When I was training to be a priest we were taken one day to visit a Funeral Directors.

In one of the viewing rooms was a body in an open coffin. One of my younger colleagues had never seen a dead body before and was clearly moved by the experience. When we came out of the room he tried to put into words what he felt, but had great difficulty. All he could manage was something along the lines of, “the thing about dead bodies is, well, they are very, very dead aren’t they”.

Even though his words could be taken at one level to be stating the obvious, we all knew what he meant. Something indefinable was missing. The form was still human, but “not real”. It was like looking at a waxwork or a life-size doll. It wasn’t like someone who was asleep, who happened not be breathing.

Even now, I struggle to express in words what we all felt. But I suspect that anyone reading this who has seen a corpse that has been dead for more than a few hours will know exactly what I mean.

This experience came to mind recently as I read a book by a famous scientist. In one of the chapters he wrote about how difficult it is, scientifically, to define what life is and when it is absent. No formula or set of words seems to be sufficient to pin it down. Biology, Chemistry and Physics all have their own definitions.

Yet, as the scientist noted, we all know when life is present and when it is gone. We don’t know how we know, but we do.

All he felt able to say about life was that it was an “emergent” phenomenon. When conditions were right in the material world it seemed to manifest from a deeper place within the fabric of existence. From our level of reality, we could recognise its presence but not understand what it was.

The implications of this statement are awesome. It reminds us that we have no idea what or who we are; that the soap opera of our daily lives is lived out in the midst of utter mystery.

It humbles us by pointing out that if we do not even know the most fundamental thing about our existence, all the rest of our knowing must be treated with caution.

To contemplate these truths for even a few moments cannot but blow our minds wide open.

But the scientist did not stop there.

He suggested that alongside emergent life was emergent knowing, which he called intuition, very different to the kind of thought-based rational knowing with which we are so familiar.

For him this would be the explanation for how my friends and I reacted to the body in the funeral parlour. We knew that something was no longer present, but could not begin to say what it was.

Of course, mystical spirituality has been saying this for centuries.

That this world is an effect, emanating from a causal realm enfolded within and around what we experience as everyday reality.

That incarnate in this world as corporeal beings, we too are an effect of a much deeper causal self, who’s knowing can emerge into our embodied minds when appropriate.

That as we open to this relationship through the practice of stillness and surrender, this stream can become a river.

In the western tradition, this expression of knowing has been called “Gnosis”, although this is a much abused term.

And very interestingly, the scientist identified one more possible emergent phenomenon. That at the heart of all emergence there may be a purpose and intent that lies behind everything. We might use the word God (another much abused word) to describe this fundamental presence. But because it is emergent, it could never be known by thought-based consciousness. Only through what he called “intuition” could it enter awareness. Such emergent knowing had nothing to do with belief and certainty, but naturally found its home in a profound, active agnosticism.

As with the boundary between life and death, I find it difficult to see any different between this approach and the way of apophatic spirituality in which contemplation  finds its home.

It is the way of Mystery. The way that demands we acknowledge what we don’t know, before even trying to work out what we do.

The first part of the process is for most of us an endeavour that lasts a lifetime.

I am delighted to have been asked to lead a weekend retreat at the Othona Community in West Dorset ( http://www.othona-bb.org.uk/ ). It will be an opportunity for people to taste the experience of contemplative consciousness that I try to evoke in "From the Bottom of the Pond" in a beautiful natural setting. The Community is located on the coast and has its own grounds, overlooking a deserted beach.

In addition to exploring some of the ideas and practices that underpin the book, there will be plenty of time for walking, conversation and, if individuals prefer, sinking into silence.

Othona has a very interesting history and ethos, which can be read about on its website.

It will be held from Friday 17th to Sunday 19th April 2009.

Details are still to be confirmed, but it is expected that the retreat will start with supper on the Friday evening at around 6.30-7.00 and end Sunday pm.

Bookings must be made directly with Othona and the following link should take you to the right page: http://www.othona-bb.org.uk/event35_.html

Look forward to seeing you there!

Fourteen years ago my wife and I had a magical experience.

We had just finished a discussion over lunch as to whether to have another cat. We had lost one a few months before on the busy road next to where we lived. We were both certain that we would not be doing so.

As we started to take our plates through to the kitchen, my wife heard a scraping sound on the back door. She went to see what it was and called me over. Through the glass we could see two little legs pumping away, trying to get someone’s attention. We opened the door and in walked a young, brown tabby cat, who went straight up the stairs and curled-up on our youngest son’s bed.

It was one of those moments when the astonishing synchronicity of an event takes your breath away.

Megan, as she became known, stayed with us for fourteen years and quietly became part of the warp and weave of our family. She was the most intelligent cat I have ever encountered and possessed a highly developed personality.

