Tag: Inspired Action

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Knowing the Rightness of the World

My morning ritual usually has a quiet portion where I let things settle and be with myself in contemplative space. I try to set my small, ego self aside while I sit with my higher self, my true essence. It can come quick or slow, skimmingly or in fullness, or not at all. But when contact is made and I fall in, reality opens with a hush. The sky, the window, the table, my body, everything I had assumed to be complete, absorb their own images and become ten times more real.

It can start as a line running down the center of my chest, just under my breastbone, a live current, moving in the same channel as my breathing; cool air coming in, exchanged for the warm breath going out, utterly physical, sensory; then growing to fill my interior, flowing to my arms, hips, legs, my attention merging with my body like water overflowing a cup. I am alive and I know my aliveness. The quiet is unforced, thoughts dropping, drifting as leaves on the surface of water. Sweeping the room, my line of sight stops at the light glinting off a glass vase, shades of gold mirroring the sun rising through the window beyond. The flowers look wild, impossible, as if I am seeing pink and red for the first time.

Alongside this realness comes a sense of rightness, a knowing that the world is sound, doing what it was designed to do, that underneath there is an order, that all will be well. This rightness of the world brings a sense of peace, which is calming to my soul but confusing to my mind.

How can the world be right when children die by violence? How can all be well when war is waged as blood sport? What does rightness mean if goodness seems overwhelmed by malice? Valid questions, but not ones that abide by logic, which by its nature must stay within straight lines and arrive at proofs. Logic leads my thinking to questions that circle themselves: Could there be a world where children do not die? Would I remove from human will the choice for cruelty, and so also banish the choice for mercy? These lead to interesting arguments, but not to answers that satisfy me. I have to seek alternative ways of knowing that are not limited to the lines of logic. The rightness of the world allows that there is something bigger going on, deeper than my opinions and preferences, a basic goodness that outlasts all tragedy, genocide, wars, all suffering, and even death. Because my sense is authentically felt but not provable, it is hard to understand or articulate at the level of the thinking mind.

The rightness of the world contains a promise that the world is good. To the thinking mind, this is an audacious assertion in need of proof. But when I am in contact with my essence, expanded beyond my normal depth, the world revealing itself in multi-colored dimensions, the validity of the promise becomes self-evident. At my core, running directly through my heart, is a fiber that tells me when things are true. I trust the promise because when I tell myself the world is good, the fiber sounds and sustains. If I contemplate a world where we are doomed to cycle through endless swings of power between brutal factions, where we make no progress toward our betterment, where goodness is a fiction, the fiber in my heart recoils.

I also trust the promise because I see sparks of goodness constantly working to show themselves, to break out of the soil and sprout. Perhaps you do too. Each time you give or receive, or even witness, an act of kindness, the fiber in you sounds. When calamity strikes any portion of the globe, whether natural disaster or human catastrophe, people’s desire to rush with aid is irrepressible. The note sustains.

These are more than separate acts of compassion, they are part of a reciprocal drive between Spirit and the world. The Sacred requires our participation to flower, and our participation immerses us in goodness. We are invited into the continuing work of fulfilling the promise. As we each awaken more and more to our essence, I feel the connective tissue of the fiber growing stronger.

Photo by Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

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When Virtue is Lacking

Some days, I feel I’ve been dropped into someone else’s dream, a world I do not recognize.

Leaders with the judgment and appetites of adolescents wage wars for the sake of ego. Aggression and naked power are rewarded. Respect for the rule of law, even a sense of basic fairness, is eroding. Personal values like character and integrity are mocked as naive. The fever of greed is growing into a cancer. The structures of society are warped when they no longer serve society, but are manipulated to funnel obesity to a few while millions scratch out a bare existence.

And these could be the early days. It sickens me to watch humanity’s slow descent into moral madness. We are capable of being so much better.

I can’t help thinking this is not the game I came to play, that I am living in the wrong time, one not suited to my talents and temperament. My talents are collaboration, friendship, warmth. I am here to foster good relations, positive regard, mutual respect. My temperament is accommodating, inquisitive, willing to overlook false exteriors to see where goodness is hiding. My soft skills seem wasted in a landscape so harsh. I want to call out to the Gods, “Why am I here at this time? What is being asked of me?”

