• Whenever we long for a happier, more joyful life, let’s consider this: within our hearts we have, available to us, all the spiritual resources we need.

• The path to a joyful life begins in the heart. What are we waiting for? The way is beckoning, so let us proceed.

• Silence is the matrix of possibility — which may be found in every heart (between and beneath every heartbeat). Therefore, imagine the possibilities.

• The “Word of God,” the “Law of God,” the very “Mind of God” — whatever we may choose to call that deep-seated sense of what makes life worth living, it’s also in the heart. And it invites us not to shame or self-criticism, but to curiosity and celebration.

• No one is perfect, and even our heart makes mistakes. The proper response to our human fallibility is discernment: discerning that which is good is a key to a renewed life.

• Since we are all imperfect, we may as well learn to be patient with our own wounds and limitations. Such patience emerges out of the heart, and invites us into the slow but life-giving process of transformation, from the inside out.

• The greatest gift available to us in our hearts is love. Spiritual wisdom maintains that God is love: therefore, love is God. We do not have to earn or prove ourselves worthy of the grace of love: it is freely given. Receive it, and pass it along.

• The most freeing present placed in our hearts is eternity. Eternity resides within us! Truly, every being embraces the eternal, so we can take our time: we have all the time we need, and always will. Relax and move without hurry; this is the initiation into joy.

• All of these blessings weave together to point to one inescapable yet life-liberating truth — since even God is a gift found in our hearts, we are therefore one with God. This is the fullness of joy, and the destination toward which all paths direct us.

Now… as you cherish and acknowledge all these gifts given to you in your heart, what is your response? How do you plan to live a truly heart-full life?

I’ve received so much positive feedback for the “Contemplative Affirmations” that my friend Cynthia Hizer and I created (click here to see that post) that when I thought about these “Eternal Heart Affirmations” I thought they would make an excellent follow up post. Hope you find them useful.

These are adapted from the notes I kept when I was writing Eternal Heart: the Mystical Path to a Joyful Life. These affirmations themselves do not appear in the book, but they were guiding principles that I used as a sort of compass when I was writing the book. Because these began as personal notes, not intended for publication, they’re a bit rough around the edges, lots of repetition, that sort of thing. But I hope that what they lack in literary polish, they’ll make up for in being of some spiritual help to you.

Friends, I’m participating in a spiritual summit this November called the “Who Am I” Conference. It’s a free online event (with paid options to download the audio and replay the video at your own pace). Click here to register.

Hosted by Bill Free, the summit includes some amazing speakers like Rami Shapiro, Rupert Spira, Amoda Maa, and Lisa Natoli, among many others. Many of these teachers are well known for teaching non-duality from an interspiritual or perennialist perspective. I felt so honored when I was asked to part of the team.

My session will be on November 13, and the title is “Don’t Call Yourself a Mystic — Just Be One.” I hope you’ll be able to join in!

Especially if you’re interested in purchasing the replay option, register now — there’s a 20% discount available until September 28. Click here to register.

Here’s more information about the summit, from the conference organizers:

The contemplative life should not lead us just to suppress the imagination in order to get more pure messages from God. We must allow both for a contemplative prayer in which the imagination has little or no part and for a creative, imaginative, genuinely poetic side in our life. Our imagination must be able to click and find correspondences, symbols and meanings. It should point up new meanings. It should create nuclei of meaning around which everything can collect significantly.

— Thomas Merton, Contemplation in a World of Action1

Contemplative practices like Centering Prayer stress the beauty and grace of cultivating what Cynthia Bourgeault calls “objectless awareness” — in other words, a keen awareness that refrains from focusing on any one thing. As part of this process, we rely on a sacred word, phrase, image or even simply the rhythm of the breath, in order to release any internal thought, feeling, or daydream that clamors for our attention. Rather than zeroing in on this or that idea or notion, we release them all lightly, returning ever-so-gently to the sacred word which symbolizes our silent consent to the Spirit working deep within us.

Centering Prayer is a meaningful and spiritually rewarding exercise, and I commend it to anyone who feels called to deepen their spiritual practice through such attentive observance of silence. But it seems wise to remember that wordless meditation is not the only path up the mountain. No matter how beneficial silent prayer is, it is not meant to replace every other means for nurturing inner growth. And the renowned Trappist monk Thomas Merton understood this (even though he would never have called contemplation “Centering Prayer,” since that term was not used until after his death).

Merton sees spiritual methods like Centering Prayer, where “the imagination has little or no part” as needing a complementary practice, in which “a creative, imaginative, genuinely poetic side in our life” has free rein to pray.

While it might be logical and easy to assume that Merton is endorsing Ignatian spirituality here — a type of meditation that uses the imaginal faculty to foster a prayerful encounter with Christ or the saints — I believe Merton sees more possibilities for the imagination than just as a tool to facilitate prayer. He is not just telling us it’s okay to pray using the imagination; he is saying that spirituality needs opportunities where our imaginal potential can be truly creative. As Merton notes, “The imagination should be allowed a certain freedom to browse around, find its own spontaneous material and work with that material.”

What happens when we just let our inner creativity play, without giving it excessive guidelines or boundaries that it must observe? Sometimes, this might lead to aimless meandering, or an experience where all our wondering (and inner wandering) seems to yield little. But Merton knew that a slew of bad or half-baked ideas is the price we pay for the occasional insight that shines and glimmers with inexplicable genius. When we get out of the imagination’s way, it just might choose to dance with the Spirit. At that graced moment, suddenly everything becomes possible.

As I reflect on these words of Merton’s, I am reminded of a concept valuable to me as a writer: reverie. It’s that place where being lost in one’s own thoughts shades off into a pleasant daydream. It’s not practical and there’s no (immediate) profit in it. It also seems to be the opposite of Centering Prayer, where the game is to let all thoughts flow by — not to get lost in them. But when I am writing, I have learned that reverie is an important tool for my creative process. Journalist Burton Rascoe noted that a writer is working even when just staring out the window. What’s true for the writer is true for the contemplative — and the mystic — as well. May we all learn to pair our practice of intentional non-attachment to the reverie that puts us in touch with that creative place deep within us, where the Spirit dwells.

September 11, like December 7, is “a date which will live in infamy.” But in the midst of all the 9/11 memorials being published today, I’d like to pause and look at a happier association for this tragic day. Let’s remember it’s also the birthday for millions of people around the world. One of them is my literary agent (happy birthday, Linda). Another is Mickey Hart, author and drummer for Grateful Dead, born on September 11, 1943. Happy birthday, Mickey!

The following article was first published in 1990 and has appeared previously on my blog; I’m reposting it here in honor of Hart’s 83rd birthday. Please note that I wrote this when I was 29 years old. The writing is immature but the passion is real. This is a true story. I’ve scoured the internet looking for photographs of what happened, to no avail. This happened more than a third of a century ago, when cellphone cameras did not yet exist. If anyone reading this does have a photo from June 3, 1990, please be in touch.

This article originally appeared in one of the most prominent Grateful Dead fanzines, Dupree’s Diamond News, Volume IV, Issue 1, December 1990. You can download a PDF of that issue here.

When you’re in the bookselling business, one of the highlights of your year is the American Booksellers Association’s annual convention, an opportunity for tens of thousands of booksellers and publishers to get together, do some networking, learn about new titles, and maybe even party a little.

This year (1990) the convention was held in Las Vegas, and my colleague Bob and I made plans to be there.

Weeks before the convention, many publishers send out invitations to the various parties and receptions they’ll be hosting during the four-day affair. It’s pretty much a capitalistic scene — come to the publisher’s party, and then sell more of that publisher’s books — but, hey, who doesn’t like to get wined and dined once in a while?

One invitation I received definitely stood out from the rest:

Mickey Hart, at the ABA convention? Of course! The invitation went on to explain that Hart, Babatunde Olatunji, Zakir Hussain, and other percussionists from around the world would be performing the second night of the convention to support Mickey’s forthcoming book, Drumming at the Edge of Magic: A Journey into the Spirit of Percussion.

Unbelievable! I started dancing around, right there in my office. It was like getting a miracle ticket in the mail.

Sunday, June 3, 1990. Bob and I had been in Las Vegas for a day and a half, exploring the gargantuan ABA trade show. My arms were getting tired from carrying all the publishers’ catalogs, posters, and promotional materials I’d gathered at the convention center. But as the day’s end neared, my energy level picked up. It was the concert night!

As soon as we got back to the hotel room, we dropped off our bags and immediately struck out for the Sands Hotel. Typical Deadheads, we got there 90 minutes before the ballroom doors opened, and no one was in line. As we stood there, the doors opned, and a man stepped out and introduced himself as Dennis McNally, the Grateful Dead’s publicist. We chatted for a few minutes, and he let us into the rear of the ballroom to listen to the sound check. The room appeared to seat only about 1500, and the sound was excellent. Now I was thoroughly psyched.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat and playing the slot machines for a while, we returned to the ballroom doors early enough to be at the front of the line. Most of the other people who came early to stand in line were also Deadheads. How odd we looked, many of us in “civilian” clothes. But you could pick out who had been to shows before — we all had huge smiles.

I talked with one couple from DC about the recent Landover shows, and I met a woman who worked for a publisher in Boston. She was an Olatunji fan in addition to being a Deadhead and summed up the excitement when she said, “Seeing Olatunji and Hussain and Hart on the same stage has got to be a once-in-a-lifetime deal!”

