(The lilac bushes in our backyard)

*A quick note to paid members…I still have memberships on pause, so you’re not being charged anything for these occasional posts. If I start writing more frequently, I may turn on memberships again, but I’ll be sure to give you lots of notice if and when I do. Thanks, as always, for your support. Warmly, Ian

(audio version)

The other day, for some reason, I had the idea to pretend that that very ordinary day was the only day of my life. Not the last day of my life, the only day. I did not imagine, in other words, that I had lived 57 years and hoped to live another decade or three, when suddenly I knew it was all coming to an end. Rather, I tried imagining that life (everyone’s life) only lasts for ONE day, and I was in the middle of mine.

Which, it turns out, feels very different. When I imagine this is the last day of my life, I feel sadness, regret, and a sudden desire to immediately do everything I never did. But to imagine everyone gets one day and that’s perfectly normal and I’m not getting short-changed and nothing is wrong…well, then it loses its sting. Now there’s no need to eat an entire chocolate cake, climb a 14er, and tell everyone that I’ve ever loved how much I love them. There’s just this one day. And I’m just passing through it. No past, no future. Just an experience of being alive for awhile.

It takes a little practice to move from this just being an idea to really letting it sink in, but I invite you to try. Because at least for me, some interesting things happened. I found myself, for example, standing at the counter at 1^stBank, fascinated by the teller’s intricately-decorated fingernails. And there was the tiniest little purple rubber duck sitting on her countertop that I normally would never have noticed.

Normally, I would have been thinking about my next stop, or the next day, or the next…something. Because when you assume you’re going to have hundreds, if not thousands more of these ‘day’ things, then any one of them isn’t especially special. But when you only have one of something, it suddenly becomes precious.

I think part of the gift of this was the blessed break from having a past and future. True, there was nothing to plan, achieve, dream or reminisce about - and those things can be really fun to do. But there was also nothing to worry, fear, regret or feel sorry about. When I really sank into the feeling of “My whole life is just this one day,” everything became more simple, and the world became more interesting, and I felt more present and peaceful. Even the most ordinary thing, like that little purple duck, seemed fascinating. And fascinating things, like the little purple buds opening on our lilac bush, seemed almost miraculous.

I’ve been continuing this little game for the past few days. Whenever I remember, I just pause and try to imagine this day is all I get…and when I surrender into it, something shifts. I become more awake. I want to soak in every second of every moment. I feel grateful for just about everything. And I don’t feel so consumed by the state of the world, or the direction of my life, or who did what to so-and-so. Instead I just feel a simple appreciation, enjoyment and curiosity about whatever life is presenting. Instead of turning on the radio in the car, I want to watch the world go by – the tired mom at the bus stop, the sun lighting up the clouds, even the sound of traffic is more interesting now because I can let myself just be interested in it. I’m not invested in it in the way I usually would be.

Now I know there’s a problem with this. For one thing, it’s very likely I am going to have a next day, and many of them. So a certain amount of planning ahead is required. And even if I wasn’t, I still choose to care about the world and its future and that comes with its share of worry and fear. But with the way the world is right now, that worry and fear can become all-consuming, and stepping out of it now and then to spend a little time ‘as if’ can be a helpful corrective.

Have you ever been on a speeding train looking out the window? When you look down the track at where you’re going, things seem relatively steady and in focus. Equally, if you look backwards at where you’ve come from. But if you look straight out the window at what you are passing right now, it’s just a blur, right?

Well, I think that’s a bit like how we spend our lives. Rushing toward the next thing with excitement (and worry) or looking back at where we’ve been with nostalgia (and regret), so much so that those are the only things in focus. This experiment is like slowing down the train, almost to a stop. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to come from. Just looking straight out at this one single, ordinary, precious day, suddenly in focus like never before.

Note: A benediction is “a good word” often given at the conclusion of a religious service as a kind of blessing. When I was a pastor, I loved that moment when the atmosphere changed and the Mystery felt almost tangible. Lately, I have been playing around with writing benedictions on various subjects, and what follows is part of that experiment. I know we all have very different experiences of motherhood and those experiences are often difficult, complex, and painful. So I offer this with clear acknowledgement that I do not in any way intend to speak for mothers or anyone else’s experience of motherhood. These are the thoughts of an outsider looking in, based on my own limited experience as the child of, and a husband to, two mothers who have been such blessings to me.

(audio version)

A Benediction for Mothers

In the middle of life’s ordinariness,
you suddenly found yourself at the center of a great mystery,
at the center of the great mystery.

Your body, which a week ago seemed so unexceptional,
had become a miracle; a universe unto itself,
giving sustenance and sanctuary to another.
Your life would never be the same,
and you knew it.

The truth is, it is too much to ask of anyone,
to hold the enormity of it,
the sacredness of it,
the weight and wonder of it.

Thank God the task is so often given to young women.
The rest of us would crumble.

You were frightened at times, of course.
But mostly you just felt blessed. And curious.
Lying at night, you wondered who they would be,
this awakening soul who, for the rest of your life,
would never not be on your mind.

This person who would demand so much of you,
depend on you, reject you, adore you, infuriate you.
And, in return, leave you changed in ways you still can’t explain.

On the day you became two,
you looked into those bright eyes
and something ancient opened.
A connection, not just to them,
but to a wisdom beyond your own.

You still knew nothing.
But you also knew that everything you needed,
was within you.
It was the first paradox of many.

Like how this child could feel so completely of you,
and so uniquely not you.

And how you could so desperately
need a day to yourself,
and then when you got it,
ache to be near them.

And how you could feel so eager,
so hopeful for their future,
and so frightened for it too.

They say that being a mother is to forever have your heart
walking outside your body. But it’s not true.

Being a mother is to have, walking outside your body,
something you love more than your heart,
more than your own life,
more than you knew you were capable of loving,

where it can dream and laugh and do tender, beautiful things,
and where it can struggle, and feel pain, and lose its way.

