Category: Writing

The Ordinary Magic of Synaptic Receptivity and Connection.

As I walk down the street, or through a garden path, as I drive to the store or wander through the park, I become lost in my head, waging battles no one can see. This self obsession creates a moat between me and the life all around me. As I work out the details of my goals, the small and ordinary things of my life are passed by unseen. As though the birds and flowers and trees are less important than I am.

Children have a natural inquisitiveness. They are one in the joy of learning to learn, when everything is a discovery; the unbridled joy of discovering their own feet. When did we forget to be amazed by our own feet? When did we get so mentally complex that we forgot to be amazed at all?  When did we become so self-important that the very ordinary things of life became inconsequential? With meditation practice, we can reclaim this synaptic receptivity—the openness and willingness to connect deeply with the world around us. This is the ordinary magic of connection, allowing us to notice the moments that connect us to life, as it happens, in real time, all around us.

We usually cloud our connections with an overlay of bias, judgement, misapprehension. This misapprehension stems from the mind referring to itself in a limited loop, rather than connecting out to the life that is there. The mind wants what it wants, and so it limits information gathering to only that which supports its thesis. Instead of an open and childlike wisdom gathering, many adult minds are limited and dull. With regard to healthy brains, this dullness is a choice.

Isolation, Habit, and Self-Limiting Patterns keep us locked in cycles of ignorance.

Albert Einstein’s brain was ordinary in size and structure, but it had a profound synaptic receptivity—an openness to learn, notice, and connect. During his lifetime, Einstein’s ordinary mind had developed an extraordinary amount of neural connections. Is genius was making connections others missed. His mind had developed a willingness to learn.  We often lose this willingness. We replace connection with isolation and curiosity with self-limiting beliefs, compulsions, and habits. We look for answers we believe we already know, filtering reality through prejudice and bias. But the remedy is right in front of us. Literally. Here in the unspecial ordinary moments of life. By training the mind to notice even the inconsequential things, we are connecting to life itself, as it is. The mind loves connection. It learns and accumulates knowledge, but it is the ability to connect to new things, new ideas, new moments that physically develops its structure. This keeps it young, regardless of chronology.

A fundamental tenet of recovery from substance addiction is connection versus isolation. Isolation breeds addictive behavior, which further isolates us. This applies to all of us, regardless of substance use.  Attachment to habitual thinking and compulsive behaviors closes the mind’s receptivity. When we over-stimulate certain neural pathways through repetitive behavior, the options around those pathways begin to atrophy. Our world becomes narrow, centered on hunger, fear, and the constant search for comfort. The trajectory of this mind’s development is toward dullness and depression. Chogyam Trungpa referred to this trajectory as heading toward the “setting sun” as opposed to the rising sun of awakening.

This is neurosis: isolation that absorbs our attention and keeps us from noticing reality; birds building nests, clouds moving across the sky, or squirrels in frantic mating dances. We are drawn into fantasies, believing self-limiting stories: that enlightenment is beyond us and that the beauty of the world is unavailable until we sort the papers on our desk. A setting sun mind remains frightened, hungry, and disconnected.

Training Synaptic Receptivity Through Humble Openness 

Recovery from isolation is possible. It has been proven that an act of surrender, originating in desperation and defeat, can grow into ongoing acts of opening. This can be to actively thwart ego’s acquisitiveness and developing its inquisitiveness.  Instead of grabbing onto fantasies, we turn our mind to what’s here. Magic happens in the small ordinary places we are often too self-important to notice. As meditators, we employ the repetitive, simple behaviors to frustrate ego and retrain the mind to be here with what is; the breath, the body, the moment.  We are turning the mind to be inquisitive about life beyond the cushion. By directing our minds to see life as it is, we are positioned to see what we are becoming. We are facing the rising sun of possibility.  We train ourselves to be open, perceiving without bias, as if we were a pure lens, opening to the sacredness of ordinary moments.

In Meditation, each time we see ourselves caught in fantasy, we are strengthening our capacity to recognize what the mind is doing. Without judgment, we simply notice and return to the present. This choice to return builds neural pathways for connection and wakefulness. Recognition and returning render intentionality and agency. Realizations come and go, but our life is all around us, offering countless moments to build connectivity. Coming back to the present—even to the simple presence of the breath, our body, or our feet on the ground—builds the openness needed to experience the grand possibilities of mind.

To develop synaptic receptivity, we need connection. Connection to the breath, to the moment, to the ordinary magic of life around us. We learn to see the world, like Einstein did, as something to be part of, not to grab or conquer. When we have the humility to open to each moment, as it is, we discover that the beauty of the world in every step.