The ballroom slowly filled up with one of the oddest crowds ever at a Dead-related show. I’d guess that roughly a third of the audience was Deadheads. The rest was a crazy assortment of New Agers, drum lovers, and plain ol’ professional booksellers and publishers.

The show began promptly at eight, with the Balafon Marimba Ensemble from Oregon. Balafon played a happy, energetic mix of marimba-dominated tunes, including some African and Latin American folk tunes. Their music filled the ballroom with a joyous, happy spirit, and the musicians’ glowing faces and hard-working bodies kept the energy level high throughout their thirty-minute set, which seemed far too short. Then a very straight looking executive from the publishing company spoke while the stage was being set for the second act. It was funny to watch this dressed-for-success businessman singing the praises of Mickey Hart, percussionist for the “legendary Grateful Dead.” After his spiel, the curtain rose again to feature the Batucaje Brazilian Percussion Ensemble with the Capoeira Dancers.

Batucaje kept the energy level at the same height reached by Balafon, featuring a sound based on bongos and the berimbau, or musical bow. The dancers, however, stole the show. The women were mesmerizing, and the two men dancers presented a breathtakingly-choreographed fantasia on the Brazilian martial art of Capoeira. Once again, the set ended too quickly, but the excitement in the ballroom continued to build, as recorded sounds from the rainforest made it clear what was coming next.

The final set began with Mickey Hart and Zakir Hussain on the stage. Mickey sat next to a metal sculpture of two skeletons (one with a rose in its mouth) standing on either side of about a dozen or so tall metal mushrooms. Behind this sculpture were suspended three bass drums; on the other side of Mickey was a set of twenty or so cowbells. Zakir sat in front of his tabla, while Mickey breathed deeply into a microphone and played what appeared to be a tiny recorder.

After a couple of minutes, Mickey moved to the sculpture, and began tapping the heads of the mushrooms — it was an electric drum set. Just as the two opening acts had excited us with their upbeat, happy energy, Mickey was now soothing us with a contemplative, serene performance. He soon gave way to Zakir, who treated us to about a ten-minute tabla solo, which was alternately peaceful, stimulating, and amusing.

Zakir’s solo gave way to Mickey’s playing the cowbells. At this point Baba and the members of his “Drums of Passion” began to take the stage. The slow build-up of energy suddenly burst wide open, and the ballroom was filled with a joyous celebration of percussion! Mickey and Zakir left the stage, and Baba led his troupe through some of their numbers.

As they jammed on their last song, Mickey and Zakir returned, followed by all the musicians and dancers from the first two acts! The stage was jammed with more than thirty performers, and the energy kept on building. Everything was happening at once, dancers, drummers, and explosion of rejoicing. Mickey moved to the front of the stage, playing a small bongo, and walked right down the steps to the front of the audience, and into the aisle. Baba followed right behind him, playing and singing. All the other performers filed down after them.

I don’t think I need to say that, by this point, everyone in the ballroom was dancing like veterean Deadheads — even the folks wearing coats and ties. As the musicians danced and played their way out the door to the casino, everyone fell right in behind them. But outside the ballroom, instead of marching into the casino, the players went out a side door leading to the Vegas Strip. Hundreds of people poured out after them and suddenly the sidewalk in front of the Sands Hotel was transformed into an impromptu tribal ritual, as we sang and danced and played.

Bob and I jockeyed our way to the front, near Mickey and Baba. The barriers between performer and audience were breaking down, with everyone dancing and singing together. As we danced our way north along the Strip, I saw Mickey step off the curb, into the street. Immediately he was surrounded by blissed-out, happy dancers. He stepped further into the street. Suddenly cars were honking and slamming on their brakes, as dozens of drummers and dancers took over two full lanes of Las Vegas Boulevard. The night had ceased to be a concert. It had become an ecstatic celebration of the spiritual powers of the drum, with people of many different walks and backgrounds suddenly united by the healing, joyous beating of the drums. After nearly twenty minutes, Mickey and Baba nodded to each other and stopped — and the crowd let out a roar of appreciation. Then they started playing again.

I was dancing not ten feet away from Mickey when the Deadhead woman from Boston, whom I had met earlier, ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and shouted, “Can you believe it? You’re dancing in the streets with Mickey Hart!”

Thank God I had a friend with me, so I know it wasn’t just a dream. The musicians began working their way back to the ballroom, with everyone keeping the dancing alive. As cars drove by, folks rolled down their windows and stared. What kind of celebration was this, with Deadheads and Suits dancing side by side?

Back in the lobby of the ballroom, the performers took one final bow, to a rousing applause. Baba stayed outside the longest, shaking people’s hands and embracing them. For the time being, the ritual was over. But the celebration goes ever on…

You’ve got what it takes to slow down.

You’ve got what it takes to listen to your heart.

You’ve got what it takes to truly be aware of the present moment.

You’ve got what it takes to find God in all things and in all people.

You’ve got what it takes to breathe slowly and gently and deeply.

You’ve got what it takes to notice the silence between every thought.

You’ve got what it takes to live in gratitude, giving thanks even for the difficult things.

You’ve got what it takes to love your neighbor as yourself — one love, one being.

You’ve got what it takes to open yourself generously to kindness and hospitality.

You’ve got what it takes to ask for what you need and to be receptive with others.

You’ve got what it takes to acknowledge the mystery at the heart of all things.

You’ve got what it takes to cultivate a life shaped by awe and wonder.

You’ve got what it takes to pray without ceasing, to take delight and find joy in the divine, to live in ever-blossoming empathy.

You’ve got what it takes to foster within you all the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and equanimity.

You’ve got what it takes to embody the Beatitudes: to enjoy the happiness that emerges from both the splendor and the challenge of a mystically grounded life.

You’ve got what it takes to see the burning bush, to be caught up into the third heaven, to fall in love with everyone, and to see the gate of heaven everywhere.

You’ve got what it takes to wake up, to notice what is alive and luminous in you and around you, the divine presence revealed here and there and in all things.

You’ve got what it takes to embrace the unknowing, to fearlessly enter the obscure night, to be vulnerable and broken and incomplete, to tell the truth, and to live into the possibilities.

You’ve got what it takes to recover your wholeness: to cleanse yourself, and also to allow the Spirit to bring you healing and renewal and newness of life.

You’ve got what it takes to become fire, to glow with your inner light, to shimmer as you partake of the divine nature, to radiantly shine like the sun.

You’ve got what it takes to embody the darkness, to celebrate rest and leisure as you honor the rhythm of being, mindful of how no breath is complete without the inhale and the exhale.

You’ve got what it takes to recognize what has been mysteriously hidden in you all along: that you are one with God, fully human, fully divine, fully realized, fully becoming, fully you, fully ecstatic, fully ineffable, fully beyond the limits of reason or words — fully divinized, here, now; in this very place, in this very moment.

Hello friends! Just a reminder that I host between two and four Zoom calls each month, for paid subscribers. We take time to engage in Centering Prayer together, I offer presentations on my own writing and the work of other mystics, and we have time on each call for conversation and fellowship. Hope you’ll join us!

In September I’m hosting four Zoom calls — and Patreon and Substack subscribers are invited to participate in any or all of them. Here are the dates and times of the upcoming Zoom Calls:

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Fran and I are back home after four days in North Carolina, attending the Wild Goose Festival. It was her fifth, and my sixth, time at this annual event that brings together people dedicated to creativity, spirituality, and justice. It’s not a large festival — I believe this year’s attendance was somewhere in the 2,000 range — but it’s a powerful and dizzying alchemy where musicians, artists, writers, activists, contemplatives and seekers join together to enjoy each other’s work, to inspire and challenge each other’s practice, and to celebrate how community and passion can help to keep hope alive even in challenging times.

The Goose is a great place to meet your heroes (or even just writers, artists and musicians you admire). Over the years; it is in this venue where I have met, and/or meaningfully interacted with, quite a number of visionaries whom I admire, including Brian McLaren, Richard Rohr, Jim Wallis, Richard Twiss, Mirabai Starr, Simone Campbell, Lerita Coleman Brown, Brandan Robertson, Tessa Bielecki, Hunt Priest, Otis Moss III, and many others. Some of these folks are no longer alive, making the chance to connect with them at this festival all the sweeter. This year I was able to add Rob Zahn, Jon Carl Lewis, Kristen Kobes Du Mez, and Roberto Che Espinoza to the list. At one of my workshops, author Roger Wolsey was present; when he made a reference to one of his books, someone sitting two rows behind him got excited, as she was just reading (and loving) the book. That’s the magic of the Wild Goose Festival: you might be sitting unaware right next to one of your favorite authors, or musicians, or artists.

But these days, I’m noticing that for me the real magic of the Wild Goose Festival is found in the most ordinary conversations with the most ordinary of people. Yes, it’s amazing to meet someone whose book or song has inspired me. But often I find that when I talk to persons who aren’t there to promote their latest release, but simply want to be part of the conversation, they often say something that opens my heart or my mind to truly new ways of thinking and being.

This year, I had a busy schedule: my colleague Debonee Morgan and I led a day-long workshop based on our Radical Mystics concept; I led several workshops of my own, on topics such as the spirituality of naming and the spirituality of self-care; I did the obligatory book signing, and was scheduled to participate in another panel and do a stint of spiritual direction that unfortunately got derailed by a powerful thunderstorm. When I wasn’t dashing off to whatever was next on my schedule, I tried to spend time at the tent housing Ligare, the Christianity & Psychedelics organization I have been involved in for the past three years. Fran, meanwhile, had her own agenda, hanging out with energy healers and artists and generally just having fun being creative (although she also gave back to the community by doing some spiritual direction).

