Beholding: Learning to See What’s Always There

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The Art of Beholding: Learning to See What Has Always Been There

There is a particular quality of light that appears in the late afternoon of an Ohio April. It arrives low and amber, slanting through leaves that have already begun their eager growth to bright greens. If you are moving fast enough — hurrying to a car, glancing at a phone, managing the thousand small demands of a day — you will miss it entirely. Not because it isn’t there. Because you haven’t learned to behold it.

Beholding is an old word. It carries weight in it, a kind of gravity. We use “seeing” now, or “looking,” but beholding suggests something more — a sustained, willing act of attention that changes both the one who gazes and the thing being gazed upon. It is, in its truest form, a practice. And like all practices, it has a history.

An Ancient Hunger

Long before cell phones, before television, before the printing press turned information into a torrent, human beings struggled to pay attention. The desert fathers and mothers of fourth-century Egypt walked out into the Saharan silence precisely because the noise of Alexandria made attention impossible. They were not fleeing the world so much as trying to see it. To behold it, without the distortion of constant stimulation.

The medieval contemplatives — Hildegard of Bingen, Meister Eckhart, Julian of Norwich — built entire theologies around the act of sustained looking. Julian, sealed in a small room attached to a church in Norwich, spent decades beholding a series of visions she called her “showings.” She looked at them not once but repeatedly across a lifetime, returning, noticing new things, going deeper. Her great work, Revelations of Divine Love, is less a transcript of mystical experience than a record of what happens when someone refuses to look away.

What they all understood — and what we are slowly, painfully rediscovering — is that attention is not passive. It is not what happens when you have nothing else to do. It is, as spiritual writer Amy Frykholm describes it, a form of discipline every bit as demanding as any physical practice. “The practice of beholding,” she writes, “takes desire and discipline.” The desire is the easier part. We often want to see more deeply, feel more fully, live with more presence. The discipline is where most of us quietly give up.

A Story About a Garden

I remember when my grandmother kept a garden in the backyard of a house in a small Michigan town up in the thumb area. It was not a grand garden — a few beds, a few tomato stakes listing to one side, herbs growing in a few terra cotta pots along the fence. But she tended it with a quality of attention I didn’t understand as a child and have spent most of my adult life trying to remember these times of quiet and what they meant.

She would go out in the mornings, before it was fully light, and simply stand in it. Not weeding, not harvesting, not doing anything that could be explained by utility. Just standing. Sometimes she held a cup of coffee. Sometimes she didn’t. I asked her once what she was doing. She thought about it for a moment and said: I’m watching it wake up. WOW!

I thought she was being poetic. Now I think she was being precise.

She had learned, through years of practice, to behold. To give her full attention to something outside herself without immediately needing to act on it, explain it, or use it for something else. She was, in the language of the contemplatives, practicing presence. And the garden — the wet soil smell, the hum of early insects, the way light moved through bean leaves like green stained glass — the garden held her in return.

The Difficulty Is the Point

Frykholm names the struggle honestly: “Don’t underestimate the paradigm shift required for the act of beholding, just how different it is from our everyday lives and just how shiny and compelling our everyday life will seem when we propose pausing.”

This is not a problem technology created. Technology has sharpened it, given it new urgency, made distraction faster and more elegant. But the problem itself is ancient. The mind that wanders from prayer in a stone monastery cell and the mind that reaches for its phone in the middle of a sunset are doing the same thing: fleeing the discomfort of full presence.

Because presence is uncomfortable. To truly behold something — a person, a landscape, an idea, a grief — is to become vulnerable to it. You cannot behold something and remain entirely in control of what it means to you or what it does to you. This is why beholding is an act of courage as much as attention.

And then there is the second difficulty Frykholm names, the one that arrives even after we’ve managed to sit still. Our own thoughts. The internal narrator who cannot stop generating commentary, to-do lists, memories, anxieties. “Any act of attention is not a sustained experiencing,” she writes. “It’s a series of successive efforts to bring attention back to the same thing, considering it again and again.”

This reframe is quietly revolutionary for us. We tend to judge ourselves harshly for the mind that wanders — as though a wandering mind is evidence of failure. But Frykholm describes the return itself as the practice. Every time you bring your attention back, you are training something. You are doing the work. The wandering is not the obstacle. The returning is the path.

What Beholding Makes of Us

My grandmother died on a cold day in November. The garden had long gone to frost by then. But on the morning of her funeral, I went outside and stood in my own backyard — not her backyard, mine, a inner city lot quite different then hers — and tried to do what I had watched her do. I tried to behold. Her passing touched a part of me that needed to wake up.

The sky was the gray of Midwestern November, cold, stark, the kind that seems to press down gently on everything beneath it. A cardinal landed on the fence, bright as a wound, and regarded me with one black eye. I noticed my thoughts moving immediately toward meaning — a sign, she’s here, she’s saying goodbye — and I watched myself doing it, watched the mind rushing to make the moment useful, to metabolize it into narrative.

So, I came back. To the cardinal. To the gray sky. To the cold that was starting to find the gaps in my coat.

And for a few seconds — Frykholm says sometimes it is only a few seconds — something opened. The fence and the bird and the sky and my grief and the cold and the smell of dead leaves all existed together without needing to be explained or arranged. I was held by it.

“Whatever you behold,” Frykholm writes, “you eventually become beholden to. You enter into a love relation.”

This is the fruit of the practice: not escape from the world, not transcendence of the ordinary, but a deepening into it. A recognition of what has always been present, waiting for us to slow down long enough to receive it. The interconnected, openhearted world, as she puts it, welcomes us — not as strangers who finally arrived, but as the ones it has been waiting for all along.

My grandmother knew this. The desert fathers knew it. Julian knew it, sealed in her small stone room, looking and looking and looking.

The light is still there, amber and low, arriving every October afternoon.

We are still learning to see it.

Peace and every good

 

As cited by the Center for Action and Contemplation.

Chicago/Turabian: Frykholm, Amy. Journey to the Wild Heart. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2025, pages 28–30.

“The Gap Between Good Intentions and Real Justice”

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Dr. King, “Sincere Ignorance,” and the Work of Becoming Intelligent

There’s a moment I keep returning to—quiet, ordinary, and surprisingly revealing. A conversation starts with goodwill. People want fairness. They want safety. They want to be decent. Then the same pattern appears facts arrive without their context, a few details get trimmed, and the outcome starts to feel inevitable. What stays with me afterward isn’t only the disagreement. It’s the question: Who is willing to look closer?

Growing up in Detroit in the ’60s, I learned early that social justice isn’t abstract—it’s something you watch unfold in real time. July 1967 lives in me like a knot that never fully unties. I was playing ball at Palmer Park when I looked east and saw smoke rising from the direction of my house. My body understood something was wrong before my mind could name it. I ran home through smoke and fire, searching for friends and neighbors—and finding some of them too late.

The unrest of not looking closer had finally exploded in riot.

I also lived next door to neighbors who looked different than me but carried the same human needs: fear when things worsened, hope when someone promised change, love for family, and a dignity they never asked anyone to grant—only to recognize.

That’s why Dr. King’s words land so gently and so powerfully—not as condemnation, but as an invitation to wake up.

“Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity. We have a responsibility to be intelligent.”

Dr. King wasn’t only warning about cruelty. He was naming something subtler: sincerity that feels honest, and conscience that grows numb—not because people lack intelligence, but because they avoid the work required to use it. This isn’t merely about knowing. It’s about becoming the kind of person who refuses to let comfort masquerade as truth—even when the truth costs you something.

An Invitation into Three Kinds of Becoming

If we approach Dr. King with humility, his warning opens into an invitation:

  1. Becoming the kind of person who can learn without self-protection.
  2. Becoming the kind of person who can keep loving while seeking clarity.
  3. Becoming the kind of person who treats truth as a responsibility—not something to be avoided.

So, let’s take Dr. King’s phrase “sincere ignorance” seriously, not as a label to throw at others, but as a mirror—one that helps us notice where we may be missing something, and where we can grow.

Sincere Ignorance: When Not Knowing Feels Like Innocence

Sincere ignorance can happen even with the best intentions. It often begins quietly—with being handed only a portion of the story. We learn in fragments: family traditions, school lessons, community conversations, headlines. When that information is offered as complete, it can feel natural to accept it as reality. Over time, a partial account can solidify into a belief system—not because someone has thought deeply, but because they were never given a reason to question it.

