Author: joseph mauricio

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FEELING THE FEAR

A dedicated, consistent meditation practice will uncover our body/mind experience and awaken our innate awareness. We begin to see the world more clearly, but also begin to understand ourselves more deeply. Our burgeoning awareness uncovers psychological and physical blockages that inhibit our deeper knowing. We begin to see obstacles that we have unwittingly created as a reaction to fear.

As we gain confidence in our process we find the strength to take ownership of these obstacles which, in turn, give us the opportunity to overcome them. When it comes down to it, it’s about fear. We all have fear – in fact it’s a necessary part of our psychology. But, from a transformational point of view, Franklin Roosevelt was wrong. Then, as now, there is much to fear. The issue becomes how we react or respond to those fears. Can fear lead us to opening? Or will it ever relegate us to patterns that keep us locked in to ourselves?

When our body registers fear, its usual reaction is to grip to itself in protection. This gripping actually amplifies the fear, and closes us away from uncovering a sane response. As these gripping fears, and their associated constrictions, become apparent in our meditation practice, we begin to understand how much we have limited ourselves and our lives. This highlights a claustrophobia we had heretofore felt mostly unconsciously. So, as the obstacles to our liberation become more apparent, this claustrophobia feels heightened.  We see how we’re hiding from our life, yet the most effective form of relief, however, is not escape—but recognition. Mindfulness of our fear, and taking responsibility for our reactions to it are uneasy and disquieting, but nonetheless essential to liberation from our fear. We are reprogramming ourselves not to run from the discomfort, but to use the discomfort to see ourselves. Perhaps, this is what we’ve been looking for. Not love, not the great job, not an escape. Maybe what we’ve been looking for us to understand ourselves.

When we learn to stay present with our experience and gently redirect the mind toward strength, presence, and compassion, something opens. Many of the limitations we face are fear-based, rooted in early childhood trauma or even inherited intergenerationally. Language itself, shaped by culture and survival, may carry trauma. These influences can cause us to shut down in subtle or dramatic ways, shrinking our sense of freedom, openness, and understanding. Love has the power to will open us to the world and so we seek it out. But the fear of losing love keeps us locked into patterns of manipulation and coercion in order to establish a power we have never had. The power is love itself. As soon as it becomes “ours” it becomes limited. When we lock in the love, we also lock in the fear and close ourselves off to understanding.

Shutting down—often a reaction to fear—gives rise to ignorance: not-knowing. This is an obstacle to developing wisdom. And wisdom is key to freeing ourselves from these cycles of suffering.  We begin to see a distinction between a “locked-in” self—constructed in response to fear and doubt—and our deeper, more dynamic existential being. Some might call this “essential being” or even “soul,” though in general, Buddhism doesn’t regard the soul as a fixed entity destined for reward or punishment. Instead, it recognizes an inner spirit—the energy of development, change, and awakening. It is up to us to encourage that development if we choose.

This spirit is not defined by fear-based structures. Yet we nonetheless build constricting structures to safeguard the very spirit we are limiting. Our reactions to fear obscure our natural expression—our basic goodness, our Buddha nature. The remedy is to open to the fear. Recognize and accept it so we can have a conversation with ourselves. Our luminous nature is bound in a straitjacket, with parts of us internally scratching at the ground, yearning to be free. This friction—this discernment—can give birth to wisdom if we’re willing to take a moment to understand.

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SPRING REBIRTH

FINDING SANITY IN THE CYCLE OF LIFE

 

Watching a documentary about the ascent of life on Earth, I was struck by how beautiful—and at the same time, horrifically brutal—evolution has been. The dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman’ narration aside, the ferocity of creatures devouring each other, bodies trembling in panic, survival taking center stage was palpable. Yet, the lush beauty of the rainforests, the blossoming of flowers and the ageless beauty of  mothers and their offspring offered a glimpse of the love and inspiration that is the continual rebirth of life on our planet.

However, the chases and the kill scenes kept me engrossed. I felt a kind of invisible brake in my gut squeezing, not wanting to watch but unable to look away.

The power of our vicious nature is compelling.

This poses an existential question: how do we reconcile this raw, bloody legacy – and our attraction to it –  with aspirations of peace, compassion, and awakening?

Buddhist teachings often point to the Middle Way as a  means to resolve extremes and polarities in life. In this case, it would be naïve to deny that violence and cruelty played a role in our evolutionary history. But it would be equally wrong to ignore the yearning for all life to express itself in beauty and love.  In fact, both things are true and remain interwoven in the ascendency of life on the planet. It would be simplistic to reduce our journey to a straight line from single-celled organisms to sentience. The documentary made clear that life evolved not through linear progress but through cycles of collapse and rebirth—five mass extinction events where most of life was wiped out, leaving only fragments to carry on the story.

The documentary ended with the point that we are currently on the cusp of the sixth mass extinction event. The hope it offered was though this seems an eventuality, each extinction event leaves the seeds of the future iteration buried in the darken folds of fearful survival. And that the ensuing emergence of life has heretofore been forms of lesser size and dominance. On the other hand, with each iteration of destruction, it is the dominant species that become sacrificed. Perhaps this explains the Buddhist concept of reincarnation that our culture finds so hard to accept. It may be that the dominant aspect of our life stream – the idea of “Me” – is what is sacrificed. Our culture has difficulty seeing beyond its self-centric understanding. We find it hard to conceive of a life without ourselves at the center. Yet our bodies, accumulations, status, and personalities – everything we see as “Me” are dependent upon other temporary circumstances, all of which will give way in the great change of existence. Yet, something remains to give birth possible, then, to fiercely survive in our bodies and still awaken to our spiritual nature?

