https://awakin.org/read/ iJourney passages are a weekly email service that delivers a little bit of wisdom. It all started with couple folks getting together on Wednesdays in the Silicon Valley. en Sat, 15 Aug 2026 21:18:51 -0700 ServiceSpace iJourney passages are a weekly email service that delivers a little bit of wisdom. It all started with couple folks getting together on Wednesdays in the Silicon Valley. ServiceSpace tow@charityfocus.org no tow@charityfocus.org (ServiceSpace) https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2811 Our mind is not our enemy. It is a sacred gift. It helps us think, question, imagine, and understand the world. But the mind is not the place where life reaches its deepest fulfillment. It is the path that gently leads us to the heart. The mind seeks answers.The heart becomes the answer. The mind can gather endless knowledge, but only the heart can transform knowledge into wisdom. The mind can plan a life of success, but only the heart can awaken a life of meaning. When the mind walks alone, it often seeks certainty, control, and achievement. When it walks with the heart, those same abilities become instruments of compassion, courage, and service. Our greatest wealth is not found in what we know, own, or accomplish. It is found in the qualities that quietly blossom when the mind bows to the heart—gratitude that asks for nothing, kindness that expects nothing in return, love that includes everyone, and generosity that flows naturally. The journey from the mind to the heart is not a journey of distance but of surrender. We do not arrive there by becoming smarter. We arrive by becoming softer. Every moment of deep listening, every act of forgiveness, every humble offering, and every silent expression of compassion gently opens the door. As the heart unfolds, something beautiful happens. The mind does not disappear—it becomes illuminated. Thought begins to serve love. Intelligence begins to serve humanity. Success begins to serve the well-being of all. Perhaps this is what it means to be truly rich: not to have more, but to need less; not to stand above others, but to belong with them; not to collect more for ourselves, but to become a channel through which love, compassion, and generosity quietly flow into the world. Our mind is not our enemy. It is our beloved friend. And when it humbly walks hand in hand with the heart, it carries us to the greatest treasure we will ever discover—the boundless richness of a heart awake to love. tow-2811 Mon, 10 Aug 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Our mind is not our enemy. It is a sacred gift. It helps us think, question, imagine, and understand the world. But the mind is not the place where life reaches its deepest fulfillment. It is the path that gently leads us to the heart. The mind seeks answers.The heart becomes the answer. The mind can gather endless knowledge, but only the heart can transform knowledge into wisdom. The mind can plan a life of success, but only the heart can awaken a life of meaning. When the mind walks alone, it often seeks certainty, control, and achievement. When it walks with the heart, those same abilities become instruments of compassion, courage, and service. Our greatest wealth is not found in what we know, own, or accomplish. It is found in the qualities that quietly blossom when the mind bows to the heart—gratitude that asks for nothing, kindness that expects nothing in return, love that includes everyone, and generosity that flows naturally. The journey from the mind to the heart is not a journey of distance but of surrender. We do not arrive there by becoming smarter. We arrive by becoming softer. Every moment of deep listening, every act of forgiveness, every humble offering, and every silent expression of compassion gently opens the door. As the heart unfolds, something beautiful happens. The mind does not disappear—it becomes illuminated. Thought begins to serve love. Intelligence begins to serve humanity. Success begins to serve the well-being of all. Perhaps this is what it means to be truly rich: not to have more, but to need less; not to stand above others, but to belong with them; not to collect more for ourselves, but to become a channel through which love, compassion, and generosity quietly flow into the world. Our mind is not our enemy. It is our beloved friend. And when it humbly walks hand in hand with the heart, it carries us to the greatest treasure we will ever discover—the boundless richness of a heart awake to love. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2802 Many of us, for whatever reason, have some kind of inborn desire to help others, to make the world a better place. It seems pretty clear that what we have now in our world is a result of the efforts of “mind.” We see that “mind” can never be truly creative, can never be truly new. It is always coming from the past. All thinking is based on the past and so can never create anything that is not based on the past. It cannot create anything that is a jump into the vertical. It is always linear, horizontal. We can see that if we truly want to “make the world a better place,” then we have to help others discover life “beyond mind,” outside of the prison of the past. And it follows that the only way we can help others discover life beyond mind is to make that discovery for ourselves. It is not enough to talk about it; but we have to be transformed by it. We have to allow it to absorb every vestige of the “me” in order to make room for life in now, in creativity, and in real love. The next question is surely how to proceed? How do we come out of the prison of the mind? How do we make that discovery of life “beyond mind”? How do we live in “now”? There may be many answers to these questions. But I can only speak from my own experience of one, and that is meditation. And by meditation, I mean simply turning our attention onto the activity of the mind. Seeing the workings of the mind without interfering, without judging, without jumping into the duality of the mind, without getting involved in the yes-no. And it is this watching, this witnessing of the mind in its totality that liberates us from its clutches. And the irony is that often what is keeping us from allowing that transformation in ourselves is our engaging in the activities of trying to make the world a better place. Our time may be consumed in social causes. We may be active in political movements. We may be trying to heal others. But all the while, we are ignoring the one glaring fact that we have not allowed our own transformation. We have been propping up the “me” through all this activity and so are still living through the mind. So let those of us who have been blessed or cursed with the disease of wanting to make the world a better place get down to the real work that will pay those dividends. Let us move “in” with a great earnestness, with a tremendous longing. And perhaps, we can actualize, we can realize that which we have been seeking: an Earth populated by beings in touch with existence; an Earth which is populated with whole, sensitive, creative beings who are not acting out of conditioning but out of the intelligence of the whole. tow-2802 Mon, 03 Aug 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Many of us, for whatever reason, have some kind of inborn desire to help others, to make the world a better place. It seems pretty clear that what we have now in our world is a result of the efforts of “mind.” We see that “mind” can never be truly creative, can never be truly new. It is always coming from the past. All thinking is based on the past and so can never create anything that is not based on the past. It cannot create anything that is a jump into the vertical. It is always linear, horizontal. We can see that if we truly want to “make the world a better place,” then we have to help others discover life “beyond mind,” outside of the prison of the past. And it follows that the only way we can help others discover life beyond mind is to make that discovery for ourselves. It is not enough to talk about it; but we have to be transformed by it. We have to allow it to absorb every vestige of the “me” in order to make room for life in now, in creativity, and in real love. The next question is surely how to proceed? How do we come out of the prison of the mind? How do we make that discovery of life “beyond mind”? How do we live in “now”? There may be many answers to these questions. But I can only speak from my own experience of one, and that is meditation. And by meditation, I mean simply turning our attention onto the activity of the mind. Seeing the workings of the mind without interfering, without judging, without jumping into the duality of the mind, without getting involved in the yes-no. And it is this watching, this witnessing of the mind in its totality that liberates us from its clutches. And the irony is that often what is keeping us from allowing that transformation in ourselves is our engaging in the activities of trying to make the world a better place. Our time may be consumed in social causes. We may be active in political movements. We may be trying to heal others. But all the while, we are ignoring the one glaring fact that we have not allowed our own transformation. We have been propping up the “me” through all this activity and so are still living through the mind. So let those of us who have been blessed or cursed with the disease of wanting to make the world a better place get down to the real work that will pay those dividends. Let us move “in” with a great earnestness, with a tremendous longing. And perhaps, we can actualize, we can realize that which we have been seeking: an Earth populated by beings in touch with existence; an Earth which is populated with whole, sensitive, creative beings who are not acting out of conditioning but out of the intelligence of the whole. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2795 A meditation student once went to the mountains, hoping to find silence. He rented a small cabin near a stream, thinking the sound of water would be soothing. At first, it was. The stream sang and shimmered over the rocks, and he sat down to meditate with great expectation. But soon his mind began to interfere. Instead of hearing the stream as simple water, he heard patterns. The sounds became a tune. The tune became annoying. Before long, the stream sounded to him like a marching band that would not stop playing. He tried to ignore it. He tried to meditate through it. But irritation grew. Finally, he got up, walked into the stream, and began moving the rocks. If the water flowed differently, he thought, surely the sound would change. Surely then he could meditate. For a while, it seemed to work. Then another rhythm appeared. Again, the sound became unbearable. Again, he moved the rocks. This went on until he realized something both simple and humbling: the problem was not the stream. The problem was the mind that could not leave the stream alone. So much of spiritual life begins this way. We believe peace will come when the conditions are rearranged. If the room were quieter, if the people around us were kinder, if our work were less demanding, if our bodies were less troublesome, if our families were more understanding — then we could be free. Of course, outer conditions matter. There are times to fix what can be fixed, to protect what needs protection, to make wise changes. But there is also a deeper training: to see how often we keep moving the rocks because we do not know how to sit beside the stream. Practice asks a different question. Not “How do I make life finally stop disturbing me?” but “Can I meet this moment without making war against it?” The dripping faucet, the crying child, the ache in the body, the person who does not behave as we wish — each reveals the same possibility. Freedom is not found by perfecting the sound of the stream. It is found when the heart stops demanding that the stream sound different before it can be at peace. tow-2795 Mon, 27 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 A meditation student once went to the mountains, hoping to find silence. He rented a small cabin near a stream, thinking the sound of water would be soothing. At first, it was. The stream sang and shimmered over the rocks, and he sat down to meditate with great expectation. But soon his mind began to interfere. Instead of hearing the stream as simple water, he heard patterns. The sounds became a tune. The tune became annoying. Before long, the stream sounded to him like a marching band that would not stop playing. He tried to ignore it. He tried to meditate through it. But irritation grew. Finally, he got up, walked into the stream, and began moving the rocks. If the water flowed differently, he thought, surely the sound would change. Surely then he could meditate. For a while, it seemed to work. Then another rhythm appeared. Again, the sound became unbearable. Again, he moved the rocks. This went on until he realized something both simple and humbling: the problem was not the stream. The problem was the mind that could not leave the stream alone. So much of spiritual life begins this way. We believe peace will come when the conditions are rearranged. If the room were quieter, if the people around us were kinder, if our work were less demanding, if our bodies were less troublesome, if our families were more understanding — then we could be free. Of course, outer conditions matter. There are times to fix what can be fixed, to protect what needs protection, to make wise changes. But there is also a deeper training: to see how often we keep moving the rocks because we do not know how to sit beside the stream. Practice asks a different question. Not “How do I make life finally stop disturbing me?” but “Can I meet this moment without making war against it?” The dripping faucet, the crying child, the ache in the body, the person who does not behave as we wish — each reveals the same possibility. Freedom is not found by perfecting the sound of the stream. It is found when the heart stops demanding that the stream sound different before it can be at peace. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2621 Having gone through too many airports and terminals on my way to destinations around the world, I recently began to think about my experiences: in particular, the ways these monumental facilities shape us, discipline us and use us. Think of the specific ways airports arrange human bodies; how the stanchions and the velvet queue line ropes make us walk in absurd zigzagging formations; how we are made to assume specific postures to convey that we can be trusted; how our bodies are bombarded, penetrated, scanned, detected, rendered intelligible, and modified by anxious x-rays, and then fed into screens that either green-light access or flag us as suspicious entities; and, how certain desires and needs are instigated by the luxury consumer section - gratuitously delayed until after the ordeal of immigration lines. [...] In a sense, one does not go 'through' the airport; one BECOMES the airport. Airports perform embodiment and manufacture the body - all kinds of bodies. We are part of its furniture - those of us that travel. We become 'aerodrome bodies', part of an ecosystem that racializes access and emphasizes