“Ignorance” here doesn’t mean wrongdoing. It often means you simply didn’t have access to the full record—you weren’t trained to doubt yourself in healthy ways, and you weren’t offered the better questions.

And yet—here is the invitation—staying in that ignorance can still carry harm, even without intent.

Sincere ignorance disguises itself as innocence. Confirmation bias works quietly: we notice what aligns with our assumptions and overlook what doesn’t. We confuse “no doubt” with “truth.” In Detroit, I remember how hard it was to make meaning fast enough—how emotions demanded answers, but language didn’t arrive in time. I carried confusion that never became clarity. Dr. King’s phrase invites us to notice that gap: between what we feel, what we assume, and what we know.

Here’s the layer that makes this personal rather than merely intellectual: sometimes sincere ignorance causes harm through kindness. You respond with genuine empathy to someone who needs help—but the facts you’re relying on are trimmed. You’re responding to a portrayal rather than to the full context. Your compassion, guided by incomplete knowledge, may strengthen the very harm you hoped to prevent.

The invitation is not to shame people for what they didn’t know. It’s to learn how to stay compassionate without becoming careless. Becoming intelligent, in this sense, is how we protect love from becoming blind.

Conscientious Stupidity: When We Could Know and Choose Not To

Dr. King’s second phrase carries more weight, because it points to choice. Learning is possible. Clarity is available. Evidence exists. But discomfort protects comfort.

In daily life, this can look like postponing that never ends—asking for proof indefinitely while the pattern stays visible; insisting everything is too complicated until responsibility disappears; debating endlessly while inaction becomes normal.

Conscientious stupidity shifts the emphasis from not knowing to defending not knowing. It can look like demanding receipts while refusing to examine the receipts already within reach—or choosing abstraction over action, talking about nuance while ignoring what harm looks like on the ground.

It often sounds reasonable. It can wear the mask of “I’m just being cautious,” while quietly avoiding the steps that would test the belief.

But I want to keep this an invitation, not a threat. Dr. King isn’t asking, “Are you bad?” He’s asking, “Are you willing to wake up?”

A Spiritual Lens: What Fruit Are You Producing?

Howard Thurman’s approach to scripture offers a grounding question I find spiritually honest: What fruit is this teaching producing? Does it deepen love in action? Or does it produce obedience without transformation?

That question matters here because becoming intelligent is not only cognitive—it’s spiritual. Faith that cannot bear evidence will eventually become a shelter for denial. But faith that can bear evidence becomes a doorway to courage.

The invitation is to let your theology, your spiritual commitments, and your daily habits be tested by fruit. Are you becoming more loving and more accountable? Or more defended and less open?

What “Be Intelligent” Looks Like in Practice

Becoming intelligent isn’t cold or superior. It’s love with clarity.

  1. Pause before repeating a claim. Ask: Where did this come from? What context might be missing?
  2. Seek the full record. Look for credible evidence—not only persuasive stories. If a claim matters, the sources should matter too.
  3. Read teachings by their fruit. Ask: What does this lens train me to do? Compassion with courage, or comfort without accountability?
  4. Turn learning into one next right action. Share what you learn respectfully. Support local justice work. Join conversations that welcome both evidence and humanity.

Don’t Stop at Agreement

If this resonates with you, don’t stop there. Dr. King’s warning is an invitation to become awake—to let truth shape conscience, and to move from confusion to action, so love doesn’t stay trapped in good intentions but becomes something people can feel in the world.

Pick one claim you’ve heard often—something you’ve repeated without fully checking. Don’t choose something to debunk. Choose something to understand responsibly. Research it thoroughly, then name one specific change you will make: how you will speak, what you will support, what you will no longer excuse.

Then invite someone else—gently—into the same work. Not by humiliating them, but by modeling what humility looks like: the courage to say, “I might be missing something,” and the willingness to learn anyway.

Sincerity is not enough. Intelligence, in Dr. King’s sense, is responsibility: the courage to look again, to learn, and to act as though what’s true matters—and as though what happens next matters too.

Dr. King’s warning is not a verdict of you doing something wrong. It is a doorway for truth and love to abound.

Peace and every good.

Let Me Listen: Shared Humanity Love

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Let Me Listen: A Love Letter to Shared Humanity (and What It Asks of Us

There’s a particular kind of courage in saying: let me listen. Not “let me fix.” Not “let me respond.” Not even “let me impress you with my empathy.” Just… listen.

In a poem by Charles Anthony Silvestri (2022), that invitation becomes the heart of a relationship—between two people, yes, but also between any two humans who have crossed paths and recognized the sacred value of another person’s inner world. I have learned that we do not need to rush to claim space; we ask permission to walk alongside someone for a while, to hear their story, to respect their silence, and to be present long enough that loneliness can loosen its grip.

If you’ve ever felt overlooked, talked over, or trapped in a conversation where you were really just waiting to be heard—this poem may land with surprising force. Because listening is not merely a skill; it’s a form of emotional attention. And emotional attention changes people.

A Brief History of Listening (That Isn’t Just “Being Quiet”)

Listening has been discussed for centuries, but what’s powerful about Silvestri’s poem is how it modernizes the idea: not listening as passive silence but listening as a relational commitment.

  • In many traditions, listening is treated as a spiritual discipline. Ancient teachings often place “attentive listening” at the center of wisdom—because wisdom requires receptivity.
  • In philosophy and ethics, listening becomes a way of acknowledging another person’s reality rather than dismissing it as irrelevant.
  • In psychology, listening is central to connection and mental health. Therapists and counselors often emphasize that feeling truly heard can reduce stress and shame while increasing emotional safety.
  • In communication research, we’ve learned that “active listening” involves behaviors—reflecting feelings, asking clarifying questions, and validating experiences—rather than simply keeping quiet. What we do in Spiritual Direction.

But Silvestri’s poem goes a step further. It frames listening as presence with boundaries: if the other person’s silence is their choice, the listener doesn’t break it. They honor it. That is both an emotional intelligence skill and a relational ethics practice: letting someone control their pacing and their vulnerability.

“We Come from Different Places” Why Listening Begins Before Speech

The poem opens with difference: “We come from different places… on different paths we journey.” This matters. Many of us approach conversation as though common ground is required before empathy can begin. Silvestri suggests the opposite: you can begin connection precisely because people are different. You can honor a person’s path without needing it to match your own.

That’s a subtle shift and a powerful one….

  • Instead of asking, “Does your story make sense to me?” we start with, “What is true for you?”
  • Instead of asking, “What can I say to show I understand?” we ask, “What do you need from me right now?”
  • Instead of rushing to similarity, we slow down to curiosity.

Emotional intelligence begins with awareness—of self, of emotion, of impact. If you’re carrying your own anxiety into the conversation, your listening will become a performance. But if you arrive grounded, you can stay open long enough to see what’s there.

Loneliness Ends When Someone Learns Your Song

Silvestri writes about convergence: “So briefly do our lonely paths converge… Yours and mine, along this human journey.” That line hits me because loneliness isn’t always about being alone. Sometimes it’s about being misread. It’s about feeling like your story doesn’t get recognized.

Then comes one of the most striking phrases in the poem: “what hollow loss to never hear your song.” The metaphor of a “song” is more than romantic language. It implies identity—each person has a unique rhythm, a pattern of hopes and griefs, strengths and wounds. If we never listen deeply enough, we don’t just miss information. We miss meaning.

In real life, this looks like

  • Someone repeating the same emotional truth because nobody responded to it the first time.
  • Someone choosing silence because every previous attempt to share was met with judgment or speed.
  • Someone shrinking themselves to fit the conversation, only to become quieter over time.

Listening restores dignity. It tells a person: You matter enough for me to slow down.

“Let Me Listen” The Emotional Intelligence of Being With

The poem’s repeated refrain— “Let me listen”—isn’t only a request. It’s a method. Listening here includes

  1. Allowing the story to be theirs.

The speaker says: “Your story never has been mine to tell—so let me listen.” This is emotional intelligence at work. Some of us accidentally steal someone’s narrative by translating it into our experiences (“That happened to me too…”). Others appropriate by concluding how the person must feel or what they must have meant. Silvestri’s speaker refuses that impulse. They don’t take over the narrative; they honor the ownership of the voice.

