Why What Matters Most Still Matters Most...Even Now
In Defense of Spiritual Work in Troubled Times
Featuring a special guest post by Philip Goldberg of Substack’s Practical Spirituality with Philip Goldberg at Substack
But before Phil’s post: I have had many memorable podcast conversations surrounding the launch of my book Spiritual Aging: Weekly Reflections for Embracing Life. Because of the nature of my subject matter, my interviewers are often elders, authors and mystics, themselves, and I learn as much as I share. You can listen to some of my highlighted conversations HERE.
Among them was my interview with Phil Goldberg’s podcast Spirit Matters, where we touched upon the perennial question of the seemingly disparate pulls between wanting to take proactive action, utilizing all one’s got to make a difference doing things versus wanting to take a time out to replenish one’s spirit—a withdrawal from the mainstream of public life in favor of the inner work of spiritual development. You can subscribe to
This question was not just a theoretical exercise between teachers, but one I was facing personally as someone week after week advocating such virtues as solitude, contemplation and self-nurturing worrying that one has inadvertently confused spirituality with complacency or self-indulgence. At interview’s end, with newfound clarity, I decided to read Phil’s classic: Spiritual Practice for Crazy Times. Often, when a book or conversation opens up fresh territory for my soul, I write about what I learned. But no matter how many times I took a stab at it, Phil said it better. So, generous spirit that he is, he has granted me permission to run an excerpt here. This is longer than usual, but worth it. Thank you Phil. You touched my heart.
—Carol Orsborn
THE TIMES THEY ARE A-CRAZY
Guest Post by Phillip Goldberg, excerpted from his book Spiritual Practice for Crazy Times
While ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve
round me, deep down and deep inland there I
still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.
— Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
In the late 1960s, I was a dazed and confused young man trying to figure out how to live in a world gone mad. Vietnam, assassinations, riots, and other horrors made coming of age feel like a life-or-death issue.
One day, I found myself alone in a gallery of Buddhist statues in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It was called the Temple Room, and it felt like one. As I moved slowly from one work of art to another, I was profoundly and irrevocably touched by the serene faces of the Buddhas. Whatever those guys had, I thought, I want it.
I soon learned more about what those guys had as, in the course of my seeking, I read the Bhagavad Gita. One passage in India’s great sacred text seized my attention like a hand clasping my shoulder from behind. It said that advanced yogis have “equanimity in gain and loss, victory and defeat, pleasure and pain.” That was exactly what I wanted: equanimity ,defined as “mental calmness, composure, and evenness of temper, especially in a difficult situation.”
Those twin impressions—the faces and the words—were crucial factors in launching me on my spiritual path. The promise sounded awfully good to me.
Doesn’t it sound good to you?
THE PROMISE AND THE PREMISE
The key ingredient in a recipe for equanimity is spiritual practice. And in crazy times like ours, we need prayer, meditation, mindfulness, and other practices more than ever. They are not luxury items like a vacation; they’re more akin to necessities.
Think of it: When times are tough, do our bodies, minds, and souls need healing, rejuvenation, and nourishment? Do we need periods of silence toneutralize the incessant noise? Infusions of light to counter the dark energies afoot? A stabilizing anchor when the winds of rancor and rage are swirling?
Of course we do.
Yet, when I first started talking and writing about this subject, I was surprised to hear objections from people who normally placed a high value on spiritual practice. Some said they were too riled upby what’s going on in the world to center themselves with their usual rituals. Others said they were too busy trying to make a dent in our many social problems. “I don’t want to waste time on my inner life when there’s so much at stake out there,” one activist told me. She was afraid she’d lose her edge ifher anger and angst were replaced by calm, and she didn’t want to take her mind off the task at hand.
To the first set of reasons, I said: Waiting until you’re calm and clear before you sit to meditate is like showering only when you’re clean. Thinking you’re too agitated to pray or do Yoga exercises is like believing you’re too sick to see a doctor or too tired to take a nap. We need self-protection in turbulent times even more than we usually do.
To the second set of reasons, and to the dedicated souls who are working hard to change the world, I say this: Spiritual methodologies are a boon to engaged citizenship and a blessing to our collective well-being. They’re not tranquilizers that turn practitioners into complacent blobs. They don’t make you a grinning bliss ball who runs around spouting platitudes about God’s will. In fact, deep spirituality can be a foundation for smart, robust action. Think of Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and the revered saints in every culture who were also powerful rulers, warriors, and social reformers.
I made that argument to the activist who thought spirituality was incompatible with social engagement. I even invoked a spiritual teacher she respected, Paramahansa Yogananda. Having thoroughly researched Yogananda’s life for my biography of him, I knew that he exemplified my premise. He was an orange-robed monk, but he worked harder than most C.E.O.s and was acutely aware of world affairs, speaking out against injustice, bigotry, colonialism ,and other ills of his era. He revered reformers like Gandhi who took righteous action “while inwardly united with the joy of Spirit,” as he put it.
