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I learned a long time ago that ritual is a delicate portal to the spiritual. In my teens, I noticed daily that a priest in the seminary chapel, Father Martin, would go through the ritualized motions and language of the mass in around ten minutes. This is a ritual that typically takes around thirty or more minutes. I learned then that ritual could become rote. And that has been a foundational experience for me. I resolved not to follow that practice.

I’ve not always been successful in following my resolve. Ritual has been an important part of my life. I have often said that I like ritual. The ritual I like has been a signifiant and repetitious portal to the spiritual. I have also learned that ritual can lose its value when my attention strays, when it is not focused on the meaning of what I am doing. Ritual can become something like cultural custom, even in the seclusion of my bedroom.

Every morning, I light a candle, I burn incense, and I invite my singing bowl. This is a prelude, a portal to my entering into mindful movements and a period of mindful sitting. The candle, the incense, the bell are all important factors that open my heart/mind into a ritual space, a spiritual space. Some days it is very effective in opening that portal. Some days my attention wanders, and the ritual becomes rote and less effective. Still I go through the motions every morning.

I am wary of the danger that I may at some point be going through the actions and no longer be entering into their true value. I may even cling to the ritual, unwilling to let go of something very familiar but without its savor. That clinging could be a clear sign to me that I have lost the value of the ritual.

I am attentive to my experience in the seminary chapel, and I am habitually alert to the danger of ritual becoming rote. For me, the whole value of ritual is not just familirity and ease. Ritual is of value to me beause it opens me into a spirit realm that is not always so present to me. The candle, the incense, the bell are sacred objects for me, but only if I make them so. Only if I make them so each time.

I wholeheartedly embrace ritual. And I want it to be an embrace of awareness.

A great obstacle to my being able to say “Yes!” to the world is my sense of self. For me, self is a reminder of Paradise Lost. It reminds me of losing that original state I experienced when I was born, of losing a time that I felt connected to all things. As soon as I was born, that primordial and unspecified experience was quickly interrupted by sensory experiences that fed me notions of separation. I emerged into a flurry of experiences that convinced me that I was a separate self. Now I try to return to the lost paradise experience of being connected to all things.

Individuation seems to be a requirement for functioning in the world. Growing as an individual gives me a framework for reacting to other human beings and all entities around me. But individuation comes at a price. To attain a notion of separation, of identity, I had to embrace the myth that I am separate. I see that I have stepped into a paradox of contradictions. I am both connected and I am separate. I practice at holding that contradiction as close as I can.

Aware that I function as a self, I practice at ridding myself of self. I practice at entering a realm of nothingness. I allow myself to plunge into a realm of formless perception. Without form, I once again exerience what it is to be connected to all things. I not only glimpse the lost paradise but I also momentarily step into it. All six of my senses dissolve and let go.

The paradox of that experience is that it has a foundation in the senses. I usually begin with touch, and then I embrace all my senses. I embrace them only to quickly let go of them. Maybe it is more like entering into them in such a way that they no longer function as senses. I deeply accept them, I free them, and they free me. The sense of self drifts away. Without my senses, I plunge into the brilliant and infinite darkness.

I cannot explain it any other way. When I lose my sense of self, I find all things in the resulting void. I forgot what that was, what I had lost, as soon as I emerged into the world. I could never have known what I was missing until I experienced it.

Pleasure is a tricky word. Maybe “sticky” is a better description because it attracts all the cautions our culture has about the sensory. Pleasure often is associated with sensuous, and that notion has all kinds of associations that our culture has hijacked both positively and negatively.

For me, pleasure is all about delight and joy in living. In one way, it minimally gives me a relaxed refuge from all the fears that confront me in my dreams and throughout my day. By relaxing into the yielding embrace of all that causes me fear, I am able to metabolize what otherwise would cause anxiety. By allowing myself to fall into the endless darkness of what threatens me and summons fear, I experience the calm thrill of soaring flight.

But there is so much more offered by pleasure. In so many ways, pleasure invites me into the delight of the rich experiences that awaite me throughout the day. Most of those experiences are founded in the senses. I walk through my morning garden and touch the grass, brush up against plants, look all around at all that is alive. I enjoy the deep pleasure of the bright awareness that surges through me. I stare at the dahlia in a vase on my table. I hug a friend and linger in the soft feel of their presence. My pleasureful day is sometimes punctuated by gently touching the butt of my sweetie. My contact with my world is flowing with pleasure, and my presence is repeatedly filled with joy.

I mostly try to do only those things that give me pleasure. I garden in a manner that gives me the joy of gardening. I tell friends routinely that if something about gardening is not giving you joy, it is only yard work. I may be sad about the loss of a favorite plant, but I am also embracing that it has done what it has chosen to do. My joy is in seeing it be the kind of plant that it is.

