No excuses.

I haven’t shown up.

(It’s not the time to explain; in time, I might.)

The rubric isn’t for effect (these subjects are too well-worn). I’m serious!

I don’t see it; if I do, it’s liminal . . . at best.

I’m no angel — more an apostate — but I try.

Age has mellowed me. Not too much that I’m still not triggered by jerks and bullies. I’m better than I was.

I’m challenged by this world; no more so than when we believe we’re the Crown of Creation. It’ll pass.

Right now, I’m stuck doing work — and I no longer recognise myself in it. I’d love to escape but it might be final. Shocking? Yes, a little, but no one will miss me — perhaps in the early days, but give it a few years, and I’ll be a party piece — no more.

I’m reading poetry — lots of Ted Hughes and Bukowski; and I’m no longer driven on by the need to build something. A nice, quiet life is fine.

I’m not sure if writing on Substack is what I’m drawn to but I will keep my account. Much like I keep my X account which looks like a sh*tfest.

Sorry if I’ve let you down; I won’t be offended if you ditch me.

Anyhow, enjoy your evening.

Much love, Ju.

Photo by laura adai on Unsplash

“I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?”
― C.S. Lewis

I’m not writing this post out of a sense of righteousness or to be a prig, but it’s an incessant point that has surfaced for 2026; namely, why do so few people appear to have a faith other than the need to be or become the best version of themselves?

Yes, but other than the apparent inalienable “right” to live up to our potential, it’s no wonder there is a heightened degree of anxiousness, either because we fail to honour our self-induced promises, or once we reach the promised land, there’s nothing left save more “doing”.

Compare this to a rock-solid faith — God, if you wish.

Should this or will this improve our lot?

I’d say a tentative “yes”.

I put it that way because there is an element of service and gratitude that can be found: (a) beyond the ken of our lived experience; (b) in no other place than right where we are; and (c) only in the scriptures.

(Note: Please don’t think I’m born again or have had a damascene conversion, but let’s just say I’ve had this nagging doubt that, for the past few years, I’ve been on the wrong path.)

I accept, as I must do, that these words are riven with conjecture and I’ve no way to prove what I’m adverting to but all I will say is that we seem to have almost Cultish devotion to “me” and have reached a point where even such mythic subjects as grief, loss and prayer have become performtative to a degree where our external image and content appears more important than sharing how we truly are, especially in our darkest hour.

You might ask what’s my message, or why am I even bothering to share these words — and it’s a fair point — but for all my adult life I’ve had this sense that there was something more on offer than buying into the dominant narrative, replete as it is with fitting in, colouring within the work-obsessed lines and keeping up as best we can with the Joneses. In my case, that meant my parents — both still alive — took exception to the fact that, aged 13, I couldn’t articulate the job (or any job) I was going to take up and pursue for the rest of my days. To them that made me look feckless and someone with no ambition.

In hindsight, I now realise that their purview was deeply rooted in their Victorian upbringing and was not based on any sound philosophy, let alone theology. In the end, the only way I could escape the incessant sound of their incantations was to leave home and adopt a peripatetic modus operandi, which meant I was aimless and at times lost in a world where everyone else knew why they were doing what they were doing (I’m sure a lot of them were faking it) or they ended up in a bullshit job (see David Graeber’s book bearing the same title).

I did eventually qualify as a solicitor, but that never answered any of my “meaning-of-life” questions, and in any event, I was far too busy with work, raising a family and trying to keep my feet on the ground to worry about a higher purpose or my long-forgotten faith.

As I circle back to the rubric, the question that looms large or at least is on my agenda, chides me to answer my own question about faith. If I had one, rock solid or otherwise, would I still be wrestling with so many issues (see today’s Note on Substack)?

That’s something for now that I’m sitting with at least to the degree that I question “Why now?”; i.e., why have I suddenly and quite unexpectedly picked up so many books on Christian theology and thrown myself open to a bushel of criticism and that’s especially so given a few of the things I’ve said in the past?

The short answer is: I don’t know.

The longer answer, well, that’ll have to wait for another post but let’s just say that there are no accidents in the Universe and the fact that I find the story of Jesus so compelling has nothing to do with me wrestling to the ground my old self and getting it to submit to the will of God but instread the teaching has something to offer me that so many other belief systems that I signed up to (it was a very light signature) have now fallen by the wayside.

Until the next time.

Love,

Julian

PS. I realise there are no atheists in a foxhole but I was never a non-believer but someone who had too many options or means of escape.

“There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.” ― G.K. Chesterton

It’s hardly new news to say we live in a distraction economy, but at what cost?

I could be wrong, but it might be the reason, or at least a reason, for our increased anxiousness, stress and levels of depression. (I’m sure if used AI it would be replete with a plethora of numbers and studies, but I’m not in that type of mood.)

The thing is, much like my chagrin with growth of all stripes, there is no exhortation that says: we should become less of ourselves. The sky appears to have no limits. And of course, to get to the promised land, we’ve got to be on our game — always.

I’m not persuaded or convinced, and if you asked me for my mantra, it would sound something like this:

“I want to live a nice, quiet life.”

There is (of course) a lot more I could say, and I will in the months to come, but if I’m going to make a last stand for anything, it’s to continue to question the dominant, materialistic narrative.

Oh, and one other thing: why have we so easily given up on faith?

Enjoy your Sunday.

Much love,

Julian

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“All a poet can do today is warn.”
― Wilfred Owen

Much has been written on the subject.

Perhaps too much.

And mostly, but not exclusively, it’s been orientated towards those closest to us.

But what about the loss of a career?

Or the degradation of the planet?

Or the annihilation of a whole species?

For me, it’s not that these subjects deserve more coverage, but I feel them just as much as those I’ll no longer see. In fact, it might be said that their portent goes beyond grief and leaves me feeling quite depressed and often upset at how a species — i.e. humans — could have so little regard for the world they inhabit.

Take care.

Love, Julian

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“What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.”
― Augustine of Hippo, Confessions

Life is hard.

Or at least it doesn’t appear to get any easier.

Weave into the mythos old age, infirmity, our neurogenerative demons and (in my case) looming retirement, and it’s a wonder we’re not all riven with gut-wrenching anxiety of the existential type. (Perhaps we are, but we conceal our “fear(s)” for fear of causing ruinous despair.)

I wonder, though, at what time of life we start to sit with the enormity of life’s action and/or inaction?

Perhaps I spend too much time wondering over these things, but I can’t help feel that the world would be a much better place if we took our sins seriously. I mean, despite all the high-octane activity and the need to be and become someone, it always comes at a cost to something or someone.

I realise and recognise that too often my writing can appear cryptic and now is no different by dint of the fact that I’m not fessing up to all the slights, hurt and unprovoked anger that has been so much of my life, but I’m at least acknowledging these traits which has to be a start, surely?

For now, all I’m trying to do is put my hand up to admit I’ve messed things up to a greater degree than I dare admit and, yet, I don’t feel it too late to seek forgiveness — and I include from my mother who I’ve not seen or spoken to for a long time. My starting point will be to write to her with an open heart but with no expectation of anything more than trying to connect on some level, even if I provoke her ire, which is very likely.

Anyhow, it’s Monday — the dreaded Monday. Time as they say to “get with the [work] programme”.

Enjoy your day.

Love,
Julian

“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.”- Charles Bukowski

Old man Buk had it right: there’s not enough love — and I say that as someone born in the Summer of Love.

I wonder if we know how?

What?

To love, and be loved?

I demur, but let’s just say that my childhood was writ large with Victorian overtones, where “children should be seen and not heard”. (If this did one thing for me, it made me self-reliant from a very early age.)

