Author: joseph mauricio

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ENLIGHTENMENT

A Beginner’s Guide to The Mind’s Great Awakening

Enlightenment. They say those who have reached enlightenment never speak of it, and those who speak of it have never reached it.

This makes me uniquely qualified to speak about it.

First, we might define this well-worn, well-used term. To me, enlightenment is the experience of a mind stabilized in a state of perpetual wakefulness. Wakefulness is the mind freed from its habitual misconceptions—those distortions shaped by attachment, bias, and ignorance. When the mind is free of ignorance, it naturally reveals its innate wakefulness. In other words, it connects with wisdom. So wisdom, it seems, is the mind’s natural state. So, reaching enlightenment should be easy. All we need to do is identify and remove any obstacles to the mind finding its way home.

Simple, yes. But not so easy. Awakening into our natural state requires dis-believing all the sticky things the world throws at us, as well as the equally sticky parts of a mind that has been conditioned by sticky views based on avarise, aversion and avoidance. Buddhist texts refer to these wrong views collectively as ignorance as they are based on not knowing – or believing our true selves. Ignorance, therefore, is the converse of wisdom.

Wisdom is not the same as knowledge or learning. It is not an accumulation, but an opening—an attunement to something already present, both within and beyond the individual. Some say it is a cosmic state, natural throughout the universe. The experience of that knowing openness is what we call wakefulness. Enlightenment is when this wisdom experience becomes stabilized.

If wisdom is an experience of an open mind rather than a product of accumulated learning, then learning, while important, can also become an obstacle. It develops the mind, yes—but it also risks inflating the ego, which encumbers the mind with things about itself, thus reducing the clarity of mind needed for direct perception. The enlightened mind sees beyond concepts and egoic frameworks to direct contact with reality as it is. Terms like “as it is,” “just so,” or “things as they are” are used traditionally to describe clear seeing. In this sense, enlightenment may not be the exalted or elevated state that some fancy it to be. In fact, enlightenment might be quite ordinary. simply seeing reality, within and without, clearly, as it is.

Just so.

Chögyam Trungpa once suggested that enlightenment is not a higher state, at al but the “lowest of the low of experiences.”  This opening of the mind occurs when the conceptual mind exhausts itself.

The process of exhausting can sometimes be an excruciating. I’m not convinced the path must be torturous, but traditionally, it does involve a dislodging of pride, ego, and fixed identity. That dislodging—the letting go of our tight grip on self— happens to all of us, often through painful experiences. It happens when the world dissolves and our hearts crack open leaving us with no energy to struggle, and no. recourse but to accept and open.

There is a saying: Disappointment is the chariot of liberation. For example, when we break up with a partner to whom we were deeply attached, the pain is twofold. First, we grieve the separation. But more subtly, we also grieve the loss of the identity that was constructed around that relationship. And it is precisely that identity that can obscure sustained wakefulness. Some traditions suggest renouncing relationships for this reason. Others say that enlightenment can emerge even amidst attachment, addiction, and the turmoil we create by continually substantiating ourselves to ourselves.

This leads to the idea of the inseparability of Samsara and Nirvana. Samsara is the endless wheel of attachment, addiction, and suffering—the habitual conditioning of the mind. Nirvana is its absence: the opening to clarity, to wisdom beyond the self. While some traditions aim to withdraw from Samsara entirely, my tradition teaches that we can live within Samsara and still see its emptiness—its insubstantiality—and the illusory nature of what the world claims as true.

Astronauts who have seen Earth from space often describe it as a profound, perspective-shifting experience—one filled with awe, tenderness, and love for this fragile blue orb that nurtures life. In this way, enlightenment can be likened to a vast perspective—one that sees beyond itself, and continues to see beyond itself, again and again. As Pema Chödrön says, it’s like peeling the layers of an onion. The unveiling of misconception and delusion is an ongoing process.

From this point of view, perhaps there is no fixed, stabilized state to attain. Stephen Hawking, in his later work, concluded that there is no single grand unified theory of physics—only different theories that illuminate reality from different angles. Understanding, then, is not about finding the final answer, but about seeing through various perspectives, again and again.

If enlightenment is, in fact, the stabilization of perpetual transition, then it means the mind has trained itself to remain open regardless of circumstance. Tara Brach refers to this as “radical enlightenment”—the mind’s ability to experience, open, experience, open, again and again, never resting in the security of fixed ideas.