The ordinary becomes the gateway to discovery. This is Magic.

Mindfulness is a word that’s used a lot, perhaps overused, which means it has many permutations and applications. Today I want to talk specifically about  offering our attention to the present in order to soothe and heal ourselves. I’m not talking about the ruler-on-the-knuckles, look-at-your-homework attention. I’m talking about recognizing the connection we have with the earth all the time in everyday life.

When Lord Buddha became enlightened, he was asked how he knew he was enlightened and he touched the earth and said “the earth is my witness.” This act of humility was simple and profound. Enlightenment to the Buddha was not some grand state of all-knowing; it was a state of acquiescence, acceptance, and presence. It was not rising above our circumstance, but simply being here. We can reconnect to that state of presence, everytime we touch the earth by making contact with the present. Feeling our feet on the ground as we walk, feeling our hands touching the knife as we prepare our meal, taking any and every opportunity to interrupt the grand narratives we script with ourselves at the center and allow ourselves to be present with whatever we’re doing. And today I would like to introduce how we might do that in a tactile and definite way. This simple engagement will transform your life.

A practice common to many contemplative traditions is to turn our mind toward connecting to the earth as much as we can, as often as we can. I recommend a second step. Each time we make contact with the present moment we offer ourselves a moment to go beyond the mental assertion of that contact into the felt sense, the feeling, the emotional and experiential connection to what we’re doing. The practice does not need to be lugubrious or overly religious; we need pause only long enough to go past the mental assertion into the felt sense experience.

Paulina Oliveros, the sound shaman and musicologist, would have her students walk around the room slowly enough to fully engage their feet on the earth. Then she would instruct them to “listen” to the earth through their feet. Now, the literal-minded among us might furrow our foreheads on that one, but we’re talking about an experience of allowing. We’re allowing the information of  our contact to the earth to register.

We’re looking at two stages: the contact and then the communication. Feeling our feet on the earth is a very common contemplative practice, but I’m recommending a second stage where  allow ourselves to register whatever information there is in that experience. This is just a matter of holding our attention on the placement of our mind just a tad longer than we would in a normal mindfulness experience.

Some might ask, “how can I do that all day long? I’m busy, I have things to do, I’m important.” Well, so is your life, and actually learning to reprogram the mind to feel and experience your life is quite profound. But as a practical measure, we don’t have to do this constantly. Whenever it occurs to us to do so, or as a practice when we are alone. We come back to the present, feel our feet on the ground, and see if we can’t feel into the experience that we’re receiving.

This two-step process can be seen as a yin and yang application. Yang is the assertive, some say masculine, action, and yin is the receptive or, you could say, feminine action. So while yang places the attention, yin opens and receives the information. During our day, we can place our attention on something in the present and then receive and register that placement. This has a very soothing effect on the mind and body.  This soothing is quite transformative.

Doing this practice in retreat, I changed my mind configuration entirely. This very simple process might seem very ordinary, but is actually quite profound. It is certainly mood-altering and can allow us to stabilize the energy of our inner being.

Let’s test out a practical approach:

Come into a settled state. You don’t have to be in a deep meditative state, just generally be here. Place your hand gently but intentionally on your thigh.

• There are two stages: we’re placing the hand, that’s Yang, and then give a moment to let Yin mind register whatever comes back to you. What comes back might be informational, such as the bottom of my hand is warm, while the top is cooler. It might be emotional, such as I feel connected to myself. Or it may have no words whatsoever and simply be an experience. Of the various ways that contact registers, this wordless state may be the most profound.
• Now take your other hand and place it on your chest. Be mindful of how it feels. You may have a physical response, an emotional connection or you may have a wordless connection simply experiencing the contact. Or you may have all 3 levels; body (wordless), spirit (emotional), mind (informational). In any case, avoid scripting stories and having judgements about the experience. Just be with the contact.
• You could gently drop your hands and just become aware of that. Then place your mindful attention gently but definitely on your feet. Then allow a moment for yin mind to receive the fullness of that contact. You might feel something, you might have an emotional reaction, or you may have nothing but an elongated sense of contact. In any case, you are changing your brain.
• Now stop, shake out, and just drop back to your normal listening posture and smile. Give yourself a really big smile.

Applied mindfulness is allowing yourself to feel your moment, your hands, your feet, your seat and all the contact points to the earth. And know you are being held by the earth, loved by the earth, and that you are part of the earth.

Welcome back.

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.

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.

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.