Buddhism holds that samsara and nirvana are inseparable. Unlike theistic traditions that define good and evil as opposing absolutes, the awareness of Buddhism sees and values nuance. Samsara is not just suffering—it is the endless cycle of birth, fear, confusion, and desire. Nirvana is not a utopia but rather the cessation of struggle, the clarity beyond reactivity. In every moment of cruelty there lie the seeds of rebirth. And even in the darkest circumstances, love and care are still possible.

Viciousness does not cancel beauty. Cruelty does not erase the possibility of liberation. The end doesn’t justify the means. The means are what shape us.

The path forward isn’t denial or withdrawal—it’s learning how to open wisely to our current experience so we can make conscious choices that benefit ourselves and the life around us. Compassion and kindness aren’t just moral virtues; they are intelligent strategies. They allow us to learn, to feel, to listen. If we cling—whether to pleasure, aversion, or fear—we freeze. The mind locks down, and no learning can occur.

Sometimes, we cling even in love. We try to preserve those we care about in a fixed form, as if freezing them in place could protect them. But clinging to love, to resistance, or to fear all create an unnatural stillness—a holding pattern that prevents real connection and growth.

Still, the Middle Way also acknowledges that constant openness is not always safe. Sometimes we need to close—for protection, for healing. But we should recognize that closing is a temporary measure, not a destination and shutting down can be a choice. The aim is always to reopen when it’s wise to do so. Just as nature combines violence and creativity, so too does our psyche hold pain and promise in equal measure.

Is it to the next iteration of our stream of life.

This echoes Buddhist ideas of residual karma—the seeds of action embedded deep in our seventh consciousness. Even when the slate appears wiped clean, tendencies remain. Just as life on Earth rebooted from its remnants, so too do we carry unconscious imprints across lifetimes. Whether or not we recall them, these imprints shape how we evolve. It’s not just nature or nurture—it’s both, dynamically interwoven.

What we think changes repeatedly each moment. But what we do shapes the path our life will take. Every moment is surviving and thriving. Every moment we are awake, we become part of the process of life.

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TOUCHING GRASS

FINDING SANITY IN EVERYDAY LIFE

Life gets chaotic. And when it does, our mind often meets it with its own brand of turbulence—unsteady, distorted, spinning out. Difficulties begin to feel heavier than they are, sometimes surreal. We wander through a neurotic hall of mirrors, chasing meaning, searching for something to anchor us. In that disoriented state, we’re susceptible to toxic philosophies, sweet distractions, spiritual bypassing, and addictions of all kinds. All trying to ease the discomfort we can’t quite name.

But the answer for which we’re reaching will never be clear if we’re not here to see it. It’s not our ideas. It’s under our feet. Touching grass. That’s it. Stop, drop open and breathe. Let the earth hold you. Because when your body remembers it’s safe, the mind begins to settle. And when the mind settles, clarity returns. Then we might see things as they are.

Aye, but there’s the rub. Things as they are, are not always as we want them. Sometimes facing what’s actually here is uncomfortable. This makes it hard to settle.  So we react—grasping, theorizing, telling ourselves stories, reaching for complicated solutions to soothe a panic that’s already passed. The mind assumes if we feel this much urgency, the answer must be profound and complex. But, it can be quite simple.

In the face of complexity make it easy. Just come back. Just come home and let the view become clear. The body needs grounding, so the mind fnds stillness. Then no matter how chaotic life is, we don’t have to be. We can be grounded and clear. When we are grounded, our next step becomes clear. We don’t have to plan our future, we don’t need to finish the post or clear our to do list. We don’t have to feel embarrassed by our past or anxious about what lies ahead.  We come home to now. Then take one step.

Our panic is ancient, primal. But so is our connection to the earth. That’s why the remedy works—it speaks to the same deep psychology. Like an inner child in a storm, calmed by the presence of something strong and still. Not because the storm is over, but because we are there to sit with us in it.

The earth is always here. And storms always clear.

When we don’t feel that connection, we scramble. Running out into danger as the mind starts inventing enemies, catastrophes, theories, someone to blame, someone to save us. And that swirl of confusion becomes the climate of our inner world. We lose trust in ourselves. We lose track of what’s real.

But what if most of our stories aren’t real at all? What if they’re just echoes of a body that doesn’t feel safe, a mind trying to make sense of an inner alarm? What if the clarity we long for doesn’t come from answers—but from coming home?

Touching earth reminds the nervous system: You are here. You are held. You are  okay. When the body feels safe, it naturally softens, opens and the mind clears. Then we see what is happening and know we have the strength to meet it.

Perhaps, the only meaning to life is that we’re here. This breath is happening now. That the ground still holds us. No need to theologize, strategize or apologize. No need to diagnose or decode. There’s nothing wrong with seeking when we are on a clear path. But when times are difficult, maybe it’s best to stop searching and solving and start listening. Come back to the basics. The basics are what is here. The breath. The body. The grass. The places sanity returns. And no one needs to know. No one needs approve. No one needs to agree. This is between ourselves. We can be the family we need, we can be the guidance we seek, we can be the reason we’re here. By just being here. That’s it. That’s the whole of the law, as Crowley never said.