Perhaps the enlightened experience is completely present and spontaneous—leading nowhere, clinging to nothing, understanding nothing beyond what is actually here, now. Maybe it is very simple and our journey is to stop complicating it. This open naivete is called “beginner’s mind”.  Not over thinking, but learning. Enlightenment for dummies, you might say. Chics hatching into a new world. Babies opening their eyes. Life all around us, indomitable unstoppable often overlooked but always there.  And we can join that quite simply.

A being in a state of perpetual learning.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

THE OUTRAGEOUS ACTION OF COMPASSION

When Cruelty Becomes the Norm

Photos by Maria Lau, on site at “No Kings” NYC

As violence in our culture becomes increasingly normalized, we naturally begin to grow desensitized. This is, in some ways, a psychological adaptation—our minds regulating themselves in order to survive the constant barrage of suffering and threat. But this normalization shifts our internal baselines: what was once unthinkable becomes merely uncomfortable… and then, quietly, becomes acceptable. Like the proverbial frog in water slowly brought to a boil, we may not notice what’s happening until it’s too late—until the flesh falls from our bones. I only hope we make a wonderful human stew.

At a recent No Kings protest, a photographer friend of mine saw a sign that read: “When cruelty becomes normal, compassion seems radical.”

That idea struck me deeply. The forces of hatred and cruelty have become so embedded in our society that speaking out against them can provoke backlash, censorship, or isolation. Yet if we don’t speak out, that same darkness begins to seep inward. As Joe Strummer once warned, “We’re working for the clampdown.” And here we are—told to “get along, get along.”

How does someone committed to nonviolence and kindness push back against a rising tide of ignorance? Perhaps the answer is in the question. If ignorance is the disease, then the antidote is the clear and courageous offering of truth. Wherever we can—through conversation, media, art, or daily example—we must counter distortion with clarity.

This is a time for artists, creatives, philosophers, and writers to rise up—not with dogma, but with presence and heart. We must choose roles that contribute meaningfully to society. Art matters. It always has.

I’m reminded of how, during the Nazi occupation of France, playwright Jean Anouilh staged Antigone as a veiled indictment of collaboration and authoritarianism. The occupying forces didn’t catch the deeper meaning—but the people did. Similarly, Eugène Ionesco’s Rhinoceros warned of creeping fascism through absurdist allegory. Not all protests need to be loud; some speak powerfully through metaphor.

The same applies to our own hearts. If we root ourselves in compassion—true, fearless compassion—we tap into something far more potent than self-righteous anger. The image of the bodhisattva comes to mind: a humble servant, setting aside ego and personal gain in order to benefit others. This isn’t weakness. It’s one of the most powerful stances we can take.

Compassion doesn’t have to be grand. It can start with expanding the circle of our care—from pets, to friends, to strangers, and even to adversaries. If we nurture that inner warrior of compassion, we can become strong in the face of repression, wise amid ignorance, and peaceful in a violent world.

Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche once used the image of the Garuda—a mythic bird that soars with fearless compassion—to represent what he called the “outrageous” bravery of an open heart. He said this kind of bravery defies our narrow, self-protective instincts. It dares us to leap beyond the smallness of self-concern into the vastness of humanity.

And make no mistake: those who cling to strength through violence, hateful rhetoric, and domination are often the most frightened among us.

How, then, do we respond? By showing up. By being sane, balanced, and clear—even when the world around us isn’t. Each moment of calm presence, each small act of compassion, offers sanity back to a world that desperately needs it. Whether it’s just one person at the coffee shop or a room full of people at a talk—your kindness matters.

Even more outrageously: we may end up benefiting the oppressors, too. That’s the radical nature of true compassion. No enemies. No kings. No victims. No heroes. Just human beings—some who will listen, and some who won’t. But compassion doesn’t require agreement. It requires courage.

When I hear the phrase “We are all children of God,” I feel the deep equality of sentient life. In Buddhism, we speak less of God as a figurehead, and more of the innate Buddha nature in all beings that sparks awakening in us all. That is the wellspring of our strength. Tapping into this goodness allows us to face cruelty with clarity, to stand in danger with dignity, and to act with courage.

When cruelty becomes the norm, those who remain awake become strong reminders of sanity.