  1. Valuing the whole range of emotion.

“Your triumphs and your tears / Your trials and your fears.” Many people are comfortable with success stories but stumble with pain. Yet real listening includes joy and sorrow. It also means you don’t treat sadness as an inconvenience or “overreaction.” You recognize emotion as information.

  1. Staying present without forcing resolution.

Listening doesn’t always lead to solutions. Sometimes the “help” a person needs is not action but witnessing. Emotional safety often comes from being allowed to feel without being rushed to fix.

  1. Respecting silence as a choice.

“And if a silence is your choice to keep, then I will keep it with you.” This is especially rare. Many conversations become uncomfortable when someone stops talking, and that discomfort pushes the other person to fill space or pressure them for more. But Silvestri suggests something gentler: you can stay in the quiet and still communicate care.

If you’ve ever felt pressured to “say something” while your heart was still assembling its words, you’ll understand why that line matters. Silence is sometimes where grief breathes. Silence can also be where a person regains control after overwhelming.

“Too Long You’ve Waited” Listening Is Also an Act of Repair

The poem concludes with urgency: “Too long you’ve waited, too long, to share your journey, your song—so let me listen.” That “too long” is a mirror. It asks: how many people around us have been waiting—patiently or desperately—for someone to hear them?

Waiting may show up as

  • Being consistently the “strong one,” while everyone else forgets they also need care.
  • Staying agreeable, because honesty has not led to safety in the past.
  • Sharing gradually, as if testing whether the listener will punish vulnerability.

When you truly listen, you don’t just respond to words—you signal that waiting is no longer necessary.

Practice Listening Like You Mean It

So, what can we do with this poem right now—today—with real emotional intelligence, not just inspiration?

Here are three practical actions you can take, whether with a partner, friend, coworker, parent, or even yourself

  1. Choose a listening posture for 10 minutes.

Put your phone away. Don’t plan your reply. Ask one open question: “What part of your story feels most important for me to understand?” Then reflect what you heard: “It sounds like…” and “What I’m noticing is…” Keep going until they say you got it.

  1. Validate the emotion before evaluating the facts.

Try phrases like,

  • “That sounds painful.”
  • “I can see why you’d feel that way.”
  • “Your fear makes sense given what you’ve been through.”

Validation doesn’t mean you agree—it means you respect the person’s internal experience.

  1. Honor silence without panic.

If they go quiet, don’t rush to fill it. Let the quiet exist. You can say: “I’m here. Take your time.” That sentence alone can create safety.

And if you want a simple daily prompt: Listen for the “song.” Ask yourself: What unique rhythm is this person carrying—what are they trying to express that words can’t fully capture?

Make Listening a Way of Loving

Charles Anthony Silvestri’s poem is ultimately a vow. It says: I will not rush you. I will not take your story. I will walk beside you. And if you cannot speak yet, I will stay with your silence.

If we take that seriously, relationships change. Communities change. Even workplaces change—because listening is one of the fastest pathways to trust.

So, here’s your invitation, in the spirit of the poem:

Who in your life has waited too long to be heard?

Choose one person. Give them ten minutes of honest listening this week. Let your presence be the response. And when they share—triumphs, tears, trials, fears—remember, you don’t need to become their hero. You only need to be a safe witness.

Let me listen. Now—go do it.

Peace and every good

We come from different places,
You and I,
on different paths we journey;
let me walk beside you for a while –
let me listen.

So briefly do our lonely paths converge,
Yours and mine,
along this human journey;
what hollow loss to never hear your song –
let me listen.

Let me listen,
let me listen as you tell your story:
Your triumphs and your tears,
Your trials and your fears.
Your story never has been mine to tell –
so let me listen.

And if a silence is your choice to keep,
then I will keep it with you;
as long as we walk together,
You and I,
I will listen.

Too long you’ve waited, too long,
to share your journey, your song –
so let me listen.

             – Charles Anthony Silvestri, 2022

 

 

Numbness, Discernment, and Voting with Care

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Sometimes I am just plain numb.

Not in a dramatic, storybook way—no fireworks, no sudden collapse. It’s quieter than that. It feels like driving through fog for days: my hands still move, my calendar still gets filled, my words still come out in the right order. I can answer emails. I can make dinner. I can show up.

But something inside me turns down the brightness.

It’s as if my heart has decided, If I can’t carry all this, I’ll carry less. Do you know what I mean here? Not because I’ve stopped caring—at least not exactly—but because my body seems to be trying to protect me from the cost of caring all at once, for too long, in a world that never stops asking for attention. EVER!

Numbness doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it disguises itself as competence. Sometimes it sounds like, “It’s fine,” when what I mean is, “I can’t feel the full weight of this moment and still function.”

Then the information comes.

It doesn’t arrive all at once anymore—it arrives like weather. Right? Headlines. Updates. Breaking news. A constant parade of opinions wrapped in certainty, wrapped in urgency, wrapped like they’re personal medicine for whatever I’m currently hungry for. You don’t even have to choose it. It just finds you. It knows what makes you afraid. It knows what makes you feel righteous. It knows what you’re lonely for.

And somehow it keeps stacking until numbness looks less like rest and more like survival.

I used to think numbness was the opposite of hope. Lately I’m wondering if numbness can be a protective shutoff—not because we stopped caring, but because we’ve been overwhelmed with caring for too many things we can’t fix alone.

And that leads me to a question that keeps waking me up at night:

What can we believe? Anything?

Because belief—at least the kind that’s constantly being pushed at us—doesn’t always arrive through reflection. It arrives through pressure. Through targeting. Through personalization. Through a feed that seems to understand my nerves better than I do.

If everything is designed to convince you, then belief itself becomes slippery. I don’t just weigh information; I experience a kind of emotional tug-of-war. I borrow certainty for relief in the moment. I scroll until I find a voice that makes my feelings sound wise. I trade listening for winning. I trade the slow work of discernment for the quick thrill of being right.

Then the next wave arrives.

And I realize the certainty I leaned on wasn’t built to last inside me. It doesn’t grow roots in my values or my conscience. It just briefly covers the exposed parts of me. It soothes discomfort without earning trust. It can feel true because it feels stabilizing—but stability isn’t the same thing as truth.

What I didn’t fully understand until very recently is that the battle isn’t only “what people believe.” The battle is also the environment that trains my mind to adopt beliefs quickly, intensely, and defensively.

And I’ve felt what that training does to me—especially when I start getting stuck around elections.

I keep thinking about how I decide when everything feels like it’s trying to decide for me.

Not just who wins. Not just what side I’m on. But what I can responsibly believe long enough to vote. I was talking with one of my daughters the other day, and she is pretty dog gone smart, we got into this tug of war over voting, who’s right, who’s wrong. Because there are only two choices, correct? I mean we must stand on that statement, right?

Well, voting isn’t theoretical for me. It’s a real choice with real consequences. And I don’t want numbness to steal my discernment while I’m pretending, I’m just “being realistic.”

I’ve noticed a pattern in myself that I don’t like but can’t ignore when information gets relentless, I start chasing certainty. Then I start getting suspicious. Then I start getting overwhelmed. Then numbness shows up again—not calm, not peace, but a kind of emotional dimming so I don’t have to keep bracing.

It’s not that I can’t think. It’s that my thinking gets hijacked by urgency. Can you hear that? Urgency!

So, I’ve been trying to build a decision process that slows down instead of speeding up—one that treats belief like something I cultivate, not something I grab.

Here are a few shifts that have helped me, at least a little:

1) I check my nervous system before I check the headline.

When I’m tense, my brain reads like a courtroom. I look for evidence that will make me feel safe in my conclusion. If I notice my body is on alert, I don’t scroll as much. I pause long enough to ask: Am I trying to find truth—or trying to calm fear? Those are very different tasks.

2) I separate “credible” from “certain.”

A claim can sound confident and still be unreliable. A person can sound convincing and still be careless. When I’m tempted to treat certainty as proof, I try to look for things that last longer than a moment: consistency, willingness to update, clear sourcing, and an ability to hold up under questions.

3) I let my values be a filter, not a shortcut.

Values matter to me—compassion, justice, truth-seeking. But I’ve learned that values can accidentally become permission slips. So instead of asking, “Does this match my values?” I try to ask, “If this policy is applied in the world, who does it help, who does it harm, what tradeoffs are being ignored?”

4) I make decisions in steps, not in panic.

