I was sitting in the Great Stupa, staring at the golden Buddha statue and feeling some discomfort from the communal meditation cushion. As I sat with my breathing and noticed my thoughts and sensations, I began to feel a sense of lightness and liberation. My attention expanded beyond my body to the energy of the room, and I felt less like a distinct physical object. After resting in this space for a while, my attention returned to my body. I finished my meditation, bowed to the Buddha, and quietly left.

This was an experience of the Divine.

A few weeks ago I was faced with a series of unpleasant and seemingly unsolvable problems and obligations. Eventually, I released my need to fix them. I sat on my couch, accepted that I didn’t have the answers, and repeated my uncertainty mantra dozens—possibly hundreds—of times. Eventually, I encountered a profound calm and moved through the rest of the day incredibly present, temporarily released from my addiction to getting everything done and always being prepared.

This, too, was an experience of the Divine.

What exactly do I mean when I call two such different moments experiences of the Divine?

A Shift in Focus

In an earlier post, I used the term Transpersonal Panendeism and spent some time breaking down what I meant by it. I don’t think my underlying perspective has changed all that much since then. What has changed is the language I find most useful for describing it. My current preferred term is Experiential Panentheism.

The shift from deism to theism is intentional. I don’t think I align with the usual understanding of deism and its emphasis on a non-interventionist God. For me, the Divine has to be, if nothing else, ever-present—not some aloof first cause. I was largely attracted to deistic language because it avoided any association with supernatural causation concerning physical phenomena, which I find unhelpful. However, I’ve come to realize that my concern in that regard was a distraction from what is actually at the heart of my perspective: experience.

The Divine is whatever ultimately underlies the richness, depth, and wonder of existence. This is as minimal a definition as I can think of that still communicates something meaningful. I hesitate to define it any further. I think the admonition in the Tao Te Ching is relevant: “The Tao that can be named is not the real Tao.” My understanding of the Divine conforms with this sentiment.

And this is where Experiential becomes important. I believe the Divine, whatever its ultimate nature, is something that can only truly be experienced, not defined. Language and description, however rich, can never fully capture what existence ultimately is—or whether it has anything that could meaningfully be called an ultimate purpose.

Experiential Panentheism therefore gives me permission to speak boldly about experience while remaining humble about explanation. At its simplest, it means that everything exists in and participates in the Divine, AND the Divine is something “more”—a depth and wonder within existence that can be directly experienced.

What This Gives Me

For one thing, it leaves a lot of intellectual space open. It gives me room for concepts like the eternal conscious mindstream and the karmic effects of conscious beings without requiring me to claim that they are necessarily features of physical reality. It also allows me to inhabit consciousness-centered perspectives such as panpsychism and idealism—to experience and interpret the world through those lenses when they are useful—without requiring me to commit to them as descriptions of reality. I find certain Hindu conceptions of the Universal Self closely aligned with my experience of the Divine. More broadly, I can remain generally agnostic about the ultimate nature of the universe without giving up a framework for spiritual practice.

Another benefit is having something I can call out to or align with that is more than simply “nature.” The Divine is not inherently mystical—though an experience of it certainly can be; it can be experienced just as readily in the so-called mundane aspects of life. This perspective offers endless possibility without requiring an ideological commitment to a belief system that would feel limiting or inadequate. I love Secular Buddhism, but without some component like this, it can feel kind of clinical to me. That is the opposite of what I want my practice to be—and the opposite of what it has blossomed into over the last couple of years.

A Language for Experience

Experiential Panentheism also gives me a richer vocabulary for describing that practice. When I say that I feel, invite, or inhabit the Divine, I am describing the experience as I encounter it, not claiming to explain what is objectively occurring.

• When walking meditation changes my relationship with pain until it becomes simply another phenomenon rather than something happening to me, I feel the Divine.
• When I yell “Yahuwah” at the top of my lungs as part of my consciousness focusing practice and experience a shift in consciousness, I invite the Divine.
• When meditation brings that airy feeling of oneness or ultimate connection and the permanence of self briefly falls away, I inhabit the Divine.

This language lets me express those experiences without mistaking a narration of experience for a description of reality.

Without Borders

In many ways, this also helps explain why I enjoy my Unitarian Universalist fellowship so much. Individual members hold widely varying beliefs—or no particular beliefs—about theology, yet the community leaves room for this kind of exploration. The catchphrase I often use to describe our fellowship is:

“Seeking the experience of the Divine without borders.”

I wholeheartedly release the reticence I once had about claiming experiences of the Divine. These experiences are subjectively real for me, and this language provides a useful on-ramp to mystical experience and a broader sense of well-being. I don’t require this belief—or any particular belief—of anyone else.

I can embrace these experiences for what they are, remain humble about what they ultimately mean, and be grateful for opportunities to share them, however incomplete my words may be.

Namaste.

Last weekend, I attended a four-day retreat at Drala Mountain Center with my Secular Buddhist online community. The theme of the retreat was “Already Whole.”

Each session began with a question:

“What’s missing?”

And together, we would answer:

“Nothing.”

The first night, saying that felt more than a little performative. I understood the idea intellectually, but I’m not sure I believed it. By the time Sunday rolled around, though, I could say it with complete conviction.

On Saturday night, one of my dorm mates asked what I had gotten the most out of the retreat. After thinking for a moment, I told her it was the community—the people, the atmosphere, and the experience of being together. The story-filled meals, the sense of peaceful connection, and the excitement of learning and experiencing things alongside others were feelings that, honestly, were a little foreign to me.

I have been part of a variety of spiritual communities over the last few years: the Secular Buddhism Circle community, the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Longview, a Recovery Dharma meditation and addiction-support group, and a Heartfulness Meditation group based in Tyler, to name a few. I am incredibly grateful for all of them. And yet, somewhat paradoxically—and fittingly, given the theme of the retreat—they have all sometimes felt as though something was “missing.” In one setting, it might be vulnerable conversation; in another, in-person connection; in another, a sense of shared journey. Or, simply enough regular participation to create a deeper feeling of community.