But have as we face cruelty in our world can we face the cruelty in own mind? How do we treat ourselves? How do we speak to ourselves? We don’t have to follow along with oppression, even our own. We can take the brave step of facing our own life with kindness, so we have the strength to face the world. The Shambhala teachings urge us to be “kind to ourselves and merciful to others.” It all starts with “Maitri” or lovingkindness for ourselves.

When we choose kindness in the face of cruelty, whether in our society or our mind we are taking an outrageous step—not just to change the world, but to trust in our own basic goodness. And if that changes nothing but our belief in ourselves we’ve taken an outrageous step forward.

 And maybe that changes everything.

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THE COURAGE OF AN OPEN HEART

Developing Compassion in Action

The word compassion evokes many ideas—some relatable, others unrealistic or vague. This lack of definition makes it more of an idea than an experience. We often equate it with kindness and softness, but rarely with strength and resilience. Can it be all of the above?

I want to look at compassion from a practical point of view. What is our lived experience? And how can we draw on that experience to remain strong amid the turbulence life throws our way? When frightened, we often retreat from experience and hide behind ideas.

Ideas are maps—they help us identify events, but they remain separate from lived reality. In Buddhism, we value experience over concept. And while it’s good to study the teachings on compassion, what does compassion look like in everyday life?

If we pay close attention, we might find that compassion, kindness, and love are available to us all the time. Petting a kitten, playing with a dog, holding a child—these simple moments of goodness are opportunities to communicate directly with life.

Rooted in loving-kindness, these ordinary acts help soothe our overtaxed nervous systems and reconnect us to the living world. Yet we often overlook their profundity because they seem so ordinary. In truth, compassion is happening all the time, everywhere—and, as the movie put it, all at once. Every time a flower blooms, a tree sways, or birds sing, nature is communicating. But because we’re conditioned to prioritize the negative, it’s negativity that often colors our view of the world.

When we face great difficulties, we assume we need powerful remedies. This “fight fire with fire” approach keeps aggression center stage. But it’s surprisingly easy to turn our minds toward the goodness available to us right now. Just breathing isn’t as glamorous as swinging a hammer against injustice, but we help no one if we can’t replenish ourselves with love. The birds singing outside my window, like Leonard Cohen’s “bird on a wire,” are an amazing and accessible reminder of our connection to life—if I care to listen.

That said, birdsong alone is no match for the hatred and destruction we encounter daily. The horrors of war, aggression, terror, and greed are very real—but they exist within the greater framework of a living, nurturing planet. If we look only at one side of this equation, we miss the big picture.

It would be a mistake to divide the good from the bad entirely. We live in a world that frightens us. We read the news, and it frightens us further. To escape, we go on retreat and cultivate compassion, kindness, and love. And for a moment, we feel relief. Then we return home, and within days that feeling fades. Deep self-care is valid, but the relief it offers is unsustainable unless we integrate it into everyday life. A mud bath does not encompass the full range of our experience.

Perhaps the healthiest and most practical approach is to weave together the negativeand the positive—to hold the full picture of existence. Seeing only the good is shallow and ignores the privilege many of us enjoy. Seeing only the bad can become a form of masochistic narcissism—doomscrolling until we’re depleted and numb. Neither extreme offers real respite, and both limit our ability to stay joyful and engaged. Either way, it’s still all about me.

If we stop viewing “positive” and “negative” as opposites and instead see them as energies—one promoting connection, the other disconnection—we can begin to use compassion as a tool for healing both personal and collective suffering. The teachings on compassion invite us to retrain the mind to see all things as equal parts of a greater whole. Just because we don’t like something doesn’t mean it’s evil. Do we have the hubris to make that call? Humility lies at the heart of the big view. Compassion invites us to STFU and see it all.

We will never eliminate pain, suffering, or injustice. But we can be voices for balance, comfort, kindness, and peace. “Peace,” in this case, doesn’t mean utopia. It means peace within turmoil.

I love the audacity of John and Yoko’s campaign: War is Over (If You Want It). It wasn’t just a slogan—it was a vision, splashed across Times Square in 1970. Can you imagine? Yet, as some readers will point out, Lennon was often aggressive, even violent. In response to accusations he had abused his wife Cynthia and assaulted friends, he admitted that his own violence was what taught him the value of peace. He had to confront himself and make a vow to change. His public message was an attempt to use his privilege to help the world.

