Month: December 2025

Posted on by joseph mauricio

The Coming of the Light

BUDDHA’S LUMINOUS PROMISE

 

The holiday season is marked by lights that shimmer and glisten in the cold darkness of long nights. This tradition of surrounding ourselves energetically with radiant color harkens back to the earliest experiences of the human race. In ancient times, humans had fewer distractions and were more attuned to the world around them and the sky above them. They felt the sun rising and felt it falling and diminishing. Like all life on our planet, they learned to live in conjunction with these rhythms.

As human consciousness grew more acute, we developed ideas about concepts that began to separate us from direct perception of our life. Feeling the sky move around us, we imputed meaning to those movements. As our life was dependent on things that lay beyond our control. So we created stories. In time those stories became beliefs. This was the blessing and curse of our developing awareness. We ended up believing our beliefs.

While animals move naturally toward warmth or rest, humans began to think about these cycles. Imbued with conceptual meaning, we tried to understand what was happening. We saw the sun sink lower in the sky. and experienced nights growing longer until they reached their nadir. The longest night of the year became, for many cultures, the coldest and darkest moment of our survival.

To lift their spirits through the dark, humans lit fires, created rituals, and celebrated to urge the light’s return. After two or three days, they noticed the subtle shift—the light was coming back. Many traditions arose around this moment, celebrating the return of the sun. Certain dates were singled out as markers such as December 25th. These times were—and still are—marked with celebrations of light. As fires became torches, and torches became electric lights, the fundamental energy of the sun continued to transmit hope, stability, and wellness. From lights we string grandly across our homes to candles glowing quietly in our room, an energetic message of possibility is transmitted deeply within us. We feel the light because we are light. Every atom, molecule, and element that composes life on this planet came from our sun. When we experience light, it is said to a child recognizing its mother.

The notion of a sacred world as an orientation of mind is essential to what is known as the Third Turning of the Buddha’s teachings. In the Vajrayāna schools of Tibet, we recognize three essential epochs of Buddhist transmission. The first centers on the Buddha’s teachings of the Four Noble Truths and the Three Marks of Existence. These teachings form the foundation for everything that follows. Schools emphasizing this turning are commonly referred to as Theravāda, meaning the ancient or early schools. The First Turning occurred at Deer Park, where the Buddha gave his first sermon articulating the possibility of seeing ourselves and the world as we are.

The Second Turning of the Wheel of Dharma took place at Rājagṛha, on Vulture Peak Mountain, and emphasized the teachings of emptiness (śūnyatā) and compassion. There is a deep symbiosis between these two. In everyday life, emptiness can be understood quite practically: our ideas, constraints, and prejudices are simply thoughts. Until we act on them, they are just energy—something we can see through and choose not to solidify. A teacher once told me, as I was suffering a period of angry depression, “Nothing is happening. There is nothing here but your mind.” At the time I felt insulted and diminished. But years later I don’t recall what had me so upset. I recall her advice to me.

Nothing is happening.

Veterans of the Vajrayāna tradition of Buddhism often say that life is like a dream. This is not meant to diminish life’s importance, but to help us take things less personally. Taking things personally points to the solidification of the self—the ego that feels compelled to defend, prove, or promote itself. Imagine moving through life without that constant burden. Imagine how freely we could benefit the world, and how naturally we might benefit ourselves.

At the same time, caring for family, concern for the climate, or awareness of political consequences are all valid responses to life as it unfolds around us. The practice is to engage without personal fixation—without the need to defend or proclaim our beliefs. Reality has real consequences, and yet it is not solid except insofar as we react to it. Therefore reality is both real and not real. Science echoes this insight: what appears solid is composed of atoms that are mostly space and energy, and those components dissolve further upon investigation. As the Buddha taught, all things arise dependently; nothing exists as a separate, permanent, immutable entity.

This paradox—that things function and yet lack inherent substance—is known as the inseparability of form and emptiness. Because experience is ephemeral, we are free to manifest loving-kindness and compassion. Nothing truly obstructs this except our own limiting beliefs. The Buddha taught that compassion is natural to sentient beings, that all beings possess bodhicitta—the awakened heart-mind. This union of heart and mind reflects the truth that emotions and needs is real in experience yet empty of fixed essence. When resistance is seen as empty, compassion radiates freely.

So what in our lives is both seemingly solid and empty? Light. Light can be focused to cut through the toughest metals, yet when diffused we can walk through it and be nourished by it. Life is born of light.