We can practice this each day. Being aware of our feet on the earth as we walk. Coming back to our seat at work. Feeling the breath in meditation. We can begin each session feeling our feet, feeling our hands, feeling our seat. We can let ourselves find safety in the present. It’s important to acknowledge that everything we want in our future has t0 begin with what is here right now. Just stay here with your life. And when you stray -as inevitably you will- just come back. Right now, come back here.

And we have everything we need to be here.

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A MOTHER’S LOVE

Opening to Compassion

The ideal of a mother’s love as being nurturing and sustaining is an archetype deeply embedded in nature and consciousness. Regardless of the individual relationships with our mother, the essence of motherhood—the embodiment of love and loving-kindness—pervades our experience. This ideal is not just a sentimental notion; it is a foundational aspect of the path of wisdom.

Wisdom alone can become cold, sharp, even unyielding. But when united with love, wisdom finds true expression. Love and loving-kindness are essential forces that balance and ground wisdom in compassion. They bind the clarity of insight to the warmth of connection, allowing both to flourish together.

In many spiritual traditions, this love is awakened through devotion—whether to a teacher, a lineage, a deity, or even our ancestors. For some, it comes from connection to a godhead: a creator or a divine messenger such as the Father and the Son. My grandfather, a pastor in a small community church, had a banner above his pulpit that read: “God is love.” He believed that this was an essential truth. Not a god of war or wrath, but a god that is love. This love is nurturing, caring and complete. This love is larger than us, but one one that we could grow into.

Love and loving-kindness are natural to sentient beings. Because they are part of our primordial nature, we don’t need to acquire or construct them from outside ourselves. Instead, devotion—to a teacher, to the divine, or to life itself—can awaken the love already within us. This process has been described as a mother and child reunion—not only by Paul Simon, but in the sense that our opening heart reconnected to the primordial love that gave birth, and continues to nurture, the universe.

On a journey to developing transcendent compassion we are not seeking to possess this love. Rather, we allow it to ignite our own inner capacity for love. It is not about gaining something new, but uncovering what has always been there—our inherent ability to respond to the universe with love.

So our task is not to create love, but to liberate it. We open to it—not by striving, but by dissolving the obstacles that prevent it from flowing freely.

These obstacles show up in both our ability to receive love and our willingness to express it. Most often, these blocks are rooted in fear. Fear causes us to shut down and react from our most primal conditioning. Biologically and psychologically, this manifests in what Western psychology calls fight, flight, or freeze—and what Buddhist psychology identifies as passion, aggression, and ignorance. We are either grasping toward something, pushing it away, or dissociating from it. These reactions are not mindful; they are reflexive, often pre-conscious. They hijack our awareness before we even realize what’s happening.

Tibetan teacher Zigar Kontrul, Rinpoche and his student Pema Chödrön refer to this as “shenpa“—the experience of being “hooked.” While often translated as “attachment,” shenpa more accurately describes that moment when something grabs us and pulls us out of our natural state. Before we even choose to cling; the experience has taken hold of us.

In classical Buddhism, passion, aggression, and ignorance are all forms of desire—desire to grasp, to resist, or to escape. While it is possible to open to desire, and release the clinging, when fear is involved, our clinging is closing down.  This blocks the radiance of our natural passion and love. To love is to open—and clinging – even when we believe we are expressing our love, is actually the opposite of opening. Sometimes, the power of our love, causes us to be fearful and cling, such as when we  expresses our love through control, manipulation or aggression.

True love arises when we open to experience without grasping or avoidance. But this kind of openness is deeply challenging, even excruciating. To stay still and present while a storm of emotion passes through us requires discipline, training, and deep courage. We are learning to remain still within the fire.

In Tibetan Vajrayana, the deity Vajrayogini embodies this teaching. She is depicted as a young woman standing within flames—the flames of compassion and passion. In one hand she holds a skull cup filled with Amrita, a nectar that intoxicates fearful beliefs and allows us to let go; in the other, a curved knife that cuts through clinging. Together, these symbolize the essence of love and wisdom—complete openness coupled with sharp discernment. We open fully to love but do not cling, possess, or manipulate it. We do not run toward or away; instead, we stand still and dance within the flames.

In certain tantric rituals, such as Chöd or Tsok, practitioners visualize themselves as the deity, allowing all fear, negativity, and clinging to be consumed by the flames of compassion. In doing so, we burn away our neurosis and awaken our natural capacity to love.

On a practical level, we can trust this: we are loving beings. We are the result of love. The Mahayana ideal tells us that all beings, at some point in the cycle of existence, have been our mother—and we theirs. Whether or not we believe in literal reincarnation, the message is clear: we are all interconnected through the web of care, nurture, and compassion.

Our role is to accept love, to recognize it, to avoid clinging to it, and to offer it back to the world—without expectation. Like the rain, which falls without concern for whether flowers will bloom, we offer our love freely. And in doing so, we create the conditions for the blossoming of life wherever it can take root.

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DEVELOPING MASTERY

The Discipline of Mind Training

1. Who’s in Charge of This Mind?

There’s an old Zen saying: If the student understands the martial art, they will succeed—some of the time. If they understand the art and their opponent, they will succeed—most of the time. But if they understand the art, their opponent, and themselves—there can only be success.

This is true because on the path to understanding ourselves, everything – even failure – becomes part of that deepening. Failure is powerful fuel for insight.  Stumbling is part of the process of learning ballet.