Right now, and as I’ve written about on my blog (yes, I still maintain one of those), I’ve talked about my nascent leaning towards a theological enquiry. That’s code for saying: I’m reading the Bible. Of course, on one level, that’s inevitable, given my age (I’ve never been an atheist, and I sure ain’t looking for a foxhole), but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to the fact that I'm at a loss to explain “why now?” and not at any other time. Then again, sometimes you have to go with the felt sense that “this” feels right.

I don’t expect the Bible to offer any resolute answers, and I don’t expect a conversion (to what?) but there is, for the first time in a long time, the sense that love, the love I never had, might be the sine qua non of a Christian theology. That doesn’t mean I’m about to get all dewey-eyed on you, but if you notice a slight lessening of my misanthropic leanings, you might understand why.

Blessings.

PS. You’ll have noticed that I’ve departed from my rigid Sunday-only posting on Substack. I can’t explain why that didn’t work, but, to be clear, I’m not about to flood your inbox with a million and one unsolicited posts in the vain hope of (ye gads) “growing my audience”.

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It might be said, and with some authority, that the sine qua non of the human condition is “distraction”.

And distraction of every hue, be that shopping, the next experience, work, or even the pursuit of mindfulness (a tautology if you ask me).

Note, that among the bad actors qua distraction, I’ve not mentioned faith or (god forbid) religion, which in my bailiwick is seriously out of fashion. In fact, it might be odious to the degree that no one wants to saddle their steed to such a loathsome praxis.

“So what?”, I hear you retort.

Indeed. If we didn’t do some-thing with our lives, then what?

But, and I don’t say this lightly or flippantly, we rarely, if ever, stop to ask ourselves (and this list is non-exhaustive):

• Why are we here?

• What’s our purpose qua our beingness?

• Why can’t we sit still for longer than a few minutes?

• Why don’t we pray?

• Why does the dominant narrative so easily seduce us?

• Why have smartphones become all the rage?

I recognise these are all well-worn tropes and hardly worth consideration, nascent or otherwise, but the truth is we’re so busy getting on with our lives that when the bell tolls ‘THE END’, too often we’re left feeling a deep sense of regret.

And just to be clear, this isn’t code for a JFDI-type mantra whereby and wherein you have to live up to your god-given potential, but simply my take — an ode if you like — on what’s missing in our always-on culture; namely, time to think.

I don’t mean the sort of introspection where we seek another label to adorn our anthropocentric lives. I mean the sort of deep dive that means we might, just might, have to die before we die. In short, we give up on the notion that there is an ideal way to live out our lives. In my case, and not that it’s relevant, I had to suffer the ignomy of a subarachnoid haemorrhage to wake up (or wake me up?) from my narcissistc torpor; but even now I can feel that that sense of descent to the netherworld has been replaced by a need to keep with the programme (i.e. work/life balance) if for no other reason than I can’t persuade my dear wife to part company with her job and go out on the saunter or better still to go on a Pilgrimmage without any plan save one that says “we’ll take each day as it comes”.

I recognise the foregoing is written from a place of privilege (although I have deep working-class roots), but I know that if I don’t shuck off my current binding, I’ll go to my grave a deeply misanthropic guy, and that’s not how I want to be remembered.

However, as I’ve said so many times and not as a throwaway line, I’m not convinced that any of “this” is in our gift or under our control (I’m not a fatalist), and we’re blown where we’re blown, and we do what we do, come Hell or High Water.

Take care.

Much love, Julian

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I’m reading A.W. Tozer’s book, “The Knowledge of the Holy”, from whence I took the rubric.

Of course, you may not have a or any belief in God — and that’s fine — but if you were to substitute another word of your making, to sum up your belief system, what word would you use?

I realise these sorts of “headlines” (snake oil, possibly) are a distraction from our ordinary, everyday lives but one thing that has come to me of late, and it’s a stark reminder of modernity, is the absence of faith, or a belief system beyond living up to our potential, having or being more of everything, and praying on occasion that the better angels may come among us.

A slightly less prolix way of putting this is to say:

“God is dead. Long live me.”

I realise this is a tendentious and not very well-researched insight, but ask yourself how few conversations are had about a higher purpose, and instead descend (mostly) into needs, wants and predilections.

Right now, I’m looking back over my longish life and asking some profound questions. Not the usual ones but to enquire at what stage I gave up on God, Jesus and the Church? It might be said I never had any faith, but I don’t think that’s right. For all my life, I’ve had this unerring sense, especially when ensconced in nature, that there was something beyond the ken of my daily thinking, but it appears that I’ve never been willing or drawn to enquire of its divination and whether everything I’ve seen, felt and experienced is merely a representation of and a demonstration of God.

In case you think I’m some born-again Christian, I’m not. I’m simply curious and deeply spiritual, and the fact that I’m reading A.W. Tozer and others of a similar hue should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me.

Where I’m headed, or what comes next, who knows, but one thing I feel certain of is that this isn’t some fad or means to a quixotic end. It’s real, replete with plenitude and is opening my heart to a very different way of seeing the world, which is in stark contrast to some of my previous misanthropic mutterings.

For now, I’ll leave you with a wonderful poem by Louis MacNeice called “Hidden Ice”.

Blessings,
Julian

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“Endeavor to be inclined always:
Not to the easiest, but to the most difficult;
Not to the most delightful, but to the most distasteful;
Not to the most gratifying, but to the less pleasant;
Not to what means rest for you, but to hard work;
Not to the consoling, but to the unconsoling;
Not to the most, but to the least;
Not to the highest and most precious, but to the lowest and most despised;
Not to wanting something, but to wanting nothing;

Do not go about looking for the best of temporal things, but for the worst, and, for Christ, desire to enter into complete nakedness, emptiness, and poverty in everything in the world.”
― John of the Cross

I have prayed in aid the rubric a number of times, and, so, writing about it again, seems a little like overkill.

But think about it: how many people do you know who are free?

Truly free?

From what?

Well, the John of the Cross quote adverts to a few things that might be on the table, but mostly it’s their inner dialogue, their daily angst and not knowing who or what they are.

For the record, this isn’t conjecture but based on my observations over many years.

Perhaps a more pith way to express this is to suggest that they cannot or do not want to answer the question:

Who am I?

I’d like to offer a cogent response as to why so few people venture down the path to self-enquiry but I might suggest either or both of the following:

1. They’re afraid of what they might discover; or

2. Their old “self” might disappear to be replaced by the unknown or unknowable (i.e. to die before you die).

If anything, though, there should be an acknowledgement that there is no way to comprehend something as ineffable as “life,” and to sit still and in silence long enough to recognise that we’re not in control of this moment, any more than we are the way the earth revolves around the sun.

Of course, in our solution-obsessed world, everyone who’s wrestling with coming home to “true self” will want a neatly packaged programme, or retreat or spiritual guidebook but, trust me, life is your best teacher. Not your life, but life per se — the thing that’s screaming at you daily.

And if that doesn’t turn you on to something more profound, then nothing will.

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I have many brothers in the South.
Laurels stand there in monastery gardens.
I know in what a human way they imagine the Madonna,
and I think often of young Titians
through whom God walks burning.

Yet no matter how deeply I go into myself
my God is dark, and in a webbing made
of a hundred roots, that drink in silence.
I know that my trunk rose from this warmth, but that's all,
because my branches hardly move at all
near the ground, and just wave a little in the wind.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke from the Book of Hours

I pray for all those in pain.

I pray for all those grieving the loss of a loved one.

I pray we may all come together in a deep, mythic way without the need to be or become something other than true self.

Hello, dear Substack readers.

I’m humbled, once again, to share a few words with you.

Nothing too heavy.

I’m alive.
I’m blessed.
And, something is calling me.