At the retreat, many of those pieces seemed to come together at once. For a few days, I was surrounded by people practicing together, sharing stories, sitting in silence, asking difficult questions, and simply spending unhurried time in one another’s presence. That sense of connection became one of the clearest expressions of the retreat’s theme, and also gave me a deeper sense of connection to the larger human community beyond it.

On Thursday night, we heard the story of the Golden Buddha. For hundreds of years, a Buddha statue had been covered in clay. When it was being moved, it was dropped and cracked, revealing the gold that had been underneath all along. The metaphor was simple: the gold was never missing.

In the same way, the teaching was that there is nothing we need to add in order to become whole. Instead, much of our practice consists of seeing through—or gently removing—the layers of unskillful habits, defenses, assumptions, and identities that we have accumulated, often for perfectly understandable reasons. What lies underneath is not some hidden, perfect version of ourselves. It is something much less tangible and much more immediate: awareness itself, along with the openness, emptiness, and equanimity that can emerge when we stop grasping so tightly.

We were each given a notebook at registration, and I used mine liberally throughout the weekend. Every day began with a 7:00 a.m. meditation, followed by a morning session from 9:00–11:30 and an afternoon session from 2:00–4:30. The sessions usually included guided or silent meditation, journaling, reflections from Noah, and activities with the small groups we had been assigned on the first evening. Each group had six people, with one member serving as the “keeper” who helped facilitate discussions and activities. Noah was the teacher and organizer of both the retreat and the community, and his reflections felt more like dharma thoughts than formal talks.

Some activities stayed with me more than others.

One involved simply staring into another retreatant’s eyes for several minutes without looking away. We repeated the exercise three times. The first time, I mostly felt awkward. The second time, much of that awkwardness disappeared and was replaced by a surprisingly deep feeling of connection. By the third round, something shifted again, and I became almost comically observant: Such pretty blue eyes. Interesting blood vessels.

Another exercise was a buddy walk. For 10–15 minutes, one person talked about the image they have of themselves and the image they believe other people have of them. The other person simply listened—no response, reassurance, advice, or commentary. Then, on the walk back, we switched roles. I found that exercise especially meaningful in both directions. There was something powerful about speaking without having to manage another person’s reaction, but there was also something equally powerful about listening without preparing a response.

We also did a two-hour walking meditation. I’ve practiced walking meditation quite a bit, but usually in a very structured form: choose a flat stretch of ground, perhaps 40 feet long, and walk slowly back and forth while giving complete attention to the sensations of each movement—lift, place, transfer; lift, place, transfer. At the end, turn, bow, and begin again. The walking meditation at the retreat was much more free-form, while still carrying that same intentional care and attention. During the meditation, I walked up to the stupa and spent about 20 minutes meditating inside in front of the enormous Buddha statue. Sitting there quietly in that space was something special.

One particularly memorable experience was a group chant—which, amusingly, was not originally on the schedule. I suggested it to Noah. I’ve done several different chants as part of my own practice, but always alone. Hearing and feeling one performed collectively made the practice feel completely different. It was one of those moments in which the community itself became part of the meditation.

Another group exercise asked us to share an area of our lives in which we were clinging to certainty. After speaking, we physically turned our chairs around while the rest of the group discussed what we had shared for four minutes. Then we turned back around and simply let what we had heard settle in—without defending ourselves, explaining, or responding.

Those were some of the activities that stood out most, but there were also excellent dharma reflections throughout the weekend and thoughtful sharing from the other retreatants. Noah hosted two evening Q&A sessions as well, and both were especially engaging.

Written out like this, the retreat sounds packed—and in some ways it was. That’s not even counting the half-dozen or so jogs I made back and forth to my dorm each day or the semi-spontaneous group Hatha yoga sessions we fit in along the way. But what I appreciated most was how little it felt packed. There was an underlying atmosphere of freedom and ease…
Maybe some of that was the mountain air.

Drala Mountain Center itself is difficult to separate from the experience. During orientation on the first night, one of the staff members explained what to do if we encountered a moose, mountain lion, bear, or elk. I never managed to see any of those, although I saw plenty of deer. A few times, an entire family of them was simply hanging out about 40 feet in front of my dorm, right beside the path, seemingly unconcerned by us.

The weather was gorgeous—mostly in the 70s during the day and around 50 at night.

And the nights were extraordinary! Earth Dorm was a little over half a mile from Sacred Studies Hall, where our sessions were held, so each evening a few of us would walk back together with flashlights. We would inevitably stop or slow down just to look upward. The sky looked like a star chart. You could see everything—not only the bright stars that are easy to pick out at home, but the tiny ones filling what normally looks like empty darkness.

The food was another unexpectedly memorable part of the retreat. At every meal, the menu clearly identified what was vegan, gluten-free, and so on, so there was always something for everyone. But what mattered even more than the food itself were the meals spent around small tables, sharing stories with people whose journeys and struggles often felt remarkably familiar. Those meals gave me something I don’t often experience at that intensity: sangha, a community of shared practice. That may ultimately be what I will remember most.

For a retreat built around the idea that nothing is missing, there was something fitting about discovering that the most meaningful moments were not dramatic revelations. They were simple experiences of presence: listening to someone without responding, looking into another person’s eyes, chanting together, walking beneath an enormous night sky, sitting around a table sharing stories, or simply being quiet together.

On the final day, each of us made a commitment about how we wanted to carry something from the retreat back into ordinary life. We paired with a buddy, shared our commitments, exchanged phone numbers, and chose a date about a month later to check in with one another. I like that the retreat ended that way.

“Already whole” does not mean there is nothing to practice, nothing to change, or nothing to learn. For me, it came to mean something closer to this: practice is not a project of constructing a better self from missing pieces. It is learning to notice what is already here beneath all the noise, grasping, certainty, and accumulated clay.

And sometimes, other people help us see the gold.