In the Japanese contemplative art of Kyūdō, or meditative archery, the practitioner begins just one arrow’s length from the target. Obviously, success is guaranteed. But the real inquiry is: Where was the mind during that moment?

The point isn’t the target. The target is the mind.

Training the mind is the process of coming to understand it—so that we can understand ourselves. This isn’t about controlling reality or forcing outcomes. True agency means having the capacity to recognize when we’ve been led astray and the skill to return to center, to clarity.

Without training, we’re dragged by impulse: desire leading to desire, followed by frustration and disillusionment and more desire. With training, we gain the mastery to gain agency in life. We are no longer dragged by our nose at every impulse. I’m hungry, I’m horney, I’m tired. We gain the strength to stay in the game regardless.

Like a ship’s captain navigating turbulent seas, we don’t engage each wave or obsess over every danger. We know there are sharks below, yet we maintain internal balance and guide the vessel for the sake of ourselves and our fellows. This is the function of discipline: to cultivate the strength and steadiness needed to navigate life—not from reactivity, but from clarity.

A serious student of meditation gives themselves to training—as any martial artist, craftsperson, or career professional would, with repetitive, often boring, daily practice. This is what allows great artists, writers, and musicians to face their inner demons and still show up.

Meditation is not an escape, a state, or a lifestyle hashtag. It is a practice—a method for developing mastery over the mind, so that we can reclaim agency in our lives.

 

2. Stability, Clarity and Strength

We begin with the body by to taking our seat.

Taking our seat means we accept the moment as it is and are willing to both settle into it, and to rise up and face it.  We let the fears, triggers, and emotional currents arise around us—but we do not chase them. We notice. We return. Again and again, we come back—until something in us begins to settle into stability.

That stability becomes the ballast for a turbulent mind. And from that ballast, the mind settles and clarity naturally arises.

Clarity doesn’t come from avoiding confusion, but by sitting through it—training our mind to stay upright as we pass through briars and storms. This work is worth it because we are gaining strength through wisdom. And with this training, there is only success. You have a hard session, that’s great. You have an amazing session, that’s fine. You don’t want to be here, keep going. Be here not wanting to. Be fully here and fully not wanting to! We keep reminding our mind to come back. We’re building strength so our mind doesn’t push us around.

The cycle is self-reinforcing, never final, always deepening. And always predicated on returning to the present. The present is our seat of power.

 

3. RETURNING TO PORT: Confidence, Not Control

Each return to center strengthens us. Each foray into the wilds of the mind builds experience. This is mastery with the mind—not domination, but partnership. We don’t suppress the mind. We steady it. We navigate with it. We apply just enough discipline to keep it returning to the present in order to release its power.

When we lose our seat, we lose access to the space that reveals awareness—and we lose confidence. Without confidence, there is no agency. We become reactive, trapped in our assumptions, convinced our view is the view. And as the mind narrows, we begin to build an echo chamber—around us, and inside us.

We become susceptible to victimization, as we are so easily led. Locked in our mother’s basement we conjure doom for the world. And feeling helpless, we will follow any hand that offers to pull us out. But, let me be clear, there is no hand to trust and there is no way out. The only way out is the way in. Meditation training is changing the only thing we can change –  our mind.  And the process is long and slow, like learning the cello, or getting a black belt. But unlike other forms of mastery, meditation has no requisites, other than the breath.

Standing 5 feet something, I may never be a basketball player. I am not expecting to to be a model anytime soon. Without college level science I might never calculate the weight of the universe. But there are no requisites to gaining mastery over the mind. None aside from a willingness to try.

Life can be overwhelming. So, cut it all back, and begin at the beginning. Don’t listen. Don’t trust. But don’t wait. Just sit. The beginning is now. Here is where we start. Right here. You can’t change the world in this moment. You can’t change other people any time. But you can change your mind through training. And the mind becomes strong through training.

One breath at a time.

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UNCOVERING DAVID

Releasing our Masterpiece

 

When Michelangelo was asked how he created his masterpiece, the statue of David, he replied that he did not create David — he simply chipped away everything that was not David. David, he said, was already there, hidden within the stone.

As with Michelangelo releasing David from the stone, meditation practice is not about constructing a better version of ourselves. It is about releasing what is already present at the core of our being — our essential self.

To begin, it’s helpful to understand what we mean by the essential self and the neurotic self. Our essential self is our natural state: open, aware, present, and unburdened. Some traditions refer to this as Buddha Nature — an innate, luminous quality that exists prior to confusion, striving, or self-doubt. In the Shambhala Buddhist tradition, it is called Basic Goodness: the fundamental purity at the core of all beings and phenomena. This goodness is obscured by habitual patterns — strategies meant to protect or enhance us but which often end up distorting us. As these patterns are outdated and ineffective, they fit the classic definition of neurosis.

Our neurotic self is the conditioned tangle of habits, fears, fixations, and narratives that we mistake for who we are. It’s the overthinking, the self-judgment, the endless loops of anxiety or anger — the static that clouds our innate clarity.

In everyday life, these two aspects feel fused together. We reflexively believe our neurotic thoughts and emotions are who we are — like a fish that unquestioningly accepts the water it swims in, even as it grows murky and toxic. The neurotic self and the essential self seem to form one seamless identity.

We identify with the rock — heavy and protective — that encases the true being within.

