Month: November 2025

Posted on by joseph mauricio

Good Morning!

Gratitude Without Demand

 

Good morning.

I’m writing this on a spectacular morning at the dawn of winter. The sky is blue, a few white clouds drifting by, and the weather is gentle for the week before Thanksgiving. It reminded me that Trungpa Rinpoche used to begin many of his talks, no matter the hour, with Good morning. Even at 11pm, with people possibly  waiting for hours, he’d beg with “Good Morning”. The point was simple: meditation offers a fresh start. A neurological reboot. It doesn’t solve our problems, but it does give our system a moment to soften, refresh, and reset—like refreshing your computer.

Every time we return to the breath in meditation, we are rebooting. Coming back from the intriguing of our thinking, saying good morning to yourself, especially with a small smile, has a real neurological effect. We tend to believe difficult times require huge remedies. When life becomes extreme, we assume our response must be equally extreme. Psychologically, socially, culturally, this is a trap. In daily life that strategy is exhausting. Defensive systems take enormous energy to build and maintain, and they always generate blowback. Aggression breeds aggression. Many of us inherited defensive habits from family dynamics, even generations of them. We are born into lineages of fear and resentment.

It’s up to us if we choose to continue this. A sane antidote is is to interrupt the stream of aggression, by interrupting our thoughts.  Interrupt not uproot. We may benefit from knowing the history of our trauma but intermittently interrupting the flow of suffering may be more profound than we know. It’s certainly easier. All it takes is remembering. And the willingness to train to remember. Which is what meditation is. Just learning to remember to come back.

Good morning.

Said with a real, gentle smile, it can open the smallest gap in the wall-to-wall urgency of life. Rebooting means we can lay down, even briefly, the baggage of defensiveness, doubt, weariness, confusion, complaint.

Writing this on the eve of Thanksgiving and the dawning of winter, I’m reminded of both gratitude and harvest. We reap the goodness we’ve sown and offer it to family and friends. That offering draws us toward the long night ahead, lighting it with appreciation. Gratitude has a genuine neurological impact. In darkness, a single light matters. Instead of dwelling on cold, scarcity, or whatever “toxicity” is in our cupboard, we can choose to feel grateful simply for another day—another chance to live.

This doesn’t make everything easy or abundant. It simply gives us a moment of respite. Good morning, with a smile. In meditation, every return to the breath is a quiet declaration: I’m grateful for this moment. I’m here. With each return, we loosen the grip of our thinking and open ourselves to fresh possibility.

Simple acts of kindness—especially those with no expectation—recharge us. A smile doesn’t need to be worn all day; that would look odd and take too much effort. But an inner smile, a small encouragement toward ourselves, goes a long way. Good morning. A new moment. A simple acceptance of where we are.

Today, at the dawn of winter and just days from Thanksgiving, I am grateful for all of you. I am grateful for anyone who reads this, for anyone who’s benefited from any work I’ve done, because it means the teachings have moved somewhere. I’m grateful for my practice and training, for the ability to return—again and again—to this moment, offering myself kindness with no expectation that it changes a single thing and no demand that we reap what we want to sow.

When we notice, we see how amazing nature growing around us is – how miraculous, how alive. When we smile with gratitude we are joining the world of the living. That’s all we need to do. It’s simple. Trees don’t ask for applause. Birds building nests don’t need approval. Blades of grass pushing through concrete don’t need anything other than soil and sunlight.

Good morning.

With all the demands we place on our life, moving out of our house, getting our teenagers to love us, finding meaningful work, finding a lover who meets our endless list of demands, maybe we can just look with softer eyes and smile in gratitude for the moments that lie between all of these things. We can be grateful for things, of course. But we can just smile just because we’re alive and part of the life around us.

We seek happiness, always. And we have so many ideas of what that means. However, ideas become expectations and expectations become demands. All of this sets ourselves up for disappointment when we fail to get what we think we want, or further expectation when we succeed. This is all so very complicated. Perhaps this is why Chogyam Trungpa made a distinction between happiness and cheering up. Simply said, happiness requires effort and often carries baggage. Happiness also demands freedom for struggle or pain. But cheering up is simple. Smiling in the face of pain, smiling despite our struggle, smiling just for a moment to lighten the load.