Could there be anything more difficult?
Or more marvelous?
Is there anything in this human experience
more deserving of our collective awe?
Or, in the end, more holy?

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From a recent journal entry…

This morning I feel within myself.
Sufficient. Contained. At peace (well, at least relatively so).

How to stay?
How to resist the trails that lead me away from myself?

The events of the world beckon.
My insecurities beckon.
My phone beckons.

I could spend hours in their gravitational fields. Days. My life.
They are my favorite bones to chew.

But to do so is to slip into abstraction; to live a step removed from what is real, what is alive; which is here, in this not-yet-interpreted, ethereal moment in front of me. This moment even before I’ve decided chair is chair, leaf is green or tea is hot, when creation unfolds namelessly, three-dimensionally and freely. This moment that reveals my worries and daydreams to be flat and lifeless by comparison.

Awake in this moment, the world is alive…fluid, ever-new and wonder full.
Lost in thought, the world becomes background, unnoticed and unnecessary.

Awake in this moment, I am alive. I sense my own pulsing. I am aware of my self, being alive. Lost in thought, I become an observer, a bystander; no longer in the movie. Just watching it, planning it, critiquing it.

Awake in this moment, the Holy is alive. And only in this moment is a true encounter with the Holy ever possible. Lost in thought, the burning bush is missed while I’m busy contemplating burning bushes.

Can I find the courage (or is it trust?) to put down my bones and lift my head.
Sniff the air of the living world around me.

Audio version:

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(audio version)

As I pulled into the campground, I felt a familiar anxiety rising up. It was getting late in the day, I didn’t have a reservation, and it looked like all the spots might be taken. Was there another campground close by? What were my other options? I’m a little embarrassed to admit how panicky this kind of situation can make me feel. After all, (as I’ve often told myself) I could always just drive home if I had to. I did have a place to sleep that night.

Halfway around the campground loop, I slipped into what turned out to be the last spot and exhaled. Ahhh…home sweet home for $19. Filling out the fee envelope, I remember writing ‘1’ in response to the question, “Number of occupants?” But that turned out to be not quite true. Because the next morning, reaching for my water jug, I noticed that residence had been established in the groove of the handle…by a little brown spider.

Normally I might have helped him be on his way, but given my own housing scare the night before, I felt, if not compassion, then at least a little campassion. Live and let live, I thought, and decided my new friend looked like his (or her?) name was Spike.

Now I know a spider isn’t everyone’s idea of a camping buddy. But in the timeless words of Bob Dylan, “we all need a little shelter from the storm.” It can be a harsh world, and making our way through it, whether we’re on two, four, or even eight legs, is far more precarious than we like to admit. Spike was just after the same thing I was: a little protection from the elements, a ledge over his head, a place to call home for a while.

Which got me thinking about…shelter. It’s so basic. So primal. So ancient. Every living thing has to have it, at least now and then. And yet, the complexity of modern life has distanced most of us humans from how important shelter really is. We walk in and out of our homes every day without giving them the attention, or appreciation, they deserve.

Sure, we might contemplate what tile to choose for the new backsplash or wonder how to fix a loose cabinet door. But how often do we pause and feel just how much we depend on the heat flowing so generously through the vents, the water pouring so willingly from the tap, and the not-just-proverbial roof over our heads?

I think that’s part of why I like camping. The absence of things I normally take for granted brings the reality of my own fragility into clearer focus.

And with fragility comes humility.

And with humility comes gratitude.

And gratitude is, well, one of the secrets to a meaningful life.

So here’s a little something you might try. The next time you arrive at home, just as your hand touches the handle of the door, pause a moment. What you are about to do is so easy to take for granted. But instead of rushing in, take just a second to feel how lucky you are. Think about the staggering 770,000 Americans and 150 million people worldwide who can’t do what you’re about to do. And maybe even whisper a quiet ‘thank you’ to the Universe, God, or your lucky stars. Having a place to rest your head is a blessing (even one you share with a spider).

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Here’s a picture of Spike tucked into his ‘tent.’ After three days together I couldn’t bare to shoo him away, so we came home together (a 7 hour drive) and he stayed on our back porch for two more days. The next morning he was gone.

And finally…I’m excited to announce my next online class with my colleague, Elizabeth Jameson. We just finished a class on the book, The Wisdom Jesus, with 30 participants and here’s what one participant had to say:

“Ian and Elizabeth are rare and wonderful guides for anyone longing to travel the spiritual path. Every person, no matter one’s religious background or affiliation (or even lack thereof) will feel seen, respected and welcomed by their warmth and wisdom.”

Our next class will explore the wisdom of the book, Living Presence, by modern-day Sufi master, Kabir Helminski. This is a beautiful book, full of insight for living more attuned to the Mystery that is as close as our own breath, and yet never within our grasp. The class will take place on Zoom on Wednesdays from 11:30 to 12:50 (Mountain Time), for 6 weeks from April 23- May 28. The cost is $111 and you can register HERE.

Please feel free to pass this on to anyone you think might be interested!

Until next time,

Ian

The other day I was bemoaning all the things I needed to get done. My car was due for an emissions test (still is), I had to get our tax documents together (finally did that), my new glasses were ready for pick up (yes, I now wear glasses), the kitchen was a mess and on and on. You know how it goes.

But when I heard myself saying, “Ugh, I have to get a post written for Substack,” I paused. Wait a minute…I love to write. When it’s not going well, I want to pull out the little hair I still have left, but even then, I love it.

So instead of, “I have to,” I tried saying, “I get to.”

Now I know that sounds like advice you might pick up at Hobby Lobby. But sometimes trite makes right, and I have to admit I felt better; like a little corner of my grumpy heart opened and some gratitude slipped in. Maybe even a little joy. “That’s right.” I thought, “I get to do this. The truth is I’m lucky to write these posts.”