The election cycle tempts me to compress everything into one anxious sprint: gather all info, feel certain, choose immediately, feel morally resolved. But discernment doesn’t work well under time pressure that’s designed by other people. I’ve started asking myself what I can know enough to make the next small responsible decision—and what I need to postpone until I can look again with better clarity.

5) I treat belief like a draft.

If I notice my belief requires me to reject nuance completely—if it demands, I treat disagreement as stupidity or betrayal—that’s a sign. I want convictions that can survive complexity, not convictions that collapse the moment reality gets complicated.

Numbness and discernment both show up as signals, not enemies. Numbness can mean I’m overloaded. It can mean I need boundaries with my attention. It can mean I’ve absorbed too much conflict with no outlet except more information.

But numbness can also become its own trap: a quiet way of opting out. A way of “not feeling” that looks like neutrality while it quietly reshapes what I’m willing to care about.

I don’t want numbness to decide my vote by dulling my conscience. I don’t want exhaustion to turn into apathy dressed as wisdom.

And this is where my concern returns, again and again—back to elections.

I worry about how easily I can be pulled into certainty that doesn’t actually come from evidence. I worry about how easily my mind can be trained to treat emotion as proof. I worry about how the feed can make every issue feel like a personal referendum on whether I’m good, smart, safe, or right.

I worry that the louder the certainty gets, the more I may reach for it simply to stop the feeling of being unmoored.

When I think about voting, I try to come back to a simpler question than “Who is correct?”—a harder question that might protect my integrity:

What would I choose if I weren’t being rushed into belief?

Not what would feel best in the moment. Not what would win the argument. Not what would make me feel righteous fastest. What would I choose if I had time to look carefully, compare responsibly, and accept that I might need to revisit my understanding?

I’m still learning how to do that. I’m still prone to getting tugged into the certainty treadmill, still vulnerable to the fog.

But I’m trying to treat this moment—this election moment—as more than a headline cycle. As a chance to practice discernment instead of numbness. As a chance to believe with care, not with cravings for certainty.

Because at the end of all this, I want my vote to be an act of responsibility, not an act of shutdown. And I want my belief to be sturdy enough to survive contact with reality—especially when reality keeps changing.

Peace and every good!

Presence as Witness: The Quiet Power of Showing Up

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I remember the day my youngest child was born like a photograph in slow motion. It was 43 years ago, in a delivery room that smelled of antiseptic and hope. I promised myself I would be there — not because I thought I could do anything technical, but because something inside me insisted I needed to witness this threshold. What unfolded in those hours was not ordinary. It was raw, loud, fragile, triumphant. It was a miracle. And watching it changed me.

The delivery room was a small ecosystem of attention: my wife in the epicenter, midwives and doctors orbiting with focused calm, nurses moving with quiet purpose, machines humming like low prayers. My daughter arrived with a cry that sounded both new and ancient. As I watched, I wasn’t merely observing a birth. I was bearing witness — and that act of presence reshaped how I understood life, love, and what it means to simply be there for another human being.

What does it mean to “bear witness”? For me it meant surrendering the impulse to fix, comment, or perform. It meant holding a space with no agenda other than to attend. I saw my wife in ways I’d never seen before: fierce, vulnerable, triumphant. I saw my newborn, blinking and bewildered, entering a world I had only ever imagined for her. I saw the team at work, each person contributing a small essential piece to a profound whole. In the silence between contractions, in the quick exchanges of hands and glances, I learned something about the power of presence that has stayed with me for decades.

Bearing witness is not limited to dramatic life events like childbirth. It’s the practice of showing up when it matters: in grief, in joy, in mundane moments where another person might otherwise be alone in their experience. And you don’t need words to do it. Sometimes the most powerful language is the sturdy quiet of your attention. When you stand there and truly see what someone else is going through — without interrupting, diagnosing, or diverting — you give them something priceless: validation. You acknowledge their reality as worthy of being seen.

Why this matters now,

We live in a world of interruptions. Notifications, opinions, and obligations make us spectators to our own lives and to the lives of people around us. Bearing witness is an act of resistance against this fragmentation. It restores human connection. It heals small wounds before they become deep scars. It fosters trust and invites vulnerability. And it’s accessible: anyone can do it with a little intention and practice.

So instead of just talking at you I wanted to share two practical steps to start bearing witness today. They’re intentionally minimal so you can repeat them in any context — at home, at work, in a hospital waiting room, or on the street.

  1. The Two-Minute Presence Ritual
  • What to do: When someone begins to share something — good or bad — stop. Put down your phone, close your laptop, and face them. Take two full minutes of uninterrupted presence. Don’t plan a response; don’t analyze or advise. Let your eyes meet theirs, and if it feels natural, offer a soft touch: a hand on the shoulder or a brief squeeze of the hand.
  • Why it works: Two minutes is short enough to be manageable and long enough to break the loop of reactive listening. In those two minutes, you communicate that the person is important, that their experience matters. The ritual trains your nervous system to slow down, reducing the urge to interject or fix.
  • Where to use it: With a partner during a tough conversation, with a friend telling a story, with a colleague after a hard meeting, or even with a stranger who’s visibly distressed.
  1. The Question of Seeing
  • What to do: When someone describes an experience, ask one simple question: “What was that like for you?” Then pause and wait. Resist the urge to paraphrase right away. Allow silence to do some of the work. If the other person hesitates, follow up with: “I want to understand more. I’m here.”
  • Why it works: This question moves the focus away from facts and toward feeling. It invites deeper sharing and avoids the common trap of turning the conversation into a comparison or a problem-solving session. The follow-up line reaffirms your intent to be there for them without imposing your viewpoint.
  • Where to use it: In conversations about loss, transitions, parenting struggles, mental health, or moments of celebration where the other person wants to be witnessed rather than analyzed.

Stories that teach:

In that delivery room, I could have tried to make light of the pain to ease my wife’s tension, or I might have sought to take charge of logistics. Instead, I learned to breathe with her breath, to let my attention rest on the reality before me. Later, when friends and family told me about their own losses or breakthroughs, I found myself showing up differently — less eager to problem-solve and more willing to simply be present. Over time, the small acts of bearing witness built up a quiet network of care around the people I love.

People sometimes worry that bearing witness will overwhelm them, as though absorbing another person’s reality means carrying their whole burden. That’s not true. Bearing witness does not require you to fix anything. It asks only that you offer a portion of your attention and your heart. If emotions become too intense, honest boundaries are part of good witnessing: “I want to be here with you, and I also need a short break so I can come back present.” You can hold both care and self-preservation.

Who benefits? Everyone. The person being witnessed receives validation, validation that can transform isolation into connection. You, the witness, gain emotional fluency and deeper relationships. Communities become more resilient when people practice simple acts of presence. Teams at work perform better when members feel genuinely seen. Families heal faster when they adopt listening as an act of love.

A small practice, a big ripple:

The birth of my daughter taught me a simple truth: sometimes the most revolutionary act is to show up and stay present. You don’t need a certificate or training. You only need the willingness to slow down and give someone else a piece of your attention.

Call to action Try it this week. Choose one person — a partner, friend, coworker, or family member — and practice the Two-Minute Presence Ritual. Then, later in the week, use the question of seeing in a conversation where you usually would have jumped in to advise. Notice what changes: in the other person’s expression, in the flow of conversation, and in how you feel afterward. Share your experience with someone else or post a short note on social media about what you learned using #IWasThere. Invite a friend to try it with you.

If you want, tell me about your moment of bearing witness — what you saw, how it felt, and what changed. I’ll listen. No advice, no judgment. Just presence.

We don’t need words when bearing witness. We just need to be present. And in that simple presence, we can witness miracles — big and small — and be transformed by them.

Looking back on the birth of my daughter in that delivery room 43 years ago, everything contracted and expanded around a single point of arrival. My wife labored with a fierce determination I had never seen; her face was a map of pain and purpose. The medical team moved with practiced urgency, voices calm, hands steady. I stood at her side, breath matching hers, palms clammy but steady on her knee. There were moments of quiet concentration and moments of bright, startling noise — a mix of instructions, encouragement, and the rhythm of machines. Then the cry: a raw, immediate announcement that life had crossed the threshold. They placed my daughter on my wife’s chest and for a second the world narrowed to three breaths and the soft, wet weight of newness. Tears blurred everything; laughter and prayer braided together. In that instant I knew I had witnessed something holy — not because of drama, but because of the raw, shared humanness in that room. That witnessing changed me: it taught me the language of presence in a way no book ever could.

