Miracles – sudden, unexpected bouts of goodness — are a function of grace.

Grace is a function of being in the right place at the right time.

It is always the case that you are in the right place at the right time—you can't be otherwise. But, and it is not a small one, you can mentally, i.e., on the level of thought, project yourself into the wrong place and time.

One example, perhaps the greatest of them all, involves the experience of expectation. If your parents conditioned you to abide by their will and become a doctor, and you become a doctor — despite not really wanting to do so because of having another, truer dream — you end up in the wrong place and wrong time.

All suffering is like that. Being in two different places and two different times. On the one hand, you are physically present in the here and now and, on the other, due mostly to inner or outer expectation and conditioning, you project into a separate, mentally-constructed here and now. 

This disconnected state is very important. There is nothing wrong with it. How else to get connected than by first being disconnected? How else to get found, unless first get lost?

The disconnected state is also unsustainable. You can't live in it forever. Stress develops. Depression develops. Unshakeable, difficult questions arise. While this can feel like punishment or that you have done something wrong, like hitting the guard rail on a highway, you are being guided to make new choices to get back in the right lane and out of danger.

We either surrender, fight harder, or bury our head in the sand. That is your choice to make again and again.

By surrendering, like peeling a layer of an onion, we learn to let go of our expectations and conditioning, and come back to our self.

Peel enough layers and the unvarnished you begins to show. Now you have arrived. Now all parts of you are here and now.

Miracles and magic become the norm. Grace. You have found grace. And with that, an unbroken and unbreakable experience of joy.

No Right Answer

Mahatma Gandhi was well known for his philosophy of non-violence (ahimsa), especially when it came to challenging British colonial rule in India. 

At the same time, Gandhi once said, "Where choice is set between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence... I prefer to use arms in defence of honour, rather than remain the vile witness of dishonour."

There is no right answer. There is only what's right to you, relative to the context you find yourself in.

Should I be a vegetarian or non-vegetarian? Should I marry or become a monk? Should I look for a job or start a business? Should I speak up or remain silent?

There is no right answer. There is only what's right to you.

But we like to believe in there being a right answer. We like to be told what to do. This takes us off the hook and removes our agency as a unique creator, which helps us avoid shame and potential exclusion (and, ultimately, success and happiness).

The answer we choose very well might turn out to be the "wrong" answer or create complications. But even wrong answers become right answers if learned from.

And that is the whole point. To choose, to fall, to learn, and to grow. Over and over again.

Question and Answer

The desire to have a question answered resembles, in many ways, the desire of a young child for a chocolate bar.

While there is innocence to be sure, there is also a sense of poverty informing the desire. I need this. If I don't have this, then _________. Fill in the blank something bad.

As we age and mature, we want to eliminate this sense of poverty. We want to understand: there really is no need for anything. As soon as something is needed, the need is fulfilled. That is a Law of the Universe.

But our minds and egos, split off from the whole, do not trust this. In that void of trust, needs arise. Questions arise. Desire is born.

Again, it is all a very innocent play and not to be judged this way or that.

But it is a play that severely limits you, as you will either come to understand or understand already.

So much of the work of spirituality entails, at first, managing desire. And then a little later, only when you are ready, eliminating it altogether.

With questions, in particular, we can play with holding them vs. seeking an answer.

To hold a question means to recognise its presence. Then we inject a bit of awareness and, instead of looking at the question as a problem to be solved, we put it on our laps. We give it a resting place. 

We get curious about the question itself. What possibly could be the answer? We notice how it affects us. With this approach, we are not letting the desire for the answer control our behaviour. That is the part we are actively managing until there is "no need" to do so.

What ends up happening is that, somehow, we become the question itself. We merge with it. By holding the question and not seeking the answer, we fulfil the purpose of a question—to point us in a newer, and quite likely unfamiliar direction.

Slowly but surely, the question answers itself as the two are contained in one—question and answer are not separate from one another, as you originally thought they were.

You can have your chocolate bar now, or wait for something even sweeter later.