On Wednesday night, before the festival began (with the day-long workshop I mentioned), Fran and I had dinner with an editor whom I’ve worked with before. Saturday evening we met some friends who have been active with the Theosophical Society in America for another meal. Events like these were very much the highlight of the event, for it is in such intimate settings that the best conversations take place. The editor and I spoke at length about the book proposal I’m working on, which was generous of them since I’m contractually obligated to a different publisher! But it gave me not only some great ideas to ponder, but also a bit of fire to finally get this proposal finished. Meanwhile, my Theosophical friends and I pondered the difference between religious exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism, and how an appreciation of spiritual diversity just might help to make the world a better place.

If I’m making the Wild Goose Festival sound like a little bit of heaven on earth, well, it certainly is a special event; but like anything else in life, it’s not perfect. This year, however, the biggest drawback was something no one had any control over: the weather. The first couple of days, this outdoor event was beset by sweltering heat and humidity, with temperatures in the mid-90s for much of the day. Usually by noon it seemed that most of us there were hot sweaty messes! But since it affected everyone, it seemed that we were all just a bit kinder to each other as we tried to stay cool and hydrated.

But on Saturday afternoon the weather changed dramatically and a severe thunderstorm rolled in. For a camping festival where everything was taking place in tents, even a mild rain can be inconvenient (although the drop in the temperature was certainly welcomed). But this storm was no gentle shower — strong gusty winds accompanied pelting heavy rain and even hail, as the storm uprooted tents and trees, demolishing at least one car and causing some considerable property damage. Thankfully, no one was reported as being hurt, but the storm interrupted several hours of programming and proved to be a humble reminder that we just aren’t as in control of things as we like to think we are.

One of the most precious moments of the weekend came when a participant in my spirituality of self-care workshop shared a story with me about a colleague of his — an eighty-something activist nun, who loves my writing. Last year, after she received one of my books as a gift, the nun asked a young person she knew to help her set up an account with Amazon so she could order a copy of The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism for herself. She had never seen any reason to shop online before, but was willing to go the extra mile to get that particular book. The person telling me the story then asked to take a photo of me that he could share with the nun; he suggested that I pose waving like I was sending her a hello, but I thought it might be more meaningful if I held my hands together in blessing. That worked for him, and the result is now the featured image at the top of this post. The picture was taken at about 6 PM, and my scraggly hair certainly looks like it had been subjected to hours and hours of humidity!

I promised that this post would describe “What I brought home from the Wild Goose Festival.” There’s no huge reveal here, but in addition to all I’ve already mentioned, I could say I brought home hope: hope that community really can bring healing and work toward fostering a more kind and just world. I also brought home inspiration, from the energizing conversation I had with the editor to the hope that so many of the activists and visionaries I met shared with me. I got plenty of affirmation as well: not only were people (many of whom have known me for years) willing to address me as Skye, but they made it clear that an older contemplative introvert like myself still belongs in a community of creative folks who are working to make the world a better place. Finally, I would say that the Goose offered me a chance to consider how contemplation and action support each other in the real lives of ordinary people. From transgender activists to social workers, therapists to ministers, retirees to physicians, it seemed that just about everyone I spoke to was engaged in the vital but not always easy work of integrating deep contemplative practice with engaged efforts to serve and care for others. This both affirmed my conviction that contemplative practice is truly revolutionary, but also helped to remind me that even my humble work as a writer and teacher can be of service to others.

So there you go. If you’ve been to the Wild Goose Festival, you know how magical an event it is; and if you’ve never been, stay tuned: I hope and intend to be at the 2027 festival this time next year; perhaps I will see you there.

Skye McColman’s Mystical To-Do List

Note: This is all optional. It’s offered in the spirit of mutual inspiration and encouragement. If something on this list captures your imagination, dive into it. If nothing does, then set it aside.

1. Begin and end each day, if possible, with a moment of gratitude. Linger over this, when you can.

2. Set aside some time every day to be present to the silent and peaceful places in your own heart. This can be a formal practice of meditation or contemplative prayer, but it could also be something spontaneous and unstructured. How you meet the silence is less important than simply choosing to do so.

3. If you cannot find the silence and peace in your heart, be mindful of all that seems to show up instead. Discern what within you needs healing, what needs honoring, what needs a response, and what needs to be released.

4. Pay attention to how your thoughts and feelings dance within your consciousness. Be especially present to anger, to fear, to sadness, to envy, and to self-aggrandizement. Consider what these feelings (and the stories they accompany) are seeking to tell you, or to teach you. Ponder the ways you can welcome and release powerful emotions, so that you may meet everything that arises in your life from a place of deep equilibrium and calm.

5. Bring clarity to how you inhabit and care for your body. Notice how active you are, how much sleep you are getting, the quantity and quality of the food you eat. Refer any concerns to your healthcare provider, but bring to your prayer life a recognition that care for the body is an expression of care for the soul.

6. Review the tasks of your day, whether related to professional work, manual labor, domestic upkeep, care for children or those in need, tending a garden, or any other task that is yours for this day. Approach your responsibilities in the spirit of the Benedictine principle Ora et Labora: “Prayer and Labor.” Your work is your prayer, your prayer is your work. Give yourself the gift of being mindful of this.

7. Give yourself to the important (and maybe even not-so-important) connections you will make with others this day and every day. Cherish relationships that are grounded in love, family, and mutual care. Treat everyone with the same dignity and respect that you would offer to Christ or the Buddha. If or when you are emotionally off-center, be proactive to refrain from projecting your dysregulation onto others.

8. Honor your own power. You matter. Choices, whether big or small, that you make can have a real and lasting impact in the lives of others and for the world. Be creative and be proactive. Celebrate the fact that you can make a positive difference and help the world to become a better place.

9. Monitor your relationship with shame. This corrosive feeling can undermine appropriate feelings of remorse or responsibility, or can oppress us with the unhealthy judgment of others (perhaps from long ago). Be diligent in refusing to shame others, and bring that same commitment to yourself. If you do find others shaming you (or you shaming yourself), remember that divine love, compassion, forgiveness and reconciliation matter more than human guilt-mongering. Love casts out fear — and it also heals shame. So be love.

10. Read something sacred. A sacred text like the Bible, the Qur’an, the Dhammapada, or the Bhagavad-Gita can bring inspiration and insight. Keep in mind that these texts, too, have their blind spots, so read with an open, kind but discerning heart.

11. Read poetry. Seek especially the words of poets who are great mystics, as well as mystics who are great poets. Let the words of the poets open your heart to mystery and grace. If poetry intimidates you, start with Mary Oliver or Chelan Harkin, and then work your way up to Rumi, John of the Cross, or Denise Levertov.

    

12. Be gentle with yourself. If you are grieving, healing from trauma, living with illness, suffering from chronic pain, or managing mental illness or any situation that causes distress, remember that this is not your whole story. Seek care that can help you to heal, or at least to endure. Change often takes time, so allow your blessings to unfold slowly.

13. Take inventory of the fruit of the spirit in your life. Be cognizant of your current and emerging relationships with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Which of these do you need to cultivate? Which is so abundant in your life that you have plenty to spare? Reflect on how you can strengthen your relationship with each of the fruit.

14. Take a nap. If that is not possible today, then make it happen when it is possible (and you truly need it or will benefit from it).

15. Get a massage. If today is not the right day for that, then consider when it will be possible, and hold it as a treat you may look forward to.

16. Take a bath: and not just a utilitarian bath to get clean, but a luxurious bubble bath that leaves you feeling as refreshed as you do cleansed. If your schedule does not permit such an indulgence today, plan for a day when you can make it happen.

17. Dare to dream. What are your hopes, your plans, your fond ideas for a wonderful time yet to come? Ponder both the wild outrageous fantasies and the small but achievable micro-goals that you can work on each day. When a hope or a dream seems too big to be attainable, consider one small step you can take in that direction. After all, a cathedral is built one brick at a time.

18. Practice a bodily discipline that can be a form of prayer, or can be conducive to prayer and meditation. Yoga, tai chi, qigong, kinhin, Sufi dancing, or breathwork are just a few examples of the ways you can embody your mystical life. Practice in accordance with your capabilities, and consult with a healthcare provider to ensure your practice is appropriate for you. Even a simple bow or genuflection can be a way to embody your love for the mystery.

19. Face that which you have been avoiding. Do you need help recovering from an addiction? Seeking care for something causing you significant distress? Is it time to begin or resume work with a therapist to take meaningful steps in the service of healing? Is there a broken or toxic relationship that needs confrontation or healing? Such work is difficult and typically requires the support of others. If something like this is troubling you, reach out to a therapist, chaplain, spiritual director or other caregiver who can help you take your next step.

20. Learn something new. This could be as simple as reading a book on an unfamiliar topic or a more robust endeavor, like enrolling in a college-level course to broaden your mind and your capacity for critical thinking.

21. When possible, take on a discipline that will challenge your mind, the way that working with weights challenges your body. For example, practice or learn a foreign language and/or play music: these are the types of excellent and pleasurable ways you can support your brain health no matter how old you are.