To what?

emptiness is form
form is emptiness — the Heart Sutra

But (of course) that’s too whimsical, too will-o'-the-wisp, and has no bearing on real life.

Then again, very few people I know, or have ever known, are willing to test their ordination and/or the ground of their divination.

What do I mean?

In colloquial terms:

“What is this?”

And this, if it’s not too much of a tautology, is everything and nothing.

By now, you’ll be thinking I’m drunk or tripping out; and for a lawyer,…well, it borders on insanity.

But I’m not — drunk et al.

I’m deadly serious.

Let me go back a few years.

//

I was born in the 60s (the Summer of Love).

My upbringing was austere and Victorian, i.e. “children should be seen and not heard”. At an early age, I became self-reliant. That trait, for better or worse, has followed me down my 58 years.

My parents, on a whim (or that’s how it now seems to me), decided to emigrate to South Africa (“SA”) in 1975; I was 7; it was tough — emotionally, physically and psychologically: I carry the scars to this day. We came back home (1977). My parents couldn’t take much money out of SA — £1,500 from memory. On our return, we lived with my maternal great-grandparents in Paignton — my place of birth. We had no money and for a time my father worked as a self-employed salesman; he never earned much, if anything; 18 months later he found a full-time role at the local factory (STC); he was hired as a maintenance man (electronics was his ‘thing’). I attended the local Primary School for about two years, and then, having failed the 11+, got dumped in a shitty secondary modern school, which was “rough”. Meaning…it was sink or swim; you got your head stoved in, or you fought back. I did the latter, which nearly got me expelled. I was saved by meeting by best friend, Mark, who, as they say, “took me under his wing”.

Anyhow, as I’ve written about before, my relationship with my parents, especially my mother, was fractious and at times viz-a-viz the conversation, “heated”. It was made clear to me — crystal clear! — that I wasn’t going to “sponge off them”; I had my marching orders: find a job when you leave school or else. Any job would do, as long as I didn’t expect any financial or emotional support from them. Many arguments and tears ensued; I had no idea what I wanted to do or was supposed to do (it’s the story qua work of my life). It was just my luck that the picture for 16‑year‑olds entering the labour market in June 1983, when I left school was, in a word, “bleak”. The early 1980s recession hit young people harder than any other group, and by 1983 the situation had not yet recovered. This collapse was part of a broader restructuring of the UK economy: manufacturing contracted sharply, and entry‑level roles disappeared faster than new ones emerged. Because of the scarcity of real jobs, special youth employment programmes (e.g., the Youth Training Scheme, launched in 1983) became a major route for 16‑year‑olds. These schemes were often criticised for offering limited training and few pathways into permanent employment, but they were widely used because paid work was so scarce. Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared to take my £50 a week and be grateful for the opportunity. The problem was, what then? Well, I bumbled along at the local technical college for a few years, and did get an offer at Middlesex University to study Engineering which I didn’t take up. I would have been, and was for a brief period (British Aerospace), a useless engineer. For a while, I kicked about with nothing to do, but finally moved to Bristol in 1986 by dint of the fact that the old man had lost his job at STC and had found a job teaching RAF students in Weston-super-Mare.

I pause at this point to reflect how boring this all sounds. How flat and uninteresting. Just imagine what would have happened if I had had an artistic bent, and spent those early years honing my craft.

Let me skip a few beats and say that having moved to London in 1989 and started and lost a business (and my house in Cricklewood), I decided on a freakin’ whim (I blame my best friend Mark for calling me to ask if I fancied going to Uni) to study law…and, the rest as they say, is history.

Not quite.

I worked my arse off for 12 years; I thought I was tipped for promotion — i.e. partnership. What did I know? Ipso facto, I should have worked out that the face didn’t fit; or, more likely, I was too much of a gobshite and couldn’t help myself when it came to telling the partners what I actually thought of the firm. Serve me right!

Onwards and upwards.

Well, sort of. I took on a new role with the promise of (fools) gold. About 20 months in (god knows how I lasted that long), I woke up one Saturday morning with a blistering headache. It was so bad I couldn’t see, speak or hear, and I thought I was going to puke my guts up at any minute. My wife drove me to A&E, where they did every test known to man. I was in hospital for three…or was it six days? I’d had a suspected subarachnoid haemorrhage — that’s a bleed on the brain. But I was alive. Still breathing. I felt like shit, though. All I wanted to do was sleep; I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t want to read. And it took me six weeks before I was well enough to go back to work. I knew, then, as I do now, that my legal goose was cooked and the nascent career road had run its course; I left the firm in August 2010. Those 14 years of graft, minus the degree and post-grad qualification, all poured down the drain.

What was I going to do, given I had no job to go to?

Ah-ha.

I know, I’ll try my hand at marketing for a law firm. Jeez, that was dull. And then I plyed my trade at god’s knows what just to try and earn a living. A bit of speaking, coaching and training. I thought I was “it” for a while but I never was; and I knew that I was living on borrowed time, and not generating nearly enough cash to pay those damn bills.

What I haven’t told you is that whilst convalescing, my wife’s best friend came round to the house to give me a few “spiritual” books. None floated my jittery boat; but I did, thereafter, buy a book called “Hardcore Zen” by Brad Warner, which had the pith lines from the Heart Sutra that I’ve quoted above.

Needless to say, to a hard-headed, left-brained lawyer, it blew my mind. WTF does it mean? I’m permanent, surely! Or at least I thought I was.

More than anything else, though, my imagination was reignited. And I don’t mean in a purely creative way. I mean I began to question everything, including my very being. I read like a man possessed; a couple of books that stand out are: “New Seeds of Contemplation” by Thomas Merton and “The E-Myth Revisited” by Michael E. Gerber; I attended lots of events, especially of the non-dual type. And for a while I had this sense that I might become a bit of a spiritual teacher, especially to the legal fraternity.

You know what comes next...

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None of this amounted to a row of beans and in 2016, six years after escaping the legal profession, in the sense of being a practising solicitor, I ran out of clients, energy and give-a-shit. And this is where I’ve been ever since. That said, I’ve avoided private practice (my old stomping ground) like the proverbial plague, and, instead, have mostly spent my time in-house doing commercial contracts and a bit of low-level litigation. Pesonally, I think it’s been a cop out; and much like my early years where I wasn’t seized by a creative urge, neither have I been gripped to do anything more than “survive”.

And yet…through all the work-related travails, the ennui-infused days and the crap that’s come my way — often of my own making — I’ve never stopped my ontological journey — e.g. Who am I?, What is this?, and What is there when there is no thinking?.

Why do I tell you that, or any of the foregoing?

Simply this: life is amazing. Not our life, but the life that’s screaming at us every single day of our mortal lives. We think we’re in control. We’re not. That’s not being a fatalist. Instead, that’s recognising that there are no accidents in the Universe and there is a divine hand at work, namely God.

I recognise immediately that a lot you will be deeply underspuaded that some old geezer with nary any experience of life has any right to tell you anything, lest still one bearing on true self, but all I’ll say is there is and has to be more to life than filling it chock full of inane distraction which seems to be the de facto modus vivendi for so many people. That’s not me being judgemental or opinionted. No. That’s what I’ve observed, and it’s one of the reasons, if not the reason, for the level of anxiety, ennui and hyper activity that are beset the human race right now.

I realise there is no turning back — see Paul Kingsnorth’s latest book, “Against the Machine” — but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up my belief that fundamentally, qua humanity, we are kind, loving and considerate so long as we don’t live in the emphera of our thoughts, feelings and emotions but instead “stand on our own two feet” as Thomas Merton said in his last speech before he was cruely taken from this world.

Then again, you might think this a bucketload of horseshit, and living in Devon, I know what that smells like; if that’s your position, so be it. But please don’t think I’m going quietly into the night. I’m not. I’m here to take a stand for spiritual activism whatever the hell that means.