My friend was certainly right that indignation and outrage can be useful catalysts for social action. But only to a point. An overly agitated mind is prone to mistakes. If we lack a calm center, rage can turn us into blind ship captains trying to navigate in a violent storm. Ask a business leader or a police officer how he or she wants to be when swift decisions and immediate actions are demanded: frenzied and unsteady or cool and collected? Soldiers retreat tosafe places to regroup and restore their strength. Athletes do the same; we call it halftime.
Spiritual practice serves a similar function in an active life. It not only provides relief, it produces desirable qualities such as composure, compassion, alertness, and resilience. Over time, it can create an inner fortress—a safe haven, a vantage point for heightened awareness, and a staging ground for skillful engagement.
In short, the spiritual is practical. Investing the time to fortify our connection to our Divine Source and unfold vital inner qualities is among the most pragmatic of all human endeavors. “My spiritual life is not . . . a fenced-off devotional patch rather difficult to cultivate, and needing to be sheltered from the cold winds of the outer world,” wrote the eminent scholar of religion Evelyn Underhill a century ago. “Nor is it an alternative to my outward, practical life. On the contrary, it is the very source of that quality and purpose which makes my practical life worthwhile.”
That basic premise has been validated in millions of lives over eons of time, as well as by a growing body of scientific research. Spiritual practice in crazy times is not just a rest stop, but a refueling station; not a mere escape valve, but a launching pad.
IT’S AN INSIDE JOB
Where are you searching for me, friend?
Look! Here am I right within you.
Not in temple, nor in mosque, not in Kaaba,
nor Kailas, but here right within you am I.
— Kabir
By far the most stable, dependable, secure, and impenetrable sanctuary is not a place we have tolocate, like the nearest chapel; not something we have to search for, like a calm harbor to anchor in; not something we have to construct, like a storm cellar in the basement. Nor is it something to be obtained, like a medicine or a massage. It doesn’t have to be achieved, acquired, or earned. It is your birthright. You already have it. It is within you, deep inside, at the core of your being. The sanctuary of perfect peace is your inherent nature. It is your true Self, abiding above, beneath, beyond, and within the personality you normally think of as “me” and “I”—the one that walks, talks, and acts through the singular form called your body. It is what T. S. Eliot called “the still point of the turning world.” It is the Self of all selves, and it is closer than your breath, nearer than your heartbeat.
The sages of every spiritual tradition have described that inner sanctum, pointed to the entrance, given us the keys, and implored us—sometimes gently, sometimes fervently—to enter and abide. Here you will find a balm for your beleaguered mind, body, and soul, they have promised. Open up to it, absorb it, and then return to outer life suffused anew with energy, power, and perspective. Now you can do what needs to be done with greater proficiency and wisdom.
That last point can’t be emphasized enough. Over the course of history, people devoted to spiritual attainment have been disparaged as otherworldly. They’ve been called self-obsessed, apathetic escapists. They’ve been vilified for being so focused on personal salvation that they’re indifferent to, or naïve about, the social conditions that cause humans suffering. Sadly, this impression has often been reinforced by spiritual aspirants who do withdraw from worldly affairs and by spiritual teachers who do encourage disengagement.
Make no mistake, renunciation has a treasured place in the spiritual life. It is indispensable as a temporary respite and a periodic source of deepening. And as a way of life for vow-taking monastics who divorce themselves from family and commerce, it deserves the utmost respect. But linking spirituality with passivity and retreat is a misconception. In fact, even most monastics are busy doing good for others through some form of service; very few are out-and-out hermits.
So let’s agree to separate “spiritual” from erroneous associations like apathy, superstition, and meekness. Let’s think of the term as shorthand for qualitiesl ike deep, enduring, essential, timeless, wholeness, and transformation. Forget the stereotype of lethargic space cadets. Think instead of spiritual discipline as a necessary preparation for vigorous action, likes sretching your hamstrings before a run or scrubbing your hands before surgery.
This is the central message of the Hero’s Journey, a persistent theme in storytelling throughout human history: the hero retreats from society’s tumult, undergoes a spiritual transformation, and returns to the world better equipped to serve the greater good. The hero of the Bhagavad Gita, that most sensible of sacred texts, is an esteemed warrior, not a wandering mendicant. He, Arjuna, is immobilized by indecision at the beginning of the tale, and Krishna—the embodiment of divine wisdom in the form of Arjuna’s friend and charioteer—does not advise him to run away to an ashram o cave. No, he tells Arjuna to rise up and do his duty, which in this case means to vanquish the forces of evil, even though some of the bad guys are his own relatives. We are all Arjunas, whether our battlefield is a boardroom, a kitchen, a classroom, an election, or a blank page like the one I’m facing now.
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Note: The byline in the original version of this post was corrected. This is a special guest post by Philip Goldberg of Substack’s Practical Spirituality with Philip Goldberg. The link in his bio is correct.
Love this. Thank you. Its All within 🤍