But that’s an easy one. What about all those other things? No one would mistake getting an emissions test for a privilege. Organizing the taxes and cleaning the kitchen are not things we’re ‘lucky’ to do.

Or are they?

I mean, slow down a minute. Let’s think about this. Isn’t it actually the case that everything we do is a privilege? Isn’t it deeply true that all of this is a ‘get to’ situation, especially compared to, well, not getting to?

I know our world feels pretty scary right now. And I know on a personal level, things can get pretty awful sometimes. But it’s still a gift to be here. And certainly, we can wish for and work towards making life better. But between a bad day and no day at all, I’ll take bad every time.

Because there’s a preciousness within each moment that is independent of how well that moment is going. And I don’t need to remind you, this being alive thing is a limited-time-offer and your ticket may be stamped for a shorter trip than you think. If you don’t like being stuck in traffic or taking out the trash, well, some day you won’t have to. But you also won’t get to.

Some day we won’t get to stub our toe, or argue with our spouse, or try to make our country better. It’s all going be over, and more quickly than we probably think. Our lives are soap bubbles, here one minute and gone the next.

But while they last, we get to see, sip, and savor the world around us. We get to laugh with, listen to, and love the people in our lives. We get to weep, worry and wonder what all this might mean. We get to be alive. We are alive, my fellow bubbles! Think of the countless souls that came before us who would give anything to have just one more day.

This day. This day when you get the chance to think differently about all the things you have to do.

It’s a big help in reaching a wider audience when you share my posts with others. So thanks for passing this one on to someone! Also, liking or commenting on the post increases its visibility within Substack (as well as making the post writer’s day)

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While reading the news this week, there were more than a few times when waves of fear washed over me. They were so big, and so potentially paralyzing, that I started a list of reminders to help me deal with them. Nothing particularly brilliant or new here, but I thought it might be helpful to share.

Feeling afraid for our world?

Start…by doing something. Anything. It can be political, like writing your representative, giving money to things you believe in, or joining a community working on something together. But non-political things count too…like being kind to a stranger or shoveling your neighbor’s walk. Do something that adds to the good in the world. Because action gives you a sense of agency. And fear hates it when you feel empowered.

Then remember…that other people are doing good things too. All the time. There are literally millions of good acts transpiring all day, every day, everywhere.

Which means…you are not alone and this is not all up to you. Do what you can, accept that you’re just one person, and then go for a walk.

Because despite our troubles…this world is still beautiful. Stunningly so. And you’re not doing anyone any good by not noticing that. In fact, you will have more energy, more joy and more love with which to address the world’s troubles if you take care of yourself.

And then (and this is a biggie)…try to hold what you fear within a larger context. If you’re of a more ‘woo-woo’ bent, like me, that might mean trusting that this world is held by a deep and loving Mystery (like a pillow on a chair) and all of this will, ultimately, turn out to be a love story. If you’re not quite so sure about that (and who could blame you these days), then maybe trust, as the good Dr. King said, that the arc of the moral universe is long, but bends towards justice. Or have faith in the goodness of humanity, which has proven again and again to be remarkably resilient, given enough time.

Why do this? Well, let’s say your fear is the size of a bowling ball. Put it in a bucket of water and it’s hard to think of anything else. Put it in a swimming pool and it’s hardly a bother. Seeing things within a larger context helps a lot.

And finally…come back to this moment. Take a breath. Look around. Fear is a story. And you’re allowed to take breaks from the story. So just sit here for a moment. Rest. Smile.

As needed, repeat.

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(for audio version, click above)

As I sit bleary-eyed on the couch each morning with my tea and journal, the chair across from me looks patiently back, waiting for the game we sometimes play. Once awake-ish, I start by focusing my attention on the yellow-knit pillow nestled in its corner, and before long, the chair fades almost completely into a blurry-green background.

Then I switch, concentrating now solely on the chair. And just as easily, the pillow almost disappears from my awareness.

Then the hard part…I readjust my gaze, and by not completely committing to either, I can keep some attention on both, at the same time.

What, you don’t start your day this way? Well, stay with me a minute, because this simple illustration, I believe, gets at something really profound.

Think of the pillow as what spiritual-types call the “manifest” world, which means basically everything you see around you. And let the chair represent the Unmanifest or spiritual world; that which gives rise to, and sustains, everything you see around you.

(I know, I jumped right into the deep end of the pool today.)

Most of us are focused almost exclusively on the pillow. We go about our days completely absorbed by the beauties, bewilderings, dramas and decisions of everyday life. So much so, that we hardly give a thought to whether there’s a chair there in the background. But what if there is?

I believe (joining countless generations of mystics, poets, priests, priestesses, and ordinary folks) what seems impossible to our rational minds…that our everyday reality is held by an even deeper reality; by a big, beautiful, green chair that we have lots of names for like God, the Universe, Spirit…or what I recently saw someone refer to simply as GUS.

I believe there’s something ‘More’ going on here (in the William James, Varieties of Religious Experience, sense). Something that feels both intimate and completely unknowable. Something undefinable, ineffable, and yet as natural and close as the air we breathe. Something intelligent, but also more than what we think of as intelligence. Something loving, but also greater than what we think of as love.

But if this GUS is really there, why don’t we experience it more often? Well, when we’re totally absorbed in day-to-day life, rushing from here to there, constantly lost in a stream of inner dialogue about what’s next on the list, we don’t give ourselves much chance, do we?

Which is why every religious tradition ever has told us we need to step back from the pillow now and then, find a quiet room, tune out the busy world, and focus for a while on the chair. This, we call meditation. And it does two important things.

First, it gives us a much needed break from our lives. As this magnet someone once gave me puts it:

Meditation, if nothing else, is a chance for a few minutes of respite…from the world, from our worries, from our selves. It’s like nap time in kindergarten - you didn’t always want it, but you needed it (and so did your teacher).