Lastly, I will leave you with these few words.

They come from Julian of Norwich, the 14th‑century English mystic, and appear in her book “Revelations of Divine Love” — the earliest surviving work in English known to be written by a woman.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Julian wrote these words after a series of intense visions during a near‑fatal illness in 1373. Her “showings” convinced her of a divine love so absolute that, despite sin, suffering, and the chaos of her age (including the Black Death), the ultimate truth is one of restoration and peace.

It’s become one of the most enduring lines in Christian contemplative tradition — a kind of mantra of trust, hope, and radical divine compassion.

And I carry it close to my heart.

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As always, I leave you with a poem which speaks to, or I’d like to think, the rubric.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

The juggernaut of time

They say, “a week is a long time in politics”.

And I’m sure that that pith quote, attributed to Harold Wilson during the sterling crisis of 1964, is apposite to so many areas of our life.

But this is inverse and/or antithetical to where I find myself, where time is disappearing beneath my feet at breakneck speed.

“then I was a young man a thousand years old,
and now I am an old man waiting to be born.” — Charles Bukowski

What’s odd, though, is I always wanted to be old; or to grow up, so that for once in my life I’d be taken seriously.

And now?

I’m not sure.

It’s all so heavy — and replete with repetition.
And it’s not how I thought I’d feel.

If there’s a genesis to this post, it’s my late father-in-law, Brian Perring — a Totnesian through and through.

He was a big man, and I don’t just mean his physical size.

He had a presence but was also very down-to-earth.

I first met him when I was 21; he was 53.

He died aged 83, and I was then nearly the same age as when he first met me.

However, what really arrested my attention was thinking about turning 60 next year. I tried to place myself in his position when he was that age, and then it hit me: look how quickly those 23 years disappeared before he was dead! In that time, he lost his wife, had multiple spinal and knee-replacement operations, remarried, developed a massive house in Morleigh, ran a wedding car business and eventually succumbed to heart failure, and the latter period was also during Covid.

As is my way, my so-called “mind” started to work overtime about my kids’ age if I make it to 83; what I might do with those 23 odd years?; what will happen when I hit State retirement?; and on, and on it went.

I did eventually shake myself free from this spiral of “what ifs”, but I’d be lying if I wasn’t seized by a sudden sense of loss, despair and grief for how little I’ve done in my life, save moribund, dull and joyless work — and all (of course) of my making.

It sounds so depressing — and it is.

But I’m fine, now.

Well, at least, I’m fine in the sense that there’s a sense of an “aliveness”, knowing that life is to be treasured, for as long as I’m still here.

Then again . . . I can’t help but try to resurrect all the ancestors — the ancients of days — who I’m sure would have birthed the same or similar thoughts bearing on the time left to them, and the speed with which life slipped through their fingers.

And I’d wonder what they’d say to me . . . ?

Two days, only

As of 19 February 2026 (the date is etched on my soul), I’ll cease working in private practice (law) and be left with a small in-house job, working two days per week. I’ve tried to find another job — not in law — but despite casting my net across a plethora of roles, I’ve had zero interest.

I don’t get it.

Well . . ., I do actually: I’m too old; I’ve had too many jobs; and my CV looks like I’m a die-hard lawyer.

I’m not going to sweat it.

If I see something interesting (I did see this little role for my wife and I looking after a retreat centre), I’ll apply, but I’m in no desperate hurry to find another job.

What will I do with myself?

Erm . . . well, a few jobs around the house. Writing. Reading poetry and books that I’ve not gotten around to. Long walks on my own. Praying. Staring at trees. Talking to myself or being deathly silent. I jest of course, but only marginally.

The thing is, despite the money equation, I’ve no appetite for work but then again, I’m not retiring, which feels like a retreat, instead of a rebirth or whatever I’m aiming to achieve — nothing really.

I will keep you posted but one thing I’m not going to do is doomscroll. In fact, I’ve taken all my social media apps off my phone and if I do look at my phone, save WhatsApp, I’ll likely use my Kindle app to keep reading; it’s the Desert Fathers at the moment.

John Butler

I’ve been seized again by John’s work.

At the moment, I’m listening to him read his book, Mystic Approaches. If there was ever someone who I’d ascribe the label mystic, it’s John. And I think we could all learn from his life.

If you want to get started, here is the first part of an interview with Iain McNay, which now has a few million views.

Poetry

I will go live. Promise. I want to read Keats, Eliot, Milton, Eliot (I repeat myself) and Bukowski — and that’s for starters.

I’ve been remiss with my audio sharing but every time I post something on Substack I get a few people unsubscribe. I don’t blame them. Who wants to ruin their day with my warblings?

Walking

I’ve been sick, not deadly sick, for about six weeks. I’m coming out the other side but my fitness is shot to pieces. I’ve taken a few pictures (below) but I’m waiting on my new digital camera so that I can try to mix things up. I want to go out on the saunter and find a few brutalist buildings. I’ve got my eye on one in Cornwall and Somerset. If you follow my Notes, you’ll see my daily or as oft possible shares.

Reading

I’m reading Paul Kingsnorth’s book, “Against the Machine”. I’m taking my time; it’s a good old romp through the ages of our cultural malaise and a whole heap more. After that, I’m not sure what I want to read. I’ve an A.N. Wilson book on Jesus that I want to finish and there’s a biography of Milton that I want to start. Truth is (I need to stop saying this . . .), I’ve no appetite for a lot of the books I previously bought, which seem now more finger-wagging than spiritual sustenance. I suspect I’ll end up reading John Butler’s books, and one I’ve started on Kindle on the Desert Fathers.

Substack

First of all, a big thank you to all my new subscribers. It means the world to me, and I take nothing for granted in these always-on, social media days, where your attention is constantly being parsed as you deal with and cope with so many different things.

Having been on Substack for a while, I can see that it’s become the writing home for many people and probably ranks as a proper online community. I hope to engage more with it (and you) but I’ll need to get through the next few weeks where I’ll still be on call in two legal gigs. Thereafter, I will carve out some dedicated time but I’m not going to flood the place with too much content, as I think it’s easy to be seduced into believing that more is better, and I don’t think that’s the case.

I’ve still not worked out my praxis or my modus operandi. At the moment, I’m sharing a quote a day on Notes, the odd picture, which is light dependent, a poem and then, of course, my longer weekly piece — this one — on a Sunday. I do try to “like” and “Restack” as many of your pieces as I can, but if it ever gets too much, please say.

I’m sure I’m not the only person to remember #FF on Twitter. I don’t see it anymore on “X” but I’m thinking if there might be something I can do to shine a light on those people on Substack who I believe are worth following and throwing a few £/$ in their direction. We’ll see. I don’t want to commit to something I can’t sustain.

If there is anyone out there who believes I can improve my offering, don’t be shy in coming forward, but all I’d say is that if I can get to 500 followers, that would be a major achievement. At the moment, I have 172 subscribers.

Where next?

I know I need to get better in the creative department but it’s an uphill struggle. There are simply too many people now all doing the same or similar things. I can feel me wanting to go deep into silence and that will militate against too much sharing online. I’ll keep working no doubt but even if that ends, which might happen, I’ve got plenty of things to keep me entertained.

Anyhow, thanks for reading or stopping by.

All my love,
Julian

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.— John Keats, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer

It seems strange to begin a post with only the scent of an idea, the scent being the blessedness1, the gloriousness, the love of nature, and how and/or why it might provide a nascent window to transubstantiation2.

But then again, I’m sure you all feel that sense that we’re not alone when we’re in nature. And I don’t just mean that we’re among many things, many wonderful, wonderful things. I mean, there’s a sense that we’re in God, and thereafter we might grow in our meditation on what it means to drop the pretence of false self, and be and become alive — all body, mind and soul (i.e. we might stand a chance with the reckoning and understanding that’s “true self”).

