightens us.  In indigenous cultures throughout the world, this dark time of winter is a sacred time for slowing down, storytelling, and internal self-care whilst the natural world lies dormant.  In ancient pagan Norse and Germanic traditions this is the time of Yule when an oak log would traditionally be burned for days, alongside a great feast, representing a celebration of the return of light, and the casting off of the darkness in our lives.  The colorful lights upon a tree, burning of the yule log and gatherings of Christmas dinner are traditions carried forth from these ancient times.

We tend to associate darkness with peril and obscurity.  Our stories describe this as a realm of monsters and dangers abound.  Darkness is associated with gloom and shadow, an inability to see clearly, and of being lost and afraid.  Yet it is only when we are scared that we learn courage.  Surrendering to the unknown, we cultivate acceptance and equanimity.  And when our outer vision is impaired it is then that we are encouraged to look within, and to trust our inner gaze of self-awareness — brightening the landscape of our needs and longings. Winter solstice is a time of darkness but it also the return of light.  It reminds us that it is upon the darkest day of the year when light begins to grow again, each day lengthening with warmth, life and possibility.  While this is a time for inner work, it is also a generative time for hope and creation – an opportunity to surrender what no longer serves us into the depth of darkness, and to invite intention and possibility into an ever-expanding light.

I wonder if that which we frame as a seasonal depression in mood is related to the inability to honour our natural rhythms at this time of year.  Hours of work and school certainly do not adjust to the seasons, nor do our cultural imperatives for movement, accumulation and outer accomplishment — which are as boisterous in December as they are in June.  What if we were able to recognize that no matter how intelligent, evolved and self-sufficient we believe ourselves to be, we are still creatures of the Earth — interdependent and interconnected with all of Nature and its cycles of life and death, darkness and light, expansion and contraction?  What if we were able to align our activities and social constructs — as our ancestors did — to the rhythms of the seasons that move within our bodies, minds and hearts, as surely as they do in the outer world?

This is my invitation for you: What do you wish to release into the darkness? What do you wish to invite into the light? What is it that you need to honour at this season of winter as it unfolds within and all around you?

“Don’t turn away.
Keep your gaze on the bandaged place
That’s where the light enters you”

Rumi

Life is hard.  We grow old and face infirmity.  We become separated from those, and that, which we love. And, at a time we can never know, we die. Confronted by the uncertainty that this brings, we tend to cling to that which feels pleasant, and to turn away from that which feels unpleasant.  When the  pleasant experience changes — which it inevitably does – we suffer.  When we confront pain, loss and other unpleasant experiences, we suffer again. In Buddhism, this is what is referred to as the First Noble Truth of dukkha.

Turning away from the difficult experiences of our life, rather than discovering a skillful means to be with them is a major cause of suffering.  Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.  It is, in fact, the ways that we avoid our pain that most separates us from ourselves, each other, and Life itself.  Screens, media,  busyness, and substance use offer a plethora of distraction in order to ‘not feel’ the discomfort of our moments — thus denying our very humanness.  The paradox is that it is only when we turn towards our pain — physical, emotional, spiritual and existential — that we discover a deep well of healing and the true freedom and peace that can only arise from what Chogyam Trungpa referred to as ‘leaning into the sharp points”. 

In 2006 my wife, Stacy, and I embarked upon a 2 week meditation retreat led by the venerable Sayadaw U Pandita in a remote forest area in Myanmar. The Burnese tradition of vipassana meditation is quite strict and so men were separated from women, we ate only two simple meals per day, slept in small wooden huts (upon a thin mattress on plywood), and practiced sitting and walking meditation for up to 10 hours per day. I remember feeling drawn to the stringency of this challenge as an opportunity to deepen my practice. I began the retreat with solemn anticipation.  And then the pain arrived…. It started on Day 3 as a sharp and tight ache around my left shoulder blade. By Day 5 it had spread to my entire thorax as an intense discomfort that brought a wince to my face and sweat to my brow.  I tried all of the tools I had learned to navigate such discomfort.  I focused intently upon my breath, invited mantra into my mind, tried to hold the pain in a bigger container of awareness, and shifted my posture and position repeatedly in a subtle desperation to obtain relief.  By Day 6 I was exhausted and defeated, spending every moment off of the cushion stretching and massaging, and dreading the bell that invited me back, time and again, to my practice. 