The Buddha gave his third and most esoteric teachings at Vulture Peak and in refined settings such as royal courts and celestial realms—teachings later known as the Third Turning of the Wheel of Dharma. This turning emphasized Buddha-nature, the innate luminosity of mind, and the sacredness of lived experience. It returned us to the understanding that life is profoundly beautiful and that goodness is not only possible, but fundamental.

A traditional way of pointing to this truth is the contemplation of ourselves and all beings as beings of light. Life is alive. It is not a thing. It is a dynamic interactive experience. At our deepest level, there need be no doubt, no confusion, no self-limitation—only the responsibility to work compassionately with the circumstances of our lives in order to benefit our world.

Because life appears and functions while remaining empty of inherent solidity, we can come to see all existence as the expression of Buddha-nature. Goodness, in this sense, refers to awake, clear, crystalline knowing—pure awareness itself. When perception is not clouded by fear or prejudice, life is revealed as workable, even benevolent. Life does not need to be battled, owned, or subdued. Ultimately, it need not be feared, because there is nothing to lose.

Buddha-nature provides the ground from which we see all life as sacred, just as it is. While this view does not prevent death, it transforms death from an ending into a continuation. We are the universe waking up. We are the vanguard of Buddha-nature, vast as all creation, expressed here in our little corner of the cosmos.

When Vajrayāna speaks of being one with everything, it means both the vastness of the outer universe and the equally vast inner expanse of awareness. Life is energy—appearing as form yet vastly exceeding any fixed notion of being. And this is true of everything, including awareness itself. Awareness and compassion are not things we possess; they are experiences we are.

So enjoy the holiday lights. They connect us to our truest nature. Whether good, bad, happy, sad, rich, poor, sad or glad the light is always there. Whether we feel it or forget our nature it’s always art of our nature with us, because it is our nature. Our Buddha Nature.

 

 

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

AWAKENING

Uncovering Our Buddha Nature

The Buddha grew up in relative luxury for the time and the conditions of the city-state in which he was raised as a prince. In his teens he began to exhibit a restlessness not uncommon to people at that age. He wanted to know more than he could see within the walls in which he was ensconced. He didn’t know it initially, but he was trapped by his father’s love to protect him, as well as by the comforts he was afforded. Contemporaneously, we refer to this as the “golden chains” syndrome—where people are bound by comfort, love, and care, but ultimately kept separate from developing their essential selves in the world.

Birds struggle when they leave the nest and learn to fly. Caterpillars becoming butterflies must go through the stress and turmoil of that process. Tests were done where the cocoon was cut open to make it easier for the butterfly, and when the butterfly emerged it was unable to fly because it had not developed the necessary strength. Adversity, strength, danger, and fear are things loving parents try to protect their children from. And when a child is raised with the considerable means of a prince, there is seemingly no end to the distractions and comforts by which one may become imprisoned.

The Buddha learned archery and falconry. He enjoyed romantic connections with many women. He studied languages and the philosophies of his time. He had no shortage of challenges in martial training, sports and studies, and was supported at every opportunity in the actualization of his dreams. But where they his dreams? Or was he being directed toward his father’s and his society’s expectations? And did this leave something unfulfilled within him?

The restlessness inside a young person does not adhere to logic. It is not bound by the constraints of conventional understanding. It is an itch, an urge—something that pushes and pulls. Like a chick breaking through its shell, it can be painful, and it can lead a young person into painful situations. There were dangers on the streets in the Buddha’s time. Particularly, there was a social upheaval sometimes compared to Paris in the 20’s or Western World in the 1960’s.  Young people were pulled away from societal and religious convention into the contemporaneous turbulence of influence. There were ascetics who had abandoned the safety of convention. And this has always been threatening to the status quo. In the Buddha’s case, his father, as King of the Sakya clan, had very specific ideas about his son’s calling. Siddhartha Gautama who was expected to succeed his father was expected to live a life commensurate with wealth and power of his station.

Yet, the Buddha was pulled toward his own path. Like kids jumping from their bedroom windows at night—the Buddha eventually snuck out of the palace in order to glimpse the world. Not yet ready to leave his environment entirely, he simply wanted to see what lay beyond the walls. He encountered the basic marks of existence, birth, old age, sickness and death, that he had been shielded from. This was eye-opening to him. He saw an old man. He saw a funeral with a corpse. He saw a sick man, beggars, monks. He saw suffering and dissolution. And naively asked why. Why did people suffer?