Yet, because our neuroses were originally defensive strategies, they can be met with kindness. They were formed to protect us, and even now, they carry a trace of basic goodness. As we become aware of them, we can acknowledge them with warmth and gradually release them. This doesn’t happen all at once. It requires patience — and acceptance — because these patterns can be embarrassing or even infuriating when they arise. Antagonism only entrenches them. What’s needed is a smile, a light touch.

I call this the “Brittany Spears effect,” as in: “Oops, I did it again.”

Releasing David is an act of love that requires grace, humor, and respect for the raw material.

Consistent meditation practice creates space between our neurotic and essential selves. Each time we sit and bring awareness to the present moment, we’re invited to notice when we become distracted — caught in thought, feeling, fantasy, or worry.

The simple act of recognizing distraction and returning to the immediacy of our breath or body is not just a mechanical exercise. It is a profound act of dislodging the fusion between our essential and neurotic selves.

We don’t have to fight or fix anything — struggle only adds another layer of stone. By naively doing the practice, simply noticing and returning without elaboration, distance happens naturally. And with that distance, we begin to see.

Each recognition of distraction, each gentle return, chips away at the stone encasing David. We practice the art of liberation. We realize we are not our passing thoughts or emotional storms.

There is something beautiful inside — something primordial that has always been present.

Gradually, our allegiance shifts: we stop reflexively believing we are the rock, and we rest more and more in our true nature.

We cultivate intimacy with our true being — an awareness that is steady, unshakable, and kind. We begin to see the masterpiece that was always waiting beneath the surface.

Uncovering Buddha Nature

Over time, something miraculous unfolds.

The essential self — the one that was always there — begins to shine more clearly.

Our basic sanity, kindness, courage, and clarity come forward not because we manufactured them, but because we stopped covering them up.

We find ourselves less trapped by compulsive patterns. Life evokes a more spontaneous, wise response. Our neurotic habits may still arise, but now they arise in a vast space of awareness, no longer mistaken for the whole of who we are.

Meditation, then, is not about adding something new to ourselves.

It is about letting go of what was never truly us to begin with.

It is about trusting that, like David within the marble, our Buddha Nature is already complete. It always was. It always will be.

And the emerging truth is this: David is not only beautiful but stronger than the stone that encased him. Yet that raw material had to be loved as it was, until the sculptor could begin to feel the essence within.

The act of chipping at the stone must be an act of kindness and respect for the raw material.

And as you can see from the illustration, size does not matter. David is not ashamed. David is a work of art that stands for the immense strength of acceptance, diligence, and love.

All we have to do is patiently, lovingly, chip away what obscures our masterpiece.

And maybe, you know, polish it now and then.

 

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STRENGTH WITHOUT ARMOR

 

FINDING RESILIENCE IN OUR EVERYDAY LIFE

Bowie’s song Changes was something of a clarion call to meeting our next moment. Not the idea we have of a dismal or tremendous future, but simply whatever happens. Can we meet whatever eventuality we meet with humble strength and, maybe a smile.  We’re meeting what is. And what is is rarely what we want it to be. Facing the strain – or facing the strange and meeting life as it is, requires us to stand tall and accept what comes next.   

Acceptance is neither acquiescence not surrender. It is the ground we stand upon for meeting life. From that ground we can relax our inner struggle and face the strain with poise and humor. Life is relentless. It doesn’t ask our permission to change, to rupture, to ache. Every one of us—if we’re honest—carries wounds we didn’t anticipate. We grow up believing strength means powering through, but eventually, life teaches us that armor is heavy. It cuts off our circulation. It separates us from others.

Resilience is often misunderstood as toughness, as stoicism, as the ability to take a punch and keep standing. But in Dharma practice, we learn that true resilience is not a hardening—it is a softening. It’s the capacity to remain present with our life as it is, without shutting down. It’s the willingness to feel, to care, to remain available in the midst of adversity.

We all have nervous systems designed to keep us safe. The fight-flight-freeze response is wired into us for survival. But in modern life, especially in emotional and interpersonal terrain, this wiring can misfire. We interpret everyday stress as threat. Our amygdala hijacks the clarity of our awareness. And suddenly, we are reacting to the world as if we are under attack.

So the question arises: can we stay connected without getting swallowed? Can we care deeply without falling apart?

Well, to quote a great statesman, “yes we can,” But, this acute severing of triggers from reactions takes practice and patience.  A classic mindfulness tool is to pause and name what is happening. “This is fear.” “This is grief.” “This is activation.” When we do this, we begin to disentangle from the reactivity and step into the space of awareness. The energy is still there, but we’re no longer riding the rollercoaster blindfolded.

Resilience without armor also requires community. Our neurosis breeds in isolation. But recovery happens with connection. Many of our most painful reactions come from a belief that we are alone. Meditation practice—and compassionate presence with others—reminds us that we’re not. We don’t need to have the answers. We don’t even need to be calm. But we do need to, as Pema Chodron teaches, learn to stay. Stay with ourselves. Stay with one another. Stay with the moment.

The urgency that the triggering elicits makes us feel we need to ACT NOW. But, in fact as a rule there is always more time than we realize. Its okay to pump the breaks. Its okay to pause. Its okay to feel what we are feeling. 

Another tool: mindfulness of body. When we’re triggered, the body tightens. The jaw clenches. The breath goes shallow. By simply bringing awareness to the physical response, we open up the possibility of choice. Try it: notice your shoulders. Feel your feet. Take a longer exhale. This is not a trick to bypass reality; it’s a way to anchor within it. Freeing ourselves from the constraints of the armor of body tension means we are creating the somatic space for the mind to find the space for a creative response. A creative response is not an habitual reaction, but is based in mindfulness of our body and our feelings. A mindful pause gives us the space to actually feel what we are feeling.  