If there’s an inspiration to this post, it’s either or both of Mary Oliver and Thomas Merton, and there’s a hint of John Keats; and it’s very deliberate I’ve quoted from his extraordinary poem, “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”. The story behind the poem is one of the most famous “eureka moments” in literary history. It captures the exact moment a young, 20-year-old Keats, realised he had the soul of a great poet. In October 1816, Keats was still a medical student with poetic ambitions, but he had not yet found his voice. The poem was born from a single, transformative night. Keats’s friend and former teacher, Charles Cowden Clarke, had lent him a rare, 1616 folio edition of George Chapman’s translation of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. At the time, the standard way to read Homer was through Alexander Pope’s translation, which was polished and elegant but, to Keats, felt stiff and artificial. Keats and Clarke sat up together until daylight in Clarke’s London lodgings, reading Chapman’s work aloud. Clarke later recalled Keats shouting with delight as they read. Chapman’s translation was “loud and bold”— earthy, rugged, and full of the raw energy that Keats felt Pope had polished away. Keats left Clarke’s at dawn and walked several miles back to his own lodgings. Despite having no sleep, he was so electrified that he wrote the entire sonnet immediately. By 10:00 am that same morning, Clarke found a note on his breakfast table. It was the completed manuscript of the sonnet, which Keats had sent over by messenger. This draft was nearly perfect on its first attempt, marking it as Keats’s first true masterpiece.

There is a lot more I could say about the poem but for now, all I’ll say is that the opening line perfectly captures what it felt like the first time, as a small child, I stepped out in nature, and which, thereafter, I’ve been doing my whole life, even when I was living in London (1989-1992). It’s not so much that it’s provided me with rich spiritual pickings, but it’s been the one thing that has brought me the greatest joy and enabled me to feel closest to God, or the infinite bliss of unconditional love.

Mary Oliver’s affection for nature was not merely an aesthetic preference; it was her salvation. For Oliver, the natural world served as a spiritual refuge, a source of identity, and a primary teacher of how to live a meaningful life. Oliver’s deep bond with the outdoors began during a difficult childhood in rural Ohio. Facing personal hardships and a dysfunctional home life, she began retreating into the woods at age 14. She viewed the natural world as a sanctuary where she could escape human trauma and find a sense of peace that was unavailable to her in buildings. She famously stated in interviews that she was “saved by poetry” and “saved by the beauty of the world,” crediting nature with helping her survive her early years.

Oliver is often described as a “poet of attention.” She believed that observing nature was a form of “proper work” and a precursor to devotion. For over 50 years, she lived in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where she took long, daily walks through the woods and along the shore. She often secreted pencils in the trees so she could write whenever inspiration struck. Her work focuses on lesser-known aspects of nature—industrious hummingbirds, motionless ponds, and the rubbery texture of a dead snake. By paying intense attention, she elevated these ordinary sights to the level of the divine.

Much like my own experience (and hopefully yours), a central theme in her work (most famously in her poem ”Wild Geese”) is the idea that humans are not separate from nature. It might be said that she elevated nature well beyond our in-animistic leanings to the point where nature was extra-dimensional qua its human brothers and sisters. She found comfort in the fact that nature does not demand human “goodness” or repentance. The wild geese, the sun, and the trees simply exist, offering an antidote to human self-judgment and loneliness.

In her later work, Oliver distilled her entire relationship with nature into three simple instructions for living (see the poem, “Sometimes”):

1. Pay attention.

2. Be astonished.

3. Tell about it.

And I would say that those instructions are just as apposite to nature as they our to our lives — in all their facets. We must be careful not to assume that we’re here and nature is over there. That’s quite hard when it’s offered as an antidote to what ails us but in my experience, the more time we spend in nature, the more we beget her oneness.

Thomas Merton’s affection for nature was deeply intertwined with his identity as a Trappist monk and a mystic. While Mary Oliver found a “family of things,” Merton found the “signature of God” in the natural world.

For Merton, nature was not just scenery; it was a silent participant in his contemplative life at the Abbey of Gethsemani. He followed the tradition of seeing the world as a book written by God. He believed that every creature, by simply being itself, gives glory to its creator.

The “Is-ness” of Things: he wrote extensively about how a tree doesn’t “try” to be a tree; it just “is”. To Merton, this authentic existence was a form of holiness. Further, he viewed the movements of the stars, the rain, and the seasons as a “cosmic dance” of praise in which humans were invited to join. In the later part of his life, Merton moved into a small cinder-block hermitage in the woods of Kentucky. This physical move shifted his perspective from “looking at” nature to “living within” it. (You should read his book, “Thoughts in Solitude”). He became fascinated by the forest at night, writing about the “festivals” of birds at dawn and the profound silence of the woods under snow. In his journals, he recorded the weather, the growth of plants, and the behaviour of deer with the same reverence he gave to his theological studies. Merton was also one of the first major religious figures to connect spirituality with modern ecology. He was a great admirer of Rachel Carson’s book “Silent Spring”. He felt that modern humanity had become alienated from the earth, and that this alienation led to violence and greed. He famously wrote about a “hidden wholeness” that binds all living things together—a concept that bridged the gap between Christian mysticism and Eastern philosophies like Zen Buddhism.

Of course, and it goes without saying, the foregoing may hold no water for you. That’s because you’re not interested in Keats, Oliver or Merton, or because you’re not persuaded that nature is any better or worse than any other object in the world. (Of course, anything I say at this point is conjecture.) The point of this post is not to persuade you otherwise or make a case as to why you should change your modus vivendi but instead to place on record the fact that nature is our greatest gift and yet, even on my less misanthropic days, we seem oblivious to the wanton destruction that continues unabated, no doubt aided and abetted by the solipsistic Billionaire class. Do I need an example? Well, how about Christmas? What toll does our need to buy presents, consume mountains of food and enjoy ourselves (…god forbid) do to nature? It’s at this stage I get labelled a curmudgeon, Grinch or Scrooge and whilst I understand that I’m making a cheap point, I could have aimed my grievance at any manner of human-centred predicament and honed down the numbers to demonstrate and prove that we’re not good for nature; and whilst there will be those among you who will say that nature will recover, why should she have to endure that level of pain? What’s the solution I hear you cry? You know the answer, surely? It’s to recognise that as long as we remain on this planet, we will continue to cause great harm to it, in aid of our comfort-saturated lives. And of course, there are simply too many of us now to argue the contrary, especially when some countries are progressing apace, economically speaking, and want a slice of the Western pie that we’ve overindulged on all these years.

But (of course) the above is no more and no less than a well-worn trope and unless we all disappear or stop procreating (see The Selfish Gene by Professor Richard Dawkins3) then I don’t see how nature will survive or certainly she won’t thrive in the coming decade(s).

There is another issue that I’m troubled by, namely, the number of people who make their living from nature, but there is no or little evidence that their need to pray it in aid is reciprocal. What do I mean? I mean, if you’re a writer, coach, or somebody who works for a government agency apropos nature, how much of your time and money do you repay her? I can’t know the answer to that question, but I very much doubt that people tithe, say, 30-40% of their income back to nature. And you might say, “Well, why the hell should they?” And I would argue, “Why the hell shouldn’t they?” It’s not as if nature is there and doesn’t require help. It does require bucketloads of help. Whilst it’s nice for somebody to write about trees (I don’t know why trees are in fashion currently), I wonder how much of the money that they generate goes back into nature conservation or whatever the regnant label is? Ditto all those people who take others on expeditions to the four corners of the Earth.