Rather than fleeing back to the safety of the palace, these discoveries strengthened his resolve to move further from away from the confines of comfort and into a deeper understanding of the nature of humanity. This became the essential characteristic that defined the Buddha throughout his life: the need to see further, to seek more clearly, to understand with direct connection what the world was beyond the usual assumptions that kept his people trapped in cycles of suffering.

He left his position, his family and his clan and traveled, studying with different ascetics and engaging in many practices and techniques—some very extreme. Having been raised in great comfort, he was nevertheless an exemplary student of meditation and yoga. He demonstrated a profound ability to abandon the trappings of the world in order to discover what was actually occurring in his heart and mind. He understood relatively early that the trappings of the world were distractions and, ultimately, sources of discomfort. There was something within human beings he wanted to reach. How could true happiness be found? How could samadhi and serenity—promised by his teachers and guides—be realized in his very life?

At some point, fasting and meditating left him exhausted, depleted, and emptied. He sat beneath the Bodhi tree. He no longer had the energy to focus his mind or apply effort. All that remained was surrender—a state of profound acquiescence. A woman came to him offering sustenance. She saw his weakened state but also sensed his presence and power. He simply needed enough energy to place his mind fully in the present moment in order to move beyond.

In this state of deep surrender, he broke his vow accepting what was offered and ate a small amount of rice milk porridge. Soon after, his strength returned, and with it the ability to settle and clarify his mind. He opened to a state neither of great pleasure nor of great pain, but beyond those designations—into a serenity that transcended good and bad, pleasure and suffering. He reached the essential state of being human. It was not an exalted place befitting a king. It was rock bottom, empty of expectation. It was just so.

As he continued to sit beneath the tree, eating modestly and rebuilding his energy, he realized an extreme clarity which stabilized into an experience referred to as enlightenment.

Some say he attained Nirvana. But Nirvana is the absence of suffering, and suffering is one of the primary human experiences. So, Enlightenment is the realization of Nirvana within samsara—it is seeing Nirvana not apart from the world but expressed within it. This is the inseparability of samsara and Nirvana, the point at which duality dissolves and we become one with experience itself.

Stepping back, we can see a process unfold. First, there is the indescribable urge to understand more, to experience more. This urge often becomes distorted when we seek shortcuts—through excessive drugs, alcohol, material accumulation, or superficial experience. The search begins inward, with personal experience. The Buddha realized the essence of being human, who he was in the present moment beyond concept. When the path is channeled into direct, embodied experience rather than abstract theory, a vast richness is revealed.

Is this experience available to us in the busy absorption of our busy lives? It sounds good, and while the Buddha’s trials have pathed the way for us, is important to make offerings of our attachment, and attachment to our comforting yet limiting, concepts of how we think we are. Our righteous anger, our justifiable love and the veils of ignorance we hide behind.

Can we do this?

The experience of the Buddha indicated we can. But the Buddha can’t affect realization for us. The Buddha is gone. But to Buddhists the Buddha is the example. He laid the groundwork for how we can journey to awakening, incrementally, with great patience. And this is entirely possible because the same components –  inquisitiveness, a longing to know more and the empathy for the suffering of beings – exist in all of us. This Buddha Nature is our human birthright.

The Buddha’s awakening, is our awakening.

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

THE ONLY PLACE TO BE

Is Where We Are

The good news is, you’re already here. The trick is to remember that.

And to recognize that.

And to experience that here, now.

It’s easy. Maybe too easy? We seem to want dramatic solutions to dramatic problems. We take classes in cognitive awareness, feel crystals, and throw the I Ching. The more anxious we feel, the more effort we think we need to escape. But when our thinking is hijacked by an inflamed brainstem, simply coming back to now can bring us into alignment and return us to an optimum mental state. As humans, we have evolved to employ higher mental functioning, but we need clarity of mind to fully access that state. Unfortunately, we’ve retained shadows of a less awake, fearful, scurrying mind that sometimes hijacks or clouds our reasoning. Reasoning becomes overthinking,  catastrophic thinking or distracted escapism. When our thinking is compromised, we would do well to pay less attention to the narrative of our thoughts and more attention to recognizing when the mind is distracted it’s thinking.

When we train in meditation, we are training to notice when the mind is distracted and to bring it back to the present. We don’t need deep psychological reasoning for this process. In fact, the simpler we keep it, the better. We notice, we return, and we do all of this with no judgment, no explanation, no concepts at all.