I want a thunderclap, but there is only silence. So I sit with my questions, and my longing, and my aching grief. Silence, actively encountered, is not nothing. It is a void, but it is fertile, a place worth visiting. When I slow my mind, gaps appear. Fresh insights sneak through the cracks, sprouting among my complaints, like this: Perhaps what is being asked of me is to grow.

Our evolution, both personal and cosmic, has never advanced in times of ease, but only in the heat of friction, where our vision of what can be abrades against the world as it is. I have a talent for words, an ability to describe events that sheds light into the corners. My temperament is steadfast, willing to endure. The bag of tools I carry may be exactly what is needed to show what decency looks like, more striking in its contrast. The mirror may arouse kindness in hearts where it lies dormant. The modeling of virtue by people of virtue is its own kind of power.

We are going somewhere. An intuition deep in the grain of my being tells me we are on a path of progress, that our current times are not a devolution, but a temporary backslide, and that we each have something to give that adds momentum to the good. Why, then, would I consider retreating? How can I expand the limits of virtue if I don’t pursue it, if I fade in the face of difficulty to tend my bruises and abrasions? When virtue is lacking in the world, it is needed most from me.

Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash

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Our Basic Goodness

I see the trouble in the world and I’m worried on so many levels. We thought war was declining, but we see it is on the rise, causing unnecessary devastation and suffering. Extreme weather and rising sea levels show that we’ve been ignoring the warnings of a changing climate for too long. We thought we had progressed against prejudice and bigotry, but loud voices shout to pull us backward. Democracy itself is buckling under the strain of authoritarian governments.

Perhaps most troubling of all, I’m worried we are losing faith in our underlying goodness, which is the power we need most to meet the trouble.

The troubles are powerful. Feelings of despair are understandable. It’s easy to think that goodness is a fickle choice, a sucker’s game, too weak to counter the forces we are facing. But don’t be fooled. That is just the frightened voice of cynicism, looking for an escape from our responsibilities. When I stop to listen, I realize that voice is the one that is weak, too shallow to be true. The fundamentals of our nature have an energetic signature that enters our bones and turns our head. When I am in step with the force of our basic goodness, I feel grounded in something powerful, flowing, alive.

What is my evidence for this conviction? The fact that we are inspired at the sight of kindness, and recoil from acts of cruelty; the fact that there are millions who rise up, offer aid, counter cruelty, work to heal, whose efforts are not motivated by individual gain, but from a desire to help; the fact that the energy of selfishness and fear, which is centered in separation, can never exceed the energy of wisdom and compassion, which is grounded in our connection.

Connecting to this essential goodness, acting from this goodness, seeing this goodness in others even when they don’t see it in themselves, is my crucial step in moments of despair. When I touch this power, it amplifies. The signal strengthens as it goes, calling others, who see something in me that draws them toward the goodness in themselves.

You have felt this too, the uplift every time you brush against goodness. Every brave act of kindness reveals the core that makes us human. It is more than an individual moral choice – it is action aligned with a fundamental, a first cause. When you look, really look, into the eyes of another, you see the glinting light of that fundamental. The world softens and we advance another step against the trouble.

For an uplifting story about the power of seeing the goodness in another, watch this two minute video of Jack Kornfield.

Photo by ‪World Central Kitchen

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Punish with Charity

I’m wandering the halls of the museum at the Igreja da Misericórdia, in Porto, a lay order of brothers founded Portugal in 1498. The order was founded on the works of mercy, seven corporal and seven spiritual. These principles are hung on floor-to-ceiling banners lining a long corridor. One reads, “Punish with charity those who err.” I stop and stare with a quizzical expression.

In traditional Catholic teaching, the works of mercy instruct believers on how to fulfill our divine purpose and come closer to God, what I might describe as living a spiritual life. The corporal works direct us to relieve the bodily suffering of others, feeding the hungry, clothing and sheltering the poor, caring for the sick. The spiritual works guide us to relieve the spiritual suffering of others by such acts as comforting the afflicted, forgiving others willingly, bearing insults with patience.