The thing is, I don’t have an issue with anybody writing about nature, but actually, words don’t touch nature; it’s something felt — a lived experience — and not something you get from a book. I can just as easily stand in an icy cold river on Dartmoor with bare feet and feel that rush of adrenaline or whatever other hormone is coursing through my body to realise how limited and small I am compared to the rest of my environment; I don’t need to read about that, do I? Equally, I can climb to the top of one of many tors here and about, and feel the chill wind on my face to realise how small I am. I don’t need to write about it; I don’t need to shout from the rooftops. I just need to acknowledge the blessedness, the specialness, if you like, of nature without anything more than that. And you can experience nature in any great city if you just “pay attention” (see the wonderful programme that Sir David Attenborough made on the foxes et al. of London).

It’s about now you’re beginning to wonder if I have a massive downer on the human race? Am I an avowed misanthrope? I might well be. I probably am, actually. But the point is, we need to question these things not because I say so, but where does it end? When do we stop writing about these things for the sake of it and simply enjoy them? How many more books can be published on nature, the earth, spirituality, or whatever else is in vogue? I don’t know. I’ve got a shelf full of the things, whether it’s on moths, birds, the soil, etc. but I don’t get the same spiritual experience from going outside and just “paying attention” as Mary Oliver behoves all of us to do.

As to the opening paragraph and the reference, once again, to transubstantiation, I wonder what sort of blistering encounter it would take with nature to forever change us? I don’t mean to improve our mood — although in these dark days more updraft is not a bad thing — but to irrecovably change us for the better. (Better than what, you might ask?) I think it was Merton who grasped the essence of this in his book “New Seeds of Contemplation” where he goes to great lengths to evince of the idea that trees, the dogwood and the trout (as examples) have no trouble being who they are, as intended by God, whereas, we, on the other hand, where one mask and then another which obscures our true nature or “true self”. These masks are largely culturally driven that or we’re part of some Matrix-like experiment. For my part, and to this day, I’ve never seen anyone discard, lest still dismantle, these free-floating masks in aid of “true self” or any different self, and seem quite content to believe that they have free will and choice, and that their thoughts, feelings and emotions are as real as any solid object, which of course is not the case when you start to examine the “this-ness” of the present moment — all we have and not in some Eckhart Tolle fashion but the ineffebale, unknowable, words-don’t-touch this sort of way.

I suppose what I’m adverting to, though, is that believing that nature will transform us or any teaching is a chimaera when in truth all we need do is to keep questioning the immediate happening of the moment, perhaps by adopting a negative theology4 instead of a positive one. At some stage, we might start to understand the oneness that Oliver/Merton spoke about so brilliantly. How that then transforms us, I’ll leave you to muse on.

As I’ve already said, this post is not written with the intent to change you or your approach to nature save to remember, as my parents would remind me constantly as a small boy, that when it’s gone, it’s gone — forever.

Take care.

Julian

Take care,

Julian

DEDICATION 

Take thou this gift from out the grave of Time. 
The urns of Greece lie shattered, and the cup 
That for Athenian lips the Muses filled, 
And flowery crowns that on Athenian hair 
Hid the cicala, freedom's golden sign, 
Dust in the dust have fallen. 
Calmly sad, 
The marble dead upon Athenian tombs 
Speak from their eyes "Farewell": and well have 
fared 
They and the saddened friends, whose clasping 
hands 
Win from the solemn stone eternity.
-- Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus 

I think it was Thomas Merton who said, in one of his many journal entries1, that he wrote to give life to the inner terrain. To think out loud would be a more modern-day (i.e. zeitgeist) way of expressing this. (I also think it was a way for him to get closer, much closer, to God.)

Therein lies a particular issue for all of us apropos the rubric, apropos of trying to understand what it means when we write and talk, absent any proper enquiry or investigation of “true self” (see “New Seeds of Contemplation” by Thomas Merton).

(We might actually believe that we do speak from that position, but I’m not persuaded that this is the case; in fact, I’m deeply underpersuaded by dint of its metaphysical depth and lack of enquiry.)

What I’m trying to say is that when we write about an issue or articulate the same, from what place do we do so? Do we merely repeat what we’ve been told, without ever questioning our ontological trueness?

In case you think this some arid exercise, I don’t think it is. In fact, right now, given the depth charge of Artificial Intelligence that’s ripping its way through the skyways and byways of the written/spoken world(s), I think, in short order, we’ll all start to crave something real, something true and something from the heart — all well-worn tropes I know but part of the basic needs of any human or at least one that cares about language, especially its deep-rooted etymology.

In knowing whether you’re speaking from the place of “true self”, it’s axiomatic that you first of all have to ask the question, “Who am I?”, for to do otherwise would mean you could be easily toppled from your pedestal of certainty.

Of course, in certain quarters, e.g. politics, commerce or family relations, there exists an opinion fest that seems inviolable but if you press someone on what they actually think2vs. what someone else has told them or they have read in a book or watched on YouTube, you quickly realise how uncertain their apparent point of view actually is.

To be honest, though, I don’t suppose they much care and will keep repeating the same line, even when it’s a straight-up lie. (I’m not going to speak about the Overton Window but let’s just say that that is very much in play right now, and not just in the political arena.)

I should segue this post by saying that I’m not sure many people write or speak to get closer to “true self”, or even God. And they certainly don’t evince a desire to live as a contemplative as did Merton or if they do, you can bet your bottom dollar that they’ll be making a mini-series on YouTube or promulgating the same on Instagram, all in the name of generating a little bit of attention and/or cash.

But, and it’s a firm “but”, I think we’re diminished qua our humanity if we don’t believe that the person is writing from a truthful position and not for the sake of a few dollars more. I mean, you only have to look at the debacle concerning Raynor Winn, whose real name is Sally Walker, and her book, “The Salt Path”, to realise how quickly the wheels can fall off the wagon if you don’t get your writing ducks in a row.

In summary, then, and not because I say so (ye, gads, not that), I think we should all question the words we write and/or what we say and understand if we’re writing from the position of “true self” or something designed for a very different reason. It’s not that one is better than the other, and I’m not saying we have to spill our guts incessantly — not that, please — but to come closer to something of a higher purpose, yes, even God, has to be part of the praxis, surely.

//

I suspect, like much of my writing, I’m either overcomplicating things or I’m making a point without a point or not one that’s going to win any friends, lest still influence anyone. But then again, I am one of those awkward people who keeps asking questions, especially when it comes to the dominant narrative and one that is secular in the extreme — and I include in that any amount of spiritual proselytising, which can and often does come across as the only show in town.

//

For the record, I’m not selling anything. Yes, I have a Substack page, and, yes, it’s set to receive your kind financial offerings, but I’ve not kept any of my material behind a paywall. And it will stay that way — at least for now. The name of my “game” is to produce a weekly post wherein I will speak to my strap line: “spiritual activist, lover of poetry and inveterate walker”. That gives me licence and latitude to explore a number of contemporary and historical issues and to speak about those things that are still important to me. I will always try to write from the position of “true self”, i.e. I’ll dial down the BS and speak from the heart — one that is open to all that is happening, moment by moment.

//

I’m keenly aware that Substack is growing and there are many offerings to take up your precious reading and listening time and so for anyone that has recently subscribed or interacted with me, deep bows and a big thank you. I take none of these things for granted.

Anyhow, I’ll leave you with a short Mary Oliver poem, together with my reading thereof. I hope you like it.

Much love,

Julian

“Both Worlds” – Mary Oliver

Forever busy, it seems,
with words,
finally
I put the pen down

and crumple
most of the sheets
and leave one or two,
sometimes a few,

for the next morning.
Day after day —
year after year —
it has gone on this way,

I rise from the chair,
I put on my jacket
and leave the house
for that other world —

the first one,
the holy one —
where the trees say
nothing the toad says

nothing the dirt
says nothing and yet
what has always happened
keeps happening:

the trees flourish,
the toad leaps,
and out of the silent dirt
the blood-red roses rise.