Megan died a few days ago after a period of illness. I cannot remember the last time I felt so sad. Megan has taught me how to cry again. I was not expecting this. I knew that I would be sorrowful when she died, but was totally unprepared for the power of my grief.

It may well be that I will never fully understand why I have been so affected. At the moment all I have are fragments.

One fragment is the realisation that from Megan I have experienced a beautifully pure love. In the days leading up to her death, she could not move very much and required careful nursing. In order to speak to her I had to get down onto the floor and look into her eyes. Shining back at me was a love that was unconditional and total.

Also shining back at me was life in all its mystery. An alien mind that I could never hope to really understand, yet also the same life force that is in me, meeting itself in her.

Another fragment is the existential shock of her “gone-ness”. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone. The totality of the ending is something I find difficult to take in. Time has moved on and will not return.

But then something happened that enveloped my grief within something deeply mysterious.

Megan’s life with us started in magic and ended in magic.

A day after she died, I got angry with God and railed that someone so beautiful could be no more, to be eventually forgotten. I asked with all my heart that I would be given a sign that she was alright – that she still lived in some way.

An hour or so later I received an email from our youngest son (who’s bed Megan had gone straight to when she first arrived). It was about something he had not been sure whether to mention, but thought that he had better. He has a rather sceptical mind.

The previous evening, before he had known of Megan’s death, he had been walking home and had suddenly heard a loud “meow”. He had looked around immediately, but could not see any cat. He turned to walk away and heard the same sound again. Once more there was nothing to be seen.

Perhaps my prayer was answered before it was expressed.

I am once more being reminded of the incredible power of the story of Jesus.

I am currently reading the Gospel of Luke at the leisurely rate of a few verses a day and am noticing the effect it is having on me.

It is difficult to put into words, but I am aware that in the midst of daily life there are occasions when I see things differently to what would otherwise have been the case. I have particularly noticed that I seem at the moment to be a little more forgiving of others and have a genuine desire to see beyond the surface. I have also noticed – and this is truly extraordinary – that I am deeply enjoying the Christmas season and finding real meaning in it. This has not happened since I was a small child. My family have also noticed this and, being very familiar with my usual scrooge-like grumpy state at this time of year, are astonished at the transformation.

Although I cannot be sure, I think that the Gospel is affecting me because I am reading it in a particular way. I have turned-off all my analytic/sceptical/critical tendencies and am simply allowing myself to become absorbed in the story.

I am not concerning myself with whether the text is historically accurate or if Jesus actually physically healed people, calmed storms, cast out demons, rose from the dead, etc, etc. Such questions matter to me less and less now – not least because they are ultimately unanswerable. I also find the disputes that inevitably arise around such questions arid and soul-draining

I am now dissolving into the story and allowing it to live in my depths unhindered. And in those depths, in ways that I cannot pin down, it is encountering the hidden threads of my own story and nurturing subtle changes in perception and desire, that are then seeping mysteriously back to the surface.

This is to relate to the story of Jesus as myth – in the true meaning of the word. That is, a story which has enfolded within it deep meanings and insights that, as we live the story, find their way past our discriminating consciousness into the subterranean currents of the mind. The mythic story transforms us from the inside out, in ways that are impossible to identify.

And in being so transformed, we are opened to the divine reality to which the story of Jesus points and evokes with awesome power.

I recently wrote an article for "The Julian Magazine" (http://www.julianmeetings.org/) which on reading again I rather like, so thought it would be good to share it with a wider audience. It was entitled "Remembering the Question".

Contemplation is the way that I explore a question.

And in exploring this question, all other questions of meaning are seen in a new light.

My practice of contemplation is formed and shaped by the question and only has meaning in relation to it. I have found that if the question loses focus in my mind, contemplation starts to feel empty and unfulfilling. I have a sense that something has gone wrong, without quite being able to say what has happened. The practice becomes arduous.

More than anything else, it starts to feel abstract and dry.

The question is of a particular kind. It is a question that has no answer, at least in the way we usually understand the term “answer”.  It is a question that is so fundamental, so enormous in its implications, that any set of words or concepts that might be offered as an answer would be embarrassed by their inadequacy. Yet to contemplate the question in silence and stillness can have an extraordinary effect upon the mind. The very “unanswerable-ness” of the question seems to cultivate a different experience of consciousness in which, mysteriously, contemplative practice may become contemplation itself.

The question is very simple: “What is this moment?”

This is one form of the universal question that waits patiently for all human beings to look its way. It unites us. It is the question that constantly surrounds us all of the time, but our minds are too full of our lives to see the awesome mystery of life itself. Yet to turn ourselves inside-out and see our lives through the lens of the Mystery, cannot but transform how we live.

If we pause and acknowledge that we truly have no idea what life is, what we are and, even, why anything actually “is” at all – everything changes. Just reading the last sentence, slowly, may give a sense of what such change tastes like.

