WELCOME TO MY BLOG
Here you will find a place of healing and comfort—thoughts and ideas that will help to guide you on your life’s journey, whatever journey you may have chosen. May you come to realize who you truly are—a beautiful enchanting soul!
HEALING THE BURIED PAST
In the wake of my daughter’s passing, I found myself submerged in a long season of grief. Seeking a way through the heaviness, I turned to a Reiki practitioner for support. I didn’t realize at the time just how profound her intuition would be.
While she helped immensely with the immediate pain of loss, our sessions pivoted toward something unexpected: my spiritual ascension. She observed that while I was moving forward, I was being anchored by various “samskaras”—subtle impressions from the past that were entirely off my radar. These were unresolved fragments of life that still required processing and release.
One was a lingering resentment regarding my brother and the way he had judged my life decisions. Another was a dormant seed of guilt over a commitment I had once broken with a work associate, leaving him in a difficult position. A third involved a past relationship that had ended with words left unsaid and matters unresolved.
We all carry these buried weights in the unconscious. Because they belong to the past, we often assume they are static or powerless. Yet, unless a matter is resolved—whether through a greater understanding, the forgiveness of others, or the equally essential act of forgiving ourselves—it persists as a negative energetic presence. It remains a subtle impression in the unconscious mind that affects our current state of health and well-being.
Remember that these impressions were formed when we were doing the best we could with the tools and understanding we had at the time. We cannot hold our past selves hostage to the wisdom we only possess today. True resolution begins with a gentle heart.
However, the path to freedom does not require us to manually weed out every single psychic impression hidden in the subconscious. There is also the profound element of grace. Grace can reach us unsolicited, often as a ripening of our past good works or as a direct result of a sincere spiritual practice. We have all been touched by grace, whether or not we possessed the awareness to name it at the time.
As we grow in our understanding of the underlying oneness of all things—as we engage in spiritual practice, offer metta (lovingkindness) to all beings, perform simple acts of kindness, or bring joy to others—we thin the veil of our own conditioning. In doing so, we invite Grace into our lives to finish the work that effort alone cannot.
REFLECTIONS FROM THE OAK GROVE: MY TIME WITH KRISHNAMURTI
When I attended Krishnamurti’s lectures in the oak groves of Ojai, California, during the late 1960s and 1970s, I often found myself “scratching my head,” metaphorically speaking. I was a young seeker trying to distill the profound wisdom this great teacher was imparting, yet his insights often slipped through the fingers of the intellect.
His speaking style was famously paradoxical; he avoided the personal “I,” frequently referring to himself simply as “the speaker.” He was truly one of a kind, possessing a presence defined by power and a quiet majesty. He spoke as one who truly knew—not from the dusty pages of books, but as one who had drunk deeply from sacred waters.
I vividly remember walking through those sun-dappled oaks, trying to “will” myself into enlightenment. If only it were that easy. I soon learned that the harder I grasped, the further the truth receded. As Krishnamurti often reminded us:
“Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect.”
Essentially, he challenged his audience to set aside the heavy mantle of tradition and examine reality with a completely fresh mind. This was most evident when a listener would attempt to validate his words by comparing them to a statement by the Buddha, or when he would gently ridicule the literal interpretation of the biblical ascent of Jesus to the right hand of God. To Krishnamurti, these were merely “the word,” and as he famously noted, “The word is not the thing.”
He would scoff at these comparisons, imploring the listener to hear him without the filter of past knowledge or conditioning. Yet, that is an immense task for a mind burdened by a long history of concepts, judgments, and prejudices. He saw this mental clutter as the primary barrier to freedom, stating:
“The constant assertion of belief is an indication of fear.”
Krishnamurti was a modern-day iconoclast. Much like Socrates, he demanded that we reject the authority of others and think for ourselves. However, this intellectual rigor was balanced by a deep emphasis on love and ethical living. When he said, “You are the world,” he wasn’t speaking in metaphors; he meant that the crisis in the world is the crisis in our own consciousness. To change the world, one had to change oneself.
Furthermore, he famously ridiculed the idea of “effort” in spiritual life. He never offered specific meditation practices or mantras, viewing them as self-centered activities—mere tools for the ego to decorate its own cage. For him, meditation was a spontaneous flowering that occurred when the “self” was absent. He described it not as a practice, but as a state of being:
“Meditation is not a means to an end. It is both the means and the end.”
Sometimes, oversized personalities enter this world to shake the very foundations of our perspective. Humanity frequently becomes calcified in its own habits and requires a “new vision” to break the cycle of conflict. Krishnamurti was a vanguard—a great soul who appeared during the early stages of a planetary ascension cycle to remind us that freedom is not found at the end of a long journey, but in the very first step of self-observation. He left us with the realization that wisdom is not a prize to be won through effort, but a clarity that emerges when the noisy, conditioned mind finally falls silent.
THE TWO-FOLD PATH TO AWAKENING
In the journey of awakening, there are two definitive movements: the inward stripping of the false self and the outward expansion into the All.