“Solitary life — essentially the most simple. Common life prepares for it in so far as we find God in the simplicity of common life — then seek him more and find him better in the greater simplicity of solitude.” — Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude, p.110

I wrote yesterday about the veil of distraction drawn over our lives, especially the type which we believe will ease our pain, provide spiritual sustenance and, if we’re lucky, bring about lasting change.

I demur to those who have made ‘this’ their shtick, but from this far out — 58 years and counting — I can report that very few things that we’re drawn to, and start, stay the course. Most disappear as quickly as they appear on the scene, save when the new year comes around and we’re seemingly compelled to give ‘it’ another go (e.g. running, cycling, fasting).

I could say that things are getting worse and I think they are by dint of the plethora of options that now adorn the marketplace, viz. spirituality, but that’s not to the point. The point is that we’re too easily led down a capitalist path that behoves all of us to live up to our potential, or is quixotically obsessed with promulgating a message that we need to be and become better, if we want to get on in this world.

But, again, I demur.

If you’ve read my material, here or elsewhere, you’ll understand that I’m much more comfortable being the “question guy” than offering another 7-Step Programme, or retreat or coaching session. And of course, the big question that very few people are willing to consider is:

“What is this?”

I know: it looks so vague, so imprecise, and so,…well…, insignificant alongside the marquee of hope and spiritual hamfistedness that I tend to brush up against but it surely has to come before the “Who am I?” variety that still proliferates like a bad, inanimistic smell, apropos personal development.

Back to the rubric, though.

I think it important — now, more than ever — that we think about the practice we believe will bring about enlightenment1. I use that word deliberately (I could have adverted again to transubstantiation) because that’s the banner that’s so widely and freely paraded as the thing that will bring about everlasting change. And change for the better, i.e. we’ll be happy and contented on a 24/7 basis.

It begs the question as to whether we have any faith that what we do, day by day, will alter our appreciation of life — our life — and everything else that we believe orders our days?

I’m not sure.

I’m not sure in the sense that we’re too easily led astray by the gurus, the experts or those that seem to have their pulse on a well-ordered, meaningful life.

Perhaps another way of speaking to this is to ask why we need do anything?

Is it because we’re depressed?

Or miserable?

Or not firing on all cylinders?

But all of this ontological baggage points to the question “Who are we?”. . . at the deepest, foundational level?

Widening Circles

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Joanna Macy

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

Much like the biggie question above, though, very few people are willing to go that deep and instead begin a practice with what they think is an end in sight — even if that is enlightenment. But if you don’t know the answer, sensible or otherwise, to the “Who am I?” question, how can you properly know if you’ve been or have become enlightened?

What, you take your cue from your guru?

Can you see how circular this form of enquiry can become?

Perhaps we don’t need a practice?

Perhaps we can just wing it?

Perhaps.

But, I think we all know that there is something manifest that’s larger than us — our tiny needs and wants — and there is a path, even if it’s hidden from view. Entering the fold or the gateway to the other side, though, is no easy feat. And why should it be? It’s no different, surely, to any pilgrimage. Or at least that’s what it feels like to me as I once again try to navigate the sense that my ontological roots are steadfast in something much vaster, much bigger and altogether more important than my feelings et al. or wishing for something else — i.e. something better.

If the foregoing doesn’t evince of an answer with regards the rubric, and to a degree I feel like I’ve strayed off the point, I suppose all I’m inviting is a conversation about life itself. Not our life but life everlasting.

Is that too much to ask?

Until the next time.

Blessings,

Julian

PS. This will be my last daily post. For the year of our Lord 2026, I will post weekly on a Sunday at circa 6 am.

PPS. As this is the last day of 2025, I wish you all a very happy new year, and I hope that if you do make any resolutions, they’re of the type that, in hindsight, were informed as much by the year before (or the decade before) as the blistering year up ahead.

transubstantiation(n.)

late 14c., transsubstanciacioun, “the change of one substance to another,” from Medieval Latin trans(s)ubstantiationem (nominative trans(s)ubstantio), noun of action from past-participle stem of trans(s)ubstantiare “to change from one substance into another,” from Latin trans “across, beyond” (see trans-) + substantiare “to substantiate,” from substania “substance” (see substance). Ecclesiastical sense in reference to the Eucharist is by 1530s (Tyndale).

I have no problem — none whatsoever — with anyone trying to make a living by their creative endeavours; but I question why there seems to be such an interest, still, in the promotion and/or promulgation of subjects like solitude, silence, contemplation, and meditation, particularly or exclusively where money (£/$) is involved.

I raise these subjects, as opposed to others (and I could have chosen many more), because, surely, the whole point of any ‘spiritual’ endeavour is transubstantiation. (Cf. this to one of the many websites I looked at that offered this pith quote: “[T]he goal is to use silence strategically and purposefully to create a conducive environment for the coachee’s reflection, self-discovery, and growth.”)

Perhaps I’m alone in my view that if we are going to buy into a narrative/practice that we’re told offers the promise of (inter alia) greater clarity, less stress and even spiritual awareness, we should question why said narrative etc. is any better than (inter alia) sitting still, gardening, going for a walk or making a cup of tea. I jest of course but surely it is how we are and how we approach things that matter and not the rubric that we apply, however New Age, or romantic or of-the-moment it might appear. (You might question if you will your will.)

Another way to look at this is to ask: why are we obsessed with trying to change ourselves?

What is it we don’t like?

Or what do we want less of?

Or more of?

Why can’t we accept ourselves as we are?

I suppose, if I’m adverting to anything, and my apologies if my message is slightly coded, it’s that the practice and/or the adoption of your chosen spiritual drug of choice should be about a change of such seismic proportion that there is no way of returning to your old olife, built principally on distraction — see The Last Messiah by Peter Zapffe:

“A very popular mode of protection is distraction. One limits attention to the critical bounds by constantly enthralling it with impressions. This is typical even in childhood; without distraction, the child is also insufferable to itself. “Mom, what am I to do.” A little English girl visiting her Norwegian aunts came inside from her room, saying: “What happens now?” The nurses attain virtuosity: Look, a doggie! Watch, they are painting the palace! The phenomenon is too familiar to require any further demonstration. Distraction is, for example, the ‘high society’s’ tactic for living. It can be likened to a flying machine – made of heavy material, but embodying a principle that keeps it airborne whenever applying. It must always be in motion, as air only carries it fleetingly. The pilot may grow drowsy and comfortable out of habit, but the crisis is acute as soon as the engine flunks.

The tactic is often fully conscious. Despair may dwell right underneath and break through in gushes, in a sudden sobbing. When all distractive options are expended, spleen sets in, ranging from mild indifference to fatal depression. Women, in general less cognition-prone and hence more secure in their living than men, preferably use distraction.

A considerable evil of imprisonment is the denial of most distractive options. And as terms for deliverance by other means are poor as well, the prisoner will tend to stay in the close vicinity of despair. The acts he then commits to deflect the final stage have a warrant in the principle of vitality itself. In such a moment he is experiencing his soul within the universe, and has no other motive than the utter inendurability of that condition.”

But as yet, I’ve never encountered any practice that offers something that guarantees transubstantiation or as Thomas Merton said (see Thoughts in Solitude, p. 55):

“To unify your life, unify your desires. To spiritualize your life, spiritualize your desires. To spiritualize your desires, desire to be without desire.