So, for me, contemplative practice is first of all to pay profound attention to this moment and to see directly its unfathomable depths. It is to allow its unknown-ness to fill and quieten the mind. Paradoxically, it is to go into a deeper knowing than words and concepts can ever supply. It is to this place (on a good day) that contemplation takes me - often in times of formal practice and, increasingly, spontaneously in the course of daily life.

And it is my experience that in this place of waiting, when the mind is very still, one can become aware of an awesome presence and purpose in the depths of the moment. This is why contemplation is prayer. It is an experience of relationship too rich for words. Indeed, had words and concepts filled the mind the encounter could never have happened so directly. At best, the Presence would have been sensed dimly through their veils or squeezed, terribly misshapen, into their limiting form.

But because the question has, firstly, taken me into the mystery of the moment where all words must fall away, through Grace I may taste that to which they can only point.

There then comes a time when words, thoughts and the everyday world return and I find myself using the word “God” once more. There is, however, a reticence and a hesitation in its use, for in the light of contemplation it seems so inadequate and open to misinterpretation. And for reasons I do not understand the figure of Jesus becomes ever more central and present. I used to think that I understood who Jesus is, but now that understanding seems no more than useful words written in sand, which at best can only evoke something far to great for them to contain.

The question has become for me a gateway to that which the word “God” points. It awakens me to the truth that “now” is the only place I ever am and so the only place where God may be known. It is a question that reveals, rather shockingly at first, the extent to which I am usually lost in the world of the mind, dominated by the past and the future. The question awakens me to the truth of “now” and invites an exploration of its depths. The question gives an awesome setting and a sense of direction to whatever method of contemplative prayer I feel drawn to use, but does not specify the destination. It enables the journey to unfold in its own way.

Also, of course, it is a question that I can carry with me through daily life, gently humming away in the background, from time to time erupting into the forefront of the mind to give a new, vaster perspective on a situation or problem. This is contemplation in action.

To base religious/spiritual practice around questions rather than answers offers another gift that may be particularly needed in the age in which we live. It demonstrates to the world that there is a strand of the Christian tradition that does not share the lust for certainty that can appear to dominate modern expressions of the faith.  And through being utterly conscious of the majestic mystery of being, it is a path that can live with generosity and openness alongside other insights into the wonder of existence.

I am starting to be shocked by my own mind.

I am starting to be shocked by the sheer intensity of the story that is constantly running. It is like a hurricane that never loses energy. It is a story that is out of control and seems never-ending.

It is the story of Simon Small. It is the story of his fears, desires, hopes and emotions, which is being constantly re-written by the imaginings of past and future. It is the story through which I react to the outside world, which in turn triggers yet more highly energised fears, desires, hopes and emotions.

Of course, if I can see the story than what ‘I’ truly am cannot be the story. ‘I’ must be the story-teller, who for so long has been lost in story-telling that he has forgotten about the real world. This was easy, for everyone else around was doing the same. Indeed, all of our stories were inter-twined, constantly battling with each other for supremacy.

I have seen this for some time, but only now, as my vision clears further, am I beginning to see the extreme, frightening intensity of the story. As the deeper part of who I am rests in stillness, in contemplative consciousness, it watches the strand of itself that is still absorbed in the story with increasing horror. I am realising that part of me is mad. It is insane. This is shocking.

What is even more shocking is that I am aware that something in me remains profoundly drawn to losing itself in the story.

Something inside prefers the madness, even though, like a drug addict, it knows that on that path lies only suffering. In some unconscious way I must still believe that it is my friend.

But although shocked by what I see, the same quality of seeing brings with it another realisation.

There is something drawing me out of the madness. There is a presence in my mind that is not of the story, which is leading me to higher ground. As I see the incredible, intoxicating intensity of the story it is clear that on my own this journey would never be possible.

Something or someone is trying to gently wake me up.

I think it was Einstein who said, “the consciousness that creates a problem can never solve it”.

As I have observed my mind, I have increasingly seen this to be true.

The words have become a bridge, linking the practice of contemplation with the challenge of living in the everyday world.

Too often, I have identified a particular situation in my life as being a problem and my mind has tied itself in knots trying to find a solution. There may be too many possible answers and I don’t know which to choose, or perhaps there seems to be no way forward. In either case, the experience has been one of turmoil and worry, often impacting on those around.

Sometimes, not often enough, I have remembered Einstein’s words and have sought instead a deeper consciousness. As my mind has stilled and become less noisy, on many occasions the way forward has become obvious. At other times something even more interesting has happened – I have seen that no problem really exists. The “problem” is actually just an illusion created by a confused mind, existing in a dream-like state.

For a long time now I have acted as a spiritual companion to many people. To a lesser or greater extent, most have come to me because there is a situation in their life that is problematic. They hope that by talking to me the answer will become apparent. I have learned that my role is not to enter into the perceived problem, but to nurture a shift of consciousness, in both of us, to a deeper and stiller place. I have become very sensitive as to when this occurs and have seen again and again that it is in this quality of mind that either the way forward becomes apparent (which frequently involves doing nothing), or the problem disappears.