Step One: The Great Shedding
The first step requires a rigorous examination of our identity—a process that is primarily one of subtraction. We must systematically shed what we are not. Initially, we perceive ourselves as purely mortal beings: a physical body born of a specific lineage, molded by a culture, and defined by a rigid belief system. We are a collection of experiences, relationships, social roles, talents, and acquired knowledge. We even adopt a “reflected persona,” built from what we perceive to be the perceptions of others.
All of these attributes keep us bound to a finite personality. While we may possess these traits, they do not define us; we are so much more. Imagine an hourglass: at the top, it is vast and broad, representing the infinite. But to enter this world, the “sand” of our consciousness must pass through a narrow constriction. By over-identifying with our worldly persona, we remain stuck in that narrow neck, forgetting the vastness from which we came.
This is the essence of the Rinzai Zen koan: “Who was your original face before your parents were born?” The reflexive mind objects—”I didn’t exist yet!”—but the koan points to a deeper truth: your fundamental essence precedes your biological birth. To encounter this “original face,” one must undergo a purification of the mental and emotional nature, clearing the clouds of ego that obscure the sun of the Self.
Step Two: The Falling into Unity
Once we strip away the finite, we arrive at the truth found in the Chandogya Upanishad: Tat Tvam Asi—”Thou Art That.” We realize ourselves as Brahman: eternal consciousness, fullness, and bliss.
However, the journey does not end with the individual self. Step two follows naturally as the intuitional mind expands: If I am Brahman, then the entire external world, including every sentient being, must also be Brahman. The “constriction” of the hourglass finally breaks open. We begin to see the hidden true nature of others and the divine fabric woven behind every experience. We no longer just inhabit the world; we “fall” into unity consciousness—the realization of heaven on earth.
Ultimately, the path of awakening is not about becoming something new, but about remembering what was always there. The first step brings us to the “still point” within, where we find our true nature independent of the world. The second step brings that still point back out to the world, sanctifying every interaction and every object as an expression of the Divine.
When we move past the constriction of the finite “I,” the boundary between the observer and the observed dissolves. We find that the “Original Face” we sought in the silence of meditation is the same face looking back at us from every stranger, every leaf, and every star. In this state of unity, the journey is complete: we are no longer travelers seeking the truth; we are the Truth expressing itself in time.
EVEN WHEN GOD IS SILENT
In 1945, amidst the liberation of Nazi Germany, American soldiers entered a cellar in Cologne. There, they discovered an inscription scratched into a wall by Jews who had been hiding from Nazi persecution. The original German text read:
“Ich glaube an die Sonne, sei es auch dunkel, ich glaube an Gott, mag er auch schweigen, ich glaube an Nächstenliebe, obwohl sie sich nirgends zeigen darf.”
Translated, these words resonate with a haunting, universal clarity: “I believe in the sun, even when it’s not shining. I believe in love, even when I don’t feel it. I believe in God, even when He is silent.”
Unlike the tragic records often found on the walls of concentration camps, this story carries a glimmer of hope. Historical research indicates that these individuals survived, protected by members of the Catholic resistance who provided food and sanctuary within a network of underground passages—modern-day catacombs of compassion. Decades later, these words were adapted by composer Mark A. Miller into a stirring choral anthem, transforming a private plea into a communal declaration of resilience.
The Anatomy of Faith: Shraddha
These words are more than a historical artifact; they are a testament to the profound strength of Shraddha (Sanskrit for faith or “heart-conviction”). Shraddha is perhaps the most fundamental of all spiritual attributes, yet it is often misunderstood. It is easy to maintain a sense of faith when life aligns with our desires, but the true measure of our resolve is found when the external world breaks down. When we are tested by darkness, can we keep our internal compass focused on “True North,” or will we succumb to despair?
Beyond the Senses
In our moments of trial, will we act as “Doubting Thomases,” refusing to accept any truth that we cannot physically perceive with our human senses? Thomas demanded to touch the wounds to believe in the Presence before him. Yet, as the Cologne inscription suggests, the highest form of consciousness does not require sensory proof.
When the world appears dark and external evidence fails us, we are invited to go within. It is in the interior silence—the very place where God may “seem” absent—that we find the answers to the problems that torment us. By turning inward, we access a trust that confers peace and a hope that guides our steps forward, independent of the shadows cast by the world outside.
THE WILDERNESS PROPHET: THE SPIRITUAL EVOLUTION OF JOHN MUIR
The famed naturalist John Muir, though raised in a strict, traditional Scottish Presbyterian household, became a prophet teaching the profound, direct experience of the divine in nature—a philosophy sometimes called panentheism.
Roots and Revelations
Muir was born in 1838 in Dunbar, Scotland. His father, Daniel Muir, was a religious zealot who joined the Disciples of Christ. Under his father’s strict eye, Muir was forced to memorize massive portions of the Bible. By age eleven, he could recite the entire New Testament and most of the Old Testament “by heart and by sore flesh.”