22. Participate in a faith community. Choose something in alignment with your beliefs and values. When the community challenges you, it should be clear that this is in service of greater freedom, growth, and maturity. If traditional communities (like churches or centering prayer groups) are not available, look for community in creative or alternative ways (such as online groups, service organizations, or informal gatherings around a shared interest).

    

23. Be here now. Whether you call it practicing the presence, living in the now, or simply the sacrament of the present moment, it is a universal principle that liberation and enlightenment happen only in the present moment. If your life has a recurring “marker” like a clock ringing on the hour, use this as a mindfulness prompt: that whatever you may be doing, you are always invited to be mindful of this infinitely compassionate moment.

24. Honor the past and trust the future. Being faithful to the present does not mean ignoring the past or the future, but simply relating to them mindfully and skillfully. The past is the story that carries us to the sacred present, and the future is the quantum field of probability that we are always invited to meet with trust, hope, generosity and faith. Honor the past and release its hold; welcome the future as a partner in living into your creative potential.

25. Know that you are stardust. Thomas Merton lamented that we cannot tell one another that we are shining like the sun — it is only for us to discover for ourselves. But he also said “the gate of heaven is everywhere.” You have access to your own inner light, right here, right now. It is a graced gift and it is yours.

26. It is not only the gate of heaven that is everywhere. Heaven is everywhere, for heaven is anywhere that the Divine may be found: and the Divine presence is the ground of all being. Know who you are, know where you are, and remember that Divine union is not something to achieve, but simply something to acknowledge and receive.

27. Remain humble. One problem with diving deep into mystical truth is that we become susceptible to ego inflation. Humility — not humiliation or abnegation, but authentic, down-to-earth, self-forgetful humility — is our most reliable safeguard against spiritual pride. Do something earthy and humble today: clean the toilet, empty the litter box, defrost the freezer, weed the garden. Work close to the earth to remain close to the earth.

28. Investigate your restlessness and your boredom. We all experience such feelings, some of us more than others, and each of us finds that our restlessness is triggered by different things. Do not shame yourself for feeling bored or restless, but lean in to explore what is happening. Offer the uncomfortable places of your life to the ocean of Divine love, so that you might be healed and invited to grow.

29. Be creative. Paint, draw, work with clay. Write, sing, dance. Work in the garden, prepare a meal, decorate your living space. We all have ways to create, and it is our creativity that brings us close to realizing how we are the “image and likeness” of the Divine. If you do not feel that you have a creative discipline, be open to the possibility that you could take one up. Even if you are 100 years old — then you get to bring a century’s worth of experience to your creativity! Beginner’s mind is open to infinite possibilities, so cherish it.

30. Pray. If you don’t believe in God, then pray to Love. Open your heart and mind and belly to the transforming power and presence of Love, of the Divine, of the ocean of compassion and healing. Trust that prayer changes things, even if the only “thing” being changed is your own heart. Pray every day, and be mindful of the Pauline challenge to pray unceasingly. This does not mean you must always be talking to God — rather, consider how you can make your entire life a prayer.

31. Reflect on your vocation. Vocation is more than just our profession or livelihood. Vocation is the complete calling of our totality as human beings. Discern how you are being called to live out your mystical vocation — just for today. Then go do it.

32. Engage in the disciplines of your spiritual tradition. If you are a sacramental Christian, receive the sacraments. If you are a Kabbalist, study the Kabbalah. If you are a Buddhist, be diligent in following the Eightfold Path. No one has to do it all, but everyone benefits when we do the good work that our tradition gives us to do. Be gentle with your imperfection, and always return to the promise you have made.

33. End the day with some form of Examen: a daily examination of consciousness. Notice what has been a grace and a blessing, and what lessons have come your way. Remember to return to the first item on this list, and be sure that your Examen is steeped in gratitude and love.

Even though it’s been a while since we’ve released a new episode, I remain humbled and honored by how many people have connected with me through the Encountering Silence Podcast (if you don’t know Encountering Silence, please check it out). Co-hosted with my good friends Cassidy Hall and Kevin Johnson, Encountering Silence includes over 100 episodes, many of which feature fascinating conversations with some of the leading contemplative voices of our time, including folks like Cynthia Bourgeault, Richard Rohr, Mirabai Starr, James Findley, and the late Lerita Coleman Brown. Indeed, with the passing of dear ones like Lerita, Barbara Holmes, Elias Marechal, and Jim Forest, the interviews in the Encountering Silence archive are not only evergreen, but increasingly valuable as they represent some of the most important elders of our community.

And just so you know, Encountering Silence is not a “former” podcast — we’ve been on hiatus for a while, but all three of us hope to return to creating new episodes when our schedules will allow it. So stay in touch!

Even if you already know and love Encountering Silence, you may not know that I have two other podcasts — a new co-hosted podcast called Radical Mystics, and my personal forum, AnamChara Audio. All three can be accessed on Substack, as well as through major podcast directories like Spotify, Apple Podcasts or Amazon.

Here’s a quick rundown of each…

Encountering Silence was my first podcast — we launched our first episode in late 2017 (hard to believe it’s been almost 9 years!). Our theme, of course, is silence, and while that was intended to be approached as broadly as possible, in practice it meant we focused on contemplative spirituality and also on how silence can be misused: what we came to refer to as “toxic silence.” But whether it’s the silence that oppresses or the silence that sets us free, we loved to explore it with our many amazing conversation partners. Co-hosted with Cassidy Hall and Kevin Johnson.

Find Encountering Silence on Substack or on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or Audible.

Anamchara Audio has its roots in the COVID-19 pandemic, when I worked briefly on two podcast ideas I called Via Mystica and Schola Mystica, eventually recording about 12 episodes which were released between September and December 2020. At that point my attention moved to other things, and those baby podcasts just gathered dust. Recently, I combined them into a single feed I’m calling AnamChara Audio (after my blog, of course) with the first new episode in almost six years being released in August 2026. Lots of new ideas, so more to come. This one is just me!

Find AnamChara Audio on Substack or on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or Audible.

Radical Mystics is my latest podcast initiative. It began with a day-long program in person at the Wild Goose Festival’s Wisdom Camp in 2026. Co-faciliated by Debonee Morgan and me, the Radical Mystics Wisdom Camp explored the intersection of silent contemplative spirituality and the call to promote peace, justice and community in today’s world. The 2025 event was a success, and as we began planning the 2026 Wisdom Camp, we felt that this topic is too big for just one programmed event a year. So we launched the Radical Mystics Substack and podcast. If you share a passion for mystical spirituality and social action, we hope you will join us. Co-hosted with Debonee Morgan.

Find Radical Mystics on Substack or on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or Audible.

These are not “multiple episodes every day” kinds of podcasts — you can subscribe to all three and I can confidently tell you that your feed will not be overwhelmed with my voice. Radical Mystics is currently the most active, and even there we’re only envisioning 2-4 episodes a month. But when you do subscribe to all three, you’ll get all my new audio content. So please, sign up for them all!

As the fir-tree lifts up itself with a far different need from the need of the palm-tree, so does each [person] stand before God, and lift up a different humanity to the common Father. And for each God has a different response. —George MacDonald1

George MacDonald (1824-1905) is perhaps best known today as the 19th century fantasy writer who was such a profound inspiration to J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. His children’s books, including The Princess and the Goblin and At the Back of the North Wind, continue to be published in beautiful keepsake editions. John Philip Newell praised MacDonald as an important voice in the modern-day survival of Celtic spirituality, and I would add that he is perhaps one of the most under-rated of mystics from the last 200 years.

The beauty and idiosyncratic splendor of his mystical vision is on full display in his anthology called Unspoken Sermons — “unspoken” because they were written but never preached from a pulpit.2 And among those unspoken sermons, “The New Name” offers a particularly lovely vision of the dynamic nature of divine love.

This sermon reflects on a puzzling verse in the New Testament (Revelation 2:17) that suggests God will give us each a white stone with a unique new name on it when we go to heaven. We each get a unique new name because we are all, each of us, unique expressions of God’s love. Because of this, our capacity to love God is likewise one-of-a-kind. We are all like musical instruments, each of us creating a different melody and sound that will never be expressed by anyone else, throughout all space and time. Our contribution to the beauty of life (both here on earth and eventually in heaven) is not only unique, but uniquely beautiful. If we had never existed, the symphony of heavenly music would be all the poorer for it.

MacDonald seems to be saying something exquisitely simple and beautiful to us:

You matter. Your gift to life, to God, to the universe is irreplaceable and infinitely beautiful. Your very existence is a blessing to everyone. Thank you for being you, and for the life you hold and the love you share.

For a number of years I taught a class on spiritual writing for a continuing education program here in Atlanta. I used several different textbooks over the years; my favorite by far was The Art of Spiritual Writing by Vinita Hampton Wright, who for many years was an editor with Loyola Press in Chicago. I loved this book because it offered wonderful insights into the craft of writing, from journaling to publishing; but also drew clear connections between writing and spiritual practice. This quotation, one of many gems in the book, brings home the author’s gentle, clear-headed wisdom:

Prayer is attentiveness to your life and openness to the day and humility in the face of criticism and resolve in the moments of self-doubt. — Vinita Hampton Wright1

It echoes the wisdom of the French mystic Simone Weil, who said that “absolutely unmixed attention” is prayer.2 Vinita Hampton Wright takes this bit of wisdom and grounds it in the everyday reality of life. Not only to be attentive to your life, but to experience “openness to the day,” so prayer has a present-moment quality to it that is as essential as the attention.

