Meditation is a giving over to what is not self possession.
Meditation needs no results. Meditation can have itself as an end, I meditate without words and on nothingness. What tangles my life is writing.
Imagine a fish swimming upstream. As it tires it reaches a point where its speed equals the speed of the stream and it appears, relative to an observer, to have ground to a halt. This is our stillness: we are still moving, still breathing, still groping our way through the stickiness of time, but, relative to a more elevated view, we are serenely still.
the refulgent point of the dazzlement in which I stray in order to be

Meditation foregrounds what is usually in the background, out of awareness: the medium we are embedded within, be that air or ether or space or energy or gravity or, simply, time. What Gertrude Stein beautifully called the Continuous Present.


Gratitude makes no distinctions. It precedes its occasion.
Only when you are lost can love find itself in you without losing its way.


Hope fuels process. Without it things either grind to a halt or lose their way.
washing your hands forces bacteria to adapt

Spiritual work wakes me to the simple things in life – the important things – the things that get overlooked or forgotten because they are there all the time. The air I breathe, the water that bathes and quenches, the heart that beats, the Earth that feeds and the spirit that animates (the God that loves).
The secret to receiving grace is gratitude.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton's Third Law of Motion. The fundamental, universal and only principle of Taoism. The value of unity is two. Yin and yang. Central Equilibrium: balance of opposites. Integrity is balance – harmony. Being and becoming. Station and motion. Identity and difference. Sameness and change. Equilibrium and disequilibrium. Parsed and integrated, at the same time, with the same impulse, the same spirit. Eodem spiritu.
Together in body, apart in head. Body, at core, taut and primed. Then mind explodes, or at least vaporizes.
There is a certain irony in feeling togetherness. Being together – being we – is not a feeling. It is surrendering to mutuality. Being useful. Not taking things too seriously. Knowing, deep down, that two may not necessarily be better than one, but it is more interesting, largely because it offers a unique opportunity to be drawn out of self.


The sky reaches out
to hold me.
East, west, north, south:
wide open.
But I am wrapped up 
in myself.

I use this poem as prayer or incantation, invocation. Right hand on or at dantien, left hand at heart, with an imaginary flame rising from the cupped palm. I replace the conditional but with an affirmative and. Then there is irony, humour, in my admission to retreat, though never defeat. As though God's love is something we, when deeply aware, need to protect ourselves from. It's too much, overwhelming; an onslaught. And we're only human after all.
Each ethical tweek, in time, with practice, allows you closer to true center. Homing in. Once there, or nearly there, you feel surprise, and maybe a little short-changed – nothing's there except what is. No secrets, no prizes, nothing special, just life: stark, unadorned, and supremely beautiful.
those who think there's no problem 
end up in hot water