I practice joy by meditating. For me, meditation is not a burdensome, rigorout task. It is an opportunity to plunge into the pleasure of a quiet mind, to soar into the realm of formless perception. The experience may only last for a moment, but the warm, relaxed glow lingers. I often stop throughout the day when my bell rings on each hour. I touch something and feel the pleasure of touch throughout my body. My body has learned to respond from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet no matter how I am connected to my world. I am charged with the pleasure of the moment.

My days are filled with pleasureful moments. My body feels the presence of the plants in my garden, the clerk in the checkout lane, the friend stopping by to say hello. I know that pleasure is a tricky word, but it is all mine to own. After all, I have embraced the role of trickster. I choose to be full of pleasure and to share it.

I’m fussy about being instructed. I welcome the times that people tell me what they have experienced and what they have observed. This happens every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon when two professors share what they have observed about the world of vertebrate paleontology. They never instruct me about how to act or what to think. They tell me what they have learned.

I do not want to be instructed about how to experience anything. Tell me how you experience this or that, but do not tell me how to experience it. Share with me your experience. In that I welcome being instructed. Do not try to instruct me in how to experience anything. I will decide that myself.

It is my intention to show up whenever I have a chance. That begins at the start of the day when my feet hit the floor and I show up once again by moving out of the comfort zone of my bed. It is the pattern I have followed for a long time and it is the beginning of my showing up. The pattern is not just one of physical presence but it involves showing up with all the awareness I can muster.

I move from the bathroom to my stationary bike. I listen to a pre-programmed podcast then move to my bedroom. I follow the same pattern of lighting a candle and incense, doing the same mindful movements, then sitting to the sound of the bell. I show up in the same pattern every day.

The pattern unfolds further as I show up over my cereal bowl and feel the spoon in my hand and see the contents of the bowl rise to my mouth. I show up to the texture of the fruit, nuts and cereal against my tongue and teeth. My spoon rests beside the bowl again and again, a pattern I have learned to follow as I show up to my eating cereal.

My tea cup follows its own pattern, and I feel the shape of the cup against my lips. I show up to the hot tea, just as I have many mornings. The pattern unfolds.

There are many patterns that repeat daily. My attention is to the showing up that I can do without any planning ahead. I can be more aware of just what it is that I am doing because the patterns shape much of my day. I am able to show up much more frequently and consistently because I am guided by patterns.

I do not intend to move through my life in a mindless way. I intend to show up in whatever situation that presents itself. Much of that showing up is guided by learned patterns, for which I am grateful. Many patterns guide my steps, and I show up.

Awakening has been a gradual process for me. And it continues. I want it to continue for the rest of my life. I want the unfolding to go on and on. However, my attention has been drawn lately to the gradual unfolding that began many years ago. It has manifested again and again, usually in small ways that almost went undetected at the time.

I was reminded of one of those small awakenings when I stumbled on three photos of Sheila. These were photos randomly put in a folder with other items from my distant past. She was the daughter of friends of mine, and we did fun things together like go on bike rides. But only a couple of times, and then she disappeared from my life.

As I looked at those photos of Sheila, I realized how my heart had been touched by those brief times together. The residual feelings reminded me of how she had freed up a part of me that had a small but lasting effect on me. Through our non-romantic play, she had broadened a portal of feelings in me. That brief experience was an awakening in me that now has been repeated an endless number of times.

Gradually, I have come to embrace the notion that any day not spent falling in love at least once is a day not well spent. I have learned how to open my heart to many things and many people. Each opening has been another expansion of my awakening. The life force inside me has been gushing out more and more as the portal to my heart has grown increasingly larger. All the potential energy inside of me, the erotic energy of the universe, has become more awakened with each expression of loving.

It is easy to look back to my past and see that countless individuals like Sheila have summoned something very deep and vital out of me. So have my daily walks through part or all of my garden summoned that loving energy. Awakening is not an affair my head but of my heart. Again and again, I have bravely released my heart into what has become an endless fall into vibrant darkness.

It is all quite complicated actually, but I am aware that my awakening has been a gradual process that began with a conscious decision when I resolved to open my heart as I left my teens. That decision has taken me to many places in other people’s hearts. My own heart has become more open and gradually more generous with the energy bubbling up inside. The portal to my heart has become more open as the universal energy flows in and out. I have deliberately given and received. And I know there is more to come.

Each day, I renew my resolve to fall in love with the world I encounter. I resolve to open the portal of my heart a little more. Awakening is a slow maturing process, and I embrace it. I look forward to the awakening that is yet to come.

I gave the following talk at the Blooming Heart Sangha on September 25, 2025.

Trauma Belongs in the Sangha  9/25/25

I have been thinking a lot lately about the place trauma has in the Sangha. 