Hampton Wright is not merely offering us spiritual encouragement; she is also providing practical advice to the writer who is hoping to be published some day. For such a person, prayer is an expression of humility: the down-to-earth resilience that enables a person to receive criticism, not with defensiveness or self-abnegation, but as a simple reality of creative work. No matter how good your work may be, to share it with others is to be vulnerable to rejection or criticism. This leads to her final point: prayer is resolve in the moments of self-doubt.

I have a longstanding and intimate relationship with my own self-doubt, and I sometimes fool myself into thinking that I’m the only person who second-guesses myself. It’s reassuring that be reminded that such “moments of self-doubt” are actually quite common. Writers (and other creators) discover that their relationship with self-doubt is not about “if” it happens, but rather “when” it occurs. When it does, it’s helpful to remember that prayer can guide us through such choppy waters.

Prayer, then, is the great antidote. Prayer calls us to be ruthlessly present to the exact moment we find ourselves in, even the moments of doubt and angst. Prayer is a reminder to be humble in the recognition that not all moments are pleasant or joyful; and to be resilient even when the transitory circumstances of our lives call us to question whatever might be going on.

A mind at peace, stilled, available for conscious thinking at will is of major value for those of us who confront chaos, confusion, noise, and numbness as our pace of life quickens with the ever more of things. — Sr. Mary Margaret Funk, OSB1

After years of my own silent prayer practice, I have come to the conclusion that inner peace is not guaranteed to those who dive into the contemplative way. As more than one spiritual teacher has pointed out, entering into the silence within can bring a sense of chaos as quickly as it might bring us peace.

So many of us carry deep conflicts in our hearts. We have interpersonal conflicts with family, colleagues, and other community members. Meanwhile, we so often are deeply concerned about the fault lines in our society, the social, political, economic and religious divisions that seem to cause (or sustain) so much pain and suffering in our world. We may desperately want to experience peace within, but again and again we seem stymied by how the practice of contemplative prayer seems to bring us anything but peace.

Perhaps this is not a failing. Perhaps it is actually a sacred calling.

Kenneth Leech wrote beautifully about how contemplatives explore the waste of their own being.2 His point is that we live in a conflicted and chaotic world; so how can we expect our prayer to be somehow immune to that chaos? On the contrary, when we meet the inner chaos head-on, we may not experience peace but we do experience something even greater: truth, truth that comes to us from the very heart of God. We discover that a contemplative prayer practice is not designed to make us “feel good” so much as it is meant to equip us to meet whatever challenges life may throw at us, responding to chaos with curiosity, to conflict with compassion.

In the first of her five-volume “Matters” series of contemplative teachings, Benedictine sister Mary Margaret Funk points out that “a mind at peace” is “of major value” for this practice of meeting confusion with clarity. On the surface, it may seem that she and I experience contemplation quite differently. I say it is highly unlikely if not impossible to experience inner peace even through contemplation, whereas she affirms not only that it is possible to embody such peace, but that it is extremely valuable to us when we do.

I don’t think there’s a contradiction here. When we bring our minds and hearts into a sustained practice of contemplative prayer, we are given a greater peace, a greater stillness, than we might otherwise have enjoyed. Often, it is hard to truly experience or appreciate this “relative” peace. But Sr. Meg reminds us that even in the midst of the chaos and the noise, the still peaceful awareness is present within us. It may not be a source of pleasure — but it is a valuable resource for meeting life’s challenges with a contemplative heart.

The word deconstruction has practically become a code word for people who are examining their religious faith and finding a need to re-think what they believe — or, perhaps, to abandon their prior beliefs altogether. Deconstruction implies jettisoning what simply no longer seems credible in favor of a new spiritual outlook, even if that means an entirely new way of thinking about things such as God, faith, or church.

As a concept, deconstruction comes from the postmodern philosopher Jacques Derrida (1930-2004), who coined the term in the 1960s to explain his approach to reading texts critically. Postmodern philosophy recognizes that almost any declarative statement is built on a number of assumptions, tensions, perhaps even conflicts — which, when taken into consideration, can considerably change the way we interpret or understand the text we are reading. It’s much more nuanced than just reading something through the eyes of skepticism or doubt. The idea is that the tensions and conflicts are embedded in the text itself — often because the very language that we use is so dualistic. We can’t talk about light without understanding “not-light” or dark. Same goes for male and female, good and bad, faith and doubt.

We can see that Jesus himself liked to deconstruct.

These paradoxical statements reveal a moral understanding that goes far beyond the simple binary of good and bad that most of us were taught as children.

Even within a single religious framework like Christianity, mysticism has an unnerving tendency to contradict itself and deconstruct itself in bewildering and playful ways. — The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism, chapter 21

The mystics, too, were deconstructors. Again and again, they offer us statements that seem to be at odds with “common sense” or ordinary reason (and ordinary theology). Here are just a few examples:

There’s plenty more where these came from.

My point is quite simple: for anyone who feels a need to deconstruct their faith now, there might be some small consolation in knowing that the mystics have been “faith-deconstructors” for centuries. Mystical contemplation is not a path toward nihilism: it does not lead to a place of cynical anger and rejection of faith altogether; rather, it is profoundly creative, inviting us to create a new sense of appreciation for spiritual wisdom and faith in the mystery, even when all the old doctrines and propositions have become meaningless to us. Indeed, it may be that very experience of meaninglessness which invites us to cross the threshold of mystery — a threshold where darkness invites us into a hidden yet profoundly compassionate light, the light of heaven within.

The Korean Buddhist nun Daehaeng Kun Sunim was a renowned Dae Seon Sa or “Great Zen Master.” Following her death in 2012, a number of her dharma talks were published in the anthology Wake Up and Laugh. Her teaching, like that of most Zen elders, is simple, direct, practical, and insightful. This can be seen in a quote from her dharma talk “Unwavering Faith”:

Let go of the idea that some thought or mental state is hindering you, and let go of even the idea that you have to practice diligently; just maintain steady, unwavering faith in your fundamental mind. Because it is inherently endowed with everything, all you have to do is believe in it. — Zen Master Daehaeng1

It’s so easy to get caught up in the notion that a spiritual discipline is “necessary.” When we take on a commitment like daily Centering Prayer, if we miss a day or two, it’s not just a blip — it’s a crisis. We’ve failed! We blew our streak, we dropped the ball, we’ve stained our spirituality with the black mark of indiscipline. What’s so insidious here is how quickly our desire for spiritual freedom turns into an ironic means of deeper bondage. We can take up a practice for the purpose of inner liberation, only to find that the very practice itself has become a kind of trap: a prison that can inspire us to thoughts and feelings of self-judgment over any perceived imperfection or lapse in commitment.

Zen Master Daehaeng offers a simple antidote: just let go, and have faith. Have faith in your own mind, even if it is clouded with distractions and confusion and ignorance. “It is inherently endowed with everything,” she points out. In other words, we already have everything we need.

A contemplative exercise is not something to do to compensate for our failures, but about gently learning to pay attention to the gifts we already carry within us. Nothing is hindering us, nothing is lacking, nothing is getting in the way. Our imperfections are just what they are imperfect parts of the dance of life just like dirt is part of nature. When we simply hold faith in our minds and hearts, we consent to discovering the miracle of who we truly are: luminous, loved, and beautifully alive.

Silence is safe, natural, serene, and immediately available in our hearts, minds, and bodies. We do not need to empty ourselves in order to be contemplative, as if that were even possible. We gently choose to be present to the stillness between and beneath all the sounds and thoughts that flow through our lives.

Our thoughts, our feelings, and our heartbeats are merely the sounds of life dancing in the silence. They arise, and they fall away. We do not have to fight them, suppress them, or criticize them. We may simply let them be.

The play of consciousness and awareness is like clouds floating across a beautiful blue sky. They come and they go; they are always changing. The clouds often enhance the beauty of the firmament, and the vast celestial openness is always there, no matter how overcast it is.

As we discover how simply available silence already is, we recognize how it actually forms a subtle interior presence: tender, compassionate, watching. This infinite presence beholds us from within, invites our ever-deepening beholding, and reveals that all is one love.

Silence has no fixed location in space or time. When we attend to it, we attend to heaven and we attend to eternity: all right here, and right now. Eternity abides in our hearts, and heaven is manifest in our very bodies.

The work of contemplation is a gesture of consent. We consent to the silence. We consent to the presence. We consent to love, and to joy. We consent to peace, and to each fruit of the Spirit. Such assent does not make everything suddenly better, but it lays the foundation for an ongoing transformation of life.

The ocean of grace we find flowing in our hearts eagerly desires to be given away. To be a contemplative is to be an embodiment of love, an exemplar of humility, and a catalyst for justice and reconciliation. The still point within will transform every aspect of our lives, so long as we welcome it with gratitude and care.

— Skye McColman & Cynthia Hizer

Thanks to my good friend the Rev. Cynthia Hizer for working with me to shape and hone this series of contemplative affirmations. We are happy to share these with everyone. Please feel free to download the audio and/or the graphic above, or to cut and paste the text. All we ask is that you acknowledge us as the authors, and a link back to www.mccolman.net would be nice as well.