At the retreat there was an opportunity to speak with one of the more experienced monastics about my meditation.  And so, on that fateful day, I found myself tearfully sitting before a middle aged Thai monk describing the unrelenting pain and difficult suffering arising in my formal sits.  The gentle monk, wrapped in orange robes, listened intently.  When I was finished he looked at me softly and said,“You are trying to get around and away from your pain… You need to go through it”,  While I had the immediate impulse to punch him, I chose instead to respectfully bow with joined palms, and then to return to the cushion that faithfully awaited me. 

Within a short time of practice the pain returned and I felt myself brace.  It was then that I observed how this tightening only worsened my discomfort, as did all of the stories and beliefs I had about this pain. The injustice of the affliction, my failings as a meditation student, my inability to control the discomfort, and my unworthiness next to all of the seemingly blissful and pain-free yogis around me were like arrows I was shooting at myself, ever increasing the intensity of my suffering, beyond the unfortunate reality of the difficult sensations I was experiencing.  A swell of compassion arose within me.  While I could not make the pain go away,  I could offer love and kindness to this body, and to this person of ‘me’ going through such suffering.  I could stop inflicting shame and judgement upon myself.  Remembering the Thai monk’s words I began to invite a sense of curiosity to the pain unfolding in my body, leaning in closer to the actual sensations.  Much to my surprise these sensations were not as fixed as I had thought, but rather rich with an everchanging dance of movement and volume.  I observed how the sensations would expand and then recede, ache and then become sharp or burning.  I noticed how when I contracted, my suffering intensified, and how I was able to soften my gaze and my physical body.  The pain grew and receded.  There were moments where it was hardly perceptable, and others when it would return with renewed intensity.  I began to see this pain as the pain of all beings, and felt a wellspring of compassion, connecting me to everyone and everything… I recognized — as an embodied knowing — that I am not my pain…  That I am not the changing sensations.., or emotions.., or thoughts arising and passing away.  I am the One who can observe these phenomena, with a loving presence that is unconditional and independent of preference. 

The retreat continued, and then… ended.  The experiences were not always easy, nor pleasant, but I emerged from those 14 days with a fierce courage and a spacious faith in the mysterious belonging of all things.  I recall walking the streets of Yangon post retreat, and then the first period after returning home, as a time of profound peace, acceptance and an notable absence of fear that still echoes faintly in my being, even to this day…. 

Our constant flight from pain, trauma and uncertainty only brings us more suffering.  Turning towards such difficulty with compassion and presence offers a sense of ease and equanimity with the inherent wholeness that always contains both pain and pleasure, darkness and light, blessing and challenge…  This is the gift and grace of suffering. The freedom, ease and joy we so desperately seek, and which ever remain so elusive in our dopamine-fueled escapes, are awaiting us in this very moment, whatever it offers. 

Of course, this does not mean that we should seek for pain or trauma in our lives.. We don’t need to…  It is already Here,  alongside so much beauty, blessing and wonder.  These are all part of the same whole that is your life.  Brene Brown once wrote, “You can not selectively numb”.  When we turn away from any one part of ourself, we turn away from our whole self.  Our love becomes conditional —dependent upon certain conditions — and we only love our body when it is not in pain; love our mind only when it is kind and without judgement; love our heart when it is easeful and happy; and love ourself only when we can finally meet all of our impossible expectations. The divine unconditionality of Love welcomes and honours all things, whether we like them or not. When we can learn to meet all that is Here — people, experiences, emotions — with the same unconditional acceptance, then we are drawn into the fullness of what it is to be alive, and so become one with Life itself. We begin to recognize and understand the preciousness  of each moment, each flower, each touch of a hand — even each challenge —because of their fleeting nature.  We learn, through practice, to allow each moment its proper place and time, leaning in to all of it, with veracity and love.