But more importantly, meditation gives us perspective. When the pillow is all we see, when we’re too close to our own problems, and too convinced of the stories we’ve told ourselves, things can start to feel too heavy, too serious, and life really can start to feel like a shitshow. Much of our world is caught in this right now. And it feeds on itself, making things feel even worse than they are.

Meditation resets our nervous system within a larger context. Even if we don’t experience GUS while we meditate, by turning our gaze toward the Unmanifest, we see the manifest more clearly.

We see that this world is not a shitshow. Far from it.

Life is incredible, miraculous, mysterious. And even when things are really hard, our lives are still full of small wonders like dragonflies, dogs, dark chocolate and Douglas-firs…and that’s just off the top of my head from the ‘d’ list.

That’s the gift of meditation. It’s a reality check.

But the real point is to then step back in the drama, holding some attention on both the manifest and the Unmanifest, at the same time. This, we call mindfulness. Which is about the closest thing I know to the secret to life.

With all that’s going on these days, I know it can feel almost irresponsible to step back from the issues of the day, even for a moment. But it’s precisely because the world feels so intense that we must learn to hold both the forest and the trees, the chair and the pillow, the manifest and the Unmanifest, at the same time.

Only then can we bring the wisdom that comes with being in the world, but not (completely) of it. And the awareness, while we go about our ordinary days, that this world is anything but ordinary.

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(for the audio version, click above)

This summer, when I needed to create a website for this new chapter of my life, I was drawn to using the phrase soul work. I like the way it combines two words that don’t usually hang out together. I also like that it reminds us there is something worth working on, worth paying attention to, that isn’t sold on Amazon, found on Google, binged on Netflix, or built by Apple.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-tech. Heck, I had already engaged all four of those companies before lunch today. I just think the almighty algorithm has a way of making us feel smaller than we really are and I’m glad to be doing work that helps people think about their lives within a larger context.

I admit I do sometimes feel a little ‘quaint’ when I tell someone that what I do for a living involves something as seemingly obsolete as the soul. I was at a dinner party the other night talking to a hip young couple and asked them what they thought about the soul (I’m a ton of fun at parties these days). They cocked their heads to the side and squinted a little as they tried to compute the question. I might as well have asked their perspective on stagecoaches.

I know, of course, that the word ‘soul’ is loaded, and one that leads to loaded questions like who’s got one and what happens to them when we die. So it’s a lot to be confronted with standing there with a drink in your hand. But by ‘soul,’ I really just mean the deepest, truest part of us, which, I would like to think we all agree is still worth spending time on.

But I’m not so sure we do. Think for a moment about how many more ways there are of getting absorbed in the frivolous now than, say, fifty years ago…or a hundred years ago. Think about how much more time people had then (like it or not) to spend with their thoughts…while they plowed the field or washed the clothes or sat on the porch in the evening with not much else to do.

I’m not pining for the good-ole-days here. I’m pointing out what we’re up against. Things have changed and changed fast. But we’re the same easily-distractible, pleasure-seeking creatures we always were. If there is always a dazzling option to be had (or promised just one click away), what chance does our inner life stand? Bottom line, I worry we are creating a world around us that is so shiny, so entertaining, so enthralling that it’s getting hard to remember there is a world inside of us.

[Btw, that word ‘enthralling’ has always been a favorite of mine, so I looked it up to make sure I was using it in the right context. I learned that it originally referred to “being a servant of” or even “being enslaved.” Back in the 1200’s, a ‘thrall’ was a person who had been placed in bondage. So yes, it was just the word I wanted.]

I know many of us are concerned that AI might someday betray us, but I wonder if we should be asking if we have already betrayed ourselves. Have we curated an external environment so seductive, so captivating, that as a society we are almost completely in its thrall; no longer interested in tending something so subtle as the Spirit.

I hope not. And I know many, many people, and certainly many of you reading this, manage to live with all this amazing technology and entertainment while still making time for nature, silence, prayer, or Warrior II pose. But it’s not always easy, is it?

Life is more hurried and we are more frayed than ever, and sometimes a little Love is Blind on the couch is just what the doctor ordered. But I think we know this will only get us so far. To renew the deepest, truest part of us, we need time to just be. We need to garden, and sew, and go fly fishing. We need to journal and meditate and just stare out the window. We need to reflect on our lives and ask big questions about the meaning of it all. We need to do our soul work.

Spending time on your soul while living in such a shiny world will seem to some people like you’ve taken up stamp collecting. But waver not, my friends. The inner journey is where the real party is, and deep down it’s what we’re all hungry for. And as captivated as we all are by what’s around us, the truth is, the thing that enthralls us the most, still lies within us. And far from being obsolete, our soul is the one thing that never will be.

(Audio version of the following reflection)

Sometimes it hits me what a mystery all of this is…moments when I step out of ‘normal’ life and feel a wave of just how vast it all is and how little we know of what’s really going on.  It would probably be frightening, except that so often in those moments I have felt a deep sense that whatever is going on is pulsing with Love.

And then the moment fades and I’m back inside the story of my life, lost in some worry or daydream.

How interesting that this unfathomable mystery lies hidden in plain sight, just beneath the surface of our ‘ordinary’ lives.  We move through our days, struggling with what challenges us, enjoying what delights us, and paying the bills, barely aware of anything else.  So much of the time, life doesn’t feel vast or mysterious or pulsing with Love.  It feels plain, or boring, or hard.  Sometimes really hard. 

But the mystery is there.  And the mystery is here.  Right now, as I write this.  Right now, as you read this.  It’s sitting in the corner smiling, waiting for you to stop rushing long enough to notice. Or not.  How funny how little it seems to need our attention.  Sometimes I wonder if we’re not meant to notice it.  Maybe we’re supposed to just be lost in our stories; characters in the play. 