The compassionate view isn’t that we can get rid of suffering, but that we can wake up and make conscious choices. We can share with others what we’ve learned about ourselves—the cruelty within our own psychology, and how we’ve worked to transform it. As the saying goes, compassion begins at home.

It’s unrealistic to think we can heal a chaotic world if our own lives are out of balance. But it’s equally dishonest to pretend we’re perfect. In fact, our imperfections can become bridges. Because we all share pain, our struggles can help us connect. Aligning with principles of goodness allows our lives to lean toward openness—and from there, wisdom can arise. But we must do the work: look within, face the damage, and also honor the goodness we’ve received. It is not a crime to notice the life and love all around us.

If we let cruelty defeat us, we burn out. But if we hold our seat and restore our inner strength—our windhorse—then simply by being awake, alive, and available, we can choose compassion before reacting from ignorance. When we pause to heal ourselves, we benefit our families, our communities, and the world.

We don’t need to fix the world. It’s not on us to change the course of ignorance. But if we want to cultivate compassion, it is on us not to contribute to ignorance. The world has existed for over four billion years and will go on long after humanity is gone. We may not destroy the planet, but we can certainly destroy ourselves. And even if ecosystems collapse—as they have five times before—life will return. Life is resilient. It grows from rock, from ash, from mud.

And that same resilience lives in us.

We can draw strength from the world’s goodness. We can tune into that growth. We can learn from it. We can become like seedlings pushing through the cracks in the asphalt—proud of our strength, humble enough to take our place. As we grow, we nourish the world simply by being alive. And we reduce harm by reducing self-importance.

We are not more special than anything else in nature. But we do have the gift of conscious choice. And we can use that gift wisely if we remain conscious. Too often, we turn self-reflection into a weapon—against ourselves and others. But maybe we can stop using our wisdom as a cudgel, and instead cultivate true awareness—not self-centeredness, but self-knowledge that sees beyond itself into the fullness of life.

And maybe we can learn to care for ourselves and be more present in our lives.

I don’t know why I posted the picture below, except that I love this lady. She makes me smile. And everytime I smile, an angel in my brain gets wings. But she’s also inspiring. She’s fine with her looks and weight. She seems unbothered by the defensive skin she’s covered in. That’s her way. Much of her life may be hard—but in this moment, she doesn’t seem to mind. She just naturally does the next right thing.

And I feel like she loves her mother very much.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

COMPASSION IN ACTION

The Strength of an Open Heart

The word “Compassion” evokes many feelings and ideas—some relatable, others unrealistic. This lack of clear definition can render it more a concept than a living, breathing experience. In Buddhism, we value experience over concepts because what we imagine is always a few steps away from what is. And while it is certainly good to study teachings on compassion, we can point to our everyday experience and see how much we are already experiencing. From there, we can become more aware of the natural goodness 0f our mind and the world.

Petting a kitten, playing with a dog, holding a child—these are simple moments of basic goodness. In these simple moments, we are profoundly communicating with the universe. Rooted in loving-kindness, these ordinary acts help heal our overtaxed nervous systems and reconnect us with the living world. Everytime we smile we turn on the lights. And everytime we turn on the lights we are building connections to life.

Compassion is something most of us experience daily, but we often don’t recognize this because these moments seem too ordinary. In fact, compassion is happening all the time, everywhere, and—to quote the movie title—all at once. Every time a flower blooms, every time a tree sways, every time birds sing from their nests, nature is alive and communicating. Yet because we are conditioned to value negative experiences more than positive ones, it’s negativity that often colors our view of the world. When I say “view of the world,” I’m referring to how concepts cut us off from physical contact with life. We live sequestered from life, locked in our minds. Like kids searching social media in a darkened basement, we scroll through the doom looking for something real. And war and hatred feel so true to us.

Birds singing are not an antidote to the horror and destruction of war, but they are also not irrelevant. The horrors of war, aggression, terror, and greed exist within the greater framework of this living, loving, eternally nurturing planet on which we live. It would be a mistake to separate the good from the bad entirely. We live in a world that frightens us. We read about it in the news, and it frightens us further. To escape, we book a retreat upstate and cultivate compassion, kindness, and love for all beings. And for a moment, we feel relief. Then we return home, and within days that feeling may wane.

But both of these experiences are true.