To live in the spirit is to live for a God in whom we believe, but whom we cannot see. To desire this is therefore to renounce the desire of all that can be seen. To possess him who cannot be understood is to renounce all that can be understood. To rest in him who is beyond all created rest, we renounce the desire to rest in created things.” (my emphasis added)

Perhaps this post is my way of saying that you need to be very clear what you’re seeking (and being distracted is fine, if that’s what you are seeking . . .) because ultimately there are and never have been any quick fixes. Or I could have said: save your money and do more of what you enjoy, and less of what you don’t. In my case, that seems to have worked better than any amount of retreating, spiritual ‘talks’ or reading aspirational books (I wouldn’t put Bukowski in that camp).

…

Nah! Strike all the above; ignore everything I’ve said; and just be yourself — not that you can do much to change that (e.g. your lungs, heart, eyes and hair colour).

Take care.

Blessings, Julian

I am currently reading Thomas Merton’s book, “Thoughts in Solitude”, and came across this passage:

“If you want to have a spiritual life, you must unify your life. A life is either all spiritual or not spiritual at all. No man can serve two masters. Your life is shaped by the end you live for. You are made in the image of what you desire.” (p.55)

Of course, these are just words on a page, and written a long time ago now, but they are prophetic. They are prophetic in the sense of what we should do vs. what we actually do. In short, we desire something in most cases which is anything but spiritual, and is anthropocentric in the extreme. There is us, us and more of us. If we do aspire towards some sort of higher purpose or leaning to a spiritual life, it still appears to be focused on us.

But imagine if we sought to unify our life so that it was all spiritual and nothing else.

How would we then live out our lives?

Could we even conceive of that?

I’m not sure.

Right now, it seems to me, on the back end of another frenetic Christmas, where I’ve just seen the collection of more “waste”, which is supposed to be recycled(!), I wonder what it’s all about? How many people celebrate it for anything other than the coming together of family and friends? And not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I always thought Christmas was supposed to serve some sort of spiritual life.

But again, this is me being a typical lawyer, no doubt, and just picking an argument for the sake of it.

I’d be lying, though, if this passage from Merton’s book and so much else he has spoken to and spoken about doesn’t still haunt my days. In this regard, I always return to his book, “New Seeds of Contemplation”, and I will listen to it again in the coming weeks. If you’ve not read it, you should and not because I say so, but it’s worth your time, and it’s worth sharing a few words from it if you get the opportunity.

Again, I come back to this point: what are we living for? Is it simply to fill up our various life buckets full of experiences, things, and what appears to be meaningful, but in pursuit of what?

Do we even give it any thought?

I recognise and realise that what I say or what I point to has been done to death. In fact, that’s probably one of the reasons why no one is interested in it, but I cannot help but feel that we are here for something more than consuming everything and anything at an ever-increasing rate.

Anyhow, enjoy your day.

Take care.

unfortunately
my hell is not any more hell
than the hell of a
fly. — Charles Bukowski

By the right vested in me by absolutely no one, I’m inviting you to question everything, especially the dominant narrative of our so-called Western culture.

You know the culture that insists, nay commands, that we all be big ass winners.

In short, there is no place for you to live down to your potential, or aspire to less or do a volte face the idea that what goeth up and up is bound to be for the betterment of all.

In this regard, and apropos of the above, I’m an apostate, and I don’t say that to sound clever or heretical: I’m simply not persuaded (I’m deeply underpersuaded) that what passes as ‘normal’ is anything of the sort.

If you do decide to go out on a limb and stick your head above the parapet, you’re bound to suffer the usual slings and arrows whereby and wherein everyone will think you a miserable SOB or worse still.

For the record, I refuse to accept that we’re the Crown of Creation and/or we’re ‘good’ (i.e. needed) for this wonderful place called Earth. In fact, I’d much prefer it if we’d never come into existence. In this regard, I’m with Peter Wessel Zapffe:

V

If we continue these considerations to the bitter end, then the conclusion is not in doubt. As long as humankind recklessly proceeds in the fateful delusion of being biologically fated for triumph, nothing essential will change. As its numbers mount and the spiritual atmosphere thickens, the techniques of protection must assume an increasingly brutal character.

And humans will persist in dreaming of salvation and affirmation and a new Messiah. Yet when many saviours have been nailed to trees and stoned on the city squares, then the last Messiah shall come.

Then will appear the man who, as the first of all, has dared strip his soul naked and submit it alive to the outmost thought of the lineage, the very idea of doom. A man who has fathomed life and its cosmic ground, and whose pain is the Earth’s collective pain. With what furious screams shall not mobs of all nations cry out for his thousandfold death, when like a cloth his voice encloses the globe, and the strange message has resounded for the first and last time:

“– The life of the worlds is a roaring river, but Earth’s is a pond and a backwater.

– The sign of doom is written on your brows – how long will ye kick against the pin-pricks?

– But there is one conquest and one crown, one redemption and one solution.

– Know yourselves – be infertile and let the earth be silent after ye.”

And when he has spoken, they will pour themselves over him, led by the pacifier makers and the midwives, and bury him in their fingernails.

He is the last Messiah. As son from father, he stems from the archer by the waterhole.

Peter Wessel Zapffe, 1933

I recognise that in certain places in the world questioning anything, especially of the political hue, could get you and your family into serious trouble — death-dealing even — and so my clarion call may have to be slightly more nuanced, i.e. you keep things to yourself. But for those of us that have the ability to do so, and/or have the inclination, my suggestion is that when you come up against a bright line which everyone insists is quite normal, you might begin to look beyond the space of quietude and ask yourself:

“When did said thing become normal?”

Or at least that’s what I’m apt to do when my BS detector is on high alert that or I can smell the hubris of or the inalienable right(s) that everyone appears so keen to proselytise. But it’s not easy to push back or raise a flag for common sense when the crowd is against you. In fact, you’re just as likely to keep schtum for fear that you might lose your place in the existential queue.

I recognise that there are a lot of generalisations in this post and a lot left out but all I’d say is that if we continue on our current path (which looks inevitable) there will be nothing left for those that follow in our immediate footsteps, and whilst you may not care one iota about that or their fate, I for one don’t want my legacy to include the charge of complicity or indifference, especially or more especially to the dominant narrative.

Enjoy your Sunday.

Blessings.

Photo by Sarmat Batagov on Unsplash

if this gentleman expects his own poetry to be taught
by others
in future English
Lit classes
he’d better get his ass out of the warm sand
and start splashing in the bloody waters of real
life.

or maybe he’d just rather be a good old guy
forever,
adored and comforted by the eager young
coeds.
that’s not so bad, really,
considering that you get paid very well for
that. — Charles Bukowski

I write more in hope than expectation that my words will be read.

But, like everything else that comes into our lives, this writing will end . . . much as we do.

(And we’re not here for nearly as long as we think.)

I’m still suffering from a virus. It’s been in me, bringing its joys and woes, for nigh on two weeks. And, as should be the way, it’s demonstrating how paper-thin is my resistance to anything out of the ordinary. Just wait until something big happens: it won’t be a case of being knocked sideways but I’ll be straight off my perch!

And of course, when I leave this mortal world, I’d be lying if I didn’t think about what remains. No, not the physical detritis — mine will be blown to the four winds — but instead the wake of our lives.

• Will we be remembered?

• What for?

• Who will pass on those ‘memories’ to the next generation?

• Will they?

• Will we leave the world a better place?

• If not, is there still time, or is it too late?

• Did we matter?

• Should we have mattered?

And on, and on it goes.

In the end, it’s easy to get lost in the reverie of our own singular unimportance and/or start to wear the coat of narcissism but I can’t believe I’m the only person in the world, at this time of year or otherwise, who doesn’t feel the looming sense that when we’re gone, none of it will matter.

Until the next time.

Blessings,

Julian

Photo by Liana S on Unsplash