In 1849, the family moved to a farm in Wisconsin, where life was defined by brutal physical labor. A major turning point occurred in 1867; while working at a wagon wheel factory, a tool slipped and pierced Muir’s eye. He was confined to a dark room for weeks, temporarily blind in both eyes. During this period of darkness, he vowed that if his sight returned, he would stop tinkering with man-made machines and devote himself to the “inventions of God.”
Once he recovered, he did exactly that. He walked from Indiana to the Gulf of Mexico, carrying only a small bag and a plant press. This trek solidified his identity as a wandering naturalist.
The High Temples of Yosemite
Muir arrived in San Francisco by boat in March 1868. Legend has it that he asked a passerby for the quickest way out of town. When asked where he wanted to go, he replied, “Anywhere that is wild.“ He walked across the Central Valley, which was then a sea of wildflowers, and eventually climbed into the Sierra Nevada.
To support himself, Muir took a job as a shepherd for Pat Delaney, spending the summer of 1869 driving sheep into the high country. He eventually settled in the valley, building a small cabin along Yosemite Creek. He designed it so that a portion of the stream flowed through a corner of the floor, allowing him to hear the “music of the water” as he slept.
At the time, the leading scientific theory—proposed by Josiah Whitney—was that Yosemite Valley was formed by a cataclysmic “dropping” of the earth’s floor. Muir, through years of solo climbing and observation, correctly deduced that the valley had been carved by glaciers. For Muir, these glaciers were “God’s glazier’s tools.” He saw no conflict between the scientific mechanism of ice and the spiritual hand of a Creator. He spent his days “sauntering”—often with nothing but a crust of bread and a notebook—climbing peaks like Mount Ritter to prove his theories.
Meeting the Sage of Concord
By the time he met Ralph Waldo Emerson in Yosemite in 1871, Muir had fully transitioned from a farm boy with a scarred eye to a man who saw the divine in every “sparkling ripple” of the Merced River.
Emerson was 68 years old and at the height of his fame; Muir, then 33, was an unknown “wild man” living in a shack. Muir had long admired Emerson’s essays, particularly Nature. When he heard “The Sage of Concord” was in the Valley, he was too shy to approach him directly. Instead, he sent a note to Emerson’s hotel:
“I invite you to join me in a month’s worship with Nature in the high temples of the Great Sierra Crown.”
Emerson was intrigued and sought Muir out at his sawmill cabin. While they spent several days together, Muir was disappointed that Emerson’s handlers insisted the aging philosopher sleep in a hotel rather than under the sequoias. At the Mariposa Grove, Muir pleaded with him to camp out for just one night. Emerson’s party refused. As they rode away, Muir stood alone by the trees and later wrote:
“I felt lonely, so I built a fire and spent the night under the stars… but I was saddened that the great man was being cared for like a delicate plant.”
Despite this, Emerson was deeply impressed, calling Muir a “prophet” and adding him to his private list of the twenty most influential people he had ever met.
A Living Scripture
For Muir, the wilderness was not just a scenic backdrop; it was a living scripture. He believed the physical world was a direct manifestation of the divine, using the term “terrestrial manifestations of God.” Every leaf, rock, and storm was a window into the character of the Creator. He saw a constant flow of power through the landscape, describing sunbeams as “pulses of God.”
Muir’s writings are saturated with liturgical language. He didn’t just go for hikes; he went on “pilgrimages.” He described the Sierra Nevada as the “Range of Light” and saw “sauntering” as a meditative practice. He viewed nature as a purer revelation than the Bible, famously stating, “I’d rather be in the mountains than in church.”
He viewed the granite walls and spires of Yosemite as the “masonry” of God:
- Cathedral Rocks: The peaks were spires reaching toward the heavens.
- Liturgy of Nature: Waterfalls were “psalms” and wind in the pines were “hymns.”
- Stained Glass: The “alpenglow” (golden hour) on granite was more beautiful than any man-made window.
In opposition to the movement to dam Hetch Hetchy Valley, he wrote: “…no holier temple has ever been consecrated by the heart of man.”
The Interconnected Whole
One of Muir’s most radical stances was his rejection of Anthropocentrism—the belief that humans are the center of the universe. He argued against the view that the Earth was made solely for human use, noting:
“No dogma taught by the present civilization seems to form so insuperable an obstacle in the way of a right understanding of the relations which culture sustains to wildness as that which regards the world as made especially for the uses of man.”
Through his observations as a scientist, he realized that the material world was vibrant and spiritual. He famously noted, “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” This realization of interconnectedness led him to view bears, squirrels, and even rocks as “fellow mortals,” each with a unique relationship with the divine.
John Muir’s legacy transcends the millions of acres of wilderness he helped preserve. His true contribution was a shift in human consciousness—a move away from the “dominion” over nature toward a “communion” with it. By integrating the precision of a scientist with the ecstasy of a mystic, he demonstrated that the study of the natural world is, in fact, the study of the divine. Muir proved that when we protect the wild, we are not merely managing resources; we are protecting the “temples” that allow the human spirit to remember its true, interconnected nature.