All in all, the retreat was deeply rejuvenating, and I fully intend to return next year.

Namaste.

This is a challenge I have wanted to do for a while, and I have even tried implementing various aspects of it on and off. One emotion that seems to linger the longest for me—and be the most bothersome to my long-term equanimity—is the feeling of waste or loss.

It can be time, money, emotional bandwidth, or mental processing, but the feeling of having lost or wasted something is a sensation that is tangible for me. Sometimes the effort I expend resisting the loss costs me more than the loss itself. Maybe some of this comes from the value my parents placed on financial responsibility and using time efficiently—the idea that every dollar counts and every minute is worth using wisely. I appreciate and even value this as a general principle. But taken to an extreme, it can become damaging.

For the purposes of this challenge, “waste” doesn’t only mean something objectively wasted; it also means something I experience as a loss. So I would like to have a budget of sorts. But this budget is for wasted moments, money, emotions, and thoughts. The goal is not actually to become more wasteful. It is to become less afraid of waste.

And this isn’t just an accounting of what circumstances force me to relinquish. It is a commitment to surrender some things even when circumstances do not force me to do so. Only then can I practice finding joy and humor in those moments when I feel as though other people, circumstances, or my own actions are robbing me of something. Instead of fighting to recover every lost minute or dollar—or judging every unnecessary thought or emotion—I can sit with the loss, release it, embrace the moment for whatever it is, and perhaps learn something useful and grounded in the process.

Here are the specifics:

1. Wasted Time

Every week, I must waste at least 30 minutes, with a minimum of three hours over the course of the month.

What counts as waste is somewhat subjective, but I generally know it when I experience it. Common examples include waiting for something longer than expected—a line, a printer, a conversation—or sitting through a meeting that runs beyond its stated length or my projected length for it. It could be an event I find difficult to extricate myself from or an unexpected travel delay.

If not much wasted time accrues during the course of the week, then I will intentionally create experiences that do something similar. That might mean visiting a store or some other location that I have no need or particular desire to visit, simply to experience a new place—with no errand to accomplish and no efficiency to extract from it. The point is to experience a stretch of time that I cannot justify as “useful” and allow that to be okay.

2. Wasted Money

I will record dollar amounts when I feel money was wasted throughout the month. If the total is less than $30 by the end of the challenge, I will donate the difference to charity. If I wasted $12, for example, I would donate $18. By the end of the month, I will have surrendered at least $30.

That waste might come in many forms: food going bad before I use it; students taking, losing, or breaking items from my classroom; using a debit card instead of a credit card and missing out on cash back; or forgetting to apply a digital deal at the store. It might also be more indirect, such as giving away something I don’t think I will need, only to regret it later when I discover a use for it. These amounts may be trivial, but the sense of having unnecessarily lost or missed out on something can linger far beyond the actual monetary value.

As a side note, since this challenge has me thinking deliberately about money I am willing to relinquish, I am also using it as a reminder to set up direct deposits for 4% giving by the end of the month. To be clear, I don’t consider charitable giving wasted money; quite the opposite. It is simply something I value but have not made enough of a priority.

3. Wasted Thoughts

Every week, I must allow at least 30 minutes of what I perceive as wasted mental processing, with a minimum of three hours over the course of the month.

This could take several forms. It might be the mental energy required for a task I need to complete but don’t relish, especially one that requires learning a new skill I have little interest in retaining. It might also include those times when I catch myself ruminating. I still want to redirect rumination when I recognize it, perhaps toward a positive mantra. But I also want to release the judgment that comes from realizing that my mind wandered there in the first place. The initial expenditure of mental energy is not helped by adding another layer of mental processing devoted to regretting it.

Intentional “waste” in this area might mean setting aside time on the weekend to think deeply about something that has little or no practical bearing on my life simply because I decide I want to understand it better. Not every thought needs to earn its keep.

4. Wasted Emotions

This category is a little more tangential than the others. I want to expect at least one significantly uncomfortable or emotionally charged experience each week—perhaps embarrassment, anxiety, awkwardness, or some other experience that feels especially taxing.

These experiences can consume a tremendous amount of emotional energy and are often followed by an additional cost: self-judgment about having reacted so strongly in the first place. When one occurs naturally, however, I can allow myself a little relief in the midst of the discomfort: There it is. That’s this week’s experience. I don’t have to manufacture one this weekend.

If one doesn’t occur naturally, I will deliberately—but reasonably—step into a situation that evokes discomfort. That might mean calling someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time after we parted somewhat awkwardly. Or it might mean knocking on the door of someone who lives nearby and introducing myself. That might seem trivial to some people, but at the moment even the thought of doing it creates a strong emotional response for me.

Whether these experiences arise naturally or I intentionally step into them, I want to make them part of the fabric of my existence. Emotional discomfort does not have to be justified, redeemed, or transformed into something productive in order to have a place in my life.

The Goal

My main goal throughout this challenge is to become more accepting of situations as they are, particularly situations involving loss or waste. By making room for their inevitability in my routine, I hope they can become less startling—less like violations of how life is supposed to unfold and more like ordinary experiences to navigate skillfully.

A normal budget tells me how much I am allowed to spend. Maybe this one can teach me how much I am allowed to lose.

Eventually, perhaps I won’t need to keep count.

Namaste.

A couple of days ago, our service organizer asked if I could lead this morning’s program for our Unitarian Universalist fellowship. After a moment’s thought, I said yes. I genuinely enjoy putting together programs, whether I am the featured speaker or more of a facilitator. The theme I chose was stillness.

Preparing the program made me realize that, although I have written quite a bit about the meditation challenges I have undertaken, I have written less about what meditation actually is.

What Meditation Is

People come to meditation for many reasons: spiritual discipline, self-improvement, physical health, self-knowledge, or a desire for deeper connection with the Divine. These motivations can all be meaningful, but I think it helps to begin with a simple definition:

Meditation is the practice of intentionally cultivating awareness. That’s it. How we cultivate awareness, and what we eventually do with it, are certainly important, but they are not the essence of meditation itself.