Here’s the paradox—when we stop resisting what we feel, when we stop trying to be strong in the old way, a different kind of strength appears. A strength that doesn’t need to posture or defend. A strength that doesn’t retreat into numbness. It is open. It is rooted. And it can be quite tender.

When we practice resilience without armor, we begin to trust life again—not because it’s safe, but because we realize we can meet it. We don’t have to disappear when things get hard. We don’t have to put on the mask of invulnerability. Instead, we show up. With our hearts exposed, yes. With our breath shaking, sometimes. But we stay. We respond. We listen. We cry when it’s time to cry, and we laugh when we can.

Finally there is the tool of humble constancy, or as Dylan said, “keep on keeping on”. We don’t need to change everything. In fact, we may not need to change anything. We can lay aside the narcissistic belief that it is on us. We can breathe out and humbly take our place in our community. All we have to do is show up. And what a relief that is! We don’t have to do anything more than cheer up and keep face the strain with courage, humor and dignity. This is a kind of humble bravery doesn’t get much press. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet, slow, and deeply human.

And from this ground of openness, we discover a new kind of power. The power to be moved by life—not manipulated. The power to care without collapsing. The power to be resilient not because we’re armored, but because we are utterly, and fully, here.

 

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COMPASSION IN ACTION

 

Right Action in the Face of Hatred

I woke up today feeling crushed. It’s odd to wake up in the sweaty arms of defeat. Then I sat for morning meditation and a personal check-in. Feelings are part of our reality—but they are not reality. They are expressions of a part of our being that is constantly changing. However, when we become triggered, our feelings solidify into narrative environments that we interpret as reality.

We freeze, believe, identify.  Then we’re off to the races as we script our story with ourselves as the protagonist, whether it be victim or hero. The more we are triggered, the more our universe feels real. But what’s real is that we are at the center of that universe. This very solid Me rolled from bed into a universe of defeat.

However, once I sat for my morning meditation and adjusted my posture, my brain changed. A posture of gentle confidence changes the perspective. Seat your ass, and your mind will follow. As my mind relaxed its grip, I could see how exaggerated feelings like fear and doubt had been obscuring gratitude, clarity and strength. I did a “check-in and simply noted what I saw and felt—without interpretation. Just so. This is what there is. Sadness, fear, anxiety. But also, calmness, clarity and gratitude.

And none of my feelings accurately predict the future.

We live in violent times, and often feel beaten down even when we’re not directly affected. Fear inflames our feelings and makes them personal. This is not new. In my childhood, progressive leaders were murdered in the streets. Four unarmed students were shot for protesting a war in which their country poured napalm on villages. The 1970s brought recession; only three decades before, a full depression. African Americans have long faced violence from neighbors, police, and their own Armed Forces. Native populations have had their cultures starved into silence. An affluent Black district in Tulsa was looted and burned—and wasn’t widely reported for decades.

Violence and ignorance have always been a part of our country’s history. It’s just more meaningful when it’s happening to us. In real time. The immediacy intensifies its impact on our nervous system. We catastrophize, lose perspective, and imagine futures we cannot know. We see only what panic shows us and miss the fullness of our actual experience. We forget that it has always been this way and for some, its has been much much worse. Take this personally is profound egotism. It’s not about only ourselves. It’s about our world, and our ability to remain strong in the face of the storm.

But, we are part of our world, and so Compassion begins with us. Not exaggerating our self importance and our pain, but activating our empathy. If we settle our heart, mind, and body, we can see past the fog of panic. By simply taking our seat and sitting tall, we access natural wisdom. That’s wisdom, not wisdoom. Not believing the worst, but seeing what there is – everything there is. Like sediment settling in water, clarity dawns. We see what is—not an exaggeration of fear.

Wisdom is seeing without judgment or expectation. This kind of seeing, beyond self-interest, is foundational to what the Buddha called right action. It’s tempting to go numb or reactive. To armor ourselves in ideology or turn away. But there’s another response. A deeper, braver one:

Compassion.

When we freeze or fight, we can pause, take our seat, and choose to respond. Compassion isn’t weakness. It isn’t blind forgiveness or passive acceptance. It’s not about being nice.

Compassion is a revolution.

Not one that screams or fights fire with fire, but a revolution of presence. A rebellion against dehumanization. A refusal to become what we oppose. It asks us to see the humanity in those who suffer—and sometimes even in those who cause suffering—without condoning harm or retreating into neutrality.

This kind of compassion isn’t sentimental. It’s a discipline. A practice. A path.

True compassion doesn’t dull our edge—it sharpens it. It helps us respond with precision and clarity. With compassion, our actions become more effective. Without it, we risk replicating the patterns we seek to dismantle. We fight fire with fire until everything is ash. With compassion, we fight fire with awareness, fierce love, and sanity.

The world doesn’t need more opinions. It needs grounded hearts. Hearts that can grieve. That can see suffering behind violence. That can stand up without being poisoned by hatred. That won’t be swayed by stupidity or false logic.

Compassion is bravery.

(AP Photo/David Zalubowski)

It’s brave to keep the heart open when it would be easier to shut it down. Brave to meet anger with understanding—not because we’re doormats, but because we’re warriors of spirit. It’s brave to weep when the world breaks, and still choose to return to our cushion, our vow to remain undaunted.