Traditionally, one of the spiritual works of mercy is phrased, “Admonish the sinner.” But here at the Misericórdia, the wording is, “Punish with charity those who err.” This is not just a softer phrase, it upends the energy entirely. Charity is the opposite of punishment. To admonish a sinner assumes a superiority, where I am the one who judges and corrects. Charity offers an abundance that does not stop to assess merit. It erases the need for judgment.

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Small Islands of Coherence

“When a complex system is far from equilibrium, small islands of coherence in a sea of chaos have the capacity to shift the entire system to a higher order.”

Ilya Prigogine, winner of the Nobel Prize in Chemistry

I have no doubt our current system is far from equilibrium. Political, economic, social, and cultural norms are being uprooted and reshaped. It is, indeed, a sea of chaos. I want to believe Ilya Prigogine, that small islands of coherence can right the ship. I want to be one of those small islands, but how?

We all know the positive effect a calm person can have when a crowd is anxious. A steady voice lowers the energy, stems the panic, and allows cooler heads to prevail. But how does this work at the scale of disruption we are witnessing in the world today?

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What Does It Mean to Be a Man?

When I was young, I had an idea of what it meant to be a man. A man was strong, brave, capable, direct. When he set his sights on something, he achieved it. He had a moral code that worked for good. He stood up for people, he righted wrongs. He spoke his mind. These were good attributes, and still are, for what a man can be. The image was of a hero.

This image of the good, strong man was everywhere. I saw it on TV, at the movies, and in the men in my family and neighborhood who were my role models. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be strong and good.

But there were times I could not live up to this idea. Bigger, tougher boys picked on me. I learned early on that I was not good at schoolyard fights. I felt weak, ashamed, and afraid. My shame boiled in a stew of anger, but I had no place to put my rage. To direct it at the bullies was too dangerous, so my burning anger went sideways in two directions. One was inward, a self-loathing for my failure to be a man. The other was downward, as I found younger, weaker boys to pick on. I took my trouble and passed it on.

Now I had failed at being a man twice. I was not strong, and I was not good. I was not righting wrongs, I was asserting power to make myself feel better. I was not a hero, I was just another villain.

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Balancing the Scales of Fortune

I’ve been lucky.

I grew up in an easy time, raised by parents who loved me, my disappointments light. I experienced no physical or sexual abuse, I did not comprehend the ugly shape of trauma until it was explained to me much later.

I’ve seen war only in books and movies. Vietnam ended while I was in high school. I graduated law school in the 80s, when business was booming and jobs were plentiful. I’ve only really loved one woman, and surprisingly, she peeked behind the folds that hid my quirks and tender spots, and loved me back; we are deep into our fourth decade of marriage. My health is good, my memory mostly sound.

I’ve been lucky. Outrageously, randomly lucky. No logic explains my fortune. Why I slipped the cruel fates while others took a brutal dose, I’ll never know. I recognize the disparity in the dice, I know there are countless others who got the short end of the stick, and I can’t help but contemplate the hardships they endure.

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Grow and Share Your Gifts

I am drawn to spiritual practices that align with my natural proclivities. I feel comfortable in the verbal world of words and ideas. Speaking and writing come naturally. So, no surprise, I enjoy reading, journaling, contemplating, and discussing religious and philosophical themes.

Paradoxically, I am also drawn to spiritual practices that are the opposite of verbal, or at least its compliment. I seek out mystical experiences where my perception expands, my awareness intensifies, and my connection to others, and everything, swells like the tide. When this state of being takes hold, I am not thinking about expansion or reflecting on connection. I experience them directly, immersed, standing beyond the ability of words to observe and attempt a description.

Spiritual work is personal, different for each of us. We are here as individual lenses, each refracting light into a splashwork of endless shapes and colors, adding to a larger mosaic. For me, as with many, the work of both thinking about and immersing with starts on the inside. But I know that my inner work is only the first half. If it doesn’t percolate out, then the inner work has failed to manifest its beauty. I am, truly, hiding my lamp under a bushel.