Meditation is different from mindfulness, which is a broader way of living. Jon Kabat-Zinn famously defines mindfulness as paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the present moment, and nonjudgmentally. You cannot practice meditation without mindfulness, but you can absolutely practice mindfulness without formally meditating.

Over the past couple of years, something fundamental has changed in my own meditation practice. For years, I approached meditation primarily as a means to an end. I hoped it would make me calmer, healthier, more focused, or even more spiritually mature. Although worthy aspirations, they shifted meditation from a practice of awareness to a vehicle for improvement.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped evaluating meditation by the quality of each session. What mattered was simply showing up to practice. Everything else—health, focus, emotional balance, spiritual development, or a sense of connection with the Divine—became secondary. When I sit down to meditate, my only expectation is to practice. That is enough.

Stillness Is an Activity

At first, that sounds contradictory. We often think of stillness as doing nothing. Yet genuine stillness asks something of us. It requires us to observe, to notice, to return whenever the mind wanders, and to remain present. Like listening deeply to another person, stillness is not passive. It is something we practice.

For many people, the idea is:

Be still so that…

Be still so that you will be less stressed.

Be still so that you will become enlightened.

I find myself wanting to be still simply to be still—not because stillness leads somewhere else, but because stillness itself is enough.

Ironically, many of the deepest fruits of meditation become more accessible once we stop chasing them. If every session is measured by whether it made us calmer, happier, or more insightful, judgment quietly remains at the center of the practice.

Beyond Self-Improvement

Modern culture has an extraordinary ability to turn everything into self-improvement—even spirituality. Meditation becomes a productivity hack. Prayer becomes emotional regulation. Retreats become a way to optimize ourselves. These are noble pursuits, but they subtly place the self back at the center.

This is one reason I find Buddhist thought so compelling. Buddhism challenges the idea of a permanent, independent self existing through time. If the self we are constantly trying to improve is not as fixed or separate as we imagine, then spirituality becomes not about polishing the self but about seeing through our attachment to it.

As awareness deepens, we may begin to loosen the grip on the constant stream of sensations, interpretations, and judgments—especially those that reinforce fear, resentment, or separation—and become aware of awareness itself.

Off the cushion, it is perfectly appropriate to reflect on techniques, notice benefits, or consider what we have learned. But once we sit down to practice, those concerns are best released. The practice itself becomes enough.

The Art of Stillness

Stillness will always be more of an art than a science. We can optimize many things in life. We can become more efficient, more organized, and more productive. But the harder we try to optimize stillness itself, the more likely we are to create its opposite: a restless, striving mind.

So begin simply. Choose one activity today and do it a little more slowly. Bring your full attention to it. Notice your thoughts without chasing them.

Or simply sit quietly for a few minutes—not to accomplish anything, not to become someone else, but simply to practice awareness.

That is enough.

Namaste.

I recently created three new mantras that I added to my spirituality stack. They are specifically attuned for those moments following a personal failing—when I know I have fallen painfully short of my own priorities and feel seriously “off” as a result. Maybe I fell off the wagon with regard to an addiction. Maybe I overslept. Maybe I wasn’t intentional with my use of time. Whatever the reason, I find myself in one of those discouraging moments of repeated failure with no simple solution.

Together, these mantras form the acronym ARC: Affirm. Rest. Create.

Let me affirm that any repeated shortcomings or present languishing are integral parts of a sublime tapestry—whose cosmic scope may be beyond my current understanding.

Let me rest in the truth that I have no control beyond my presence in the threshold moments, and return without guilt to the perfect unfolding of now.

Let me create space for this experience, allowing fuller productivity to return in its own time, and reserve urgency only for what is truly necessary today.

Each addresses a different burden that I tend to carry after I have fallen short.

The first mantra is about faith.

It can feel almost impossible to believe that repeated shortcomings are serving any purpose. Traditional reassurances like “this is building character” or “everything happens for a reason” can feel devoid of meaningful content in the middle of disappointment.

This is where faith becomes meaningful to me. I simply affirm that these experiences are part of a larger story—one whose full scope may be beyond my understanding. Perhaps I will never read that story in its entirety. Perhaps no one else ever will. But I can still choose to believe that this moment belongs within it.

Now, this affirmation probably wouldn’t resonate with me if I hadn’t already spent years cultivating a spiritual foundation. I believe in rebirth, karma, repentance, and a reality larger than what I immediately perceive. Yet in moments of failure, those ideas often feel distant and abstract. This affirmation does not. It speaks directly to the present moment. It reminds me that this experience already has meaning, even if I cannot yet appreciate it.

The second mantra is about insight.

This one is perhaps the most subtle. It is about those moments when my capacity for deliberate action is diminished, yet my capacity for self-judgment remains fully intact. The transition from sleep to wakefulness is the clearest example for me, but it is hardly the only one. My natural response, when I rise later than intended, is to immediately begin narrating the day as already compromised. There is a kind of moral residue that gets attached to moments in which I am only partially capable of acting intentionally.

This mantra is an attempt to meet moments like these more dispassionately. To observe them without importing the same standards of responsibility that belong to fully awake, fully deliberate action. From that more neutral space, I can return without guilt to the present moment, where genuine adjustment and change become possible.

Compassion, in this case, is not lowering the standard; it is assigning responsibility where it actually belongs. Guilt, in contrast, tends to reinforce the idea of simply “trying harder,” which is not the most helpful advice in these contexts. Looking at systems rather than effort is what tends to pay dividends.

The final mantra is about release.

Rather than demanding immediate productivity, this mantra allows space for the experience itself. Productivity can return in its own time. Urgency is reserved only for what is truly necessary today.

These three movements together help interrupt the cycle of shame before it gathers momentum.

At this point, a common criticism naturally arises—mainly concerning the first mantra: “Isn’t this just inventing reality? Isn’t it simply a comforting delusion?” That question used to bother me. My response today is much simpler:

What if it is?