In the stillness, I have often also become aware of a “wisdom” present that is more than the two of us.

The stillness has become the prayer of listening. In the quiet a “voice”, which previously was drowned out, makes itself known (usually in a way beyond words). And the voice speaks from a place where our life (and its “problems”) is seen in an infinitely greater context.

It is not uncommon for me to say very little during a session, yet often the person leaves looking as though they have put down a great weight.

It is also not uncommon for them to reappear a month or two later, once more lost in turmoil. Life has taken them out of inner stillness and that deep connection, back into confusion. This is why the spiritual path is a practice - a way of life. Deep habits of thinking, constantly reinforced by the society in which we live, cannot be changed overnight.

Spirituality is not a magic pill.

Interestingly, even though I am aware of the truth of this insight, I still find myself on occasion tearing at a problem like a dog with a bone. Something in me refuses to stop, enter stillness and see the situation in a new way. Extraordinarily, there seems to be something in me that wants to have a problem, which seeks victim-hood. It will present convincing arguments to justify feeling as I do. To justify needless suffering is madness. On such occasions it can require real determination to see differently, but the relief is enormous when I finally do so.

For me, therefore, the spiritual path (of which the practice of contemplation is a fundamental strand) is not essentially about problem solving. It is concerned with changing the quality of consciousness so that we may view the world from a deeper place of clarity. In this place we make ourselves available to encounter that to which the word “God” points.

And also in this place, as a by-product, insight will frequently arise regarding the passing, temporary challenges of our worldly life.

A lot of people have asked if I will be leading any days exploring the ideas behind "From the Bottom of the Pond".

So, by popular demand, a day seminar has been arranged for Saturday 29th November 2008 at St Mary's Hall, Glastonbury from 10.00 am - 4.30 pm. The cost for the day will be £50.00 and places can be booked through me.

See the "Events" page for more details of how to do this.

I am really looking forward to meeting people who have found "From the Bottom of the Pond" helpful. I am aware from conversations and emails that they cover a wide range of spiritual pathways (and none). To have some of these different perspectives present will add something very special to the day. It is wonderful that a book originally written for the Christian community should also be of help to people on other pathways.

I am also looking forward to unpacking the ideas that lie behind the book. It is deliberately short and deceptively simple, but there is a lot going on beneath the surface. In fact, I have too much that I want to explore and will have to make some tough decisions about what to leave out.

Should be a great day!

Entries in a spiritual journal are rarely the last word on the topic they are discussing.   By their very nature they are addressing deep matters of the soul, which often frustratingly defy clear expression in words. But the very effort of trying can bring a greater degree of clarity. Attempting to say out-loud, whether to a journal or to another person who is really listening, what is whirling around inside often produces real insight. And in this process nothing is sacred except the practice of devastating honesty. Consistency does not matter, only truth.

The following entry should be seen in this light. It reflects a work in progress.

I recently played in a chess tournament for the first time in many years. In fact, it was the first time I had played chess at all for many years. It was a bit of a shock in a number of ways.

It is one of the world’s best-kept secrets that once upon a time I was a pretty good player, to the extent that for a while I devoted myself to chess on a professional basis. Eventually, however, I drifted away from the game. I realised that I actually didn’t enjoy chess itself, but the very temporary thrill of winning – which is a sure-fire recipe for suffering.

Recently the thought came to mind of making a comeback. I am sure that a strand of this impulse was the fact that it is very difficult to give-up something that one is good at. In chess I was “somebody”. But I also wondered if, after many years of spiritual enquiry and practice, I would be able to play the game in a different way. Perhaps I would be able to concentrate on the creative side of the game (like mathematics, chess is capable of great beauty) rather than the competitive.

So I entered a tournament being held near to where I live.

Things did not go well.

In fact, I had my worst ever result in a tournament of this type. Even when starting out as a teenager, I never scored so poorly. It was a chastening experience. More than that, I still did not enjoy the game itself.   I told my wife that entering the tournament had resolved the question in my mind – I would not be playing again.

But then something strange happened. Over the next few days I found myself drawn once more to the idea of playing, despite what had happened. I began to rationalize about how if I just did a bit of work, I could get back to my previous standard; how I could then play creatively rather competitively; and how it must be right to express a talent that one has been given.

All those years of spiritual enquiry and practice have, however, taught me to be suspicious of such rationalizations. The mind has many veils. So I have been trying to look deeper to see where this impulse is coming from.

Part of it is, I am sure, hurt pride. My self-image has been severely dented. Even though I have not been playing, my standing as “a good chess player” has been an important element in my sense of identity. I want it back.

But I have begun to see that something deeper is also at work - my need for clear structure, aims and, above all else, outcomes. This is a need that I didn’t realise I had.

