There are times when I do not know where to turn, what to do, or how to move forward. When I come upon these times my first reaction is to strategize. I imagine possibilities. I try to reason my way through. But often, I am still coming from the same place inside myself. I want the same outcome. I demand the same solution. I already know what is best, and I do not want to settle for anything less. But sometimes that very insistence becomes the trap.

We live in the world we give our attention to.

When I was a college student, I began journaling about my travels. Later, my journaling expanded into daily dream work. Over time, this work became something more essential: a way of reflecting on my life, my past, my inner world, and the outer world. It is a way to consciously be in my true nature. 

There are many forms of meditation, and the variety can feel overwhelming when we are trying to find the practice that fits us. There is transcendental meditation, Progoff's Intensive Journal method, mindfulness meditation, Heartfulness, movement meditation, the Silva Method, body scanning, forest bathing, guided meditation, and many others.

I recently came to a deeper spiritual understanding of something —something many of us know in our souls but cannot always put into words. It was not a new truth exactly. It was more like an old truth finally becoming clear enough to form words that point to what it means. 

For me, reflection is another state of consciousness— aligned connection to my soul, tethered to the Divine. It is a time of stillness and inner harmony. It is a time when the spirit surrounds me, and I review, consider, and explore the infinite soul. In reflection, I look over my responses, concerns, and the application or my failure to apply the principles I hold dear. It allows me to enter my day with gratitude and spiritual eyes. Reflection opens the vault of memory and takes me to other eras and seasons of my life. There, stories come back to me and trigger all types of feelings and responses. The connection deepens my trust in God and readies me for the challenges that inevitably arise during the day.

Last Sunday afternoon, I was driving home from the grocery store. It was twilight after a rain, and I had been thinking about our daughter Lauren all day. She was deeply in my heart. Perhaps I had dreamed about her the night before, or perhaps grief had brought her near again. But on that drive, something happened that I will never forget.

Last Sunday afternoon, I was driving home from the grocery store. It was twilight after a rain, and I had been thinking about our daughter Lauren all day. She was deeply in my heart. Perhaps I had dreamed about her the night before, or perhaps grief had brought her near again. But on that drive, something happened that I will never forget.

I sit in the silence of my backyard this morning. The stillness is broken only by the cheerful chatter of birds and the rustling of squirrels. In this quiet, I look out at the trees.

Lark and I lived in the small town of Concord, Massachusetts when I did my internship in Boston. We rented a little Cape Cod cottage surrounded by tall trees, just one block off the town center.

When I was a little boy, the huge oak at the bottom of our yard was a fascination as well as mystery. It held a place of significance. Something happened there one summer day that I have never forgotten.

For depth psychologist Carl Jung, the tree was a powerful image of the Self and of the soul’s long journey toward wholeness. He noticed that people often included trees in their mandalas and in other spontaneous images they created. To him, this suggested something important: the psyche was trying to gather its many scattered parts into one living whole.

In recent years, scientists and naturalists have begun looking more deeply into the lives of trees. How they grow, communicate, support one another, bear fruit, host countless forms of life, and eventually die. Why this growing fascination with trees?

We love having dinner by candlelight, and I love it when Lark burns scented candles around the house. In church, I love the candles burning brightly upon the altar. As a boy, I was an acolyte in our church and in every procession, carried the brass candlelighter that carried the flame. We transferred the flame to the large brass candlesticks on the altar. The flame was passed from one place to another, yet nothing was lost.

As a child, I was fascinated when my father lit a fire in the barbecue pit in our backyard. My parents used it for cooking out and for burning unwanted boxes, leaves, and rubbish. When my dad burned things, I would sit in amazement watching cardboard boxes and other unwanted materials collapse into ashes within minutes.

"Come, Holy Spirit, and kindle in us the fire of your love. Send forth your Spirit, and we shall be created, and you shall renew the face of the earth."

I was a fledgling lifeguard at the Roswell Family YMCA in Atlanta, Georgia, working my way through graduate school. I was a student—a nobody, really. I had my friends from college and the love of my family, but at twenty-one, I was on my own in a new life— it was time to find myself and stand on my own two feet.

The embers of a fire glow steadily, warming and radiating long after the flames have settled. Fire can burst forth like fireworks, dance in flickering light, or glow quietly beneath the surface. Yet fire is not only something we encounter in the physical world, but it also burns within us.