If a belief is sincerely held, makes me kinder, steadier, and more resilient, and carries no obvious harm, why should I reject it simply because it is not logically justifiable? We all live by assumptions we cannot fully verify. Some are practical. Some are scientific. Some are philosophical. Some are spiritual.

For me, the better question is: “Does this help me live more wisely, compassionately, and courageously?” This orientation matters far more to me than winning an abstract philosophical debate.

This is one reason I find the Buddhist concept of skillfulness so compelling. Skillfulness asks not only whether an action is intellectually satisfying, but whether it reduces suffering and leads toward wisdom. In moments of struggle, that orientation has proven far more valuable to me than arriving at abstract certainty.

So what am I leaving you with?

First, be with your experience—good or bad, clear or confusing. Only by being present with it can you learn how to navigate it.

Second, don’t succumb to extreme doubt during moments of crisis. Questioning is healthy. Honest doubt has its place. But when you are exhausted, ashamed, or overwhelmed, recognize that you are not seeing yourself clearly. Let the moment pass. Then ask the larger questions.

Third, be willing to cultivate life-affirming beliefs that help you move forward. They need not answer every philosophical question before they are allowed to help you take the next step.

Finally, be willing to laugh at yourself a little. None of us walks through life with perfect clarity. We all improvise. We all revise. We all discover that the path is made partly through discovery and partly through creation.

Part of living is seeking truth with sincerity. Another part is creating the conditions that allow us to keep seeking at all. We will make mistakes. We will outgrow beliefs. We will discover new ones. That is not failure; it is simply the cost of living a courageous and fully engaged life.

Namaste.

It’s too hard.     It’s not worth it.     I don’t know if I can do it.     I’m not sure what to do.

These are all reasons we give ourselves for why we procrastinate. We beat ourselves up afterward and try to convince ourselves that it isn’t too hard, it is worth it, we can do it, and we do have the knowledge. Inevitably, that motivation fades, and we find ourselves right back where we started.

The solution is: do one tiny thing. Stop planning to complete the task and instead just start the task.

Since my sleep challenge didn’t exactly go as planned, I’ve been continuing that challenge in different guises over the last month. However, I wanted a fresh boost of motivation, and the best way I know to do that is with a new challenge.

This one is intentionally simple:

1. Do it immediately. If I recognize that something is the right thing to do, I will begin it immediately—but only for at least one minute.
2. Ask, “What am I avoiding?” Every hour and a half after my day is underway, I’ll ask myself that question. Whatever the answer is, revert to Step One.

I’ve come to realize that procrastination makes perfect sense. We avoid things that are dangerous. A task that feels insurmountable signals danger—a never-ending energy drain. Avoiding it is the only rational response. The key is to get rid of the insurmountable task and replace it with the manageable first step. Then just do it.

In the past, I thought these small commitments were almost worthless. After all, a collection of one-minute sessions could never complete a major project. But that’s not the point. The goal isn’t to make progress on the task. The goal is simply to begin. Once the task has begun, progress often takes care of itself.

Do it NOW.

Don’t wait until you feel motivated. Don’t negotiate with yourself. If you know it’s the right thing to do, simply begin.

Start SMALL.

When I feel confident about a task, I accomplish far more in far less time. Most of the resistance isn’t the work itself—it’s the inertia of getting started. Once the ball is rolling, motivation usually follows, and I often end up doing much more than I originally intended.

For example, when I have several hours of lesson planning, speech preparation, or grading ahead of me—especially if it isn’t something I enjoy—I simply commit to one minute at the top of each hour. If that’s all I accomplish, I’ve still kept my promise. More often than not, once I’ve started, the work begins to flow and I naturally keep going.

The same principle applies to exercise. There are some evenings when my ten-minute intensive workout feels like a huge lift. My old approach was either to make excuses or to try to psych myself up enough to complete the whole workout. My new approach is simply to start. Most of the time, I end up finishing the workout anyway. On the occasions when I begin but quickly find myself running out of steam, I’ve learned to trust that my body is probably telling me it genuinely needs recovery rather than intensity.

I struggle with procrastination, which is exactly why I need this challenge. It’s not about becoming someone with extraordinary discipline. It’s about becoming someone who shows up. The big reframe is this:

Anti-procrastination does not require a lot of discipline or willpower. It simply requires showing up again and again and again and again.

To adapt an ancient proverb:

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one tiny step.

Namaste.

It has been well over a month since I last posted, which makes this topic seem appropriate. I am constructing this post backwards from what I usually do. For many of my talks, I usually write the blog post first and later construct a speech outline from it. This time, I gave a presentation first and am now adapting it into a blog post. We’ll see how well the experiment translates.

---

The Weight We Carry

What a waste! Have you ever looked back on a day, a year, or even a phase of your life and felt that? Maybe the most exhausting part is not the mistake itself, but carrying the feeling afterward.

Imagine carrying a backpack filled with every embarrassing thing you’ve done, every wasted hour, and every habit you wish you could undo. Repentance requires us to look honestly at what we’re carrying. Yet many approaches stop there, dwelling on the weight of the backpack and the burden it creates. Buddhism asks a different question: once you’ve examined it, why are you still carrying it?

Is there any way to eliminate these feelings, or will they always remain a nagging sensation in the back of your mind?

A common understanding of repentance includes:

• Feeling remorse
• Asking for forgiveness
• Stopping unwise behavior

The Buddhist approach also contains three elements, but emphasizes different things:

• Releasing remorse
• Offering forgiveness
• Transforming mistakes into causes for awakening

When I gave this talk at my Unitarian Universalist fellowship, I played a rendition of “It Is Well” for special music. I believe the ability to say this with conviction about everything in your past and present is the outgrowth of repentance. It is centered around skillfulness in mindset, action, and lifestyle, rather than necessarily doing what is “right.”

---

Repentance can operate in three dimensions, each of which is useful on its own, but the real power comes from using them together: awareness, transformation, and returning.