From EQ Theory to Heart: The Three Intentions Practice

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You’ve probably heard the phrase “emotional intelligence” thrown around in meetings, on LinkedIn posts, and in self-help emails. It’s become one of those buzzwords that can feel both promising and slippery — promising because it suggests we can get better at being human with each other, slippery because it can stay as a concept in our minds without ever changing how we live. Lynette and I learned this the hard way.

Years ago, when EQ still lived a bit on the edges of mainstream leadership development, we fell into it in a way that felt like fate. We trained with Six Seconds — the Emotional Intelligence Network — and with Josh Freedman, who was and is leading the organization. Back in those days Josh was able to be pretty much one on one with people that were interested in EQ, and we learned a lot from him. We didn’t just take a course or two; we drank deeply. We took every training Six Seconds had at the time and offered it through our company, Spirit of EQ. By learning the tools and the models, and eventually served as Regional Network Directors for North America we found out the meaning of a deeper walk with our emotions.And that meant we were surrounded by people who had a real heart for change: coaches, educators, leaders who wanted to bring more humanity into their work and lives.

But here’s a truth we discovered: no matter how many models you memorize, how many assessments you score, or how many workshops you deliver, moving emotional intelligence from the head into the heart — truly owning it — is harder than it looks. Intellectual understanding is tidy and safe. It sits in the mind, where ideas can be argued and adjusted. The heart, by contrast, is raw and messy. Owning EQ means translating insight into felt experience and consistent action. It means living it, not just thinking about it.

What we learned made the difference between clever jargon and more about structure, practice, and values. Their approach centers around three practical intentions that are easy to understand and hard to neglect: Know Yourself, Choose Yourself, Give Yourself. These are not slogans. They’re invitations to live differently.

Know Yourself This is the foundation. If you don’t know what’s living inside you — your triggers, your default reactions, your values and fears — you can’t intentionally choose how to respond. Six Seconds and its SEI tools support accurate self-assessment, and that’s a useful starting point. But assessment without felt reflection is like reading your own weather report without stepping outside. To own EQ in your heart, you must turn awareness into felt reality.

Practice:

  • Start small with regular check-ins: pause three times a day and name what you feel (not just what you think). Use simple language: “I feel anxious,” “I feel tired,” “I feel excited.” Naming an emotion moves it from automatic reactivity to conscious awareness.
  • Use a body scan: where do you feel that emotion? A tight chest, a knot in the stomach, a quickened heartbeat? Bringing attention to bodily sensations roots intellectual understanding in bodily truth.

Choose Yourself This is the hinge. Knowing yourself gives you options; choosing yourself means you act on them intentionally instead of re-acting. It’s about the space between stimulus and response that Viktor Frankl talked about — that space is where EQ lives.

Practice:

  • Identify one pattern that doesn’t serve you (e.g., snapping when stressed, avoiding tough conversations). Define a tiny alternative action you can take in moments of stress and practice it relentlessly.
  • Anchor to values. If kindness is important to you, pre-decide what a small kind action looks like when you feel defensive. That pre-decision helps you act from choice, not from old habit.

Give Yourself This is the outward expression. EQ is not an internal hobby; it’s a way of relating. When you give from a place of presence and purpose, the heart opens. Give Yourself also means self-compassion — you must offer yourself the same patience you give others while you’re learning.

Practice:

  • Practice small acts of service or connection that align with your values. These don’t have to be grand: a sincere thank-you note, a five-minute listening session with a colleague, or arriving ten minutes early to be fully present in a meeting.\
  • Build a ritual of self-forgiveness. When you fail (and you will), practice an internal script of learning rather than self-judgment: “I’m learning. What can I try differently next time?”

Bringing these three intentions into daily life is how EQ stops being a theory and becomes a way of living. But there are still practical obstacles: busyness, skepticism, and the defense mechanisms that keep us stuck in the head. Here are concrete ways we learned to bridge that gap — ways that helped the people we worked with when we were regional directors, and that helped us in our own lives.

And here is the part where I do a shameless self-promotion: we at Spirit of EQ can help you with these trainings.

  1. Use tiny experiments to build evidence

The brain cares about results. When you run small experiments — “Today I’ll breathe for 30 seconds before responding to criticism” — you gather evidence that different responses work. Accumulated evidence rewires expectation and hence behavior.

  1. Anchor learning in relationships EQ isn’t a solo sport.

Practice with a trusted person: share your intention (“I’m practicing listening without giving advice”), ask for feedback, and debrief what happened. Real relationships provide both safety and accountability.

  1. Move from intellectual insight to sensory experience.

 We often “know” something in our mind without sensing it in our body. Use approaches that require embodiment: role-plays, expressive movement, breath work, or even walking meetings where you name feelings aloud. The body remembers what the mind forgets.

  1. Create an identity shift– Tell a new story about yourself:

not “I’m someone who gets triggered,” but “I’m someone who notices when I’m triggered and pauses.” Identity influences action. The more you act from that story, the more the heart will follow. Reframe, reframe, reframe.

  1. Practice compassion rituals Moving from head to heart requires warmth toward yourself and others.

Start each day with a two-minute compassion practice: think of someone you care about and wish them well, then extend that same wish to yourself. Science and tradition both show compassion practices open the heart.

  1. Use measurement to fuel growth (wisely).

Six Seconds’ approach includes measurement tools like the SEI assessment to track progress. Measurement is useful when it’s used for learning, not judgment. Use data to celebrate growth and to identify patterns you want to shift — not to shame yourself.

  1. Connect purpose with practice

 People consistently embody EQ when their practices are connected to a larger purpose. Ask yourself: “Why do I want to get better at emotional intelligence? What would that allow me to bring to my family, team, or community?” When the head’s motivation aligns with heart-felt purpose, change accelerates.

A story that stays with me: we were running a regional workshop and one participant, a manager of a busy nonprofit team, was skeptical. He’d been to countless trainings and felt they were mostly fluff. Halfway through, during an exercise to name emotions and bodily sensations, he blurted out that he’d always been taught to “keep his face on.” The muscles around his eyes relaxed for the first time in the workshop. He admitted that for years he’d been protecting himself by staying emotionally flat. That admission was intellectual, but the group’s non-judgmental witnessing shifted something in him — his shoulders sagged, his voice softened — and for the first time in years he felt something like relief. He later told us that he didn’t become a different person overnight, but that one small felt moment made it possible for him to experiment with being authentic. He started a weekly habit of one minute of naming before staff meetings and eventually began to model vulnerability for his team.

That’s the turning point we saw again and again: an intellectual insight met with a felt experience, supported by practice and community. That’s how EQ moves from the head to the heart.

If you want to own EQ — not just understand it — begin where you are. Choose one small practice from above and make it non-negotiable for a week. Tell someone about what you’re trying. Measure nothing more than whether you did the practice. Notice the felt changes. Then expand.

The work of those many years showed us that emotional intelligence is less a destination and more a living skill — like learning a language or playing an instrument. You won’t master it in a weekend, but you can grow it every day. And when you do, something quietly powerful happens: your choices come from a place of alignment, your relationships deepen, and your life becomes an expression of the values you claim.

We’ve carried that lesson through our careers and into our everyday lives. We still study, we still measure, and yes, we still read the research. But what matters most is the slow, steady translation of insight into action — the felt practice of showing up differently. That’s how EQ stops being a buzzword and starts being a way of living from the heart.

Walking Together: Quiet Practices of Contemplation

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Some of you may have of heard about contemplation and written it off as a bunch of woo woo. But contemplation is less a set of techniques and more a shared journey inward—one we take together, step by quiet step. It slowly rewires our brains so we can meet reality as it is: without judgment, without comparison. That transformation doesn’t happen overnight. It is gentle and cumulative, like water shaping stone. Along the way we can find many paths—chanting, breath work, sitting in silence, moving with intention—and each one invites us to hold everything that arises, both joy and sorrow, in a single, loving presence.

How does that sound so far?

Imagine us walking a path that begins in ordinary life. The day presses in deadlines, relationships, the small urgencies that crowd our attention. Most of us learn to react quickly—assess, compare, jump to solution. These habits serve immediate needs but harden into patterns that narrow perception. Contemplation invites us to widen our view. It asks us to notice how we notice, to befriend the raw material of experience rather than pushing it away or pinning it to a story.