• Just how much does trauma belong in this Circle.
• Can we make this Circle a place of personal and collective 

healing?

• I think “Yes”, but it’s not simple.
• I suspect you have many thoughts about this, there are many experiences in this room.
• My own thinking has been stirred up by a recent episode of “The Way out Is In” in which Phap Hu told of retreatants complaining that they were triggered by their experience at Plum Village.
• His response was “suffering is our business.”
• The first noble truth identifies how suffering is foundational to our practice. 
• A realization of our suffering is the beginning of the path, of deep mindfulness,  
• But, again, is it really that simple?

The notion of trauma, certainly the word “trauma” has become more and more common.

• Gabor Mate, in “The Myth of Normal” writes that trauma is a common experienceof ours from the moment of our birth.
• Trauma has many faces and degrees of toxic impact.
• I feel like we live in a toxic environment
• Buddha’s primary insight: Suffering is part of the human condition.
• However, in our culture, “Trauma” may actually be overused as a defense for not dealing with our discomfort, our suffering.

We seek to avoid trauma, especially our own

• Engaging trauma has not been easy for me:  My own racial trauma has been on my mind for about five years, and I still wrestle with it.
• Resmaa Menakem, a local trauma therapist, explains how each of us, no matter what the color of our skin, carries the trauma of racism.
• We inherit trauma, we breathe racial trauma, we experience it.
• For five years, a small group of us has been meeting every two weeks to share our personal involvement with racial trauma: ours, others’, one another’s.
• We share and support our struggle with trauma, and we support our healing.
• Because of these friends, I am aware of my racial trauma, my unease, when waiting for the Green Line LRT or riding the bus with a diversity of people.
• So what does that have to do with this Circle? This sangha?

I think this Circle is a safe place where I can bring the disquieting aspects of my life, my suffering, my trauma.

• Perhaps I can bring the unresolved racial trauma, unease, and suffering that I experience.
• Already, I have often brought my own unease and discomfort with the negativeaspects of the Five Mindfulness Trainings to this Circle, ……ANDI am aware I am still working on something much deeper.
• It is my way of becoming aware: becoming mindful of my suffering is the beginning of my healing.
• The sangha, this Circle, can be a place of healing, collective healing and personalhealing.

It’s happening: In this Circle, we share our experiences

• We tell of our losses: parents, pets, jobs.
• We speak from the heart……not so much our head
• We lead with our heart.
• We deepen our vulnerability.
• We address our discomfort, our suffering in a supportive environment.
• We may even allow ourselves to rub against the rough edges of one another.  
• This Circle becomes an opportunity of deep caring, beyond those who are a routine part of my life.

I know we sometimes speak of the sangha as a place where we come to practice.

• For me, that is a little like going to the gym to exercise or do pilates.
• I also find much comfort in seeing this Circle, this Sangha as a communal hot tub:  a place where I may bring our aches and pains, my unease, my discomfort;  a place for healing. 
• In the Circle, we can become vulnerable, silently or out loud.

The Circle is not a therapy session:  there is no discussion, no one-on-one

• Still, the Circle is a place where I can bring my suffering, my unease;  I can do this openly or silently
• It is a place where I can be in the present moment without outside distraction.
• I can experience what it feels like to be in the present moment;  know I am not alone, I am in the presence of one another.
• Where I can relax into a common experience of vulnerability.

BUT it may not always be comfortable

• Even in the Circle, I can feel stress from the presence of individuals
• Even here, there are feelings of conflict, caution, rejection.
• Not unlike when I am standing on the LRT platform or riding the bus
• Being aware of that unease is a mindful practice, even a healing practice of vulnerability
• The healing is in the present moment. 

The Circle is where I can feel my suffering, my trauma, without being a victim of it.

• Awareness is the beginning of healing.
• I’ve decided that the Circle can be a place of healing.
• The Circle is one place I can bring my trauma. 
• I may even make friends with my trauma, just as the Buddha sat down to tea with Mara.  

 So what do you think?

• Does it work for you that the Sangha is a place of healing?
• Do you bring your suffering into the Circle?
• Does this Circle stir up conflict and discomfort?
• As you look around, do you see sources of your discomfort?
• How hard is it to trust this Circle, these members as a source of healing?
• As the Circle grows, how does that affect your feelings of comfort.

I think that trauma is sometimes used as a defense, an avoidance of dealing with our deep unease, discomfort, suffering. The avoidance of “triggering” is often used as an excuse for not addressing deep trauma.

Everyone of us carries in us the remnants of trauma in the form of discomfort and unease. Any experience that triggers this personal suffering is an invitation to embrace and deal with the suffering that we carry. If someone or some situation triggers my unease, then I have the opportunity to address what some would call trauma.

