Climbing the Mountain

Do you ever feel like you’re perpetually circling a mountain, trying to find a way around it, only to keep running into jagged rocks and cliffs too broken or steep to climb? I do. A lot. Less in person these days, but often enough on the metaphorical front that I have to be careful to keep an eye out for those deer paths and screes which can distract me from the winding, narrow, and frequently steep path which ought to lead me over the ridge.

This isn’t about achieving some grand, external goal – it's about a quiet, persistent practice.  

I spend my days in the foothills of Maryland, and I’ve spent years chasing a version of peace that felt like it was always just beyond reach.  It’s a privilege, yes, and also a deeply personal and sometimes frustrating journey.

I invite you to join me in that space, whether it’s through meditation – a practice I approach with a healthy dose of experimentation and a deep awareness that my mind has a remarkable talent for constructing narratives which distract from the goal of true peace and clarity. Or perhaps through prayer, or simply listening to the world around you – a rooster crowing in the distance, the scent of rain on dry earth, or even just that crunch of your bagel as you sip coffee in a tiny loft apartment.

I’m not going to spoon-feed you anything. I won't tell you how to meditate, because frankly, it’s a deeply personal exploration. But I will share the space with you – a space where we can wrestle with our thoughts, confront our inner demons, and maybe even find a little bit of grace along the way. Expect moments of quiet contemplation, punctuated by the occasional internal battle – a struggle to resist the urge to identify patterns where none exist, to cling to narratives that don’t serve us.  Think of it like a samurai training – repeatedly getting your ass handed to you by a master you may never hear a word from, only to return with a deeper understanding and a renewed commitment.

I'm not that master. I'm another schmuck trying to climb the mountain and get admittance to the dojo. 

I’ll be here for approximately ten to twenty minutes three times a week.  You might hear car noises, the sounds of nature – perhaps even a sheep vigorously scratching itself upon a milking stand.  Everything you see is what I would see if my eyes were open, and perhaps they are in today's experiment. It’s a space of quiet observation, of letting go and returning again and again.

Join me – not to be fixed, but to simply be.