Quite simply, what is happening now? What am I experiencing now in the simplest, most tactile way? Not grand ideas, but simply the experience of my hands, feet and breath.  Letting go of ideas of what we think is happening, we turn our attention to our feet on the ground. I mean really do that. Really feel your feet on the ground. Not think about it. Just feel your hands on the desk or your thighs. Bring yourself back home. You can do this walking around your kitchen when anxiety arises. Come back to  the experience of your feet on the floor. It’s that simple to break the momentum of panic, thinking and fear.

Aside from placing a gap in the panic, being aware of ourselves, and parts of ourselves, is comforting to the frightened part of us that can take over our whole day.

Mindfulness of mind means noticing when the mind has hijacked us, taking center stage with some thought or idea that obscures everything else we might see. Mindfulness of being awake in the present moment reminds us to come back to what is verifiably happening, such as the breath or our posture. When the mind notices itself, that noticing is happening in the present. But when the mind gets lost in the narrative of its thinking, we are no longer in the present. We are removed from it.

Most of the time we are lost in regret over some past action or anticipation of some future occurrence, and both of these are imagined circumstances. When we bring ourselves back to our body, that is actually happening here. We can take solace in that. We can begin to feel grounded when we return.

That said, coming back to the present and then judging that experience—such as noticing how distracted the mind is or believing we have to apply ourselves further—are also thoughts that are not actually in the present. They are closer to the present than imagining we are in Tahiti on the beach, but they are still one step removed because we are talking to ourselves about the present. The experience of the present is nonconceptual.

There is a great irony in the art of meditation: being grounded in reality is not what we think. Being grounded in reality is an experience. Mindfulness of mind is the experience of stepping back and seeing what the mind is doing from a grander perspective. It is like a snapshot, and as soon as we start commenting on that snapshot, we darken our connection to the experience. We confuse it. We complicate it.

The aim of meditation is not to become better, smarter, or more productive. The aim of meditation is to become here and be awake right now, in this moment. As simple as that sounds, this is considered both the primary practice and the pinnacle experience of meditation training in the Tibetan Buddhist systems. When we are fully here, we are fully connected to the inherent wakefulness of the universe. As soon as we think about that, we take a step away from the experience.

Mindfulness, then, is the subtle and nuanced process of stepping back in order to see our experience without stepping into conceptualization. We are looking at the mind rather than being lost in the mind. The mind seeing itself is considered a sacred moment in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. As soon as we congratulate ourselves or conceptualize the process, we step away from that experience.

The pinnacle position for the meditator is to be in the present experience without comment, concern, or criticism. When those things arise, as they naturally do, the process of recognizing them and coming back to the breath, the feet, and the hands is the process of waking up. We are training the mind to recognize distraction and to recognize presence.

The process of coming back here becomes easier and more efficient when we train ourselves to recognize both distraction and what it feels like to be here. Without complication, our feet are on the ground, our hands are on our thighs, and the mind is returning to its resting on the breath. This gives us a base to which we can return anytime.

As Lennon sang, “wherever you are, you are here.”

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

ANXIETY

FACING THE DANGER

We all feel it. Some of us live with it all the time. That live-wire sense of urgency seems to compel us to do … something. Anything. The intensity with which it hits seems to urge action.

Anxiety is, if nothing else, uncomfortable.

We sometimes gird for the danger locked in straight jackets of tension. At other times we freeze in place while piles of unanswered demands keep growing into mountains around us. And other times we just want to run, looking out the window dreaming or doom scrolling for a dopamine rush as we try in vain to keep our mind on a task.  Strangely, as urgent as it is, we  can’t focus 0ur attention.

But the way out of this, is the way in. Recognize it is a fit of anxiety, accept that as a normal process gone a bit off kilter, and look into our experience instead of pushing past the experience. We miss the point and forgo an opportunity when we choose a blind exit strategy.

Wait. It’s okay. You’ve seen this before. This is only the nervous system’s clickbait. Don’t fall for it. Hold your seat and feel in to the experience. You can master this. Or at the very least learn to work with it. But working with something requires we learn more about it. So let’s pause, breathe and take a look into this.

Anxiety is a future-oriented state of apprehension—an emotional response to perceived threats, uncertainty, or the possibility of negative outcomes. It differs from fear, which is tied to an immediate and identifiable danger. Fear has an object we can see, feel, taste, or touch. Anxiety, by contrast, is fear directed toward the unseen and speculative: the imagined scenarios, the “what ifs,” the landscapes of uncertainty our minds project ahead of us.