---

Awareness

Repentance in awareness is the most immediate of the three dimensions and focuses on mindset. It deals with remorse but emphasizes releasing it rather than clinging to it.

A down-to-earth example is mindful eating. I’ve had two different friends utilize this to deal with unskillful relationships around food and eating. It is astonishingly simple. No requirements as to what you can eat, when you can eat, or how much you can eat. However, when you do eat, you must slow down and become aware of every sensation—temperature, texture, flavor, color—as well as any thoughts or emotions that arise in the process.

My other friend found this approach a bit too abstract for their taste and applied it somewhat differently. They focused on tracking their food habits for a month. Every night they would write down exactly what, how much, and when they ate. No guilt for any of these, just tracking. They also detailed any emotions or thoughts they remembered experiencing during eating.

In both cases, these individuals developed a healthier relationship with food. Increased awareness helped them release unhealthy attachments to weight loss and rigid eating habits, while making positive changes more attainable because much of the self-judgment had been removed.

As for myself, although I have experimented with mindfulness in the area of food, it has never been a major interest. Weight loss has never been a goal of mine, and I generally maintain healthy eating habits. One technique I do use regularly, however, is consciousness focusing, which I’ve discussed elsewhere and may revisit in a future post.

---

Transformation

While awareness alone is incredibly powerful, it often requires a lifestyle shift to support lasting change. The second dimension of repentance is transformation, which is more long-term and process-based. The emphasis here is not simply learning from the negative karma of our past, but transforming it into positive karma.

One example from my own life involves a TV-show binging addiction. I developed this habit in my mid-20s but didn’t recognize it as such until I began experiencing major depression in my late 20s while attending medical school. One of the skills I learned and started applying in therapy was chain analysis.

Chain analysis has three components. First, create a list. Start with the situations, actions, and emotions that led to developing the addiction. Then include the thoughts, urges, and emotions experienced during the addiction. Finally, mark the consequences that result from it.

Second, pair each link in the chain with a specific skillful response. Examples might include:

• Take a walk outside
• Call a friend
• Practice urge surfing
• Splash cold water on your face

Third, apply this to present and future occurrences. When similar events or emotions arise, have this response list handy and immediately default to the appropriate skillful action. Since it is pre-planned, there is less cognitive load in trying to figure out what to do; instead, there is simply commitment and follow-through.

I have used this technique to successfully master a TV-binging addiction. Importantly, this wasn’t just a behavior change, but a change in desire and attitude, which affects all areas of life.

Transformation is rarely linear. Old habits die hard. The question is not IF unskillful habits will reemerge—but WHEN. My TV-binging habit still reemerges periodically, but I am practiced in giving myself grace and returning to those skillful actions more quickly each time it does.

---

Returning

The third dimension of repentance is returning. It is the moment-to-moment intention-setting practice that might be the most frustrating part of repentance. This cycling is a natural part of removing old patterns and establishing new ones.

Returning involves forgiveness, but it is more focused on giving forgiveness than asking for it, especially to yourself. Sometimes returning means moving toward a more skillful habit. Other times it means recognizing that a well-intentioned goal is not appropriate for the present moment.

As I blogged about a couple of months ago, I started a sleep challenge. Several days into the challenge, I began experiencing increased levels of depression and anxiety (unrelated to the challenge). This emotional load made the challenge much heavier than expected. I struggled under that weight for a few days before finally deciding this wasn’t the right time to do it and returning to the less optimized but more feasible sleep paradigm I had held previously. The new paradigm had been the right fit when I designed the challenge and will likely be the right fit again once circumstances change. At that particular moment, however, it was not what I needed.

More often, we are returning from a negative behavior or thought pattern. One simple practice we can use when we say something we immediately regret or engage in an action we thought we had forsaken is to employ a mantra from the Nichiren school of Buddhism: Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.

This translates to “Devotion to the Mystic Law of the Lotus Sutra.” The Lotus Sutra is one of the most revered texts in the Buddhist canon; its central premise is that all beings have the capacity for full enlightenment.

By repeating this phrase, we intentionally reconnect with the conviction that awakening remains possible, even when we have fallen short of our aspirations. This is now one of my favorite default mantras, especially after engaging in behavior that I feel is less than skillful.

---

Insight

Freedom from regret is not only possible but realistic for those practicing the art of repentance. Repentance is not really about the past at all. It is about learning to wake up sooner and realizing that the very things we regret—the confusion, the suffering, the unskillful habits—are necessary conditions for wisdom and awakening.

As the late Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh observed: “No mud, no lotus.”

That is the heart of repentance.

Namaste.

A month ago, I set out to explore standing meditation with two goals in mind: to become more physically comfortable while standing and to develop a more mindful way of occupying moments that would otherwise feel restless or draining. After four weeks of daily practice, I’ve found that not only were those goals met, but the benefits extended further than I expected.

---

What I learned:

• Hard at first, then easy – My back felt very uncomfortable when I first started, even though I was only practicing for four minutes each day. After about a week, the discomfort began to recede, and within a couple of weeks it was barely noticeable.
• Hated it at first, now love it – The first few days felt incredibly awkward—not just physically, but mentally as well. However, much like with walking meditation, sitting with that resistance eventually caused it to dissolve. Now, I genuinely enjoy every minute of this practice, perhaps even more so than seated meditation.
• The most powerful meditation posture – Seated meditation feels the most equanimous. Walking meditation feels the most refreshing. Standing meditation, though, carries a distinct sense of energy—almost a quiet power. I’ve also found it much easier to tap into this feeling in everyday situations when I’m already on my feet.
• Didn’t need guidance – I considered using guided meditation, especially as the sessions grew longer. Surprisingly, the opposite proved true: focus came more easily and naturally without guidance. What I expected to be a support may have actually become a distraction.