security as a survival value. Part of the text of its more-than-human arrangement. We feel rewarded when we join the queue, and then guard the queue's integrity by politely reminding intrusive others that "there is a line, you know?" We know the signage and the symbols - the fonts and the stylized blunt edge arrows that point us to Gate 54B. Our senses are well trained by the smoothness of the concourse flooring, by the blinking lights announcing 'Boarding' in a different language. And when we pass through the gates, an unvoiced sigh often escapes our lips: the initiation is complete. We can claim our seats in the metal bird that bends time and space. We become the gut bacteria of the mighty eagle - cleaning its stomach, soiling the seats, performing flight. I wonder about the other ways airports - transient though they are to occasional travelers - shape, penetrate, re/modify and perform 'us'. Are certain modes of knowing possible for the 'aerodrome-human' body that are impossible for other kinds of bodies? Perhaps, more pressingly, what other systems are we already a part of? And how are we being performed as furniture in larger political, geological, hydrological assemblages? How do we answer the question ("who are you?") when identity is always queered, 'disorganized', postponed, relational and yet-to-come? tow-2621 Mon, 20 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Having gone through too many airports and terminals on my way to destinations around the world, I recently began to think about my experiences: in particular, the ways these monumental facilities shape us, discipline us and use us. Think of the specific ways airports arrange human bodies; how the stanchions and the velvet queue line ropes make us walk in absurd zigzagging formations; how we are made to assume specific postures to convey that we can be trusted; how our bodies are bombarded, penetrated, scanned, detected, rendered intelligible, and modified by anxious x-rays, and then fed into screens that either green-light access or flag us as suspicious entities; and, how certain desires and needs are instigated by the luxury consumer section - gratuitously delayed until after the ordeal of immigration lines. [...] In a sense, one does not go 'through' the airport; one BECOMES the airport. Airports perform embodiment and manufacture the body - all kinds of bodies. We are part of its furniture - those of us that travel. We become 'aerodrome bodies', part of an ecosystem that racializes access and emphasizes security as a survival value. Part of the text of its more-than-human arrangement. We feel rewarded when we join the queue, and then guard the queue's integrity by politely reminding intrusive others that "there is a line, you know?" We know the signage and the symbols - the fonts and the stylized blunt edge arrows that point us to Gate 54B. Our senses are well trained by the smoothness of the concourse flooring, by the blinking lights announcing 'Boarding' in a different language. And when we pass through the gates, an unvoiced sigh often escapes our lips: the initiation is complete. We can claim our seats in the metal bird that bends time and space. We become the gut bacteria of the mighty eagle - cleaning its stomach, soiling the seats, performing flight. I wonder about the other ways airports - transient though they are to occasional travelers - shape, penetrate, re/modify and perform 'us'. Are certain modes of knowing possible for the 'aerodrome-human' body that are impossible for other kinds of bodies? Perhaps, more pressingly, what other systems are we already a part of? And how are we being performed as furniture in larger political, geological, hydrological assemblages? How do we answer the question ("who are you?") when identity is always queered, 'disorganized', postponed, relational and yet-to-come? https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2800 Sooner or later, if you are on any classic “spiritual schedule,” some event, person, death, idea, or relationship will enter your life that you simply cannot deal with, using your present skill set, your acquired knowledge, or your strong willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be, you must be, led to the edge of your own private resources. At that point you will stumble over a necessary stumbling stone, as Isaiah calls it; or to state it in our language here, you will and you must “lose” at something. This is the only way that Life-Fate-God-Grace-Mystery can get you to change, let go of your egocentric preoccupations, and go on the further and larger journey. I wish I could say this was not true, but it is darn near absolute in the spiritual literature of the world. Any attempt to engineer or plan your own enlightenment is doomed to failure because it will be ego driven. You will see only what you have already decided to look for, and you cannot see what you are not ready or told to look for. So failure and humiliation force you to look where you never would otherwise. What an enigma! Self-help courses of any type, including this one if it is one, will help you only if they teach you to pay