I have begun to see that for years part of me may have been struggling with the ill-defined nature of the spiritual life. The results (especially the benefits) of all the practice, effort, soul-searching and life-changing decisions can be difficult to see. Indeed, it may not be at all clear what “positive results” might look like.

And when outcomes are not clear, it can be difficult sometimes to find the energy and motivation to keep going.

It is sometimes only in looking back that any objective measure of “progress” can been seen. Or perhaps from an unexpected comment by an old acquaintance about how much more peaceful we now are, or how well we now listen.

But perhaps deep down I want more than this. I want to clearly see what is happening and be able to respond accordingly. I suppose I want to be in control.

The truth, however, is that walking the spiritual path is an act of faith, in response to a deep inner impulse that cannot be denied. And it may well be that the impulse is not even mine, but is a response to a call from a level of reality immeasurably deeper than “me”.

Viewed this way, the desire to be in control looks a bit silly.

For much of the time we must be content with a subjective, rather than objective, sense of progress. We have to keep walking the path, content for most of the time with an intuitive sense that we are going in the right direction, rather than seeking to mark off stages of the journey on some kind of spiritual map.

I wonder also whether I have been struggling with the spiritual focus on the “now”. Perhaps part of my mind wants a plan, full of aims and objectives to which to give itself. Being “in the present” is all well and good, but without a plan for the future the reservoir of creative energy within each of us can begin to stagnate

My experience with the chess tournament suggests, much to my surprise, that I may have been struggling with all of this. It has left a suspicion that my desire to return to chess playing is in part a rebellion against the unplanned, amorphous, faith-demanding mysteriousness of the spiritual life.

Perhaps chess has become a symbol for my mind of this sense of discomfort.

The chess board is a small, closed world of systematic rules and consequences. It has objective structure and outcomes. What has occurred can be clearly seen and firm plans for improvement laid for the future. It provides its own focus and way forward.

I may not enjoy chess, but at least I know what is happening and where I should be aiming for. It is very tempting to live once more in such a small, predictable “world” rather than in the limitless universe of deep spiritual mystery.

Of course, I could always try to reduce the Mystery to the spiritual equivalence of chess. I could embrace a religious belief system of absolute truths, ethics and authority (probably based on a book) with a clear reward system of predictable consequences for “good” and “bad” behaviour and a non-negotiable vision for the future.  

Tempting as this sounds, however, it would not work - I cannot live a lie. Chess in its own terms is true – it is a small, closed system of immutable laws. But I know that the awesome ineffability of existence cannot be reduced to this, easier though it may seem to make life.

So I must keep faithfully walking into the dazzling darkness, trusting my inner compass, knowing that for reasons I can never really understand I can do no other.

But I must also keep questioning everything that happens.

I haven't posted anything for a while, as we have been emersed in moving house for the last few weeks. Things are now clearing and we find ourselves in that wonderful, crazy, deeply spiritual place called Glastonbury. We have no idea what the future holds, except that there are more books to be written.

To my delight, readers of “From the Bottom of the Pond” are starting to make contact with comments and questions. For one thing, it's nice to know that someone is actually reading the book. Also, the questions are particularly helpful as they help me to reflect more deeply on the contemplative journey.

A question that arises frequently concerns the relationship between contemplation  and the suffering of the world. It goes something like this:

How can we enter into contemplative prayer in the way you describe without being aware of suffering and evil in the world around us?  You seem to write of prayer as a largely joyful experience. This may be true for some but there are others who not only would find it hard to forget (for the time of prayer) the troubles in the world around us – they would not wish to do so. You speak of reality, and for some the tensions between beauty and ugliness, suffering and contentment, joy and fear, kindness and cruelty – are all part of this reality – and should be with us in prayer.

My first (and fundamental) response to this question is to say that contemplation is a calling from God - it is not for everyone. Early in the book I emphasise that the spiritual life is a response to Grace. We do not decide what it is we are to do, but seek to discern that which we are being asked to do. This requires real humility and an acceptance of the Mystery of God. I would therefore worry greatly about the use of the word "should" in the last sentence of the question.

For some this calling will involve (on balance) an active life, for others a more "inner" journey. And the balance can change over a lifetime (as it has with me).

Many of us will have had those moments when something deep within, often unexpectedly and to our great surprise, responds to a conversation or book and we know that this is something that we must explore. “From the Bottom of the Pond” is written to evoke this realisation within those for whom contemplation is the Way. Years of encounters and conversations have led me to believe that in our society at this time this is the case for many - but because the tradition has been pushed to the edge such realisation can be frustrated and there are a large number (particularly within the Churches) who are unfulfilled and do not know what it is they are looking for.