---

What I want to do going forward:

• Maintain 10 minutes daily – I’m folding this into my morning routine alongside my sleep challenge and plan to continue it even after that concludes. This practice leaves me feeling both energized and grounded.
• Refine mini-sessions with breathwork – Thirty seconds can sometimes feel too long, especially while monitoring students. Shorter sessions—around 20 seconds—paired with intentional breathing (“spirit breath”) seem like a more practical and effective way to reconnect with mindful awareness in the moment.
• Explore other forms of meditation – After such positive experiences with walking and standing meditation, I’m curious about other approaches I may have overlooked. I’ve long been interested in martial arts, and something gentle and meditative like Tai Chi could be a natural next step.

---

One huge benefit I’ve noticed since starting this practice is a general but noticeable reduction in awkwardness when standing in lines or waiting for something. For example, I recently went to the post office to return some Stitch Fix clothing, and there was a line. Normally, I would immediately become fidgety, but instead I settled into a lower dantian position and found my mind castle. Another moment came during an awards ceremony. All of the teachers were standing at the front—usually a situation where I feel somewhat self-conscious—but this time there was a sense of confident calmness, and I felt more at ease.

I believe everyone can benefit from meditation, whether through mindfulness or concentration. The key is finding the form and posture that resonate with you. The options are broader—and more adaptable—than most people realize.

Namaste.

For most of my adult life, I haven’t slept well—difficulty falling asleep, waking up at night, and sluggish mornings. So this month, I’m running a 30-day challenge to finally fix that.

I straight-up love the motivation and excitement that comes with starting a new monthly challenge. I’m not starting until Friday night, but this one’s big, so I wanted to get the research done early instead of scrambling at the last minute.

I’m not expecting this month to be transformational in the typical sense of that word, but I do expect it to improve my sleep patterns over time. I’m hoping the rejuvenation, focus, and ease come along for the ride—even if they show up later.

I recently finished reading Why We Sleep by Matthew Walker. It’s a research-heavy book and definitely not light reading, but alongside its deep dive into sleep science, it also includes practical sleep hygiene tips near the end. It gave me both the “why” and a solid starting point for the “how.”

I’ve also listened to the Sleep Doctor on a couple of unrelated podcasts. Most of the inspiration and practical suggestions for this challenge come from either the book or those interviews. The number one rule both emphasize is getting up at the same time every day—which I’ve already locked in for the most part. Consistency on wake time seems to be the anchor for everything else.

My basic hypothesis is that consistent wake time, strong morning light exposure, and reduced evening stimulation will stabilize my circadian rhythm and improve both sleep quality and morning energy. Simple inputs, better outputs.

Sometime this week, before the challenge officially begins, I’d like to take a sleep chronotype quiz—mainly just to say I did it, since I’m already fairly certain I’m a lion (early riser). I’ve also purchased several items that will support this experiment: a bedside lamp, smart bulbs, a bedside speaker, percale cotton sheets, and a curtain rod plus brackets and screws. The goal is to set the environment up to make better decisions easier.

Without further ado, here are the specifics of the challenge, broken into a few categories: general daytime rules, pre-sleep routine (starting one hour before bed), bedtime protocol, and the first 1.5 hours after waking.

---

General Rules (Daytime + Evening Boundaries)

• Hang blackout curtains – I’ll install these in my bedroom before Friday night.
• Move Wi-Fi router – Not part of an EMF concern for this challenge, but moving it a bit farther from the bed can’t hurt. It also frees up space for my morning lamp setup.
• Install smart bulbs – For my two lamps (study and living room) and the kitchen overhead light. I’ll set them to dim and warm automatically around 8pm.
• No chocolate or caffeine after lunch – Caffeine takes about six hours to fully clear, so lunch is a natural cutoff point.
• Set devices to night lighting at 8pm – Computer night light will be automated. On my phone, I’ll switch to extra dim and night light settings manually. Bedtime grayscale is optional.
• No exercise after 8pm – This means getting it done shortly after arriving home or soon after dinner.
• No eating after 8pm – If I want my usual yogurt with raisins and blueberries, it needs to happen by 7:50.
• No drinking after 8pm – Exceptions only for pills or tea if I’m sick.

---

Pre-Sleep Routine (Starting ~1 Hour Before Bed)

• Save dishes + cleanup for wind-down – Instead of cleaning right after dinner, I’ll soak dishes and handle them as part of my evening wind-down. Light organization tasks can also shift here.
• Move reading to wind-down time (workdays) – I’ll avoid reading earlier in the day so it becomes part of the evening routine. Up to 30 minutes allowed if desired.
• Hot shower – A hot shower (bath is recommended in the research, but I’m choosing showers instead) at least one hour before bed to help body temperature drop afterward.
• Only salt lamp after shower – The salt lamp will be the only light source in the bedroom after my shower.
• Room temperature: 68°F – Thermostat set one hour before bed and held overnight.
• No videos, research, work, or social media – After the shower, I can still use my computer, BUT only for email, calendar, or basic low-stimulation tasks.
• Magnesium spray – Use 15 minutes before bed.
• No screens in last 15 minutes – This includes phone. Gratitude journaling and podcast setup must be done before this cutoff.

---

Sleep Protocol (Bedtime + Night Wakings)

• In bed by 10pm latest – I will aim for 9:40pm, which gives me a 20-minute buffer.
• No screens in bed – Phone stays on nightstand; no watching anything in bed.
• Yoga nidra / breathing practice – 4-second in-breath, 6–8-second out-breath, for 10–20 breaths when getting into bed and during night awakenings. I can expand or adjust over time.
• Check nightstand speaker setup – Make sure it is secured and properly aimed before sleep.
• Mindset for wakefulness – Instead of fighting wakefulness, I’ll treat yoga nidra as “partial sleep benefit.” The goal is to stay calm and restful rather than force sleep. If needed, I’ll keep a book nearby for especially stubborn nights.

---

Post-Sleep Routine

• Bright light immediately upon waking – Switch to regular lamp or overhead lighting right away.
• Cold finish to shower – Last ~30 seconds of morning shower will be cold exposure.
• Hydrate before you caffeinate – Phrase used by the Sleep Doctor; water first thing in the morning, then caffeine later (in my case, chocolate squares on the drive to work).
• Morning sunlight + standing meditation – Leave ~10 minutes earlier for work and do standing meditation with eyes open, facing sunrise to anchor circadian rhythm.