We can’t fix a world that has always been broken. But we can stay present and do what we can. Freaking out helps no one. But sitting in silence helps only ourselves. If a monk gains enlightenment in a cave and no one hears it…? It’s said the Buddha was reluctant to teach after awakening. But continual supplications, and empathy for those suffering moved him to act.

Acting from a seat of wisdom for the benefit of others is compassion.

When we feel broken-hearted, it’s not a weakness. It’s a doorway to power. If you’re angry—good. Let that fire be lit by clarity, not hatred. Let it be tempered by practice. Let it protect and uplift, not divide and destroy.

Combining stillness of our being, the Clarity of our Heart and the courage of our heart. That is warriorship. That is strength.

In this violent time, compassion is not a retreat.

It is a revolution.

A radical act of presence.

A refusal to collapse into cynicism.

So breathe.

Feel your heart.

Let yourself care.

Let that care guide your words, your actions, your presence.

The world is aching for it.

Sit your ass, and your mind will follow.

Free your heart—and the world will follow.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

BIRTH OF A WARRIOR

And the Key to the Kingdom

Let’s begin with something radical: what if we’re not fundamentally broken? What if, beneath the static, striving, and self-doubt, we’re already good—innately, luminously, primordially good?

This morning, as I was writing, my mind drifted into discursive worry and began rifling through all the ways I was failing—at the moment, in my life, and forever. A litany of self-doubt. My posture slumped, forehead heavy, like Rodin’s Thinker caught in a constipated loop of rumination. Thinking, judging, trying to fix something that might not be broken.

Then I caught it. The absurdity of acting out this scripted defeat. I literally sat up and something shifted. Not just in posture, but in perspective. I felt a flicker of clarity, confidence, and strength. I connected with my basic goodness. And this, as I have learned, is the birth of the warrior within. I relaxed into basic confidence. Nothing was amazing. It was just as it was. But I was here to face it—and play along.

April 4th was the anniversary of Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s passing. His life was a meteor of wakefulness—abrupt, provocative, alarming, but always and completely authentic. He encouraged our humanity and taught that warriorship begins not with a sword or a fight, but with gentleness and bravery. The ground is basic goodness. It is not a moral judgment, not about being a “good person.” It is the inherent brilliance of our being. Not something we can buy, but something we can recognize as having always been there. We are basically good—and we don’t have to do anything but stay present for our world.

It’s easy to forget this. Especially in a culture obsessed with self-improvement, complaint, and performance. But if we can take a moment, feel our feet on the earth, lift our gaze beyond the horizon of habitual thought, and simply be—without pretense, artifice, or struggle—we reconnect to ourselves, our moment, and to the greater energy all around us. Trungpa called this the “rising sun view”: a world suffused with goodness and possibility. He contrasted it with the “setting sun” view of cynicism, doubt, and complaint. The setting sun leads to darkness and stagnation. The rising sun view—based on recognition of our own and the world’s fundamental goodness—opens us to the Kingdom of Shambhala.

This is the Shambhala vision. The kingdom—or rather the quality—of an awakened society begins with the individual who can stand up in the present moment and say: I’m already good. I’m already enough. I’m here.

So what happens when we contact that basic goodness? In a sense, something is born: the inner warrior. Not a fighter, not a hero, but a human being willing to stay present when everything in them wants to bolt. A person who greets discomfort as a teacher, not a mistake.

My own journey began just after Trungpa’s passing. I moved into a handmade shack at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center. The place was rustic, even wild. It had been settled decades earlier by a ragtag crew of hippies, artists, exiles, and mystics known as the Pygmies, who built shambolic houses and cabins. Their first shrine was a tablecloth thrown over a console TV. Over time, more students came, and slowly—through Trungpa’s legacy—they transformed into clearer and more uplifted versions of themselves. They built proper buildings, bought better clothes and began to carry themselves with confidence. Trungpa didn’t ask his students to become spiritual clichés. He asked them to become human.

The act of simply being oneself—without pretense, apology, or aggression—was called in Tibetan Wangpo, which translates to “authentic presence.” Trungpa Rinpoche called this being a warrior. His teachings offered a new path—not one of transcendence, but of vast vision grounded in the kindness, clarity, and strength to live freely in our world. As Trungpa said, “It’s not about escaping the world, but falling in love with it.”

Warriorship is not a solo act. The path doesn’t end in some personal enlightenment trophy room. It culminates in an enlightened society—a world woven not by ideology, but by kindness, honesty, and presence. That enlightened society has its inspiration in mythic traditions such as Camelot, Atlantis, Shangri-la and the Kingdom of Shambhala. The image of an enlightened society is important to the spiritual and inspirational development of cultures. Trungpa took inspiration from Shambhala which was a society where people were in touch with their basic goodness and lifted up to their highest potential, like flowers to the sun.

In the Shambhala teachings, this begins with the simple things: how you speak to the barista, how you care for your space, how you show up for your own life. Small acts of elegance. Dignity. Care. Approaching all situations with a joyful mind, as the slogan says. Even traffic. Even grief. Even your own neurotic mind. Awakening the warrior means touching in to our basic goodness and seeing the basic goodness of our world.  This is not to imply that the world is devoid of cruelty and injustice. It just means there is more than that. And the world needs us. It is worth working for.

We don’t have to be without fear. We just have to be willing to come back again and again—to our seat, our breath, our inherent dignity. The Tibetans call the awakened warrior Pawo—not someone who fights, but someone who has transcended the paralysis of fear and discovered bravery in their very bones.