Also, in the Chapter "Three-fold Prayer", I talk about how contemplation lives alongside and in harmony with other forms of prayer (including those in which we hold the suffering of the world before God). The balance differs between individuals according to that to which they are drawn.  Part of the plea of the book (Chapter Nine) is for people to accept this difference. A contemplative has no choice in the matter.

And contemplation is not an easy path. We have to spend a lot of time with our minds and this will be on occasion a very difficult experience (see the chapter entitled "The Rocky Path of Contemplation").

I would also draw attention to Chapter Thirteen. This was meant to illustrate that contemplation is not divorced from the problems of the world, but enables us to see and relate to the world in a deeper way. Inner stillness gives clearer outer vision. And any action rooted in such vision will be far more effective and loving. I think I say somewhere in the chapter that the more we are still inwardly, the more we see through the eyes of God. What better foundation for action in the world can there be?

For me, all prayer is a joyful experience. This is not because I am in denial about the suffering of the world (quite the contrary) but that contemplation places my thoughts, pain and emotions about that suffering into an infinitely greater context and can grant a realisation that we are not alone in seeking to bring healing and justice. It evokes profound hope. I think now (two years on from having written the book) I would say that prayer is a "sublime" experience - it embraces both beauty and ugliness in an atmosphere of awe at the sheer majesty of everything. If we see primarily only one or the other we are out of balance and our vocation cannot flow through us.

I was recently interviewed by June-Elleni Laine on "My Spirit Radio" about From the Bottom of the Pond. Click here  to listen to the interview.

Last week I watched a television programme about the atom. I was fascinated by the story of its discovery and of the incredibly strange sub-atomic world that theoretical physics has revealed. In fact, I was more than fascinated. I was inspired. The story left an afterglow that lasted several days. As I write these words it is starting to return.

I am noticing more and more how some stories have this effect on me. They seem to awaken something inside. They set the heart on fire. A light seems to shine from the stories, which connects me with the mystery of creation; which evokes within the experience of love.

Such stories need not be “true” to have this effect. The story I encountered about the sub-atomic world is certainly far from being the complete truth. It is an unseen world, revealed through imagination and mathematics, and our picture of it is most certainly incomplete and inaccurate.

Indeed, this may well be part of the reason that such stories are so powerful. They are humble stories that make no claim to completeness or certainty. They reflect the vastness of our unknowing in this sea of existence. With Sir Isaac Newton, such stories are “like a boy playing on the seashore …. finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell …. whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me”.

There is one particular story that affects me in this way more than any other. I do not know why this is. I have tried in the past to turn my back on the story, but its power is too strong. It shines for me with such a pure light that it brings tears to my eyes. It is the story of that mysterious figure we know as Jesus Christ.

In historical terms, I know little about him – even to the point where I cannot be sure that he ever walked the Earth. Yet, for reasons I do not understand, to hear his story and to commune with him evokes a sense of presence that fills my heart. I can deeply appreciate other great spiritual figures whose words and lives also shine, but they do not have the same effect on me. I do not know why this is and fully accept that for others the reverse is true. This is part of the Mystery. Perhaps they are just on another part of the seashore being entranced by other pebbles and shells. Perhaps this is how it is meant to be so that together we can see and love more.

In the practice of contemplation we pay careful attention to the moment and, in so doing, see the path that links each moment. I am now realising that an important element of this practice is to notice those stories that shine and, conversely, those that leave in their wake only dullness. In the former we find the stepping-stones that lead us into the Mystery of God.

I watched a leaf fall to the ground today. I watched as it fluttered through the air for a few seconds and then watched as it came gently to ground. One moment it was flying gaily, full of life. The next it was just lying there, dead still among thousands of other leaves.

My mind could not take in the “goneness” of the transformation. That unique moment of transfixing, whirling, reflecting flight would never be again. It was gone for ever. I was shocked and stunned by the power of the experience. In those few moments I had seen the truth of life in the raw. It was shocking because I had seen the raw truth about myself and all that exists. It was shocking because I had seen the truth, not an idea about the truth. The truth was there in front of me, before thought began. I became the truth. It was direct realisation.

My mind could not take in the goneness of the leaf because I struggle to take in my own goneness; that the Sun will rise on a day when I am not. I know this as an idea and can accept it at that level. But the direct, naked truth of my goneness that the leaf evoked shook something deep inside.

It was an autumn moment, full of melancholy and beauty. I am deeply grateful, for it has filled me with profound peace.

And to come are winter, spring and summer moments. It is my prayer that I may be as still and open for their truth as I was on this wonderful autumn day.

“I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children”.

These words are from “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. It is a poem that, over time, is becoming more and more important to me. Its words pop into my head with increasing frequency in response to life’s experiences.