When I was a very small child — say 4 or 5 years old — I had a recurring nightmare. In it I was at one end of a large room, filled with tables and chairs — probably similar to the day care center where my mother would leave me on occasion. In the dream, the room was empty, except for two beings — myself and one other, at the other end of the chamber.

It was a grown-up. But I didn’t think of him as a person; in fact, I called him the “Iron Beast.” Not Iron Man as in music or comics — just the Iron Beast. Since I was so little, he was much taller than me. He was dressed head to toe in black, and his head was covered by a full helmet and mask. I could see nothing of his face, except for two slits where his eyes would be — but instead of eyes, all I could see was a piercing red glow, as if what was inside the mask was a furnace rather than a face. The helmet was round and covered with spikes, rather like a medieval morning star mace ball.

I assume it will surprise no one when I say the Iron Beast completely creeped me out.

But he wasn’t just waving at me from across the room. He wanted me. And it was not a “friendly” desire. I don’t know if he wanted to kill me, or eat me, or in some other way hurt, dominate or control me. I just know that he was after me — and I knew better than to just stand there and see what he wanted.

As I said, he was huge — the furniture was a minor inconvenience to him. He grabbed one of the tables by the corner, and flung it away from him as if it were no weightier than a folding chair. And he started running straight toward me.

I turned around and ran, fast as I could, for my life. And that’s when I would wake up.

The Iron Beast never caught me in my nightmares, so I couldn’t say what would happen next. Would I beg? Would he listen? What horror would ensue?

Such questions would not have occurred to me back when I was having these nocturnal terrors. All I knew was that the dream was scary and the monster was terrifying. I needed to run from it at all costs.

And frankly, that’s all I needed to know.

I couldn’t tell you how many times the Iron Beast invaded my dreamspace. I know at least two or three times, and possibly more (and who knows how many times he might have lurked in my subconscious but I graciously forgot when I woke up the next morning).

But I tell you what: the Iron Beast was such a powerful figure that even now, more than six decades later, he remains my archetypal nightmare image. I’ve tried to do my own amateur psychoanalysis concerning him: was he a symbol of my brother who bullied me? Of my own reptilian brain? Perhaps he was the embodiment of my own deep-seated anxiety, something I can clearly recognize when I look back into my early childhood memories, but back then I had no words or ways to express that all-pervasive angst, other than to cry when something particularly upset me.

When as a teenager I temporarily dallied with fundamentalist Christianity, it was obvious that on a purely archetypal level, the Iron Beast appeared to be a demon (if not the devil himself). Interestingly, though, I never had any kind of intuitive sense of him as a demon of hell — even though he did seem evil. Maybe I was just too young to even know what hell was (my family did not regularly attend church until I was 12, many years after these dreams). Looking back from today’s vantage point, I think he was more a part of me than some sort of alien intruder; what I suppose Carl Jung might have called an image of my shadow.

Eventually those nightmares faded away, and my young life carried on. I was a very shy and socially awkward child, with few friends and often given to just playing alone — and I don’t have any memories of feeling lonely or sad when I was alone; on the contrary, I found that being with other kids caused me so much anxiety, that I appreciated the peacefulness of being all by myself.

I had no interest in sports, but I played with little toy cars (Hot Wheels and Matchbox). I would draw pictures of dinosaurs. I loved music (I had a vinyl record of Disney tunes that I practically wore out), and also enjoyed reading: Disney again — I had a big book of illustrated stories based on Disney movies. Eventually I graduated from those to Hardy Boy books, but that literary evolution came a year or so after the time I scared myself thanks to the Sun Monster.

Being such a loner, I was used to entertaining myself through the power of my own imagination. I suppose you could call what I am about to describe a daydream. But it was not a passive daydream Rather, it was a kind of directed imagination where I was like a movie director creating the story that played out in my head. I might even act out the actions of this “movie” in my body as I played.

One day I was playing in just this imaginary/imaginal way. I remember vividly that I was in my mom and dad’s bedroom, and in my mind’s eye I could see a town or a city that was being besieged by a giant figure who towered over the settlement, tall like Gulliver towering over Lilliput. But this giant was not friendly, the way Gulliver was. Rather, he was somewhat menacing and threatening, like the Iron Beast — only instead of a mace-like helmet, his head was bright and white-hot, like the very sun itself perched on his shoulders. So I called him the Sun Monster. The Sun Monster’s hands and feet seemed to be all afire. As it marched on the city, the tiny people below it screamed and fled — not unlike how I had fled from the Iron Beast in my nightmares, six or seven years earlier. Clearly, the Sun Monster intended to destroy this innocent settlement — and it was all happening in my own daydream. I was the embodiment, the creator, of this very destructive force.

Dear readers, I kid you not: I got so frightened by my own daydream that I had to stop playing and take some time to calm myself down. It was probably a little child-sized panic attack, not as terrifying as the full-blown panic attacks that would visit me as an anxious young adult, but still scary enough that when it was over, I didn’t even want to think about the Sun Monster.

I was rattled. I knew that the Sun Monster was just a figment of my own imagination, and that unlike a nightmare, I had some control over the course that my daydream would take. But in retrospect, the upset feelings seemed to prevent me from resolving the emotional activation on my own, through my play.

For example, I could have imagined a beautiful woman with the moon for her head, coming to save the village and encourage the Sun Monster to be nice instead of mean. But I didn’t imagine a Moon Maiden (in fact, I just made her up right now, as I am typing out these words). No, I just recoiled in a self-generated fear from something that emerged out of my own mind. I marveled that I could imagine something that was so scary.

Integrating My Imaginal Power

It would be years before I would really unpack all of this. Years before I could begin to see the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster as anything other than terrifying fears lurking deep down within my own mind.

Today, I marvel at them, but not for how much they terrified me. Yes, I wish I could go back in time and encourage my child-me to summon forth just a bit more courage, so that I could stand up to the Iron Beast and find out what it really wanted, or call off the Sun Monster’s attack in order to save the town and talk with that inner brightness instead.

But it’s okay. I did find my courage, eventually. I would go on to learn about psychology and about concepts like the shadow and the reptilian mind. Eventually I would begin to think of the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster as not just symbols of hostility and destruction, but also as symbols of strength, of energy, of inner power.

Like Rumi in his poem “The Guest House,” today I’m more inclined to invite this beast and monster in for tea, just so we could have a talk and I might learn a bit more about them — and about myself.

I once heard a veteran psychedelic researcher, Bill Richards, talk about how to deal with having a challenging experience during an ayahuasca journey. He said if you saw something like a giant anaconda, the trick was not to run away from it, but to stand your ground — to ask it questions like “What are you doing here in my mind?” And “What is it that you are here to teach me?” Indeed, he even suggested that you could jump into the mouth of the anaconda, look through its eyes, and become the anaconda! Then you could really experience its lesson, from the inside out.

When I consider the similarities between the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster, I wonder if I was trying to do something along those lines, even as a small anxiety-ridden child. I subconsciously “became” the beast, by conjuring the monster in my own daydream. At the time, it unfortunately scared me so much that I cut the “experiment” short and didn’t allow myself to see it through. But between therapy and meditation, I eventually learned as an adult to befriend even my own inner dark places.

One thing I certainly learned from the Iron Beast, and especially the Sun Monster, was the power of my own imagination. So powerful, in fact, that it could actually frighten me. Which tells me that there is a “reality” at work, even in our dreams and our imagination. Of course, the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster are not real in any kind of empirical sense — they only exist in my mind. I tried drawing the Iron Beast a few times as a kid, and now as an adult it is uncanny how an AI image generator like ChatGPT can render an accurate illustration of these imaginal beings, just from my prompts. But that’s as “real” as they get, at least in an empirical sense.

But the reality that counts here is not empirical reality: it’s imaginal reality. The reality of the power of the imagination. Bill’s questions are helpful: what were the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster doing in my young mind, and what were they there to teach me?

Here are a few of my thoughts.

First, I can’t help but wonder if the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster are actually the same archetypal figure: the light that shone through the Beast’s mace-like helmet seemed to have been the very sun itself, once the headgear was removed. The proportions are different and the circumstances of the daydream were unlike the setting of the nightmares. But still, it’s remarkable how heat and light seemed to characterize both of these imaginal fiends.

The literature of contemplation provides some interesting anecdotes that offer a perspective on my childhood anxieties. Here are two stories, one from many centuries ago, the other from just the middle of the last century, and a couple of verses from the Bible that I think contribute to this reflection. First, a story from antiquity, recounting an encounter between two desert elders:

Abba Lot visited Abba Joseph and said to him, “Abba, to the best of my ability I do a little fasting, praying, and meditating. I maintain hēsychia and purge my thoughts to the best of my ability. What else should I be doing?” Standing up, the elder stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire; and he said to him, “If you are willing, become entirely like fire.”1

Now, a more recent story, from the great 20th century mystic Thomas Merton:

In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people…
This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud…
As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.
…I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.2

If you are willing, become entirely like fire… and realize that you are shining like the sun. I’ve written before about how Jesus is quoted as saying both “I am the light of the world” and, speaking to his followers, “you are the light of the world.”3 Is there a fundamental unity between light, embodiment, and divinity? Merton and Abba Joseph both seem to think so, and I rather think Christ would agree with them.