“There are two realities. The one unfolding right now all around you… and the stories you have about it.

We mostly live within our stories.. Our beliefs and narratives about ourselves, each other and the world are the lens through which we see life, and largely determine how we think, speak and act.  Whilst some stories have the potential to unite us in culture and tradition, drawing us ever closer to a place of belonging, stories can also be equally powerful in their capacity to divide us from ourselves, each other and the natural world around us. 

There is a tension rising in modern society between the dopamine-fueled draws of materialism, overbusyness and politics of power; and a pull towards practices of inner transformation such as meditation, yoga, and psychedelics.  One is outward, brash and founded upon beliefs of fear, impoverishment and individualism. The other is quiet, inward-focused, and rests upon a recognition of our innate wholeness.

Whilst war, hatred and a staggering violence again each other and our natural world, seem to be proliferating,  so is there a growing interest and research into mindfulness and meditation, psychedelic-assisted therapies and the wisdom traditions of the world.  This tension has never been more apparent than at this moment we are living in — a period characterized by increasing wealth, longevity, and technological advance and, simultaneously, a rising prevalence of anxiety, depression, substance use and deep divisions within community and between nations. 

Our stories are influenced through experience with the world around us, and the presence — or lack thereof — of an intimate connection to the world within us.   If our outer existence is not balanced and informed by an intimate cultivation of inner knowing then we are bound to live at the reactive discretion of our physiology. When faced with threat — to our physical, emotional, or psychological safety — our bodies are wired to react with fight, flight or freeze.  Our heart rate and breathing increase, digestion and immunity slow, and our brain becomes reactive and hypervigilent. Fear is the predominant emotion when faced with threat. The challenge is that this threat does not need to be real in order to evoke this reactive state.  The perceived story of  transgression against our character will lead to the same physiologic fight reaction as would an actual physical threat to our life.  The entrenched narrative of tragedy and uncertainty will elicit a dissociative flight or freeze reaction no different than when faced with actual tragedy. 

When we are bereft of the grounding stories inherent in our cultural and religious traditions we become increasingly susceptible to the prevailing stories from popular culture — stories today that are manufactured by commercial and political interest, and then inoculated to the masses through social media, news outlets and AI algorithms.  Rather than stories of belonging, identity and relationship arising from traditions passed on from generation to generation over millenia, we are sold narratives of fear, separation and inadequacy, born within marketing agencies, board rooms, and political parties. 

Peace is this moment without judgement or story. It is not dependent upon life unfolding according to our preferences or plans, but rather is a deep recognition of the miracle unfolding within, and all around us, right here and right now.  This peace, joy, and healing, arise from the humble remembrance that each person, experience, and emotion has its place — every thing belongs. 

Contemplative wisdom traditions have developed practices, over thousands of years, such as prayer, meditation, mindful movement and ecstatic song and dance in order to cultivate this realization of our true nature.  Many of these traditions frame this realization as a ‘waking up’  from the slumber of our stories of separation and fear.  These human practices of awakening ground us in this precious moment, loosening our attachment to our stories, and cultivating a perspective of Truth amidst, and beyond, the play of ideas.

The great German mystic, Meister Eckart, once said that there is ‘no such thing as a spiritual path‘.  John O’Donahue added to this proposition by stating that if there is one, ‘it is but a quarter of an inch long’. Awakening to Truth is available right here and right now.  It does not require joining a monastery, a pilgrimage to a sacred mountain nor a renunciation of your belongings.  It simply asks you to slow down enough to step outside of your narratives, and immerse yourself in the miracle of this moment.  The draw of psychedelics, meditation and mystic traditions is rising within our popular culture now because we need them more than ever.  Now is the time to wake up. 