This particular passage was given new resonance by the recent publication of a collection of personal writings by Mother Teresa of Calcutta (“Mother Teresa: Come be my Light” published by Doubleday). The contents of the book seem to have shocked many people. It reveals a Mother Teresa who struggled desperately with a sense of desolation and emptiness during much of her wonderful ministry with the poor. She writes of an incredible longing for God, yet a feeling of not being wanted by God. She says, “Souls hold no attractions. Heaven means nothing – to me it looks like an empty place …… I dare not utter the words and thoughts that crowd in my heart – and make me suffer untold agony”.

The publication of the writings has, apparently, caused many to doubt her sanctity – some have even gone so far as to claim that she was a fraud. After all, this is not how it is meant to be. Mother Teresa was supposed to be a great spiritual being, moving through the world in a state of bliss at one with the peace of God. She was supposed to be an enlightened master, seeing joyfully the face of Jesus in everyone.

But for me, the opposite is the case. The writings have lifted my admiration for her to new heights. She inspires me even more than she did before. The contrast between her detractors and myself probably arises from a different understanding of the nature of spiritual consciousness.

I have come to see that the flowering of spiritual consciousness has nothing to do with feeling "good". It is about something immeasurably deeper.

This is an insight that I resisted for a long time. I was dragged to it kicking and screaming. It was not what I wanted to believe. I began exploring the world’s great spiritual teachings (and some not so great) because I was struggling with life. No matter how good things got on the outside, inside there was a great pit of fear, meaninglessness and depression. I thought that the spiritual path offered, eventually, an end to all of this; that one day I could walk the world experiencing only peace, no matter what was going on around me. And I believed that there were people who were already experiencing this. Perfect beings who never knew fear and who’s every thought, word and action were perfect.

So my measure of progress on the spiritual path was how good I felt. And, at times, if I was not feeling "good" I struggled to do what needed to be done in the world.

Of course, my experience of life never supported this belief. With increasing frequency I tasted wonderful mystical states and insights, yet periods of inner darkness still happened. Also, gradually, one by one, experience forced me to acknowledge that the “perfect” spiritual beings that inspired me were only human after all. But because I still believed that the spiritual path was about feeling good, I thought that something was wrong with me and with them.

Eventually I became willing to acknowledge the truth rather than pursue an illusion. For me at least, it seems to be part of the natural flow of life that sometimes the Sun shines in my inner world, sometimes there are dark clouds and storms, and most of the time there is something in between. Sometimes there seems to be an outer cause of my inner weather, but at other times there is no apparent outer cause. The great insight for me has been to see that there is nothing wrong with this.

Paradoxically, I am now truly at peace because I accept the unpeace when it occurs.

This is not denial or dissociation. It is looking fully into the darkness and accepting it. It is contemplation – paying loving attention to what is.

Strangely, I am finding that as I accept the mind in whatever state it happens to be, there is often an inner expansion. There is an experience of being the sky through which the psychic weather passes in its fleeting existence, rather than of being the weather itself. It is an exhilarating new sense of identity, but one that has no name or history. This is a state that, previously, I usually only tasted in the depths of meditation or the beauty of nature - and found frustratingly difficult to take into the everyday world. It is a state that embraces feelings (good or bad), but from a transcendent place.

And in this expanded state something else happens. I seem to hear more clearly a quiet, wordless voice that has been speaking to me for aeons. I hear it now more frequently, not only in the stillness of prayer but walking the streets of daily life.

There has also been a profound change of perspective. I have begun to see that my search for continual inner peace was deeply self-centred. This is not a criticism and I feel no guilt. It was a natural, human reaction. It had to run its course and could not be forced. I have begun to see that even if I had achieved the illusive state of private   perpetual “joy”, it would have been empty if not shared. I am beginning to see that what really matters to me is making this world a better place. It is the suffering, fear and violence around me that now seems to matter. My inner emotional weather seems less and less important.

This is not a rejection of the inner path – far from it. I am more convinced than ever that action in the world must arise from the depths of stillness if it is to bear good fruit. But my motivation for exploring and sharing the way of contemplation has fundamentally changed.

So I am in awe of Mother Teresa. She seems to have experienced a perpetual inner hurricane for a large part of her life. Yet she could still, “… get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children”. This is a different kind of spirituality to what I am used to, but one by which I an increasingly inspired. It is a spirituality of pure faith.

I don’t know why her experience of inner darkness was so intense and long lasting, whereas mine always seems passing. Perhaps if I lived as she did surrounded by such suffering it would be that way for me too.

And the question is, could I have got up and fed the children like she did for fifty years with that inner despair?

I actually don’t think that I could.

I recently read a book in which a man talked about the great spiritual teachers who had helped him. Some were very famous, others a little more obscure. Around the same time I acquired the book, I discovered that a great spiritual teacher of my own had died. I will call him George.

It was not obvious that George was a great spiritual teacher. In fact, one could have easily gained the opposite impression. This was certainly not an accolade that he would have applied to himself. George’s life was a disaster area in ways too numerous to mention. He blundered from one crisis to another, often seeking escape from his worries in unwise and damaging ways.

