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.