I want to tell you about two people I’ve walked with (both with permission)—Susan and Robert—because their stories are not lessons to perfect, but companions along the trail.

Susan’s life felt noisy. Her father’s illness filled the house with schedules, calls, and the relentless inner commentary that turned every decision into a moral exam. She began waking at night with her chest tight, images and judgments replaying like an old film. A counselor suggested she try five minutes before dawn: sit, breathe, and simply be.

The first mornings felt absurdly small. The mind leapt from one worry to another, and Susan wanted/needed to “do” something—fix, plan, save, prevent. Instead, she learned an art of returning: (more on this subject later) notice the thought, name it (“worry,” “planning”), soften back to the breath. This part is important, because those five minutes did not erase her responsibilities; they made her able to carry them differently. The racing that used to stay with her all morning lifted. In conversations with her father, she discovered a steadier presence—less urgency, more listening. The practice didn’t change the facts of his illness, but it changed how she lived inside those facts. Contemplation became the quiet harbor she returned to when the sea of life grew rough.

 

Robert’s day held a strange juxtaposition: a long-awaited promotion and the sudden loss of a friend. He thought the right move was to split the feelings—celebrate at work, grieve in private. But the separation felt precarious, as if one life could not sustain both truth and grief. A friend invited him to sit in silence each evening and simply allow whatever was present. At first Robert bristled; there is something unnerving about giving grief permission to sit beside joy. Yet, as nights passed, unexpected things happened: laughter would arise in the middle of tears; a memory brightened the next day’s work; the two truths began to coexist with fewer ruptures.

These stories are not heroic. They’re ordinary evidence that when we practice together—when we commit to small, shared acts of attention—our interior landscape changes. Contemplation does not aim to make us perfect. It offers a steadying alchemy: and this is key, the ability to notice what’s happening without immediately becoming it. A breath becomes an anchor. A chant becomes a shared pulse. A silent sitting becomes a room where the mind can lay down the heavy burdens of judgment and comparison.

There are different ways to travel this inner landscape. Sometimes we sit and listen, letting the silence teach us how loud our lives have been. Sometimes we use sound—repeating a phrase, a mantra, a chant—so the mind has a steady thread to follow back when it wanders. Sometimes we move with attention, walking slowly until each footfall becomes a meditation. None of these is a destination; each is a doorway. Together, they form the landscape of a contemplative life: varied, alive, and practical.

I invite you now to picture a day of shared, small practices—please, not as a checklist but as moments where we meet ourselves. Morning might begin with a few breaths, a communal inhale that reminds us we are alive and present. Later, when midday fatigue sets in, a short whisper of a mantra can be a thread that pulls us home. In the afternoon, a slow walk with a friend—no agendas, just steps—becomes a moving conversation between body and world. Evening can be the time we sit in silence and allow the day’s textures—joys, sorrows, confusions—to rest together in one field of attention.

Rumi’s poem here says it all.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing,
There is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
Doesn’t make any sense.

On this path, what changes is not our need for love, success, safety, or meaning. Those needs persist. What changes is our relationship to them. Contemplation teaches us to notice the story-making mind—the one that compares, judges, and colors experience with old fears. Instead of neutralizing feelings, we learn to enlarge the capacity that holds them. We become more capable of carrying paradox: grief and gratitude, loss and possibility, fatigue and wonder. The result is not stoic suppression but a kind of spacious intimacy with life.

There is a tenderness in learning alongside others. Practicing with a friend, a small group, or even in a city park where strangers sit in the same silence creates a subtle reciprocity. Each person’s steadiness supports the others. We become witnesses to one another’s interior worlds, without the demands of fixing or advising. In that shared attention, something else is cultivated: humility. We remember that everyone carries hidden weight. We learn to offer simple acknowledgments— “I see you,” “I’m here”—that, in their quietness, are often enough.

This is not a prescription for ignoring injustice or avoiding action. Contemplation can deepen our capacity for compassionate action. When we don’t rush to judgment, we’re better able to discern the right next step. We act from clarity rather than from the quick comfort of being right. In this way, contemplative practice becomes a form of social courage, because it helps us face hard truths without closing.

The journey is patient. It does not demand dramatic change. It starts with small, shared choices—breathing before reaching for the phone, exchanging a few minutes of silence with another, walking slowly with attention. Over time, those choices rewire us. The brain’s old grooves remain, but new pathways form that allow for a kinder, steadier response to life’s surprises.

So let us travel together. Let us try a breath, a chant, a silent sitting, a mindful step. Let us notice when comparison or judgment arises and gently bring ourselves back to what’s here. When sorrow visits, we will not exile joy. When joy arrives, we will not pretend sorrow is absent. We will learn to hold both with a broad, loving hand.

Contemplation asks only for presence. It asks us to be there for the small moments because they are the scaffolding of the large ones. In the ordinary repetitions of daily life—cups of tea, brief phone calls, evening walks—there is an invitation: to slow, to notice, to hold. In accepting that invitation together, we find that our lives are not fractured into neat compartments but held in a single, warming field of attention. Joy and sorrow sit beside one another, seen and loved. And gradually, without fanfare, our minds and hearts rearrange to meet the world as it is—open, compassionate, and awake.

Gentle Steps Through the Ache of Loneliness – Hope

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The ache of loneliness is deep and profound for some of us. It shows up in our posture, our energy and the way we relate to the world. I remember when I went through a painful divorce and the loneliness I felt. I did not have any self-esteem, or knowledge of what was next in my life. I traveled on autopilot, grunted responses to questions and went deep inside myself in a protective stance. My shoulders hunched as if trying to make myself smaller so I would take up less space — and maybe be less likely to be hurt again.

That posture mirrored how I felt inside: small, raw, and on guard. My days blurred together. I thought loneliness was something to be fixed quickly, as if I were just a machine with a loose bolt. But loneliness isn’t just a problem to be solved. It’s a human experience that asks for tenderness, time, and gradual re-learning about who we are when we are alone.

Loneliness wears many faces and loneliness can be noisy or silent. It can come after a breakup, a move, retirement, the loss of a loved one, or during seasons when you don’t fit into the surrounding culture. Sometimes it arrives without an obvious cause — you might be surrounded by people yet feel profoundly disconnected. It can color how you see yourself (when I felt unlovable) and others (nobody understands me). That lens is heavy and makes ordinary tasks feel larger.

When loneliness becomes long-term, it shapes habits. You might withdraw from invitations, avoid phone calls, or spend afternoons scrolling through images of other people living bright lives. Facebook is horrible for these times. You might develop defensive behaviors — sarcasm, irritability, or constant self-criticism — to keep others at a safe distance. These are understandable survival strategies, but they can keep us stuck.

A friend of mine, Marcus, is a gregarious person by nature, but after his father died, he sank into a quiet deep loneliness. He would show up to gatherings and laugh easily, but afterward he would go home and close the curtains. One night he told me he felt like a house with rooms no one ever walked into. Over the next few months, he knew something needed to change and he began meeting with a grief group and volunteered at a local community garden. The volunteers didn’t try to fix him; they simply shared tasks and stories. With time, his personal rooms were visited more often — not because he suddenly changed overnight, but because small, consistent human interactions built a sense of belonging again.

Another story: Ana, who moved to Italy for work, felt disconnected from the language and customs. Her loneliness was layered with isolation and cultural disorientation. She found solace by starting a weekly ritual — Tuesday potluck evenings with a few colleagues. No grand obligations, just a bowl of soup and one good question: “What was the best thing you did for yourself this week?” That question became a conduit for sharing and made her feel seen.

Gentle steps to comfort your own heart being lonely is not a personal failing! Responding to it with gentleness rather than self-blame transforms the experience. Here are four practical, compassionate ways to be gentle with yourself on this path:

  • Acknowledge the ache without rushing it. Sit with the feeling and name it: “This is loneliness.” Naming reduces the power of the sensation and helps you observe it instead of being swallowed by it. You might say this aloud when you’re alone or write it in a journal.
  • Normalize your experience. Remind yourself that many have felt this — it’s part of being human. Reading stories, memoirs, or essays about loneliness can make you feel less alone in your aloneness.
  • Create small rituals of care. When we’re lonely, big plans feel impossible. Start with tiny rituals: a cup of tea at the same time each afternoon, a ten-minute walk, lighting a candle before dinner. Rituals create structure and a sense of predictability, which is soothing when the world feels unstable.
  • Befriend your body. Loneliness often settles physically — tight shoulders, shallow breathing, a heavy chest. Use simple body-based practices: slow diaphragmatic breathing (inhale for 4, exhale for 6), progressive muscle relaxation, or a short yoga sequence that opens the chest. Even gentle movement can change your internal state and communicate kindness to yourself.