So where do the Iron Beast and the Sun Monster fit in — as archetypes of light that is not cuddly and encouraging, but frightening and seemingly destructive? I do not know the answer to this question, and perhaps it is only for me to try to make sense of the nightmares of my childhood. But what is relevant, I believe, to us all, is simply this:

The power of the human imagination seems to entail far more than just a capacity to tell a meaningful story. It touches on powerful emotions, powerful archetypes, deep dimensions of the psyche that may elude our understanding. From a child’s nightmare to an adult’s challenging psychedelic experience to the awe-inspiring work of deep therapy (including the “divine therapy” of centering prayer), we all have incredible capacities within us for interior transformation, even if brought to us through experiences that are unsettling and discomfiting. I am not a therapist, and I would caution readers not to take any of this as therapeutic guidance for your inner journey: but I am suggesting that the inner work that may arise through nightmares, meditation, or therapy invites us into can help us find meaning, unveil layers of self-understanding, and even facilitate spiritual awakening.

Featured image: “The Iron Beast and the Sun Monster,” AI-generated with OpenAI's ChatGPT; concept and creative direction by Carl “Skye” McColman.

Note: I announced on June 21 that I now have a new nickname, Skye (read that post by clicking here). Since then, I have heard from a number of people who have asked about the story behind it. This post tells that story.

Why am I now Skye?

The story of how Skye came to me basically began a number of years ago, with my recognition that I am nonbinary. I came out publicly as nonbinary three years ago, in an article called “God’s Pronouns” which appeared in the book of essays Soul Food. If you haven’t read that, click here for an excerpt — and here’s the gist: I’ve known since childhood that I was “different” but after years of shame for feeling that I was too feminine or simply “not man enough,” I came to understand that gender is for many people fluid, expansive, and not easily categorized as either male or female. This isn’t “transgender” in the sense of wanting or needing to transition from one gender to another.1 It’s just that for me, my gender identity and expression encompasses both masculine and feminine dimensions. I’ve learned that relatively few people my age use words like genderfluid or nonbinary, but these concepts are much more accepted, and widely understood, among younger generations.

I was well into my midlife years when I began to identify specifically as nonbinary. Connecting with or reading about other nonbinary persons introduced me to the idea of using gender-free pronouns (like the singular they/them), and I learned that many nonbinary persons changed their name, or adopted a nickname, to express a more unisex or non-gendered identity. Here are a couple of publicly known examples: when actor Rebecca Taylor-Klaus came out as nonbinary, they began to go by Bex instead of Rebecca; activist Grace Dunham (sibling of Lena Dunham) came out as nonbinary and began using the name Cyrus.

While I could see the beauty and grace of adopting a unisex or gender-free name and pronouns, I resisted doing so for a simple reason: I had already published numerous books, podcast episodes, and blog posts as Carl. I liked the name Carl, and so it seemed pointless to take on a new one. So I put it out of my mind.

But it appears that my heart and soul had a different idea.

An Unexpected Yearning

In 2025 my wife and I spent three weeks in Hawaii where I had a series of speaking engagements. But even with my work commitments, we also had plenty of free time to simply enjoy being together as a couple — as well as to enjoy being with our hostess and other friends. I hadn’t thought of those three weeks as a retreat, but it very much felt like that once we got there. Like any other retreat, I found myself giving more time to meditation, prayer, contemplation, and writing than I do on my normal workdays. I spent more time each day in silence, simply reflecting on my life and my work. It was in this context that I felt a surprising but sudden — and insistent — longing.

I felt a desire to embrace a new name.

Never mind how much I liked my given name, or thought that a new name was “impractical.” Once this desire showed up, it was insistent. The time had come for a new way to be addressed.

The name itself didn’t show up at first — only that desire for a new one.

I prayed about it and began doing research into names. Obviously, my first inclination was to consider nonbinary and unisex names. But even simple Google searches revealed hundreds of contenders. Many unisex and gender-free names have nature associations: Sage, Rowan, Alder, River, and so forth. I saw lots that I liked, but none that especially sang to me. Quickly feeling overwhelmed, I decided a little bit of narrowing down was called for, so I decided to consider three criteria in my search for a name:

• it needed to be unisex/nonbinary;

• it needed to have a clear Celtic association;

• and it needed to have a contemplative, meditative, or mystical feel.

Even by limiting myself to names that fit each of these conditions, I still ended up with a torrent of options (I now have so much more respect for expectant parents and their responsibility to pick a name for their baby). I began to narrow the list down to only the ones that seemed to qualify in all three of these ways: unisex, Celtic and contemplative.

Eventually I narrowed it down to a list of about 30 possibilities. In that list, one name in particular sang to me: Skye.

Skye is more often given to girls than boys, but like Tracy or Kelly, it is shared by both genders often enough to show up on unisex lists.2 Since Carl clearly leans masculine, the idea of a feminine-leaning unisex name appealed to me. But it also fit my other two criteria: It is thoroughly Celtic, since it comes from the Isle of Skye off the northwest coast of Scotland. And as I have written elsewhere, the sky is a legendary metaphor for meditation, especially in Buddhism (this also means it has a pun embedded in it, which for me is definitely a bonus). It also evokes pre-Christian Celtic mythology where the elements of nature are understood not as abstract earth, air, water and fire but as the more earthy land, sea and sky (with the sacred fire at the center). There’s also a folk tradition — which I have learned is not accepted by most Celtic language scholars, but the folklore is still out there — that the Gaelic word for Skye, Sgitheanach, may be related to Norse words for “mist” or “cloud.” That, of course, brought to mind The Cloud of Unknowing.

The more I thought of it, the more Skye seemed to be the perfect name for me.

Sharing Skye

Nicknames are pointless if others won’t use them, so I faced a big question: would anyone else, starting with my wife, even accept it? After all, Fran and I had been married over 32 years at that point, so inviting her to switch up what she called me felt like a big ask. Feeling nervous about it, I shared with her what was going on in my heart. She listened and said she was open to the idea, so I gave her the list of the names I had put together. In reality, there was only one entry on the list that I was truly excited about, but I wanted to see if it spoke to her as well.

Fran went through the list carefully, and we discussed almost every item. Ironically, some of the ones that I did rather like, she didn’t care for at all — and vice versa. But when she finally came to Skye (the list was in alphabetical order), she stopped. “oh, I really like this one,” she declared simply and confidently. I told her that was, to my mind, the one as well. So we began using it just among ourselves.

Before long I simply loved this name, and felt excitement over inviting it into my life. But immediately I began to second-guess myself. Was this merely a fun little idea that occurred to me in Hawaii, almost like a vacation fling? Even if Skye still felt good after going back home, how was I going to use it when I have been publishing as Carl for so long now? I kept praying and pondering, and decided that the reasonable path to take would be to introduce it to my closest friends, to my spiritual director and therapist, and to be in discernment about it for six months. Fran and I were planning a vacation to England and Scotland in June, so that seemed to be another important step: to go to the Isle of Skye and see if the name still seemed to fit there.

I also decided that Skye was not meant to replace Carl. After all, it’s a new nickname. Just as C.S. Lewis preferred to be called Jack without ever renouncing his given name Clive (which apparently he hated), I decided I wanted to embrace Skye without rejecting Carl (which, frankly, I still think is a perfectly fine moniker).

So that’s what I have done. Little by little, more friends and associates were introduced to Skye, and nearly all reacted enthusiastically. The trip to Scotland was rich and lovely, and while I could only “ask” the island for permission to use the name in an intuitive, imaginal way, I felt that the answer was very much a “yes.” So I came home and proceeded to add “Skye” to my website and social media sites, and on June 21, 2026 — the Summer Solstice — I announced the name publicly online.

So that’s the story of how I came to be Skye.

One More Thing

The other question I get asked is, “which name should I use?”

I imagine many people, especially those who have known me for a while, may find it’s not easy to switch over to Skye — and that’s okay. Carl is not a dead name3 — it’s still my given name, given to me by parents I loved dearly. Here is what I’m telling people: “Skye is my preferred name, but Carl is okay to use. I am happy to be called Carl, and I love to be called Skye.”

Maggie Ross has died.1 If you’ve never heard of her, she was a fascinating (and controversial) Anglican theologian and spiritual writer. There was a time when her blog, Voice in the Wilderness, was one of the richest resources for new contemplative writing online.

I never met her, although we traded a few emails over the years. I found her writing and her ideas fascinating, compelling, enlightening, infuriating, and at times just plain wrongheaded.2 Apparently the feeling was mutual; she wasn’t afraid to tell me (either in an email or publicly on her blog) where she disagreed with me on whatever topic I happened to be writing about. But Maggie was like that.

Her real name was Martha Reeves; she had been a religious sister in an Anglican Community but later in life lived as a vowed solitary — almost like a modern day Julian of Norwich. She combined a keen understanding of contemplative spirituality with an almost curmudgeonly capacity to criticize trends in contemporary spiritual life — even when her views were idiosyncratic.

She thought mysticism was a useless word and that most people who talked about mysticism were talking about a kind of spiritual self-focus that was mostly a type of interior solipsistic narcissism (clearly, I disagree with her, although I think her criticism is useful as a cautionary word of warning).

Another word/concept that she gunned for was experience.

Her argument was simple: an authentic mystical or contemplative encounter with God happens at a level deeper than our ordinary conscious awareness. You can’t “experience” a deep encounter with God any more than one experiences a coma, or even deep dreamless sleep. People come out of comas with no sense of how much time has passed. For Maggie Ross, a true contemplative encounter with God is similarly beyond the capacity of the ordinary mind to experience.

But what about people who say — and sincerely believe — “I’ve had an experience of God”?

Maggie is no longer here to tell us what she thinks. But based on her writing I suspect she would have dismissed such “experiences” as little more than imaginary constructions within the psyche. In other words, a person has an “experience” of God in their mind, because they want it so badly that the mind creates it — so convincing an “experience” that it seems utterly real, more real than any dream.

I don’t think I need to point out to most readers of my blog how profoundly countercultural this is, pointing in the opposite direction from the way most people talk about mysticism and spiritual experience in our time.

Not all of what Maggie has to say about experience is negative, however.

Experience—interpretation—is necessary, even vital, not only for understanding the world and functioning in it, but also to feed the work of silence. What we need to remember, rather, is that experience is a construct, a re-presentation, and therefore lifeless; and, if one does not consciously allow for its virtual, provisional, and sometimes deceitful nature, it becomes encapsulating at the very moment that an “experience” is recognized. When the mind is in balance, experience (interpretation) and the resources of the deep mind yield to and enlarge each other.3

Here it is clear that she sees experience as a function of the psyche, a way we interpret the raw data of our lives. Such interpretation (which begins at a level far deeper than our thinking mind) feels so real that we label it an “experience” and trust it implicitly. We kiss someone, and it feels very good: that’s an experience of love. We find out that the person does not reciprocate our feelings, and so we feel devastated: we interpret that as the experience of a broken heart. And on it goes.

Therefore, experience is pretty much what it means to be alive and self-aware. But alongside experience is the normal human capacity for self-deception, self-illusion. Like Jeremiah dourly insisting that “the heart is devious above all else; it is perverse — who can understand it?” (Jer. 17:9), Maggie Ross insists that we must have a similarly skeptical view of our conscious experience, no matter how “real” or certain it may seem. If you’ve had an experience of God, that’s wonderful: but it might have just been a figment of your imagination.

Religious fundamentalists (and fundamentalist atheists) will reject this out of hand, since it challenges their brittle worldview. To the religious fundamentalist, an experience of God must be real (unless it conflicts with their religious dogma, of course). Fundamentalist atheists are the mirror image of such literalist believers: to the dogmatically-convinced atheist, an experience of God must be imaginary, since they are utterly convinced that God cannot exist.

In the middle are, well, the humble folks: those who are willing to admit that an experience might be understood in more than one way. So humble believers, humble non-believers, agnostics, and contemplatives all will say, “I have had an experience, that feels really real. I interpret it this way, but of course I might be mistaken.”

Should mysticism be equated with “the experience of God”? After all, some great writers (like Thomas Merton and Ramon Panikkar to mention two examples that leap to mind) promote a clearly experiential understanding of spirituality. Maggie is gone, and if she were still here she would probably make some snarky comment about how mysticism and experience are equally useless concepts. Because she’s gone, it might be easy to just dismiss her as a contemplative outlier. But I want to acknowledge that I see something valuable in her critique.

Whatever one might believe (or disbelieve) about God, I think it’s fair to say that God cannot be poured into the human mind any more than the ocean can be poured into a thimble. With this in mind, it’s easy to see that any human experience of God, mystical or otherwise, must be limited, provisional, incomplete, subject to error, and ultimately ineffable (it can’t be put into words or otherwise communicated). If all of this is true (and I believe it is), then suddenly it begins to make sense why great mystics from Pseudo-Dionysius to Meister Eckhart to John of the Cross to, well, Maggie Ross, all insist that the most reliable thing we can say about God is just how much we cannot say, we cannot experience, we cannot know. God is mystery. God is the mystery that surrounds and deepens our very concept of mystery.

In her posthumously published manuscript Thoughts without Order concerning the Love of God, French philosopher/mystic Simone Weil wrote, “It is not up to us to believe in God, but only not to bestow our love upon false gods.” We cannot guarantee any experience is truly an experience of God. But we can learn to discern when our experiences do seem to be based on illusion, or ego, or narcissism, or anything else that seems to get in the way of God, rather than bringing us closer to the ineffable mystery we call God.

Does this make mysticism useless? Not at all. Our experience remains our experience. I won’t go as far as Maggie to declare all experience as somehow alien to a true encounter with God. After all, I agree with mystics from St. Benedict to Julian of Norwich to Ignatius of Loyola, each of whom insisted that we can behold or find God in all things — even in our apparent experience of God, but also even in an apparent lack of experience of God. God is present even in our imagination of God; God is present in our unwillingness to trust our imagination or take it seriously.

I admit, I have led us into the swamp of paradox here. Mysticism has a way of bringing us to precisely this kind of place. We can become disgusted by the logical impossibility of it all, or we can accept the invitation to “become like little children” and play a game of hide and seek with the Love at the heart of all things. God, once again, is in it all. But our choice determines what our experience will be (even if it turns out to be an experienceless experience).

N.B. I get asked from time to time why I identify as nonbinary, or how I came to see myself as such. I wrote my coming out story several years ago; it’s in an essay called “God’s Pronouns” from Soul Food: Nourishing Essays on Contemplative Living and Leadership.1 See below to read what I wrote. For the full essay, get the book — its proceeds support the Shalem Institute for Spiritual Formation, so please purchase a copy. Along with my essay, it includes writing by Lerita Coleman Brown, Valerie Brown, Gay L. Byron and many others.

Gender is a profound mystery, and so much of the language we traditionally use to describe gender can be criticized as stereotypical or limiting. Men are strong, aggressive, competitive, athletic, and proud, while women are compassionate, gentle, sensual, cooperative, and nurturing. Even as I write these words (merely for the purpose of illustration), I wince at how they seem to pigeonhole both genders. If someone truly embodies the gifts of masculinity and femininity, does it make sense to say their gender identity or expression exists beyond the binary? So often our understanding of God emerges out of our understanding of ourselves. For me, seeing God’s gender as nonbinary makes perfect sense, because it tracks with my own experience.

I still remember the first time I met someone who identified themself as nonbinary. It was at a neighborhood program in my local community for artists-as-activists, where one of the speakers introduced themself using that term. Being unfamiliar with the word but also being a writer, naturally I looked it up. I discovered that nonbinary is related to a cluster of words, mostly neologisms, that have emerged since the 1980s and 1990s to describe gender diversity and gender variance, especially beyond the binary of male and female. Words like genderfluid, gender-expansive, genderqueer, gender-nonconforming, and demigender all convey slightly different and nuanced ways of gender identity and expression. Neither male nor female, indeed! But also profoundly meaningful for me.

I was born in 1960, which means my childhood and adolescence stretched from the final days of the Eisenhower administration to the murder of John Lennon, the week I turned twenty. I was assigned male at birth, although back then no one talked about it like that. Just “It’s a boy!” But as my childhood unfolded, my boy-ness seemed to be a bit off-kilter. In fact, I came to think I was something of a failure as a boy. In my family and neighborhood, markers of masculinity included sports, hunting, fishing, working on cars, and developing physical strength—yet I remained stubbornly uninterested in all these things. Granted, on occasion I tried to “be a man,” but only for the sake of fitting in; after a couple of seasons of going hunting with my dad, I felt so relieved when I finally found the courage to tell him I really didn’t like it and wouldn’t go with him anymore, even though that meant a loss of time we spent together. My interests skewed more toward the arts, toward poetry and music and painting. And I also was interested in fashion, although I could barely admit that even to myself. And let’s just say it wasn’t just boys’ and men’s fashion that caught my eye.

As it turned out, I was not the only one who could see that my gender didn’t quite line up with the cultural expectations of our time. Other kids would point out to me (or tease me) for running, laughing, acting like a girl. Friends, trying to be helpful, would counsel me to try to tone down my femme mannerisms and body language. And kids who weren’t interested in being my friend would bully me, an easy target since I was such a “girl.”

I don’t recall ever feeling any sort of all-pervasive gender dysphoria, at least not in the way that transgender persons like Nicole Maines or Jazz Jennings have described it: an “insistent, persistent, and consistent” sense of being a girl in a boy’s body (or vice versa). When I heard about famous transpersons like Christine Jorgenson or Renée Richards, I thought they were interesting, but I never had the sense of “that’s me.” I had no sense of being in the wrong body altogether, just a kind of awareness that I wasn’t entirely at home with the expectations placed on me for being a boy—but I knew that I would be just as much a misfit if I had been born with a female body. There was plenty that I liked about being male, even with all my natural girlishness. Grasping for language to make sense of myself, by the time I was an adult I would say “I’m very androgynous” or “I’m really in touch with my feminine side.” Carl Jung’s ideas that everyone contains both a feminine anima and a masculine animus, and that one of the goals of maturity is to integrate both dimensions into our individuated psyche, resonated deeply with me.

I lived more than a half century before I stumbled across concepts like nonbinary or genderfluid. I suppose if I were born a generation or two later, I might have known—and embraced—those concepts for myself, even at a young age. And I especially wonder if, in my childhood I had been exposed to an image of God that encompassed the entire gender spectrum (with nonbinary pronouns to match), I might have been spared plenty of angst as I tried to make sense of who, in fact, God created me to be.

As I write these words, I see that they represent a coming out, and I suppose some people might find them startling or even shocking. But to me, it’s no big deal—or at least, I don’t think it ought to be a big deal. Once I understood that nonbinary gender identity is a thing, I said to myself, “Oh, so that’s what folks like me are called.”