And yet, we have the ability to pause and see more. And there is such peace in the pausing.  Such freedom in knowing we are far more than just our worries and daydreams and dramas; and the world is far more than just its challenges and delights and bills.  So for a while, I rest here, smiling back at how, noticed or not noticed, this ‘mystery’ quietly holds our lives.

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In case it’s helpful, here’s the link to my Substack Homepage where you can find all of my posts.

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In the weird world of quantum physics, there’s something especially mind-bending called the Zeno Effect. Scientists have discovered that (at least at the level of ridiculously small things) the mere act of measuring something can slow down its natural evolution.  In other words, the more often a subatomic particle is observed, the more slowly it changes. The reason for this seems to be that, when measured, whatever process of natural change the particle is undergoing has to stop for a nano-moment, kind of like pausing for a photo.

I came up with the following way of imagining it (and if you’re an actual scientist, who actually gets this stuff, please feel free to roll your eyes and correct me)…let’s say someone rides a bicycle from Point A to Point B.  If they stop every so often to take a selfie, it takes a little longer to get there.  If they stop for a selfie every two seconds, they barely move at all.  The Zeno Effect seems to suggest that constant scrutiny has a way of slowing down something’s natural progression. It’s the scientific explanation for what your grandmother always knew: a watched pot never boils.

My point?  Well, I wonder if, in these post-election days, the best thing we could all do is pay a little less attention. What might happen if we dared to put down our phones, close our laptops, and go for a long walk? My bet is it would almost certainly be good for our individual health.  And the wisdom of the Zeno Effect suggests that, counter-intuitively, it might also be good for the health of the world. 

As much as our need for control hates to admit it, sometimes the best thing we can do is do a little less.  How many parents would have been better parents if they had backed off now and then?  How many relationships might have survived had the couple given each other a little more space?   

When something is going wrong, it’s hard for us to believe the solution isn’t to press harder. But when we are stretched thin, emotionally-drained, and not operating at our best, we can end up doing more harm than good.  

I know we’ve all grown accustomed (aka addicted) to a steady IV-drip of breaking news, latest updates, and dopamine inducing self-righteousness. But my gut tells me it’s time to pull the plug for a while and get back to things we did before everything we did felt political. It’s time to go to a concert, play with the dog, invite friends over to not talk about politics. If we can extrapolate anything from the Zeno Effect onto a human scale, it might be to have a little more faith. Faith that there are larger forces than us at work. Faith that all of this is held by a Mystery much bigger than we can imagine. And faith that sometimes our job is to just get on the bike and ride.

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It’s been snowing here in Denver and I can’t help but see a metaphor.  It’s a hazard of this work that everything becomes a stand in for something else.  A backpack becomes a lesson in how we hold our problems.  A pear becomes an invitation to taste life more fully.  Nothing is safe from being recast with meaning it didn’t ask for.    

And now it’s the snow.  We woke to it the day after the election and it has continued falling more or less steadily for three days.  A wet, heavy snow that looked fresh and promising at first, but now just feels soggy and oppressive.  Boughs are bent.  Limbs are broken.  It feels like it will always be this way.

And so this morning, if you woke with your spirit bent over, or if your heart is broken…by this election…or the state of the world…or any number of problems you might be facing personally, as trite as it feels to say this, I want to remind you (and me): that snow always melts.    

We take this for granted, like we do so many things.  But can you imagine a world where it didn’t melt.  A world where we had to keep piling it up on the sides of the driveway.  Year after year watching it grow higher.  Those who could, would pay snow trucks to come and carry it away like our garbage, to make even larger piles somewhere else.  It would be awful…if snow didn’t melt. 

But it does. It always does.

The forecast for the next few days is sunny and in the 50’s (gotta love Colorado).  Which means that almost imperceptibly, ever so slowly, that foot of snow out there, one day soon will be there no more. Which is not to say there won’t be damage.  There will be much to repair and there will be things that can’t be repaired.  But the snow will melt.

And not only that, but by the wondrous alchemy of nature, the very thing that caused the boughs to bend in the first place will be transformed into something we need.  Something life-giving.   

Could it be?  Could it be that hidden in the weight of our suffering lie the seeds of the very things we need most? Or is this stretching the metaphor too far?

I would say it is, except that too many times as a pastor I saw it happen…witnessed some terrible situation be transformed by grace into some thing of beauty.  I saw it so often that I’ve come to believe it happens every time. Maybe not right away.  Maybe not even in this lifetime.  But I now hold it as a theological tenet, a truth I cleave to in my heart…that the snow always melts.  And from it always comes new life. 

Looking out my kitchen window now, it doesn’t seem possible.  The snow covers everything.  All of it just so heavy.  But the truth is it is passing already.  The transformation has already begun.   

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NOTE: What follows is some of my rather scattered processing this morning.  It’s nothing like the beauty of Howard Zinn’s quote below, but I hope it’s helpful. (And if you are coming from a different perspective than I am, please know I don’t mean to be hurtful. We don’t need more hurt right now.) With love, Ian

When someone sees their marriage fail or loses a job that was important to them, they often feel a loss of identity.  Something that felt like part of them, no longer does.  This morning, amid the many things running through my heart and mind, what I’m most fundamentally dealing with, I think, is that…a loss of identity. 

In the coming days, much of the discussion will be about what Trump and Harris did and did not do right.  But elections are not just about the candidates, they’re about us.  They’re a reflection of who, We the People, are.

And what happened yesterday made clear to me that who we, as Americans, are, at this point in time, is not who I thought we were.  And therefore, something of who I thought I was, as an American, feels lost.

When we lose a significant aspect of our identity, we heal by coming to understand that the thing lost (a job, a spouse) is not really who we most fundamentally are.  The thing lost was precious to us and we must grieve it.  But we can still be fundamentally whole and intact without it.  Spiritually speaking, this is a process of returning to our deeper identity in God/Spirit/Love.  It is remembering that our soul is untouched and untouchable by anything external. 