Even with the practical steps above there may be times when seeking therapeutic support is the most important thing you can do. A therapist, counselor or spiritual director can provide tools to navigate loneliness, help process past hurts, and gently challenge patterns that keep you isolated. Group therapy can be especially powerful because it combines professional help with human connection.

Comforting exercises you can try today

  • Write a letter to your future self. Describe what you are feeling right now and what you need. Seal it or save it to be opened in six months. This creates continuity and an ally you can visit later.
  • The “two-minute reach” practice. Each day, do one small, friendly thing for someone: send a message saying, “Thinking of you,” or thank the person who refilled the coffee. Small gestures often return warmth and remind you you’re part of a social web.
  • The self-compassion break. When you notice pain, put a hand on your heart and say: “This is a moment of suffering. Suffering is part of life. May I be kind to myself.” Pause and breathe for several rounds.
  • Make a list of “gentle yeses.” These are optional social activities that feel manageable — a short walk with a friend, an hour at the library, calling a sibling. Start with one gentle yes per week.

When loneliness persists

If loneliness feels chronic or is accompanied by hopelessness, persistent fatigue, or changes in appetite or sleep, reach out for professional support. Loneliness can be linked to mental health conditions like depression and can benefit from therapy, medication, or both. Asking for help is a courageous, practical step to comfort your heart.

A compassionate ending

Loneliness can be a fierce teacher. It can expose where we are tender, where we fear rejection, and where we have forgotten how to tend to ourselves. But it can also be a doorway to deeper self-knowledge. When we meet loneliness with small acts of kindness — tending our bodies, creating rituals, reaching out in tiny ways, and seeking community — we slowly reweave the threads of belonging.

Please hear me when I say, “you don’t need to hurry the healing”. On hard days, remember the posture you instinctively assume in pain: protective, small. Try instead to soften one muscle at a time. Breathe. Put a hand over your heart. Say one gentle thing to yourself. These are not grand solutions, but they are steady, and steadiness is what heals. Over time, small moments of tenderness add up, and the world starts to feel a little less cold.

A poem I wrote about loneliness….

Alone, I fold myself into small shapes, a quiet shell against the world’s bright wind.

Don’t see me

My shoulders learn to hide, my breath grows shallow, and I move through days on soft autopilot.

Don’t see me

Inside, a spark remembers how to rest and keeps a small light against the dark.

Don’t see me

I light a tiny ritual — tea, a song, a name — and let the ache be a visitor, not the whole house.

Maybe see me

Softly I unfold, muscle by muscle, word by word, until a single hand on my chest becomes a bridge.

See me

The art of Spiritual Direction

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I have had more than a few people ask me if I do spiritual direction (I do) and what is it if I do. So here is a blog to talk about just that.

In the quiet moments of our lives, when the noise of the world fades away, we often find ourselves yearning for a deeper connection with the Divine or the “other”. This longing is not merely a desire for spiritual growth but a profound call to explore the depths of our being and our relationship with God as we try to understand it.  For many, this journey is illuminated through the practice of spiritual direction—a sacred companionship that guides individuals toward a more intimate and authentic relationship with the Divine.

The Essence of Spiritual Direction

Spiritual direction is an ancient practice rooted in the Christian tradition, where a trained spiritual director accompanies an individual, known as the directee, on their spiritual journey. This relationship is characterized by deep listening, compassionate guidance, and a shared commitment to discerning God’s presence in everyday life. Unlike counseling or therapy, which focus on addressing specific psychological issues, spiritual direction centers on nurturing the directee’s relationship with God, fostering spiritual growth, and discerning divine guidance.

A Sacred Companionship

At the heart of spiritual direction lies the concept of companionship. The spiritual director serves as a companion who listens attentively to the directee’s experiences, joys, struggles, and questions, creating a safe and non-judgmental space for exploration. This relationship is built on trust, openness, and a shared commitment to spiritual growth. The director’s role is not to provide answers but to help the directee attune their heart and mind to the movements of the Spirit, fostering a deeper awareness of God’s presence in their life.

I started my own spiritual direction with a director 45 or 50 years ago and have had only three in that time. I can be very vulnerable and say that it has been the most enriching time of my life. Some of the time I was beat up lovingly, some of the time listened to with a deep and abiding love and other times teaching was involved.

Lynette and I now go to the same director at the same time which is not common but can work for those couples that care to grow together. Our present director has helped us greatly by gently guiding, deeply listening and holding us accountable to our choices we wanted to make. I have been seeing her for about 17 years and together we have seen her for about 11 years.

The Process of Spiritual Direction

Typically, spiritual direction involves regular meetings—often once a month—lasting about an hour. During these sessions, the directee is encouraged to reflect on their spiritual experiences, explore questions of faith, and discern God’s guidance in their life. The director may suggest practices such as prayer, meditation, or reading to support the directee’s spiritual journey. The focus is on the directee’s relationship with God within all aspects of life, helping them become more attuned to God’s presence and respond more fully to that presence.

Qualities of a Spiritual Director

In spiritual direction, a holistic approach acknowledges the interconnectedness of the spiritual life with all facets of human existence. A director assists the directee in integrating their faith into daily life, recognizing that the divine presence permeates every aspect of their being. This perspective fosters a deeper awareness that there is nowhere the divine is not, encouraging the directee to perceive and experience the sacred in all moments and activities.

Embodied presence is central to this practice, emphasizing that the body holds profound wisdom. A director encourages the directee to become attuned to their emotions, sensations, and tensions, viewing these bodily experiences as avenues for spiritual insight. By turning actions into prayer and cultivating mindfulness, the directee learns to listen to their body’s language, facilitating a deeper connection with their inner self and the divine. This approach aligns with somatic-informed spiritual care, which combines body-mind psychology with presence-based care to support healing and self-discovery. (artofspiritualcare.com)

Creating spaciousness involves establishing a sacred environment that holds all that the directee brings, allowing for deep listening and receptivity to the divine spark within. This sacred space fosters an atmosphere of acceptance and compassion, enabling the directee to explore their spiritual journey without fear of judgment. Contemplative listening is a key component of this process, where the director listens with the ears and heart of God, offering silence, reflections, and deepening questions to support the directee’s spiritual unfolding.

Trauma-informed sensitivity is crucial in spiritual direction, recognizing the impact of trauma on the body, mind, and spirit. A director grounds the direction in neuroscience and psychology to support healing and integration, being attuned to signs of dysregulation and knowing when to refer to a therapist. By integrating trauma-informed principles, the director creates a safe environment that acknowledges the directee’s experiences and promotes spiritual growth. (hadeninstitute.com)

The Journey of Transformation

Embarking on spiritual direction is a journey of transformation. It involves unlearning old patterns and embracing new ways of being. As one spiritual director notes, “The spiritual life has more to do with unlearning than it does with learning.” This process may require descending into the depths of one’s interior to ascend to new heights of holiness. Rather than achieving perfection, the journey leads to a radical breaking apart that results in wholeness. A spiritual director, having undergone their own crucible, offers a compassionate and spacious presence to hold others in their journey.

Approaching Spiritual Direction

Embarking on the journey of spiritual direction is a profound step toward deepening your relationship with the Divine. Selecting a spiritual director who aligns with your unique spiritual path is crucial for this journey. Compatibility is paramount; choose a director with whom you feel comfortable sharing your spiritual experiences and questions. This comfort fosters an environment of trust and openness, essential for meaningful spiritual growth.

Experience and training are also vital considerations. Seek a director who is experienced in the spiritual life and has received appropriate training in spiritual direction. A well-trained director can offer guidance rooted in a deep understanding of spiritual practices and traditions, ensuring that the direction you receive is both informed and effective. Additionally, openness and receptivity are key traits to look for. A director who is open to your unique spiritual path and receptive to the movements of the Spirit in your life can help you discern and respond to divine guidance more clearly.