Maybe that’s why I write the Stumbling Mystic blog, to hold myself accountable, to witness the changes in my nature, and share what I see along the way. When it’s flowing, the inner and the outer reinforce each other. Another piece is polished and revealed. As an individual, I grow into ever better versions of my natural proclivities. As a collective, we share more and more of our better selves. When we participate, the cycle advances, the world grows with us. When we hold back, the wheel slows.

What are your natural gifts and strengths? What spiritual practices call to you? How do you share the beauty of your ever-changing nature with the world?

These questions are worth your time. Take a moment, feel your breath, and sit with them. When hear a reply rise within you, note it, let it seep into your daily life. The world is waiting to see what you become.

Photo by Getty Images on Unsplash

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Bright Golden Grain

There’s a story told, perhaps it’s true, of barley growing from the graves of soldiers. It comes from the Uprising of 1798 when a group calling themselves the United Irishmen came together to fight for freedom against oppressive British rule.

Inspired by the revolutions in America and France, this collection of common folk, shopkeepers, farmers, and herdsmen, rose up against the strongest military of the time. Despite some early victories, this quixotic venture was doomed from the start. Light on equipment and provisions, the rebels carried their food, grains of barley, in their pockets.

It was at the battle of Vinegar Hill that the hopes of the rebellion were crushed. A ragged band of Irishmen armed with pikes, ax handles, and farm implements fought a British force of trained troops. No match for muskets and canons, they were slaughtered like sheep and their bodies, perhaps a thousand, buried in shallow graves. A month later, waves of golden barley sprouted from their pockets, flourishing on the field where the rebellion could not.

This is the story passed down in Irish lore. To this day, the sight of wild barley in the spring is seen as a symbol of the eternal strength of the human spirit, a reminder that noble effort is always worth the cost. From the folk song “The Wind that Shakes the Barley” to Seamus Heaney’s “Requiem for the Croppies,” we’re told that fresh life rises from what has died.

No one tells a tale of pathos like the Irish.

The imagery is compelling, but the story romanticizes war too much for me. I take the symbolism more broadly. There are oppressive circumstances everywhere. Yes, in government, industry, and every slice of human endeavor, but also in the darker shades of greed and fear we all carry. It takes courage to oppose the force of evil, never more so than when we exhume our hidden demons and bring them to the light of day. Those also have to die to birth the life we want. That, too, is noble effort worthy of the cost.

What elements of oppressive rule exist today, inner and outer, that cry for my attention? How can I find the double courage to speak out even as I look within? What bright golden grain will flourish when I do?

Photo by Henrik B. on Unsplash

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Broken Birds

I see the impact through the window. The spinning blades hit each of them in rapid succession – BAM-BAM – a puff of feathers and a falling body. Two mourning doves, perched on the cowling of the ceiling fan on our porch, are struck as they take flight. I go out to where they’ve landed, hoping they’re only bruised, but neither can fly. One hops away from me. The other hides behind a pot in the corner, immobile.

I go inside feeling as stunned as the birds, not knowing what to do. My thoughts circle:  Should I ignore them? Should I let nature take its course? Exposure or a cat might take them. If they die in the yard, how do I dispose of them? Is it legal to put them in the trash? Maybe they will recover and fly away, like the songbird that hit our window last year. She lay motionless for quite a while before righting herself and darting off.

But as the afternoon wears on, the birds remain. I feel burdened that this is now my problem. I’m confounded until I remember our city has a wildlife center that cares for injured animals. I look them up. They close at six o’clock.

I feel a sense of urgency now. These birds are in pain and I can help – why not do so? I go outside with two boxes. No matter how soothingly I talk, the frisky one evades me, hopping through the fence into my neighbor’s yard. I enlist his help and after a comic chase through the flowerbeds, we corral her. I hold her firmly but gently so she won’t struggle. I don’t want to cause further harm. In my hands, she looks large but weighs nothing, a warm bundle of feathers. Her eyes are black dots, looking at me without expression. I wonder if she feels pain as I do, or fear. I place her in the box and tape it shut, elated that I might be able to pull off this rescue.

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