Today, for me, this is the work.  I am feeling a loss of identity.  Not my identity as an American.  Nor my faith in what this country stands for or can be.  But I must accept that we have a longer way to go than I hoped.   Maybe much longer.

So, I will heed the pull to go inward.  It’s time to remind myself that who I most fundamentally am is not defined by politics or country, but by the loving Spirit that created me.  It’s time to be held by that deeper, wider, eternal perspective so I can hold my country and my fellow citizens with love and not bitterness…so I can come back out into the world with the strength and faith to do my small part in shaping this country I love into the country I know it can be…knowing that, “to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

"To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.
What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.
And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

-Howard Zinn (To be Hopeful in Bad Times - Compassionate Communication)

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Hi Everyone,

It’s hard to believe today is actually here.  For so many months we’ve lived in the growing storm of this election cycle, with its talking heads, endless polls, angry rhetoric and rollercoaster of hopes and fears.  It has been, among so many other things, loud.

So let my contribution to the noise be a thought about Silence.  Beneath the cacophony of words we have heard and will hear more of today, there remains an eternal, unknowable Silence that was here long before Election 2024 and will be here long after.  And for our own mental health, it might be good to take a moment or two (or ten) and rest in that Silence today.  It might even change the course of the election. 

I am just weird enough to believe that our ‘psychic energy’ (our attention, will, prayer, and love) is transformed into ‘physical energy’ in ways we don’t understand and seldom notice.  And if so, it really does matter, not just for our own well-being, but for the world, that we do our best to not let fear pull us out of the House of Love, even (and especially) today.

When you watch, read or think something today that paralyzes you with fear, take a deep breath, and then another, and let yourself get quiet enough to hear the Silence beneath the noise.  Remember the deep truth that all of this is happening within a larger reality, a larger truth, a larger Love.  And send that love out into the world. It’s good for you, and it’s something you still have the power to contribute today.

With love and faith,

Ian 

(for an audio version, click above)

During 20 years of ministry, I collected a lot of books about religion and spirituality. And I love them.  Many are now tattered and dear companions and the ideas they introduced me to have shaped my life.

So don’t get me wrong when I say, remember: studying God is not the same as experiencing God.  Reading books and listening to podcasts and watching YouTube videos of people talking about ‘God-Love-Spirit-Mystery-Ocean-Source’ are an important part of a sincere spiritual path.  And they can be a place we hide from the very thing we say we’re looking for.

Like the proverbial person who became a renowned expert on pears, wrote a book on pears, lectured across the world on pears, but had never actually tasted one, many of us prefer the comfort and control of an intellectual understanding of God.

But actual encounter with the Mystery, by definition, is an act of intellectual unraveling.  Study is a form of gathering, collecting, and controlling.  To sit before the Holy is to let go of what we have gathered, collected and tried to control.  To taste God, we must put down our arrogance (thinking we know things).  We must put down our selves (our constant self-reference).  We must drop our labels, our stories, our awards and even our shames and, for a while, just dissolve. 

So, for this Soul Snack, here’s an unusual invitation: take a few minutes today and let yourself disappear.  Aren’t you tired of yourself anyway?  Just dissolve for a while.  No one has to know.  While you’re brushing your teeth or walking around the grocery, imagine that ‘you’ have died and now you are just two eyes, looking out as the Mystery, at the Mystery, in love with the Mystery.  

Quietness

by Rumi

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You are covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you have died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now. 

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”

― Corrie ten Boom

(Click above for an audio version of this post.)

Years ago, a man in the church I was pastoring - let’s call him Bob - told me his father had died of heart disease at the age of 76. Then he told me he was convinced he was going to die the same way, at the same age. Bob was 72 at the time.

Over the next few years, I watched as Bob grew more and more convinced (and more and more worried) that this was sure to happen. Then his 76th birthday finally came…

And went. And then his 77th. And 78th. If memory serves, Bob ended up dying at the age of 83, and not of heart disease.

I think about him sometimes when a story about an imagined future has me in a choke hold. I think about the worry he carried around like a bowling ball because of a story that turned out to be lighter than air. And I think about how much time that story stole from his life.

We all worry. It’s human. And in small doses, it’s probably a healthy coping mechanism. But here’s the thing…in our attempt to feel some control over a future we have very little control over (the definition of worry), we give up the present moment, which we do have (some) control over. Or put another way, in our attempt to control something that may happen, we are no longer awake to what is happening. And that’s a high price to pay.

So for this first Soul Snack, I invite you to pay attention to the stories you’re telling yourself about futures you have very little control over: your own future, our country’s future, our planet’s future. And be honest about how much space those stories are taking up in your life; how much they’re costing you.

Because at the heart of being ‘awake’ to our lives (one way of describing the spiritual path) lies a commitment to living in the present, and a trust that whatever the future holds, we will be given the resources we need.

With love,

Ian

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* Thanks for forwarding to friends and family any posts you think they might appreciate. It’s a big help in expanding the reach of my work.

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(You can listen to an audio version of this post here)

I know I just sent a post a few days ago, so I apologize for showing up in your inbox again so soon.  But I’ve just returned from Children’s Hospital where my 20-year-old son (also named Ian) had his latest MRI scan.  He gets them every three months since completing treatment this past January for a brain tumor.  I’m happy to report the scan looked good and we are all very relieved. 

But what prompts this little bonus post is a conversation he and I had this morning about how strange it is to be living “three months at a time.”   And by strange, I mostly mean how incredibly hard it is.  But also how incredibly powerful. 

Can you imagine, we wondered together, how the world might be different if everyone had to get three-month scans, knowing each time their lives were in the balance.  Because, my son said, as anxiety-producing as this day is, he’s actually grateful for it; for the way it wakes him up and reminds him how precious his life is. 

We can get so wrapped up in our To-Do lists and problems that we forget what a blessing it is to be here…to be alive…to see, touch, and taste this miracle…to experience love, joy, beauty…even anxiety!    