From an evolutionary perspective, anxiety developed as a survival mechanism. It heightens our vigilance so we can scan for potential threats, and it prepares the body to act quickly—whether through fight, flight, or freeze. In moderate doses, this system is useful, even beneficial, sharpening our focus and improving performance when we face challenges.

However, when anxiety becomes chronic or unmanaged, it begins to reshape both the brain and the body. The amygdala can grow more reactive, making emotional responses quicker and stronger. The hippocampus may shrink, which affects memory and emotional regulation. The prefrontal cortex—responsible for reasoning, planning, and calming the mind—can become impaired, making it harder to talk ourselves down from fear. At the same time, the autonomic nervous system may dysregulate, leading to persistent muscle tension, digestive issues, and disturbed sleep.

Psychologically, anxiety often reflects a pattern of overestimating threats while underestimating our ability to cope. It thrives on intolerance of uncertainty and a constant search for control. Catastrophic thinking and rumination loops can reinforce each other, trapping us in cycles of worry that feel increasingly difficult to escape.

Working with anxiety begins in the body and daily life. Regular exercise helps regulate cortisol and raises endorphin levels, improving mood and resilience. Good sleep hygiene is essential, as poor sleep dramatically amplifies amygdala reactivity and emotional sensitivity. Balanced nutrition stabilizes blood sugar, which directly influences anxiety levels. Simple breathing practices—especially slow diaphragmatic breathing—activate the parasympathetic nervous system and can reduce acute anxiety in real time.

Training the mind adds another layer of support. Mindfulness meditation quiets amygdala activity and strengthens the prefrontal cortex’s ability to regulate emotion. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy helps reframe catastrophic thoughts and builds a more balanced internal dialogue. Exposure therapy gradually teaches the nervous system that feared situations can be tolerated, reducing avoidance patterns over time. Somatic practices such as yoga, body scans, and grounding exercises help soothe physiological hyperarousal and reconnect the mind with the body.

Medication can be an important option when anxiety is persistent or overwhelming. SSRIs are often used for chronic or generalized anxiety because they help regulate mood over the long term. Benzodiazepines may provide short-term relief during episodes of intense anxiety, though they carry risks of tolerance and dependence. Beta-blockers can help manage the physical symptoms of performance-related anxiety, such as trembling or rapid heartbeat.

From a spiritual or contemplative standpoint, anxiety is often viewed as a misalignment with impermanence and uncertainty—an attempt to make solid what is fundamentally fluid. In Buddhist and related traditions, the practice is not to eliminate anxiety but to observe it as a transient mental event rather than a fixed identity. By approaching anxious states with compassion, acceptance, and curiosity, we loosen their grip and begin to transform our relationship with them. Anxiety becomes an experience to understand rather than an enemy to fight.

Anxiety is a natural response encoded in ancient survival circuits. It becomes problematic when it entrenches itself in chronic patterns shaped by neurological, cognitive, and behavioral loops. Yet by understanding how anxiety works—biologically, psychologically, and philosophically—we gain the tools to meet it more skillfully. This i9s to say we learn to work with it.  When we learn to work with something our relationship becomes less contentious.

In the long term, with lifestyle care, cognitive reframing, somatic grounding, and contemplative insight, anxiety becomes less of a barrier and more of a guide.

In the moment of discomfort, remember don’t act. Be cognizant of your breathing. Long slow out breaths.  Calm the system so the mind can become clear. Breathing into the panic is more effective than we might think. Big problems seem to want big remedies. But keeping it simple may be the best way into understanding.

  • it’s anxiety
  • it’s okay. It’s here to help. It’s just become inflamed.
  • how can I make a relationship with this?
  • how can I ease the pressure?
  • breathe.
  • It’s not about me. It’s an ancient reaction to modern life
Posted on by joseph mauricio

WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

 

Struggling Through the Hangover of Delusion

There was a song by Neil Sedaka in the 60’s called “Breaking Up is Hard to Do”. Many of us have been there. It is hard to let go of someone to whom we’ve grown attached.  First we try to let them go, only to find the part of us who identified as their partner also had to be let go. It’s not easy to see beyond the love bubble. It’s not easy seeing beyond me.

Waking up in life can be similarly difficult. Arising after a long, wild night we are cloudy and unsure as we try and reconstruct the events of the night before. It seemed like so much fun, I think. Maybe. But why am I suffering now? And why do the few things I remember make me cringe?

In the same way, after years, even lifetimes, of believing the delusional states we sleepwalk through, waking up can be disconcerting, embarrassing and painful.