As an example, I was first trained 30 years ago by the Dominican Sisters for 2.5 years in Columbus Ohio and then later I went through another 2-year spiritual direction training to brush up on my skills with the Haden Institute in Hendersonville NC. Along with that training, being a MCC, (master certified coach), enneagram teacher, emotional intelligence coach and other things means I can bring a wealth of knowledge to a session.

Remember, spiritual direction is a personal journey, and finding the right companion can make all the difference in deepening your relationship with the Divine. Take the time to prayerfully consider your options, perhaps meeting with a few directors to discern the best fit. As you embark on this path, trust that the Spirit will guide you to a director who will support and challenge you in your spiritual growth.

I feel very strongly that spiritual direction offers a sacred space for individuals to explore their relationship with God, seek guidance, and grow in spiritual maturity. And that area of our being is one of least informed quadrants of the 4 we have, mental, emotional, physical and spiritual. Through the compassionate companionship of a trained director, individuals can discern God’s presence in their lives, integrate their faith into daily experiences, and embark on a transformative journey toward wholeness and holiness. Whether you’re seeking intimacy with God, clarity in life decisions, or simply a deeper understanding of your spiritual path, spiritual direction provides the support and guidance needed to navigate the complexities of the spiritual journey.

Follow my other blog posts at the Spiritofeq.com/blog/

If you are interested in spiritual direction and would like to talk about it my email is jim@spiritofeq.com

Eddy Hopping 2 more to consider

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I have taken the first Eddy Hopping post and expanded it for the series, so, life, much like navigating a river’s rapids, presents us with challenges that can seem overwhelming. In my journey, I found that applying the concept of “eddy hopping”—a kayaking technique—provided profound insights into overcoming personal obstacles. Read on for info with Eddy Hopping 2.

The Rapids of Life

Imagine kayaking through turbulent waters, where the current is strong, and the path ahead is unclear. The rapids represent life’s challenges, and the eddies—calm pockets of water behind obstacles—symbolize moments of respite and reflection. During these times, the next eddy may seem distant, and the journey ahead uncertain.

Strategic Pauses: Embracing the Eddies

In kayaking, eddy hopping involves moving from one eddy to another, using these pauses to rest and reassess. Similarly, in life, taking moments to breathe, reflect, and recalibrate our path allows us to approach challenges with renewed clarity and purpose. Incorporating practices like centering prayer and meditation into my routine became essential as I navigated each session.

Continuous Learning: Viewing Setbacks as Steppingstones

Every setback on the river is an opportunity to adapt and grow. Embracing the idea that mistakes are not failures but steppingstones toward improvement transformed my approach to challenges, making them less daunting and more manageable. This mindset shift was crucial in navigating both the river and life’s obstacles.

Valuing Personal Perspective: Trusting Your Inner Compass

In our journey through life, it’s natural to seek guidance from others. However, when external opinions are predominantly negative, they can cloud our judgment and steer us away from our true path. It’s essential to recognize that while feedback can be valuable, it shouldn’t dictate our decisions. Trusting our own perspective and intuition is vital in making choices that align with our authentic selves.

Self-trust acts as an internal filter, sifting through external noise and internal doubts to reveal a clearer path forward. Psychologically, self-trust is deeply intertwined with our sense of self-worth and autonomy. When we trust ourselves, we validate our own internal experience, reducing reliance on external approval and allowing us to make decisions based on intrinsic motivation rather than the pursuit of external validation. (lifestyle.sustainability-directory.com)

Just as a kayaker must trust their instincts to navigate the river, we must trust ourselves to navigate life’s challenges. In kayaking, especially in steep creeks, paddlers often face situations where they can’t see the entire path ahead. They must break down big moves into smaller, manageable steps, trusting their skills and intuition to guide them through unseen challenges. This approach mirrors life, where we may not always have a clear view of the future but can trust our abilities to handle whatever comes our way. (sundancekayak.com)

By cultivating self-trust, we empower ourselves to make decisions that resonate with our core values and beliefs. This confidence not only enhances our decision-making but also fosters resilience, enabling us to face life’s uncertainties with assurance and clarity.

Intentional Progression: Setting Clear, Achievable Goals

In kayaking, setting clear objectives and moving toward them with intention is crucial. I learned to break down larger goals into smaller, actionable steps, making the journey less overwhelming and more structured. This approach provided a sense of direction as I checked off each success, both on the river and in life.

Applying the SMART framework—Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-bound—has been instrumental in this process. For instance, instead of a vague goal like “improve my paddling,” I set a specific target: “Increase my paddling distance by 10% each month for the next six months.” This goal is measurable, achievable, relevant to my overall kayaking objectives, and time-bound, providing a clear timeline for assessment. (nelo.eu)

By consistently setting and achieving these SMART goals, I not only enhanced my kayaking skills but also developed a structured approach to personal growth. Each milestone achieved reinforced my confidence and motivation, demonstrating the power of intentional goal setting in both athletic pursuits and daily life.

Maintaining Balance: The Importance of Self-Care

In the pursuit of goals, it’s easy to become consumed by work and responsibilities. However, recognizing the importance of self-care and the need to recharge is essential for sustained progress. Just as a paddler must rest to navigate the river effectively, taking time for us is crucial for overall well-being.

Seeking Support: The Power of Community

Reaching out to mentors, friends, and colleagues who offer diverse perspectives and encouragement was transformative. Their insights and experiences provided valuable guidance, reminding me that I was not alone in my journey. In kayaking, having a support system can make all the difference in navigating challenging waters. The kayaking community is known for its inclusivity and support for paddlers of all backgrounds. Inclusive events, mentorship programs, and community service initiatives foster a welcoming environment where paddlers can connect, share experiences, and grow together. (skippingfishboatschool.org)

Engaging with a supportive network not only enhances technical skills but also builds confidence and resilience. Whether it’s through participating in group paddles, attending workshops, or simply sharing stories, these connections enrich the kayaking experience. As one paddler noted, having a group of friends with whom you are comfortable, and trust can help you grow personally and expand your paddling abilities. (delkayaks.co.uk) This camaraderie is essential for overcoming challenges and achieving personal milestones on the water.

Two Tips to Enhance Your Journey

  1. Embrace Mindfulness Practices: Incorporating meditation and centering prayer into your routine can enhance self-awareness and inner peace. These practices help in recognizing thought patterns and developing greater control over the mind, leading to reduced stress and anxiety. (jiyushe.com)
  2. Set Incremental Goals: Break down larger objectives into smaller, manageable steps. This approach makes the journey less overwhelming and provides a clear roadmap toward achieving your goals. Celebrating small successes along the way can boost motivation and confidence. (positivity.org)

Overcoming personal challenges is akin to navigating a river’s rapids, where strategic pauses, continuous learning, self-trust, intentional progression, self-care, and community support serve as essential tools. In kayaking, the technique of eddy hopping involves moving from one calm water area (eddy) to another, allowing paddlers to rest, plan, and reassess their route. This method mirrors the approach we can adopt in life: pausing to reflect, learning from each experience, and trusting ourselves to make informed decisions. By embracing these principles, we can traverse life’s obstacles with resilience and purpose.

Just as a kayaker relies on their skills and support system to navigate the river, we too can rely on our inner resources and community to overcome life’s challenges. Seeking support from friends, family, mentors, or professionals can provide new perspectives and guidance, much like how a kayaker might consult with fellow paddlers or instructors to improve their technique. Setting clear, achievable goals and developing a plan to reach them can help us stay focused and motivated, like how a kayaker plans their route and maneuvers through the water. Prioritizing self-care ensures we have the energy and mental clarity to tackle obstacles, just as a kayaker must maintain their physical and mental well-being to perform effectively on the water. By applying these strategies, we can navigate life’s rapids with confidence and purpose.

Follow the blog at www.spiritofeq.com//blog/

The journey of overcoming personal challenges is a dynamic process that requires a combination of strategic pauses, continuous learning, self-trust, intentional progression, self-care, and community support. By adopting these principles, inspired by the concept of eddy hopping in kayaking, we can navigate life’s rapids with resilience and purpose. Just as a kayaker relies on their skills and support system to navigate the river, we too can rely on our inner resources and community to overcome life’s challenges. Embracing these strategies empowers us to face obstacles head-on, learn from each experience, and emerge stronger and more capable in our personal growth journey.