His social skills could also be lacking. At times this could be amusing. I remember him attending a public talk I did many years ago on some spiritual topic. It was a small, intimate room, which was soon a focus of intense concentration. At that point, George produced a packet of very crunchy potato chips that he proceeded to eat with gusto, very noisily. The atmosphere was broken and never really recovered for the rest of the evening. Looking back now, it is very funny. I am not sure this is how I felt at the time.

In fact, I think it is fair to say that it would be difficult to imagine anyone further from the usual image of a spiritual teacher than George. Were he here as I write these words, he would be nodding his head vigorously in agreement and laughing in the way only he could.

Yet it is George, this apparently most unlikely source, who was midwife to a couple of the most significant turning points of my spiritual journey.

The first such moment occurred one afternoon as I was reading a book on Buddhism. I had come across a chapter on the Theravada tradition, which had kindled a flame within. It was one of those moments when one knows that something has entered life that is going to be very important. I had struggled to relate to Buddhism up to that point, but the chapter had awoken something. I remember putting the book down and pondering how to find out more about Theravada, when there was a knock on the door.

There stood George. I must admit that my heart sank a little. He could sometimes require great patience. I inwardly took a deep breath and invited him in, but he declined and simply held out an old plastic bag. George owned a second-hand bookshop and had that day acquired a large stock of books, which included multiple copies of some titles. “I had a feeling that you might find these interesting,” he said holding out the bag. “Don’t worry, I’ve got lots of copies”, he added as he moved off.

I took the bag inside and closed the door. What was in the bag changed my life. It was a set of books about Theravada Buddhism.

The second moment of George-inspired inspiration occurred one evening at a discussion group I was leading.  Fortunately, on this occasion he had not brought his packet of potato chips. The topic for the evening’s deliberation was “Extra-ordinary Experiences”.  I invited people to share any experiences they had had over the years that seemed to defy conventional understanding.  As is nearly always the case in such discussions, people were at first slightly sheepish, but then they began to open up with all kinds of odd happenings – pre-cognitive dreams, visions, and particularly glimpses of, and conversations with dead relatives.  I have learned down the years that most people have had strange experiences, but few ever talk about them. Many push them down in the mind to a place where they can no longer disturb consciousness.

The evening was going well, I thought, until George, who had remained silent for the whole discussion (and looking rather angry), suddenly burst out, “But don’t you see, everything is extraordinary, everything is a miracle. Why are you just singling out particular experiences as being more special than others?  What could be more extraordinary than all of us living on a little ball spinning around in space!  We live in the middle of one, huge miracle”.

Unlike the evening with the potato chips, this evening quickly recovered momentum after George’s emotional eruption and proceeded as smoothly as I had hoped. But looking back after many years, I realise now that his words changed me fundamentally. They went so deep at the time that I didn’t realise their effect, but they expressed the fundamental spiritual question – “What is this?”  It is when this question, however expressed, enters the warp and weave of our consciousness that everything changes. A growing awareness of the utter mysteriousness of this moment begins to be the backdrop for everything. Our very experience of life is slowly transformed.

Over the years, I have often pondered the paradox that George presented. Consciously, he struggled badly to find meaning and cope with the practicalities of living. Despite being a really nice bloke, he could be insensitive with regard to the impact of his words and actions on those around. He often lived unwisely, causing himself physical and psychological damage.  Yet, there could be moments when, seemingly without his realising, he could express astonishingly deep spiritual insight or through some action lead another to a new place. The everyday George was simply not capable of these moments.

It has become clear to me that there was a “presence” or “loving intelligence” that, from time to time, expressed itself through George. My encounters with George were, I now see, a clear demonstration that we do not walk the spiritual path alone. Guidance and inspiration are present for those who have ears to hear. Perhaps we call this “voice” the Holy Spirit, or the Buddha Wisdom, or the Arwen, or by another of the many names by which it is known.  My experience with George, because of the contrast with his everyday self, has clearly shown me that there is a wonderful reality behind these words.

This leads me to a deeply challenging thought. What if this voice is talking to us all the time through others, trying to make itself heard? What if I only heard it through George because of its stark contrast with my image of who he was? Perhaps if only we were to listen with a truly silent mind to whoever is in front of us, we would start to hear marvellous things. In the Christian tradition such listening is called “contemplation” – the art of paying profound attention to what is. This is why contemplation is prayer

Of course, the voice of wisdom must also be present in you and me, teaching and guiding in its own enigmatic way. Perhaps another teaching that George offers is that I must not become disillusioned when my thoughts, words and actions are far from wise and compassionate. Perhaps he can help me to remember that beneath the chaos, that marvellous presence awaits its moment. George can help me not to take the dramas of my personality too seriously.

And could it be that the Voice, the Sacred Presence that rests beneath the surface of life, is the greater part of who George, you and I truly are?

Thank you George. Rest in the Light.