Buddhism speaks of the inseparability of samsara and nirvana. The healthiest and most practical approach may be to weave together the negative and the positive—to stay aware of the full picture of our existence. If we stop seeing “positive” and “negative” as opposite, and instead see them as energies—one promoting well-being, the other promoting disconnection—we can begin to use compassion to help heal both our personal suffering and the broader suffering of the world.

We will never eradicate pain, suffering, or injustice entirely. But we can be voices for balance, comfort, kindness, and peace. And “peace,” in this case, doesn’t mean utopia. It means peace within turmoil.

I love the audacity of John and Yoko’s ad campaign: “War is Over (If You Want It).” It wasn’t just a slogan—it was a vision, displayed boldly on billboards in Times Square.

The compassionate view isn’t that we can get rid of suffering, but that we can wake people up to make conscious choices. We can show others what we’ve seen in ourselves: the underpinnings of cruelty within our own psychology, and the ways we’ve worked to transform them. As the saying goes, compassion begins at home.

It’s unrealistic to think we can heal a world in chaos if our personal life is full of turmoil and imbalance. That doesn’t mean we have to be perfect. In fact, our frailties can become our bridges. Because we all share pain, our struggles can help us connect. We need to align with principles of goodness, so that our lives lean more toward openness—and through that, more wisdom can shine into the world.

The idea is simple: fully see, feel, touch, and participate in your world. Then do what you can—for yourself, and outwardly for others. We can lead by example. We can lead by sharing our journey and our pain. Not by being pristine, but by being real. We’re in the trenches with all of humanity, trying to find goodness in a world where goodness and cruelty are fused.

If we let cruelty discourage us, our energy will deplete. But if we hold our seat and secure our own balance—so that our windhorse, our inner strength, is high—then simply by being awake, alive, and available, we are helping to heal ourselves, our families, our communities, and the world itself.

We don’t need to fix the world. The world has existed for over 4 billion years and will continue long after humanity. No matter how ignorant or greedy we become, we cannot kill the Earth—we can only destroy our own possibility for life on it. And even then, when ecosystems collapse—as they have five times before—life has always returned. It is resilient. It is eternal. It grows from rock, from ash, from mud. It cannot be stopped.

But we can tune into that growth. We can learn from it. We can become like seedlings pushing through the cracks in the sidewalk—proud of our strength and capacity to grow. And as we grow, we nourish the world around us simply by being.

We are not more special than anything else in nature—except that we have been given the gift of conscious choice. But we must use that choice wisely. Trees don’t second-guess their worth. Birds don’t worry about becoming lunch. They just are. Yet we, with our gift of reflection, often turn it into a weapon against ourselves.

Let’s stop using self-awareness as a cudgel of self-criticism. Let’s develop true awareness—not self-centeredness, but self-knowledge. Let’s see clearly the tiny part we play in the vast unfolding of life, and take responsibility for our role.

We may not be able to shift or free anyone but ourselves. But every time we liberate ourselves from a habitual pattern, every time we turn our minds toward freshness and truth, we benefit the whole.

In recovery programs, they say: “Keep your side of the street clean, and take the next right step.”

We could all benefit from that kind of humility.

We could all benefit from the humility of persistence—of simply carrying on, representing goodness in a world of turmoil.

Would you like to develop this into a talk, a post, or a longer piece (like a short book)? I’d be happy to help shape it accordingly.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

FEELING THE FEAR

LIBERATION FROM OUR STRUGGLE WITH 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 so we can move beyond our grip.

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 fabricate constricting forms to safeguard the very spirit they are limiting. This is like having open windows on a beautiful day and decide to close them in order to keep the fresh air in.  Our reactions to fear obscure our natural expression—our basic goodness, our Buddha nature. The remedy is to open to the windows and step back from 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.

The precursor to the process of uncovering ourselves to recognition and acceptance. The point is to see the fear, to see how its limiting us. and to feel the claustrophobia we have wanting to be free.  Yet, liberation is not an escape. Its an acceptance of our condition so that we can have a loving conversation with ourselves. We will never be free of fear – if we’re awake we’ll see much to fear. But with dedicated practice with the view of training the mind to see beyond itself we can let fear be an ally. Instead of following thoughts propelled to imagined catastrophes, we can take the very brave step and turn inward back to ourselves and feel. Not think about what we feel, but come back to ourselves again and again until we gain the strength to face what is actually happening.

 

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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.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

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.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

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.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

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.