I’m as guilty of forgetting this as anyone, so don’t hear me preaching at you.  I just thought you might appreciate the reminder (since you probably didn’t get the opportunity spend today at the hospital wondering if your whole life was about to come undone) to pause, look around, and no matter what hard things are going on in your life, to feel (really feel) how amazing all of this is and how lucky all of us are. 

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I also want to let you know that we discovered that the online program I had been invited to co-lead for LUMUNOS with my colleague Elizabeth Jameson fell on the same night as the September 10th presidential debate. We offered to provide a live spiritual commentary on the debate, but they wisely decided to reschedule for the day before, September 9th (6:30-7:30pm mountain time). You can get more information and register at the link below. Hope to see you there!

https://lumunos-bloom.kindful.com/e/living-in-two-worlds

(My current journal)

(You can listen to a recording of me reading this post by clicking above.)

When I was in middle school, I got a little spiral notebook to use as a journal.  And with my best 7^th grade handwriting, and the seriousness of a doctoral student, I declared that I was setting out to answer the question: “What is the meaning of life?”

Four decades later, I still have a journal (leatherbound now) I write in almost every day, basically still stuck on that question.

What is all of this, really? 
Who are we? 
What are we? 
What’s really going on here? 

Some days, exploring these questions feels like a fool’s errand.  Some days it feels like the only thing that matters.  I think, probably, both are true.

Over the years, though, I’ve noticed that my approach to the task has changed.  I used to spend a lot of time thinking about the big questions.  Trying to “figure them out.”  I studied what others thought.  I had deep philosophical conversations with friends.  I even went to seminary chasing answers to them. 

And I’m glad for all of that.  It gave me a sense of the categories, the terms, and the directions from which people approach such questions. 

But these days, I take my steps more by feel than philosophy.  I trust love more than logic.  I try to quiet my mind, more than stimulate it.  And I trust the things my heart tells me are true, even when my head isn’t so sure.  As The Little Prince said, “One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”  

And today I want to share some of those ‘invisible’ things that have become ‘essential’ to me.  Things I suspect are true, but certainly can’t prove.  Things that may seem a little “out there.”  But of course, whatever is going on…is out there.  We need only look up at the infinite night sky to be reminded that this whole reality-thing is much stranger than we like to think. 

And of course, I’m not asking or expecting you to agree with any of this.  I offer it simply as food for your own reflection…journaling optional.  After all, we’re all wearing blindfolds and holding a different part of the elephant, right? 

So, in the “I Suspect” category, I offer the following:

I suspect we are more than just these physical bodies. 
And life/reality is more than just this physical plane.

And I suspect at the core of these more-than-physical bodies, each of us has a soul. 
“Soul” being a fill-in word for a mystery we can’t comprehend.    

And I suspect that everyone’s soul is beautiful, radiant.
And no matter how covered up with muck and sludge they may become, or how completely we have ignored them, deep down there is something exquisite inside each of us. 

I suspect these souls of ours contain what Meister Eckhart, 700 years ago,
called a spark of God. “God” being another fill-in word for a mystery beyond our grasp. 

And if Eckhart is right, that I’m a spark of God, and you’re a spark of God, and maybe even my badly-behaved (but very lovable) dog, Winston, is a spark of God…AND, if he’s right that we are not just made by God but made of God…well, that would change how we usually look at the world, wouldn’t it?

And I suspect our souls are on a very long journey.  One that started before we came into these physical bodies.  And one that will continue long after we’re done here.  Obviously, I have no way of really knowing this.  But I promise you, seeing life through that lens sure helps you take things a little less seriously.

And lastly, I suspect this journey our souls are on is important.  I mean really important.  Like more important than all those things we so easily get wrapped up thinking are important.

Life has such a way of sweeping us up into its busyness.  It’s easy to seek happiness by trying to get the conditions right out there, instead of in here.  To let our lives become almost completely about what’s going on around us instead of within us. 

But I suspect…we have it backwards.  And the outside world is not so much the end, as the means.  It is the water in which we are learning to swim.  It is the landscape on which our “spark of God” came to shine. And I suspect the work we do to attune our outer and inner lives, what I’m going to call our “Soul Work,” is what we really came here to do.  More on that next time.

Until then,

Ian

Almost three years ago, I was at Ghost Ranch, a retreat center in a stunning part of northern New Mexico.  Georgia O’Keefe territory.  Canyon territory.  I had gone there for a ‘spiritual’ retreat, feeling anything but.  I don’t remember what was happening in my life, just that I was in a bad mood, irritated even by the bumpy dirt road leading into the ranch.

In spite of my sour attitude (or maybe because of it?), it seems I was ripe for a shift.  Because over the course of the next four days, something pretty big “loosened” in me.  Something relaxed…surrendered…opened.  So many words come close.  And so many don’t quite describe it. 

It’s easier for me to use an image.  Picture an average backyard with a fence around it.  It was as if, having spent my whole life inside that backyard, I suddenly discovered a gate, and walked out into a beautiful open field.  A field that appeared to go on forever.  A field that had always been there, but I had never noticed.  A field that felt…different.  Where I felt different. 

Because in that field, I knew that everything is fine.  Everything.  I knew that everything is whole despite all the apparent brokenness of our world.  And that everything is connected despite all the apparent separateness.  I knew I felt peaceful.  Joyful.  Kind of giddy, actually.   And alive.  Like really alive.  And present.  So present.  The moment in front of me was the only thing that was real.  And my usual energy of striving, controlling, and managing my life (along with the underlying stress and worry of that) were gone.  Clearly not needed. 

Maybe you’ve felt something similar.  I suspect most of us have had moments, maybe when we’re watching a sunset or standing by a mountain lake, when everything else falls away and we feel a wave of deep contentment, or overwhelming wonder.  And, for a moment, we are barely aware of ourselves and our problems.  But since these experiences usually don’t last long, and we’re soon back in the ‘real’ world, we tend to write them off as just moments of grace, beyond our control.