That simple neuro-hack won’t change everything.  It may change nothing at all other than that moment.  But life is only moments. So, we are adding sunlight in small increments. That may offer enough release to open our life altogether. Good morning.

And thank you.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

BELONGING

Turning Loneliness Toward Aloneness

 

Everybody wants to belong. That drive, a primal self-defense embedded deep in our psychology, is so strong that when we don’t belong to something it feels empty and frightening. We often interpret that as a failing on our part. Hence, for some of us, being alone is torturous. I would fill up the space with an overactive brain. I have a joke I tell that every sexual encounter I’ve ever had was a threesome: me, my partner, and my brain.

I was the eldest child, and the oldest of my closest cousins. My affinity was for adults, and I had a mild disdain for other kids. Like a lady cat who feels affection for her owners, but has no time for other animals. Hence, I spent a lot of time with the ladies in the kitchen or alone in my room. My mom said I would “explode,” making screaming crowd noises when I imagined myself leading a rock band, or make bomb noises exploding when I was leading troops into battle. I would be the hero, have no fear, and experience no pain. I learned to find some simple genius in my room and occupied the space that otherwise so frightened me. I carried that soothing albeit violent noise around my head growing up, never understanding the life I was missing.

In time, that nagging sense of missing out on something led me to search for meaning, belonging, or anything that might calm the scratchy uneasiness I felt. I would sit in bookstores and thumb through books from Crowley to Ram Dass. I tried meditation in many traditions. At the Zen Center, I was asked to sit in the hall because I couldn’t sit still.

Eventually I came across the work of Chogyam Trungpa. The fact that he was rather infamous appealed to a rebellious part of me that feared indoctrination. Discovering meditation gave me a way of filling that inner space with experiential learning.

My inner conversations began to turn from entertaining myself toward personal development. I was still filling up space, but now I had something useful to tell myself. Trungpa made a distinction between loneliness and aloneness. Loneliness was a suffering ego state, that was so narrow we were not accepted and had no place to belong. Ego had grown too inflamed to fit anywhere, and hence I was never feel comfortable in the ordinary space of life. “I don’t belong here” might have been less about others looking down on me, bullying me, or not accepting me, and more about me trying to bully myself into being more than I needed to be. Maybe I didn’t belong because I was trying so hard to be accepted.  Maybe I had forgotten how to be who I was.

Or maybe I never knew. Maybe none of us do. Perhaps the only ones who feel comfortable in themselves are those who aren’t looking. I loved the scene in Annie Hall when Woody Allen wonders why some people seem so together and decides to ask a beautiful couple passing on the street. “What’s your secret?” he asks. They stare blankly back, blink, shrug and say that they are simply vapid and superficial.

So are we destined to writhe in the turmoil of unsettled being or simply check out and join a cult? Many people driven by the insecurity of loneliness join movements led by charismatic figures who seem to supply them with the confidence they lack. That dynamic becomes heightened when the leader points to those we should blame for our woes. Once we have the bogey people, we can feel united with others in our ire. People lacking in self-acceptance and awareness are ripe to be led. The drive for acceptance is so strong we will sell our souls to feel united.

Thank goodness for the congenitally cynical. A slogan posted at Trungpa’s center said, “A healthy distrust of the rules will bring success.” He didn’t encourage anyone to be a joiner. He didn’t expect anyone to believe what they did not discover for themselves. Meditation, free of manipulation, is pointing to what is already there, not making shit up to make us feel better. Tara Brach teaches about “radical acceptance” — accepting the shadow, the doubt, the fear, and the loneliness.