Intent in triggering is important. To trigger trauma in someone with malice or inattention is not an act of compassion. Disrespect is not compassion. Compassion expressed in events, words or experiences that trigger my discomfort may actually be something that helps me overcome the trauma and discomfort I carry. By becoming mindfully aware of my discomfort and suffering I am taking an important step in moving away from the harmful effects that trauma has on me.

We can help one another by helping make us aware of the trauma and discomfort we carry. Loving compassion frees others from suffering. Assisting with awareness can be an act of compassion. At the same time, each of us has to face our own internal discomfort and take steps to embrace it with mindfulness. Awareness cannot be forced on us. A principal step in adddressing trauma is to engage it with deep mindfulness.

The notion of triggering is overused and is often an excuse for avoiding discomfort.

In recent years, I have often said that I was a monk for about 12 years. But that isn’t quite true. I may have been introduced to what it means to be a monk over a period of 12 years. But I still am a monk and never stopped being a monk. I may have my black robe and white rope sash on a hanger in the closet, and I no longer put it on. I took it off about fifty years ago. But being a monk is still part of my body. I am a monk through and through with all the embracing of the transcendence that implies.

I realize this because my dreams keep reminding me of that abiding monk nature. I often wake with an aching feeling of separation, with a feeling of having left something behind. The discomfort of that separation has shown up when I wake many, many times. I now realize that it has been my own Dream Maker pointing me in that direction.

My Dream Maker is me. For me, my Dream Maker is reminding me, asking me to embrace what I think I have left behind. My Dream Maker is telling me that it is my nature to be linked to the transcendent as a way of life. My every waking moment is attached to the aspirations of the young monk that I was fifty years ago. Those aspirations still guide me every day and remid me that all is transcendent. There are no longer the confining walls of a monastery. There is no duality, all of reality is in the roundness of all I perceive. This is the perspective of a monk.

My life of a monk was symbolized by the black-robed community of men that I was part of. Leaving the dogma of the Catholic Church was never a problem for me. I think I set that aside years before I disrobed. I chose to follow my own inner voice, my own intuition. I made the dogma fit into my view of the world, and not the other way around.

But leaving the life of a monk was harder, and actually never happened except in my decision to no longer live with other black-robed men. I loved the community nature of our shared vision about what it meant to be a Franciscan monk. I did not love the Catholic dogma that infused itself into that community of men. So I left, and I found other ways of experiencing community. But I have remained a monk.

I have sometimes said that I never left the priesthood, but I have left the priesthood of the Church. When I say that I am still a priest, I have meant to say that I am a vehicle to the transcendent. Saying that I am a monk is just another way of embracing my role as a teacher, seeker and guide of transcendence. I aspire now, as I have for seventy years, to be a way to experience the transcendence nature of things and to help others experience the same through me.

Perhaps my Dream Maker can believe me that I have embraced my being a monk. Nothing has actually changed except the way I think about who I am. I still consider myself a priest, but a priest who shares and teaches what it means to be a monk in the world outside a monastery. I am a monk learning to love the world in many ways outside the confines of monastic life. I make up my own rules for my daily monastic life.

I am a monk who constantly falls in love. I am a monk who lives outside the monastery walls.

For a long time, I’ve been puzzled by the social reluctance to believe those who disclose that they have suffered sexual abuse or violence. Admittedly, there are women who have falsely reported being harassed or violated. I have experienced this in my own life. But i doubt that is the norm, and I know many reportings are credible, many supported by witnesses. Yet there is a resistance in our society to acknowledge the abuse or violence.

I think sexual abuse and violence are part of the ambience of our culture. Fathers do abuse their daughters, men do force women into sex, husbands do assault their partners. It is all around us.

For a few years I have been studying the dynamics of racism in our culture. It is so much a part of our every-day ambience that we have become unaware that it is happening. The hidden violence and abuse of racism happens all the time. We are hardly even aware that we are participating in this culture of racism. We ignore and even deny that it is happening. We doubt the reporting by those who have experieced racial abuse or violence. We are unaware of our participation in this dynamic.

I think this same dynamic is at play in how our culture denies and ignores sexual abuse and violence. It is such an integral part of the patriarchal world that we no longer recognize or accept when it happens in front of us or is evident on the pages of the newspaper. It is such a part of the ambience of our culture that we have largely become unaware of its presence, like the air we breathe. We often deny its presence.

The reporting of the sordid details attributed to leaders in our county are just one example of our broad unwillingness to believe the victims. Officials are elected and appointed without regard for their role in sexual abuse and violence. Like racism, the dynamics of our culture are so infused with sexual abuse and violence that many feel compelled to ignore them. Like racism, to acknowledge that the ambience is so affected by sexual violation would require a radical remaking of our culture.

If we widely acknowledge the prevalent ambience of sexual violation, our whole patriarchal house of cards could tumble.