---

Minimum Viable Version (If the Day Goes Sideways)

If I do nothing else, I will still:

• Wake up at the same time.
• Get morning light in my eyes.
• Avoid caffeine after lunch.
• Be in bed by ~10pm.

Everything else is a bonus.

---

Closing Thought

This month isn’t about optimization—it’s about consistency. I’m building a stable foundation first, then evaluating what actually moves the needle afterward.

I may add more structured tracking after the challenge ends if it feels useful, but for now the focus is intentionally on habit formation rather than measurement. I’ll still record basic karma points, but I’m not trying to analyze in real time.

I’m also intentionally not making any major changes to sleep medications or supplements during this challenge. That’s something I can evaluate separately afterward once these habits are more stable.

Here’s to building a more consistent foundation for sleep, energy, and everything that follows.

Namaste.

One of the most foundational ideas in Buddhism is that of impermanence.

It is one of the three universal truths and one of the three marks of existence. Everything—ourselves included—is in a constant state of change. This insight undergirds the central Buddhist claim that attachment leads to suffering. Why? Because everything we attach to is changing—and attachment to what changes inevitably leads to dissatisfaction when it no longer brings the same joy or disappears altogether.

Suffering.

This is a framework I have found to be true, sometimes painfully so. And yet, at the same time, I also hold a strong conviction about the presence and nature of the Divine.

So how do these coexist?

At first glance, they seem incompatible. If everything is impermanent, then what could the Divine possibly be? It would seem that if anything were to be permanent, it would be the Divine—the one enduring reality from which everything else flows.

This raises a sharper question: if all conditioned things are impermanent, is the Divine something conditioned—or is it not a “thing” at all in the same category?

I don’t have a fully satisfactory answer to that. But I do have a few ways of navigating the tension.

---

A Note on Doubt and Certainty

One idea I’ve always found interesting is the list of the five hindrances in Buddhism: lust, aversion, torpor, restlessness, and doubt.

The first four form two pairs of opposites:

• Lust vs. Aversion
• Torpor vs. Restlessness

But where is the opposite of doubt? Why isn’t certainty listed as one of the hindrances?

It’s not there—and I think there’s a reason for that.

In a framework where everything is in flux, absolute certainty becomes its own form of doubt. Because certainty implies a fixed, unchanging grasp of reality—and in a world where understanding is always evolving, that fixation is a subtle resistance to impermanence itself.

In that sense, certainty isn’t the cure for doubt. It may just be another version of it.

---

Practice Over Belief

The most practical way I’ve found to reconcile this tension is surprisingly simple: focus on practice over belief.

• I can meditate without belief.
• I can chant at my altar without belief.
• I can use mantras, rituals, and even frameworks like karma without needing to fully affirm them intellectually.

And what I’ve noticed is this: the more immersed I am in these practices, the less I need the beliefs behind them—even if those beliefs were originally what drew me in.

This leads me to a possibility that feels increasingly true:

What if the reconciliation between impermanence and the Divine isn’t found in belief at all—but in practice?

Actively Challenging Belief

Twice a year, I try to do something that feels both uncomfortable and necessary: I deliberately subject my beliefs to critique—even ridicule.

This serves two purposes.

First, it strips away what is weak or ungrounded.
Second, it reveals whether what remains is genuine conviction or just intellectual curiosity.

If a belief can’t withstand pressure, it probably isn’t worth holding.

---

Beliefs Are Necessarily Incomplete

Another perspective that helps: all spiritual beliefs are, in some sense, wrong.

Not because they point to nothing—but because they can never fully capture what they point toward.

My understanding is always evolving. That means my beliefs must evolve too. Even if the Divine is real in some ultimate sense, my picture of it will always be partial, shifting, and incomplete.

So the goal isn’t to arrive at perfect belief—it’s to stay open to refinement.

---

Conviction Exists Only in the Present

I’ve also found it helpful to think of conviction as something that exists only in the present moment.

I can have confidence in my thoughts and actions right now. That conviction is real and valuable.

But it doesn’t need to extend indefinitely into the future to be valid. In fact, recognizing that it can’t do so helps anchor me more fully in the present, rather than projecting certainty into a future that hasn’t arrived.

---

God Does Not Have Beliefs

One thought experiment I return to often:

Does God have spiritual beliefs?

Whatever your conception of the Divine is—does it “believe” anything?

It seems strange to suggest that it would. If the Divine is truly all-encompassing, then it wouldn’t need beliefs. Beliefs are tools for navigating uncertainty. But if you are the totality of experience itself, there is nothing to interpret—only to be.

This reframes belief as something inherently human, not something ultimate.

---

The Limits of Explanation

All of this leads to a final question:

Can I imagine anything shaking my conviction about the Divine and pushing me into a strictly materialist framework?

Honestly, I don’t think so.

Not because I reject science, or wouldn’t accept its conclusions (quite the opposite, in fact)—but because this is not the kind of question science is designed to answer. Science operates within methodological naturalism, explaining the mechanisms of the observable world, while the question of the Divine is ultimately experiential rather than explanatory.

It seems to be a different kind of question altogether—one that ultimately involves not just intellect, but emotion, intuition, and will.

---

A Possible Resolution

If there is a resolution here, it may not come in the form of a clean philosophical answer.

It may look more like a shift in perspective.

Instead of seeing the Divine as something permanent that stands in opposition to impermanence, it may be more accurate to see it as something encountered through impermanence itself—not as a fixed object, but as something revealed in the very flow of experience.

And if that distinction between the material and the spiritual were to fully dissolve—if there were no longer two categories to reconcile at all—I suspect that may be what enlightenment is all about.

At that point, there would be no need to “experience the Divine” as something separate.

There would only be presence.

Namaste.