Accepting loneliness means we can rest in our unease without trying to fix it. When we are able to rest in the places we are less comfortable, when we are less willing to throw ourselves away just to belong, we begin to really know ourselves. Loneliness becomes aloneness. Aloneness is a space of self-acceptance. When we accept ourselves, our ego can relax and become less inflamed. Then there is more space for everything else — for everyone else. People have room to be themselves instead of feeling coerced. Self-acceptance allows others to feel less pressured and more inclined to accept us. Ironically, the crippling need to be accepted had become an obstacle to acceptance.

Once free of the need to occupy myself, once I was willing to accept me and the moment I was in, once I loosened the grip of needing acceptance from others, I found I could make decisions for myself. If I was wrong, then it was mine. Nothing is set in stone except our gravesites.

The fact is we were born alone despite all the fuss around us. And we will die alone despite all the fuss. If we accept being alone, we can become free of the crippling need to belong to anything just to be part of something. Then I think it’s possible to become part of everything.

Or, like Buddha’s hot dog — one with everything.

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

EINSTEIN’S BRAIN

Building the Brain’s Neuroplasticity and Connectivity Through Meditation

 

After Einstein’s passing in 1955, the pathologist performing his autopsy quietly removed his brain. When researchers eventually examined it, they expected something extraordinary—more neurons, unusual size, some physical marker of genius. But by all conventional measures, Einstein’s brain was unremarkable. The one meaningful difference was the density and organization of his neural connections, particularly those supporting information processing and communication between the hemispheres. His brain was wired for unusually high interneural integration and conceptual thinking.

Einstein’s brain was structurally similar to ours, but his unique relationship to learning allowed him to cultivate an exceptional degree of openness and connectivity. The brain is not fixed; it changes in response to experience. Through meditation, we deliberately train the mind toward greater receptivity, presence, and spacious awareness. In Shambhala teachings, we practice opening our senses to awaken the mind and connect with the world as it is. This very act forms new neural pathways that keep the mind vibrant, youthful, and capable of creative insight. Zen Master Suzuki Roshi simply called this “beginner’s mind.”

Despite his groundbreaking discoveries, Einstein remained approachable and playful. He had a sense of humor and was able to speak with anyone—children, workers, scholars—without losing the depth of his insight. This mirrors how the Buddha was described: someone who could address a child, a soldier, and a priest in the same teaching and reach all of them. The Buddha’s brain was just like ours. What differed was how he trained his mind to rest in profound openness. Our basic human mind is already capable, but like Einstein and the Buddha, we can cultivate that capacity through practice.

Einstein didn’t possess more brain power—he used his brain differently. The most striking discovery from the neuroscientific studies of his brain was a thicker corpus callosum, the band of white matter that connects the left and right hemispheres. If we imagine the brain as a city, the gray matter represents the neighborhoods where different types of processing occur, and white matter represents the roads and highways that allow those neighborhoods to communicate. Most of us work with a handful of small roads. Einstein had an eight-lane expressway. He didn’t have more “buildings”; he had better “roads.”

And those roads didn’t appear by accident. Connectivity grows through use. Structure invites capability. Use builds mastery.

Einstein didn’t become a genius by thinking harder. He created conditions in which insight could emerge. His creativity came not from grinding thought, but from spaciousness. He often took long, aimless walks, allowing his mind to wander. Neuroscience now recognizes that this activates the brain’s Default Mode Network, the system responsible for daydreaming, imagination, memory integration, and spontaneous insight. Rest isn’t the absence of thought—it’s the space in which new connections form.

He also engaged in elaborate visualizations, conducting what he called “thought experiments.” He imagined riding alongside a beam of light long before he developed mathematical models. Imagination preceded analysis. And he valued downtime. “I stop thinking, swim in silence, and the truth comes to me,” he once said. Stillness was not avoidance—it was incubation.

Meditation develops these same capacities. We don’t meditate to stop thought. We meditate to stop chasing thought. Meditation allows us to step back and recognize the patterns of our thinking rather than getting lost in their content. It doesn’t change our genetic blueprint, but it optimizes the connectivity that already exists. Through consistent practice, the mind becomes more spacious, more flexible, and more capable of creativity and insight.

