If only we could see and trust that all our ways of getting there our courses over time — our good deeds, our evil deeds, our regrets, our compulsive choosings and the fallout from those choosings, our things done and paths never actualized — are actually held in an exquisite fullness that simply poises in itself, then pours itself out in a single glance of the heart. If we could only glimpse that, even for an instant, then perhaps we would be able to sense the immensity of the Love that seeks to meet us at the crossroads of the Now — when we yield ourselves into it.

- Cynthia Bourgeault -

I was twenty when I began apprenticing with an eccentric architect in Sri Lanka.Though he was well known for his work, his was a small firm. He would “disappear" for 40 days at a time, leading Buddhist Vipassana retreats, prank call impatient clients waiting for his return, and his “office" was literally a living oxymoron. When it rained, work would pause, because of water trickling from holes in the roof.Additionally, there were several savoury “characters" who lived on the premises. Old friends of his from the 1970’s, artists, wanderers, and people for whom life had become unexpectedly difficult.One of them was Razzik.Razzik had once been a senior draftsman to one of Sri Lanka's most celebrated architects. By the time I met him, he was in his late sixties. We exchanged little more than greetings at first, but over time we began talking.Or perhaps more accurately, he began remembering.Razzik had twice walked from Sri Lanka to the northern tip of France. This was still possible in the 1970s. Ferry to India. Then keep moving.I remember hearing about caravan routes through Iran, evening prayers drifting across old cities, tea houses scented with cardamom and tobacco, pistachio merchants in crowded bazaars, trays of rosewater sweets, desert roads glowing beneath impossible sunsets, and narrow streets where Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and languages I had never heard before mingled in the night air.But it was not the places themselves that held me. It was the way he spoke of them.I can still hear the cadence with which he pronounced certain names.
Isfahan. Tabriz. Basra. Mosul. Jundishapur.The words themselves came alive, carrying their own atmosphere. Landscapes became present. Faces returned. Entire worlds appeared for a few moments in a deteriorating "office" in Colombo.It stirred something in me, which I cannot yet explain. Not an "I wish I could have had that experience," but more, "for god’s sake, don’t stop talking." There were times when I felt that after the first few minutes I scarcely mattered at all. I was there, certainly, but more like a sort of kick start (what a crude word, given what I’m struggling to say). Because my sense was, after the initial "kick start” I might as well not have been there. Something larger seemed to take over.A man was remembering, and the memories themselves seemed to acquire a voice, which was speaking them into a wider, timeless, nameless field.Sometimes Razzik's face would begin to shine as he spoke. Not metaphorically. There was an unmistakable brightness that entered him. A vitality. A joy. A sense that he was not merely recounting the past but standing within it again.In life, Razzik often appeared forlorn and reserved, but for brief moments, in that shining joy, the veil would part, and through the opening I would catch glimpses of a young brilliant draftsman with an explorer's heart, crossing continents on foot, delighting in the dazzling symmetries of mosques and caravanserais, the geometry of tiled courtyards, and the endlessly inventive, often gloriously quirky, asymmetrical human worlds that gathered around them.The architect once remarked that Razzik would occasionally say that nobody seemed able to listen anymore.There were other sides to him too.
Without a penny to his name, he would sometimes walk past police checkpoints, casually drop a small quantity of marijuana where it would be noticed, and engineer his own arrest. Eventually, he would come to tell me beforehand, "I'm off now. See you soon. My lodging and food are sorted for the next week." The more pragmatic and skeptical left brained parts of me could do little but concede immediate defeat, while the more intuitive regions were already busy heartily congratulating him on the sheer elegance of the scheme.Over the years, I have come to suspect that some of the most important conversations in life unfold this way. Not with answers, advice, or solutions, but with the simple experience of being listened with deeply enough that something essential has room to shine through.Spiritual companionship, for me, is an extension of that suspicion.

Human beings arrive in many ways.Some arrive with a question they have carried for years. Some arrive with a loss they cannot quite name. Some arrive because something beautiful happened, and they don't know where to place it. Some arrive through dreams. Some arrive through a line of poetry that refuses to leave them alone. And some arrive through music.Not long ago, I found myself in conversation about two Spotify playlists belonging to the same person.

One playlist was filled with songs of emergence, courage, possibility, and becoming. The other carried a very different atmosphere — stillness, longing, beauty, regret, and the gravity of a life reflecting upon itself.The playlists themselves became part of the conversation. Not as diagnoses and personality tests. But as windows into a human life.The person may never have chosen the words:"I am carrying hope.""I am carrying grief.""I am wondering whether I am becoming who I hoped I would be."Yet something in the music seemed to know. This is one of the reasons I remain interested in music as a companion to this work.Sometimes a person arrives with a story. Sometimes they arrive with a song. And sometimes the song is already telling part of the story.

If You’d Like to Reach Out

If something in these words finds an echo in you, you're welcome to write — even just to say hello.You can write in depth. Or not. A hand drawn piece of art. A Spotify playlist (haha). You don’t need to explain yourself or be sure. This space is for slow arrivals.Sessions are held online, and offered in a rhythm that suits your life (and mine). Some come once, some every few weeks, some only when the time feels right.A few seats are always held as pay what you can — especially for those walking a path without much visible support.You can write to me here: [email protected]I’ll respond with care.