“Waking up”refers to the glimpses or stabilization of realization that is a consequence of regular meditation practice. It might begin with flashes of insight that permeates our practice, but in time fuses into a sense of panoramic knowing. We begin to see ourselves in context to the world around us rather than being lost in ideas to which we’re conditioned. This seems like a good thing, and yet a part of us resists this. We would rather cling to sleep finding excuses to stay in a routine of non-awareness. Perhaps we can set the phone to “snooze”, but that doesn’t really work. Once we’ve seen the sunshine our slumber is ruined. We toss and turn but at some point rolling out of bed becomes choiceless.

Waking up in the spiritual sense can be disorienting because there’s seeming comfort in delusion, as we hide within layers of protective self-deception. (My autocorrect had written “stealth deception,” which is serendipitous because much of the way we fool ourselves lies deep in our psychology and goes uninvestigated.) We take “me” for granted, assuming everything we do is the same me doing it. We fail to notice how that me shifts from circumstance to circumstance. We may be one me with our mother, another me at work, another me in a bar and several others with each drink as each releases another layer of me.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve excused myself with, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t wasn’t myself last night.”

“Stealth deception,” indeed.

So much of our ego — the part charged with defending us and keeping us socially acceptable — lies unseen. Buddhism describes ignorance as the primary manifestation of ego.  Various ego states (plural because despite seeming solid they constantly change) shape who we think we are, yet lie uninvestigated, beyond reach. We accept the brother me, the son me, the teacher me or the pupil me without question. Hence, when we’re angry, we assume it’s justified, fixating our ire on some person or object. When we feel attraction, it must be love. We rarely go deeper and ask what else we might feel. For instance, anger covers over doubt, sadness and confusion because it’s an energy we can grasp. Anger feels strong while vulnerability feels, well, vulnerable. Since ego protects us, vulnerability isn’t its go-to — unless we’ve learned to use it manipulatively. So we sleepwalk through life, replaying the same strategies we used in the crib to get our bottle.

At work I’d grumble sarcastically “yeah, I slept like a baby, I woke every three hours screaming for my bottle.” When I quit drinking, I committed to continuing the waking-up process I’d begun in meditation. I’d come far in understanding the world and the Dharma, and developed empathy for others — but that empathy was still at the service of ego – it was provisional depending on how irritated I might be. I cared for others in order to secure my sense of worth. I couldn’t see behind the firewall into the inner workings. I could cajole, demand, intimidate to get what I wanted. Yet I never investigated what it was I actually wanted. It’s possible I never knew.

The meditation master Dilgo Khyentse, Rinpoche used to say the only difference between the dreams we have at night, and the dream of our life, is duration. We believe our life has meaning, as we believe our dreams do. Yet we don’t fully remember either, because we’re not fully cognizant of either.

I held a special ire toward those who punctured my dream-logic. Nothing got me angrier. I felt they were stupid or didn’t understand me. I believed I knew more than anyone as I lived in my dream bubble. I held the belief that I was special secret genius in a tight emotional fist. It took me a while to loosen that grip and begin to see I wasn’t so special. So, yeah waking up is freaking galling. But it’s worth it. And once we start – once we get a glimpse outside the cave – we can’t go back. Saturday night is never the same once you find out.

In order to secure our nascent awakening, I recommend getting out of bed a bit earlier, tired as we may be, and meet our mind as it may be – just as we find it. Just sit there and be with ourselves waking up slowly in order to synchronize with ourselves as we are and discover the day as it is.  Our morning meditation can begin organically before we bound out of bed to a screaming alarm, rushing down the street behind our triple latte.

I sometimes joke: Have you ever woken up next to someone you didn’t know and tried to sneak out unnoticed? That happens to me every morning — and I live alone. I try to escape before I have to recognize myself. I’d jump on the subway, rushing and habitually late, never having to look at myself because I was busy navigating chaos. Fearful of disappointment, I constantly created confusion so I could dig myself out of it and avoid ever seeing who I was.

Meditation slowly changed that. It let me peel back layers of me. At the beginning of meditation, we’re groggy and unsteady. We’re learning to stand without the crutches that once propped us up. We must nourish and protect this early wakefulness.

Waking up is hard to do because we’ve never experienced the alternative. It’s easier to roll and over stay warm than it is to turn and face the ch-ch-change. But we’re missing our life in the process. At some point Ignorance may not be enough.

A sign from one of my favorite coffee shops read: