I have a friend who lives in the mountains of Colorado.
Every so often, I drive up to his house and we build a little bonfire. For hours, we sit around the fire and talk about spiritual things.
Sometimes there's a light snow that falls over us. Other times the sky
is filled with stars. The fire pops every few minutes, and sends a cascade
of sparks into the air, like a fireworks display. We watch the sparks rise
into the sky.
"Dan," my friend says, "what more could we need."
"I can't think of anything," I say.
And it's true.
I've been reflecting lately on how my interests have changed. I used to live near New York, and I craved excitement. There were times when my friends and I would spend the entire night on the streets of Manhattan, engaging in various silliness.
The 5:30 am train would finally roll around, and we'd stumble home exhausted – only to wake up and look for the next adventure. Stimulation, excitement – that's what I craved.
But things are different now. I sit by the fire with my friend, and we marvel at the beauty of the flames, or the stars. Hours pass. We talk about God, and friendship. We notice the sounds of the nearby stream.
This happened slowly, I think – this shift toward a quieter life. It sort of snuck up on me. But now I cherish it deeply. That experience of inner quiet has become one of the most valuable things in my life.
Shining Moments
I grew up in a fairly affluent household, and as a child I had plenty of worldly things. But there was one experience that was rare and fleeting in my life: a true sense of peace.
I might never have realized I was missing a sense of peace, except that every so often, I'd be flooded with it. Just for a moment or two. It usually happened while I was taking a stroll by myself: walking home from school, or exploring the neighborhood. Like a sunbeam cutting through the clouds, it was there – extremely bright – and then gone.
Those moments, perhaps more than anything else, began to orient me toward the spiritual life. Where did those flashes of peace come from? And how could I get more? Because this wasn't like the peace of the world; this was something greater. There was warmth and love in this peace, clarity and intelligence. It was something wonderful.
Unfortunately, there were only the flashes. And as the years went on, they seemed to become more and more rare. The things of the world closed in, and those moments of peace became just a childhood memory. But I did hold onto the memory.
And then, one summer – having worked in New York – my resistance broke. There was just too much stimulation. My life was a never-ending swirl of activity, completely devoid of peace. This was, I realized, not what I wanted.
So I shifted my focus. I began working with A Course in Miracles, and began to take seriously the Course's suggestion to make peace of mind a primary goal. With peace, says the Course, comes everything. Without it we have nothing.
That seemed to make a great deal of sense.
It's All Inside
It took me a long time to accept the next part of the Course's teaching: peace of mind is an internal matter. It comes when the inner channel is clear; it vanishes when the inner channel is blocked. It can be found on the streets of Manhattan as well as in the mountains.
I am, in fact, still working to learn this lesson. It's quite tempting to believe that inner peace is dependent on external achievements, on gaining other people's good opinion, or on acquiring things. I often fall into the trap of chasing those forms.
But then I think of my friend and I sitting by the fire, having nothing but sparks, snow, and friendship. And a deep sense of peace. It's all there; all inside.
The Secret
Peace is inside – that, you could say, is the secret of the world. And yet, it's not really a secret. Virtually every spiritual teaching echoes this idea, in one form or another.
It might be more accurate to say that the idea is simply foreign to the world. Our societies are built on its opposite. We're taught that peace isn't within us, and isn't accessible except through worldly gateways.
Get this thing, find that person, and then you'll find peace, says the world. But what happens if the thing is lost, or the person leaves? What then?
Spiritual teachings reverse this idea. You have the peace of God within you, they say. You simply need to make room for it. Allow it to enter your awareness. Release all opposing ideas. It is yours – not through acquisition, but through acceptance.
One Moment at a Time
I have always found these types of ideas to be comforting. Peace is internal; you're always free to accept it; your peace of mind isn't dependent on external situations.
I spent years reading these types of ideas in A Course in Miracles and other books. The ideas made sense; they sounded right. But for a long time, I never really understood how to take them from theory to experience.
Then, one day, I came across a helpful suggestion. Take one moment, said the Course, and just for that moment, be willing to drop everything that opposes inner peace. Just for that moment, make peace of mind your goal. Be willing to accept it, if only for a moment.
Peace of mind for a moment? That felt workable. The Course wasn't asking for a big leap. Instead, it was asking for a very small step.
That is the practice of what the Course calls "the holy instant." In that instant, we release our interference to God's peace. We release our worries, our perceived deficiencies, ultimately our entire self-concept. We release our grievances toward others, our troubling memories, our plans for the future. We forget about what we think we need. We drop all our ideas about our lives.
For an instant, we come with open minds and hearts to receive that sense of peace. When the channel is clear, it comes.
I find this to be a lovely practice. Instead of aiming for complete enlightenment, we're aiming for one moment of light. One bright moment. A simple moment of open-mindedness and open-heartedness, in which we receive the peace and love of God.
This does, of course, whet the appetite for more. It gives us a taste of what we really want. But we don't need to concern ourselves with future progress. Our job is simply to drink deeply for a moment.
Again, this can take place by a snowy fire or on a New York subway. As we create room for each holy instant, and receive the gifts that flow from it, we move a little bit closer to the day when peace will cover everything.
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There was warmth and love in this peace – clarity and intelligence.
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