We try so hard… to accomplish, to solve, to fix, to belong.  Sometimes our effort is wise and meaningful.  And sometimes this exertion comes from a place of fear, and we end up micromanaging our lives in a way that denies the grace and mystery of it all.

Our human condition invites each of us towards a balance of effort and surrender.  Creativity is a wonderful example of this balance.  All acts of creation — whether writing, music, painting, problem-solving, planting a garden or devising a business plan — require a careful interplay of deliberate action and an acceptance of the emergent quality or life.  Mary Oliver, in her Poetry Handbook advises the would-be poet:

“Writing a poem is a kind of love affair between the heart and the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. “

I love the way that Mary Oliver speaks of the relationality of our mind and heart – like a dance of human and divine; of reason and mystery.  There is a trust that is cultivated in this love affair.  We honour this trust by showing up. This is the effort.

And yet this relationship asks, as well, that we be willing to listen to the heart, whether these whispers are unnerving, vulnerable or bizarre.  We must allow this whispered wisdom to move through us, informing our thoughts, speech and behaviors. This is the surrender.

When we become trapped beneath the weight of our busyness, or mired within the mundane muck of our doings and shoulds,  it is often because we have misplaced this trust — or faith —  in that which moves through us and all around us, but is not us at all.  We forget how to let go.  Margaret Atwood has often spoken of the importance of non-self in the creative process.  When asked about her book, Negotiating with the Dead, she asserted, “You will never meet the person who wrote this”.  And as Rick Rubin, Grammy Award winning music producer and author of the exquisite book The Creative Act: A Way of Being writes, “Ultimately, the act of self expression isn’t really about you”.

This rings true in my own creative expression as well.  The poetry or writing that I produce is never really ‘mine’, but rather something that moves through me – a creative wellspring that I can tap into.  In my teaching roles, there are times when something novel, resonant or edifying arises from my lips, within the container of a retreat, workshop or course.  When I allow myself to be a vessel, then these words can become a gift and an inspiration… to myself and, hopefully, to others.  When my intellect or ego become excessively involved, however, then the concepts or words begin to feel like sunlight filtered through murky water — the light simply doesn’t get through.  My role is to get out of the way.

Healing is also a creative act that moves through us, but is not entirely us.  Healing requires this very same fine balance of effort and surrender.  If I am ill, it is important that I get some rest, drink fluids, and take the medicine that may quicken my recovery.   This is the effort.  However, I must also trust this body, and remember that healing is ever an innate movement towards wholeness.  This is the surrender.  It is this humility that allows me to understand what may be getting in the way of this movement, and what can facilitate this flow?

When Medicine is at its best, this is what we are so privileged to do as healers. Our role is to meet our patient with all of the skill, knowledge, experience, and compassion we have. This is the effort.  And then we must let it go. We must have trust in the person we are in relationship with; in the medicine we are choosing; and in the healing process itself.  Despite all of our technology and pharmacopeia, we do not do the healing. As healers we simply facilitate, and participate in, this mysterious and sacred propensity towards life and a balance of health.  As Voltaire quipped, “The art of medicine consists of amusing the patient while nature cures the disease”

There is a balance of effort and surrender in meditation.   Our effort lies in showing up to our practice, to our retreat, to our community…   But there is, as well, so much surrender.  Similar to Mary Oliver’s advice to a poet, meditation is also a love affair of head and heart.  It is a courtship of trust.  Meditation reacquaints us with ourselves, and invites us to remember how to listen deeply to that which arises within the stillness of practice.  When the noise and busyness begin to settle we can once again fall in love with ourself as we are; with this moment as it is; and with this world as it is.   Meditation is an effort of compassion, and a surrender into Love.  

To see a World in a grain of sand
And a Heaven in a wildflower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
                                            William Blake

Ours is a world ever more impoverished from that which is sacred.  In these neon times we falsely ascribe meaning and value to the fragile promises of material wealth, eternal youth and an ethic of overbusyness that have become the popular narrative of our epoch, and the very measure of our worth and personhood.