attention to life itself. “God comes to you disguised as your life,” as my friend Paula D’Arcy so wisely says. In much of urban and Western civilization today, with no proper tragic sense of life, we try to believe that it is all upward and onward—and by ourselves. It works for so few, and it cannot serve us well in the long run—because it is not true. Japanese communities created a communal ritual whereby a soldier was publicly thanked and praised effusively for his service to the people. After this was done at great length, an elder would stand and announce with authority something to this effect: “The war is now over! The community needs you to let go of what has served you and served us well up to now. The community needs you to return as a man, a citizen, and something beyond a soldier.” In our men’s work, we call this process “discharging your loyal soldier.” Paradoxically, your loyal soldier gives you so much security and validation that you may confuse his voice with the very voice of God. If this inner and critical voice has kept you safe for many years as your inner voice of authority, you may end up not being able to hear the real voice of God. The loyal soldier cannot get you to the second half of life. He does not even understand it. He has not been there. He can help you “get through hell,” with the early decisions that demand black-and-white thinking; but then you have to say good-bye when you move into the subtlety of midlife and later life. The Japanese were correct, as were the Greeks. Odysseus is a loyal soldier for the entire Odyssey, rowing his boat as only a hero can—until the blind prophet tells him there is more, and to put down his oar. If you ever read the Divine Comedy, note that Dante lets go of Virgil, who had accompanied him through Hades and Purgatory, knowing now that only Beatrice can lead him into Paradise. The first battles solidify the ego and create a stalwart loyal soldier; the second battles defeat the ego because God always wins. No wonder so few want to let go of their loyal soldier; no wonder so few have the faith to grow up. The ego hates losing, even to God. tow-2800 Mon, 13 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Sooner or later, if you are on any classic “spiritual schedule,” some event, person, death, idea, or relationship will enter your life that you simply cannot deal with, using your present skill set, your acquired knowledge, or your strong willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be, you must be, led to the edge of your own private resources. At that point you will stumble over a necessary stumbling stone, as Isaiah calls it; or to state it in our language here, you will and you must “lose” at something. This is the only way that Life-Fate-God-Grace-Mystery can get you to change, let go of your egocentric preoccupations, and go on the further and larger journey. I wish I could say this was not true, but it is darn near absolute in the spiritual literature of the world. Any attempt to engineer or plan your own enlightenment is doomed to failure because it will be ego driven. You will see only what you have already decided to look for, and you cannot see what you are not ready or told to look for. So failure and humiliation force you to look where you never would otherwise. What an enigma! Self-help courses of any type, including this one if it is one, will help you only if they teach you to pay attention to life itself. “God comes to you disguised as your life,” as my friend Paula D’Arcy so wisely says. In much of urban and Western civilization today, with no proper tragic sense of life, we try to believe that it is all upward and onward—and by ourselves. It works for so few, and it cannot serve us well in the long run—because it is not true. Japanese communities created a communal ritual whereby a soldier was publicly thanked and praised effusively for his service to the people. After this was done at great length, an elder would stand and announce with authority something to this effect: “The war is now over! The community needs you to let go of what has served you and served us well up to now. The community needs you to return as a man, a citizen, and something beyond a soldier.” In our men’s work, we call this process “discharging your loyal soldier.” Paradoxically, your loyal soldier gives you so much security and validation that you may confuse his voice with the very voice of God. If this inner and critical voice has kept you safe for many years as your inner voice of authority, you may end up not being able to hear the real voice of God. The loyal soldier cannot get you to the second half of life. He does not even understand it. He has not been there. He can help you “get through hell,” with the early decisions that demand black-and-white thinking; but then you have to say good-bye when you move into the subtlety of midlife and later life. The Japanese were correct, as were the Greeks. Odysseus is a loyal soldier for the entire Odyssey, rowing his boat as only a hero can—until the blind prophet tells him there is more, and to put down his oar. If you ever read the Divine Comedy, note that Dante lets go of Virgil, who had accompanied him through Hades and Purgatory, knowing now that only Beatrice can lead him into Paradise. The first battles solidify the ego and create a stalwart loyal soldier; the second battles defeat the ego because God always wins. No wonder so few want to let go of their loyal soldier; no wonder so few have the faith to grow up. The ego hates losing, even to God. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2612 Let us pose a question.Do we truly comprehend all that we hold in our hands?We grasp to hold precious moments in time, captured instants of light and shadow.To hold them in snapshot memories of blessings we then easily forget.We tussle with the less easily forgotten cursings.We hold in respect the responsibilities. I reach for the same, far apart as we are, and having never met,when we compare family albums, you and I, we share more togetherthan we might have thought. We carry in our hands the unique but not dissimilar histories of our familiesand communities, towns and the landscapes under our feet and off our front porches.The places of our lives that we have made unique and that in turnhave shaped the contours of our sense of the good and the beautiful,places from our particular stories of what it means to be at home in the world. What we hold in our hands is the destiny of our children and grandchildren across the whole Earth,particularly the young who, by choice or by house rules, do not knowthe freedom of unstructured play in the rough margins of cities and suburbs.They are to their peril and ours no longer very interested in the dramaof living things that goes on some small distance from the electrical outlets. It is no less than the shape of tomorrow that we hold in unsure hands,uncertain of how to do what’s best, determined to do no less than thatfor those to whom we leave this earth. We hold infinity in the palm of our hand, eternity in an hour, William Blake tells us.You don’t have to go far to see the world.And in so doing hear a universal call for all of us to thinkmore deeply about what we know and care about.Our here, our now, our known riches of the senses, of memory, of relationship. To care for each other in profound and persistent ways.To celebrate and sustain the precious natural world we do not ownbut whose fate we hold in our hands and from which our livingand future ultimately derives. tow-2612 Mon, 06 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Let us pose a question.Do we truly comprehend all that we hold in our hands?We grasp to hold precious moments in time, captured instants of light and shadow.To hold them in snapshot memories of blessings we then easily forget.We tussle with the less easily forgotten cursings.We hold in respect the responsibilities. I reach for the same, far apart as we are, and having never met,when we compare family albums, you and I, we share more togetherthan we might have thought. We carry in our hands the unique but not dissimilar histories of our familiesand communities, towns and the landscapes under our feet and off our front porches.The places of our lives that we have made unique and that in turnhave shaped the contours of our sense of the good and the beautiful,places from our particular stories of what it means to be at home in the world. What we hold in our hands is the destiny of our children and grandchildren across the whole Earth,particularly the young who, by choice or by house rules, do not knowthe freedom of unstructured play in the rough margins of cities and suburbs.They are to their peril and ours no longer very interested in the dramaof living things that goes on some small distance from the electrical outlets. It is no less than the shape of tomorrow that we hold in unsure hands,uncertain of how to do what’s best, determined to do no less than thatfor those to whom we leave this earth. We hold infinity in the palm of our hand, eternity in an hour, William Blake tells us.You don’t have to go far to see the world.And in so doing hear a universal call for all of us to thinkmore deeply about what we know and care about.Our here, our now, our known riches of the senses, of memory, of relationship. To care for each other in profound and persistent ways.To celebrate and sustain the precious natural world we do not ownbut whose fate we hold in our hands and from which our livingand future ultimately derives. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2789 When I get to the redwood forest, the trees welcome me with the ancient eloquence of their silence. I’ve been away so long I’ve almost forgotten this feeling. My heart fills with tears of love. Friday evening at the campsite, I silently prepare to answer them with the ancient eloquence of the ritual Shabbos (Sabbath) meal — candles, wine, challah, special foods, prayers and blessings. Then comes the noise. The insistent, dominating whine from the camper that’s just pulled into the next camp site. I try to ignore it, to still my mind, to return to the loving gratitude of the ritual. I can’t do it. The noise is now dominating my evening. What to do? A couple of years ago something similar happened. I felt upset and angry, walked over to the family in the camper, and asked them to have some consideration for other campers and please turn off their generator. The man had looked at my angry face, then at his wife and teenage sons, and shrugged. “The park rules say I can keep it on till 10:00,” he said. And he did. The noise drowned out my peace and serenity for the rest of the evening. So I sit there surrounded by the noise, contemplating lessons I’ve been learning all my life from friends and teachers. I get up and walk over to the camper. There’s a couple about my age, the woman sitting outside reading, the man inside preparing dinner. I take an instant to look at them, to imagine their lives, their struggles and their hopes. "Hi," I say. "I'm camping across from you. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?" We introduce ourselves. He does most of the talking. She looks frail. Turns out they’re from Southern California, on their way back from visiting their son in Oregon. I tell them about my daughter and granddaughter in Portland. "I’ve been wondering how long you’re planning to keep your generator on," I say. "The rules say we can keep it on till 10:00," he answers. I just nod, without saying anything. He looks around at the campgrounds, mostly tents. "It’s pretty quiet here, isn't it?" he says. I nod again. "I think that’s why a lot of us come here." "Well, I don’t know, I guess we can turn it off after dinner, in about an hour or so." He looks over at his wife. She nods. "Well thanks," I say. "I appreciate that. Enjoy your dinner!" "Thanks. And you enjoy yours too." Back at the campsite, I say the blessing and light the candles. The noise from the generator is still strong. But the noise in my mind has gone, and I'm able to be peacefully present in the silence. A few minutes later, I notice that the outer noise is gone too. I walk back over to the camper. "Are you guys okay?" I say. "Yeah," he says, "I just shut it off." "Well, thanks," I say. He stands there a moment, looking a little awkward. "I just decided, I don’t like the smell!" The three of us laugh, and then talk some more about our kids. tow-2789 Mon, 29 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700 When I get to the redwood forest, the trees welcome me with the ancient eloquence of their silence. I’ve been away so long I’ve almost forgotten this feeling. My heart fills with tears of love. Friday evening at the campsite, I silently prepare to answer them with the ancient eloquence of the ritual Shabbos (Sabbath) meal — candles, wine, challah, special foods, prayers and blessings. Then comes the noise. The insistent, dominating whine from the camper that’s just pulled into the next camp site. I try to ignore it, to still my mind, to return to the loving gratitude of the ritual. I can’t do it. The noise is now dominating my evening. What to do? A couple of years ago something similar happened. I felt upset and angry, walked over to the family in the camper, and asked them to have some consideration for other campers and please turn off their generator. The man had looked at my angry face, then at his wife and teenage sons, and shrugged. “The park rules say I can keep it on till 10:00,” he said. And he did. The noise drowned out my peace and serenity for the rest of the evening. So I sit there surrounded by the noise, contemplating lessons I’ve been learning all my life from friends and teachers. I get up and walk over to the camper. There’s a couple about my age, the woman sitting outside reading, the man inside preparing dinner. I take an instant to look at them, to imagine their lives, their struggles and their hopes. "Hi," I say. "I'm camping across from you. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?" We introduce ourselves. He does most of the talking. She looks frail. Turns out they’re from Southern California, on their way back from visiting their son in Oregon. I tell them about my daughter and granddaughter in Portland. "I’ve been wondering how long you’re planning to keep your generator on," I say. "The rules say we can keep it on till 10:00," he answers. I just nod, without saying anything. He looks around at the campgrounds, mostly tents. "It’s pretty quiet here, isn't it?" he says. I nod again. "I think that’s why a lot of us come here." "Well, I don’t know, I guess we can turn it off after dinner, in about an hour or so." He looks over at his wife. She nods. "Well thanks," I say. "I appreciate that. Enjoy your dinner!" "Thanks. And you enjoy yours too." Back at the campsite, I say the blessing and light the candles. The noise from the generator is still strong. But the noise in my mind has gone, and I'm able to be peacefully present in the silence. A few minutes later, I notice that the outer noise is gone too. I walk back over to the camper. "Are you guys okay?" I say. "Yeah," he says, "I just shut it off." "Well, thanks," I say. He stands there a moment, looking a little awkward. "I just decided, I don’t like the smell!" The three of us laugh, and then talk some more about our kids.