Neuroscientific research confirms that meditation produces measurable shifts in the brain. It increases white matter and strengthens communication between hemispheres. Creativity and clarity begin working together. The prefrontal cortex—associated with executive function—coordinates more efficiently with regions involved in imagination and visual-spatial reasoning. The mind becomes more integrated.

Meditation is not about quieting the mind. It is about opening awareness. It is not about forcing insight. It is about creating space for insight.

You do not need Einstein’s brain. You already have the same basic architecture. What matters is how you use it. With presence, spaciousness, and a willingness to return to beginner’s mind, you can cultivate the connection and creativity that lead to genuine insight.

Meditation builds connection.

You just need enough silence for your own breakthrough to arrive.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

WE HAVE EACH OTHER

When We Give Ourselves

Giving of ourselves doesn’t mean getting rid of ourselves for another’s sake. What can we offer if we have nothing to give? Perhaps it’s about loosening our grip so we can offer everything. And by offering everything, we lose nothing — we gain everything. It’s like opening our hands, our arms, our heart to another. It means releasing our defensive, me-first nature and connecting as equals, discovering strength together.

Clinging to ourselves or others is a symptom of panic and fear. We often believe that letting go — of our defenses, or even of someone we love — will leave us empty. But when we release our grip, our panic, our hoarding of self, we uncover what we truly are. We think nothing will remain — but we’re wrong. Everything remains.

Caring for others doesn’t diminish us; it empowers us. We access and strengthen our natural confidence by giving to others. From Buddha’s perspective, this isn’t self-abandonment but the softening of our defenses so we can truly see another — what they need, and how we might help. Yet this requires strength. Compassion is not submission; it’s a dynamic, equal relationship.

Countless songs, stories, and films tell us another person is “everything” to us: You are the sun and the moon. You are all I need. Beautiful, yes — but also red flags. If you are nothing without me, what can you offer me? How can love be mutual if it isn’t equal?

When under pressure — attacked, afraid, or exhausted — our instinct is to inflate ourselves in defense. But that self-inflation closes us off. We may feel we have nothing to give, yet what we can always offer is connection — even in asking for help. When we hold each other in hardship, we discover mutual strength. When we’re pushed to the wall, we can let the wall hold us and still reach out to hold another.

There are countless stories of people once in conflict who, through shared adversity, forged deep bonds. One photograph shows a fawn and a kitten cuddling — found by firefighters after a blaze. The image is both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Perhaps that’s the synthesis: heart-opening.

Our hearts break just enough to crack our defenses, allowing connection. That being — holding us in turmoil — touches our heart as we touch theirs. This goes beyond gender, religion, culture, or attraction. It’s the raw human pulse beneath all that.

You could say our world is at a crisis point — and all we truly have to rely on is each other: our hearts, hopes, dreams, and shared aspiration to live with kindness and respect.

If we want a world of kindness, we can’t wait for others to model it. Nor can we carry it alone. Compassion is a mutual agreement among beings.

Buddhist compassion asks us to look beyond labels and see the truth at the heart of being. What makes us human, animal, alive — part of this planet — isn’t hatred, fear, or violence, even for survival. Our survival depends on union and communication.

Benjamin Franklin said, “If we don’t hang together, surely we will hang separately.”

At the root of compassion, in the heart of the Mahayana tradition, lies the knowing that our heart is vast, capable, and strong. Our limits are not imposed by others or society — they are imposed by our belief in those limits.

When we trust the vastness of our heart, extending it to others becomes natural. And necessary. We have the freedom, power, and strength to do so — not for reward or debt, but for shared survival.

This isn’t a power play. It’s an act of mutual care that may be accepted or misunderstood. Still, we return to letting go — not discarding anything, but keeping the heart of kindness intact. Letting go of the outcome. Letting go of ourselves — not to diminish, but to open, open to the sadness and the joy, the beauty and the dross, the fear and our bravery in the face of it all.

We don’t need to put others down to lift ourselves up, nor shrink to help anyone rise. The weak claw their way over others; fomenting hate to get ahead.  True strength comes from openness — from seeing ourselves in one another.

And our bravery in the face of it all.