The consequences of such a culture are evident throughout society.  Never before have we faced such an epidemic of mental and spiritual suffering.  The prevalence of disorders such as attention deficit, depression, chronic pain, burnout, anxiety, addiction and discontent are the inevitable result of being disconnected from the sacred in ourselves, in each other and in the natural world in which we live.

Sacred has been defined as that which is “worthy of awe, respect and dedication”.  It is our connection to the transcendent, beyond the limits of our material world. It is the realm of Spirit. Since the dawn of human existence, our ancestors have found solace and sanctuary in relationship to that which is sacred. Ceremony and song; dance and prayer; art and story have been the foundations of human cultures throughout the world, honouring the mystery of the Divine, and rooting ourselves in belonging.  From animist cultures to polytheistic, and monotheistic, religions, our faith traditions have pervaded society with ceremony, community and a clear ethic of being, imbuing the sacred into all aspects of life. WIth the secularization of society we have lost the signposts, but not the hunger, for a relationship to Spirit. Without such a connection to this basic human need our inherent challenges, sufferings and frailties become bereft of meaning, and we drift upon the turbulent waters of existence without anchor or sail.

Indigenous cultures across the globe maintain this connection to sacred in their awareness of Creator in every aspect of life and being. Amidst the blessings and hardships of day-to-day existence lies a deep recognition of meaning and grace that is the foundation of indigenous culture and identity.  The stories, traditional knowledge and healing arts of indigenous peoples have arisen from an intimate relationship and respect for the natural world . The poignant phrase, “All My Relations”, often used by North American indigenous peoples,  breathes this humble understanding of connection and interdependence with animals, trees, plants, insects, sun, moon and all of life — recounting a story of kinship and connection.

In the book, Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley describes, in eloquent detail, his own personal psychedelic experience under the influence of mescaline in May 1953.  Entrenched within the eternal moment of his sensory awareness, Huxley becomes enraptured by the form and nature of a chair, a painting and a flower, writing, at length, of the depths of beauty and interconnection within each object — the suchness of each thing which contains all things. He famously wrote, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is,… infinite.”.  

Rediscovering the sacred in ourselves, and in our world, requires a return to that which has always been. This journey home invites each of us to, as David Whyte asserts, “put down the weight of our aloneness, and ease into the conversation”.  This reconnection begins in the body. In our fast paced and overstimulated culture we so often live in our head and can easily become estranged to our own body, which is the gateway to sacred. As we slow down and begin to quieten the mind and body, we awaken from the slumber of our perceived separateness, and can once again allow the blessed gifts of sight, sound, touch, taste and smell to re-enchant us to the aliveness of this moment, and to the Oneness that interweaves it all. 

Your very life is an invitation to cultivate an awareness of Spirit.  Look deeply into any thing and you will encounter an ineffable mystery of paradox and interdependence.  The texture of a flower, the shape of a cloud, the nature of subatomic particles, or the touch of a hand all carry infinite opportunity to recognize the beauty, wonder, and joy that are the hallmarks of sanctity.  Mindfulness is a practice that allows us to rediscover the sacred in our lives.  As we learn to quieten the mind and soften the body, we are better able to perceive and allow each moment as it is.  In the spaciousness of loving presence we can recognize, again, the blessings and grace that abound, and begin to heal the trauma, fear and hurt that distance us from a sense of joy and peace that is our birthright.

Stories are important. Every culture and people throughout time and place believed in their stories as a guide to navigate and relate to this world and its mysteries. What might seem like myth and folklore through the arrogant lens of history and progress, is simply a narrative developed to understand life and all in its fold.  We are no exception.  Our stories of science and materialism are simply another way of explaining the world around us, and our place in it.  This story is no more right or wrong than English is more ‘right‘ than Cantonese.  However, the stories we tell have power, and influence how we speak and act with ourselves, each other and the natural environment of which we are dependent.  Perhaps it is time to adapt our story?  Perhaps now is the time to re-invite a narrative of sacred into everything we speak and all that we do… so that it matters.