But what if those moments are actually glimpses into the truly real world.  A world that we usually can’t see because we are so consumed with our own agenda and worry.  But a world that is always right here, waiting for us to walk through the gate.

After I left Ghost Ranch, unlike times in the past, the gate didn’t close.  Not completely.  And for the past three years, I’ve been curious (okay, kind of obsessed) with how to navigate back and forth between my “regular” life inside the familiar boundaries of the “backyard” and this whole other world, this whole other way of being in the world. 

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the events and demands of the backyard, I completely forget about the gate.  Sometimes I remember it, but for the life of me, can’t find it.  Sometimes I can’t find it, but life is still better because at least I know it’s there.  And sometimes it’s so easy to walk out into that field, I don’t know why I don’t do it all the time.  In those moments, I know the truth is: the gate is always open. 

Which is why, by the way, when it came time to give this newsletter a name, I called it: The Open Gate.  And more and more it seems to me that this is what religion is really about.  Not a set of beliefs.  Or a set of ethics and morals, as important as those are.  Religion is most deeply about discovering this gate and then learning how to live in the backyard of our regular lives from the deep peace of knowing that, truly, everything is okay, and that whatever all of this is, it is much bigger and more beautiful than we usually glimpse.

And I would love to write more about all of this.  Why, sometimes, can’t we find the gate?  What gets in the way?  Why does the ‘backyard’ have such a strong pull if the ‘field’ is what we’re really looking for?  And how do we learn to move more skillfully and faithfully between the two?

But I don’t know if any of this makes much sense.  So, if you have time, I would love some feedback on this post.  [I love feedback on any post, btw, since this whole endeavor, unlike preaching in a church, feels a bit like throwing a message in a bottle out to sea!]  But especially this one - does any of this resonate?  Does is sound crazy?  Have you had a similar experience?  Would you describe it a different way?  Even if you haven’t had an experience like I’m recounting, is there something about this that feels intuitively true?  I would really enjoy reading anything you’d like to put in the comments, and I bet others would too.

Till next time,

Ian

If you prefer to listen, an audio version is available here:

I was minding my own business, sitting in my collapsable camp chair just outside of Sante Fe last week, when about ten feet in front of me…plop.  A pinecone fell from a tree above.   I looked up from the book I was reading just in time to see it nestle into the pine straw, joining about fifty others of similar size and temperament, in the little grove where I was camping.  (That’s ‘my’ pinecone there in the picture.) 

That’s when I had a stroke of obvious (I get those a lot).  It occurred to me that every one of those fifty pinecones had once done the same thing.  Plop…plop…plop…plop.  In their own time, each had fallen from above and settled in, now looking as if they had always been there.

And I realized how often I do that; look at things as if the way I found them is the way they’ve always been.  As if some cosmic exterior decorator had arranged all those pinecones (and everything else), for my camping pleasure.

So, I decided to play a little game.  Starting with ‘my’ pinecone, I imagined all those pinecones going back up to the trees that birthed them in reverse order.  Up, up, up they went, one at a time.  Can you picture it?  And then I imagined them ‘growing’ - still in reverse.  Getting smaller, tighter, and greener until they were just little buds on the tree.  And then…poof.  Gone completely.  Now just a twinkle in a pine tree’s eye. 

And being easily entertained, I kept going, imagining now the trees themselves growing - still in reverse.  Going back in time, they became shorter and thinner, until the twenty or so trees in front of me were just spindly little saplings, maybe a foot tall.  Can you see them?  And then, going back just a little more, they were gone too.  Just seeds buried in the ground, waiting for their moment. 

Seeds that, of course, didn’t start out buried in the ground.  They were once on the ground, as…pinecones.  There would have been a pinecone everywhere a tree is now (how had I never thought of that?).  Dropped by some other tree, that probably isn’t even here anymore, maybe while some other camper was minding their own business years ago when they heard something go…plop.

I’m tempted to stop there, because it’s just such a cool idea how pine trees beget pinecones…who beget pine trees…who beget pinecones.  (How awesome is the word ‘beget,’ by the way?)  But this is a “spiritual” newsletter, and I actually do have something spiritual-ish to say about it.

I’ve led a lot of memorial services in my life.  And one of the things I always look forward to, especially if the person we are celebrating lived a long life…are pictures the family puts on display from when they were younger.  Often as a pastor, I might only get to know someone when they are, well, old.  (I’ll let you define what ‘old’ means, since, the older I get, the further away it gets.) 

And when I see these photos, I realize I do the same thing with people that I do with pinecones – I make the mistake of thinking the way I found them is the way they’ve always been. 

But when you see someone you’ve only known in, say, their 90’s (90 is still old, right?) and then you see photos of them in their 20’s!  All smooth and sexy and strong-bodied.  (Yes, I said sexy…deal with it).  It will take your breath away. 

And I don’t mean to sound agist.  On the contrary, my experience so far is that life gets better with age.  And some of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen were in their 90’s.

I’m just saying that when you see someone you’ve only known as a grandmother or grandfather, lounging on a boat in the 1940’s, hair flowing in the breeze like they’re on the cover of a magazine, it is the best!  And a little jarring. 

Because we have the hardest time keeping in mind that the people around us have not always been the way we found them.  They were not just placed here as extras in our movie.  They have had unimaginably rich lives.  Every one of them.  Even your Aunt Jean, the most boring woman In-The-World.  Everyone’s life is incomprehensibly beautiful and sad and complicated and holy. 

So, as you go about your day, try to remember the people around you were not placed here by some cosmic decorator.  They went through a lot to get here.  And now, by chance or by grace, their path has crossed your path…plop. 

And even if you don’t know their life story, it’s a gift to them, and to yourself, to remember that they have one. 

Please feel free to forward this to friends and family you think might enjoy.