The warrior masters themselves each time they return to the present—to their seat, to their posture, to the moment as it is. You can be frightened, nervous, angry, horny, or depressed—as long as you sit with good posture and an open heart, accepting who and how you are. That’s how fear becomes fearlessness. That’s how we open our hearts to ourselves and our world. That is the warrior’s vow of bravery.

Whether you view Shambhala as a mythical kingdom, a metaphor, or a method—it always points to the same truth: within chaos, dignity is possible. Within confusion, wisdom is present. The awakened world begins not in a fairytale, but in the very seat you’re sitting in now.

So today, whether your posture is slumped or strong, whether your mind is buzzing or clear—pause. Feel your feet. Lift your gaze. And give birth to the warrior in your heart which is the key to the kingdom.

This aspiration is dedicated to the lineage, to Trungpa Rinpoche, and to every human being who’s ever stood up against their own despair and said, “I’m still here.”

 

Welcome to the Kingdom.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

SNAKE IN A TUBE

The Way In is the Way Out

Remember those finger traps? The woven tube that tightens when we pull? The harder we struggle, the more stuck we become. The only way out is to stop resisting and accept where we are.

Tibetan yogis compare the wisdom path to a snake moving through a tube—it cannot turn around. Zookeepers use restraining tubes to calm snakes, and unlike us, the snake doesn’t waste energy resisting. It may not be happy, but it surrenders to the reality of the moment.

A Wisdom Path is a journey toward clarity. Over time, we see ourselves and the world more clearly. Lakthong—“clear seeing”—is the ability to move beyond ego and perceive reality as it is. But obscurations—blockages in the body, shadows in the mind, blind spots in life—distort our view. These obstacles, frustrating as they are, require patience, care, and awareness. The only way forward is to relax, release the struggle, and begin to understand our imprisonment.

Once we enter the spiritual path, like the snake in its tube, we cannot turn back. We cannot unsee what we’ve seen. Fear, doubt, and worry attempt to enclose us in protective bubbles. We rationalize our imprisonment, repeating ideas that justify suffering: The world is dangerous. These people are that way. I am this way. This self-definition comforts but confines us. The idea of “me” is a refuge, but it comes with limitations. Connecting with clarity beyond “me” is unsettling because we can’t control it. Yet this is how we grow. Even trying a new flavor of ice cream expands the brain’s experience. The brain thrives on novelty—reiterating the familiar only reinforces limitation.

Turning outward is both threatening and necessary. We must be brave enough to err, to be embarrassed, to have our sense of self challenged—because this is how we learn. The brain loves experiential learning more than accumulating knowledge. Moving beyond negativity bias, we open to new experiences that build fresh neural pathways. But growth isn’t always outward; it is also inward. When we feel stuck or trapped in patterns, we can investigate the present moment. Awareness loosens the grip of constriction. Moving toward wisdom means shedding what keeps us from clear-seeing. It’s like peeling an onion—there is no ultimate center, only the process of discovery.

When fear or doubt overwhelm us, we can love ourselves—not through distraction, but by turning inward and asking: What is happening? Conceptual knowledge often blocks deeper learning. True understanding happens in the depths of experience. Growth isn’t always triumphant—our first steps into a new paradigm are often fragile. As Sakya Pandita noted, the shaft of an arrow runs true into the future—brave and steady—while the arrowhead panics: Oh no, oh no!

When we stop struggling and instead relax into our constraints, we begin to see them. We feel the fear holding us in place. This transforms obstacles from obstructions into transparent aspects of experience. What if our struggles lost their oppressive weight and became part of our wisdom? I lock myself in my room and refuse to move. But when I turn inward and map the experience, I loosen its hold. Negative actions create negative consequences, reinforcing themselves. The same is true of positive actions. We become obligated to these loops, whether good or bad.

In the highest view of Tibetan Buddhism, samsara and nirvana—heaven and hell—are inseparable. Even good karma, if it perpetuates itself, can obscure reality. The point is to see our actions with clarity. It is said that when we fully see our activity, there is no karmic consequence. This radical statement suggests the power of awareness. Even when our actions harm ourselves or others, seeing them fully is the first step toward liberation.

We move through the tube of fear not by ignoring it or lashing out, but by looking inward. The way out is in. Instead of struggling and becoming more entangled, we observe ourselves. Gently and persistently, we realize our obscurations are the path. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nothing to see but our own experience. Instead of chasing an imagined destination, we can rest in who we are and learn from what is here, now. Letting go doesn’t mean pushing away; it means releasing our grip. Struggle is holding. Accept what is happening and relax into the tube.

Padmasambhava, known as Pema Jungné—“Lotus Born”—was said to have been born fully awakened atop a lotus. The lotus grows from the muck, yet blooms into open awareness. The story illustrates that awakening is not something we become, but something we uncover. The path is long, requiring full acceptance of our imprisonment, yet awakening is instantaneous because it has always been there—like a lotus opening to the sun. We will never become enlightened someday; we can only become enlightened now.

It takes humility to accept ourselves and patience to stay present. Whether sitting atop the lotus or in the muck, turning toward our experience leads us out—not because we are going anywhere, but because life itself is change. Meditation is surrendering to now. The universe is in movement; by being here, we surrender to that. During a talk, Chögyam Trungpa said something chilling: “It’s happening right now.” The room fell silent.

Maybe that was the point.