The boat people of Southeast Asia, the Moken, have few possessions. They can only carry what they need in their small boats. They also have no word in their language for worry. But when the tsunami came, they were attentive and watchful of the water; they saw the sea first come high on the beach and then recede far out. They remembered their stories, their myths of what happens to the seas, and so took their boats into deep water and survived the tsunami. The local fishermen did not survive; their boats were destroyed. They did not watch, they were not attentive.

How can we be fully attentive when our lives are cluttered with so many possessions, so many attachments, so many desires? Will we have time to remember the stories, to watch and move our little boat to deeper waters? Or will we be like the local fisherman, inattentive to the need of the moment, sunk by the tsunami of materialism? We live in a culture in which we are constantly bombarded, our attention distracted, no longer just by the “10 thousand things” of the ancient world, but by 10 million things. Everything is demanding our attention, wanting us to consume, to buy, to spend our money and our time. And we do not even know the depths and subtleties of this web of consumerism, its powers of deception.

How can we create a space of clarity, of attentiveness? How can we return to what is essential? How can we remember what really matters, what gives meaning and substance to our daily lives? How can we return to a simplicity of life that honors the simplicity of our essential nature, that gives space for the sacred?

First, we have to acknowledge that our whole culture is caught in the grip of unnecessary desires and recognize the poison of accumulation for what it is. We are conditioned and pressured to want more and more—this is the myth of continual economic progress. This myth has become a monster destroying our ecosystem, taking our money and our life energy. It has polluted our consciousness with its slogans and jingles designed to distort, to manipulate. And we do not even know the power of its dark magic, how much it has us in its grip, feeding us false promises of a better life, assuring us that “things go better” with the purchase of a product. It has saturated every corner of our culture. We are pressured to consume packaged food and even packaged spirituality. We no longer know the ingredients of our lives.

Second, we have to have the strength to say no. To go against this toxic flow, to resist the power of its empty promises and the corporations behind them, we have to regain an essential simplicity, return to what we need rather than what we think we want. Only then can we begin to hear the music of life, be attentive to the inner and outer need of the earth. Only then can we become alive with what is sacred and true.

Third, we have to learn to discriminate, to clear our inner and outer clutter. In the classical love story of Eros and Psyche, one of Psyche’s almost impossible tasks is to sort a huge pile of seeds. Like Psyche, we have to sort the many things in our life; we have to make conscious what is of value, what we really need. Discrimination is never an easy task. But as Psyche is aided in her task by some willing ants, we too have help, in the form of an instinctual wisdom, a quiet quality that is present to us if we are paying attention. And it becomes easier after time and practice. As we clear more space in our inner and outer lives, we become more attuned to what is necessary, more aware of the deceptions and false promises of unnecessary “stuff.” We see more clearly how our possessions take more than just space—they also take our attention.

Personally, I love the old Taoist ways, the ways of the hermits whose spirituality and nature were blended together, their poems a flock of wild geese crossing high in the sky. They lived an essential simplicity that speaks to my soul: their possessions one robe and one bowl, the decoration of their mountain hut “the moon at the window.” I have tried to recapture this simplicity in my life, but today we seem to need so many things just to get by. Again and again I have tried to empty my room, especially when I was younger. But family life demanded more and more possessions—many more than needed by a hermit in a hut—though my children would still complain that I threw out too many things.

So over the years I have tried instead to keep an inner simplicity, an empty space in as many moments of the day as is possible. Now that I am getting older, once again I feel the tug of this other landscape, a longing for a small cottage and rain-swept hills—maybe the beautiful and bleak Scottish highlands I knew as a child. But my life remains full, though more with people than possessions. So I keep this simplicity as an inner secret, an emptiness that I crave.

Still I have to be careful. I use modern technology: a computer, the Internet, and I love listening to music on an iPod. All around me I feel consumerism and its dark web of desires that so easily entangles us, more than we realize. And often it is not enough to clear out the physical clutter in our homes; we need also to bring a simplicity to how we spend our time, how we use our attention—to be mindful in how we live.

The practice of meditation and mindfulness can clear the clutter of our minds. A few trips to Goodwill can clear the clutter from our homes. And then continual attention is needed so that the currents of accumulation do not fill the empty space we have created.

And beyond the clutter of thoughts and things, we also have to watch that we are not caught in constant activity, our culture’s emphasis on endless “doing” rather than “being.” We need space in order to watch, to listen, to walk, to breathe—to be present. The Tao Te Ching teaches the value of not doing:

Less and less is done until nothing is done,
When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.

Through a quality of emptiness we can access a deeper rhythm than the surface jangle of constant activity. We used to be held by the rhythms of the seasons and the soil. Now we have to struggle to return to a rhythm and a space that are not toxic with consumption, that belong to the seasons of the sacred, where life still flows true to its essential nature. Simplicity, patience, and compassion can guide and keep us inwardly aligned. Gradually we can once again listen to the earth, to Her wisdom and beauty; we can feel the beating of both Her heart and ours. We can feel again the deep belonging that allows us to be present in every moment, not as a practice but a simple state of being. We can remember why we are here.

Simplicity is the essence of life. The word itself comes from the Latin simplex, meaning uncompounded or composed of a single part. Simple things reflect this essential nature, which belongs to everything in creation. When we honor the simple things of life, we bring ourselves back to this oneness, our true home.

All the practices below are a return to simplicity. Breathing, walking, growing food, cooking—these are the “chop wood, carry water” of our day. If we honor what is essential in our lives, we connect with the life force that runs free of the dramas of our individual and collective psyche. Here we are connected and responsive.

» Begin by giving extra attention to your simple daily activities, like rising from bed and putting two feet on the floor. Pause there. You are awake, you are alive. Take note of how you feel in your body, and how your feet touch the floor. Be aware as you move toward the bathroom, toward the kitchen and the coffee or tea. Be grateful for water in the sink, for oranges that made your juice, for milk in your tea. Drink slowly. Appreciate your food. Appreciate your family, the sun coming in the window, the beauty you see in your partner or children. Simplicity reveals itself through slowness, in quiet moments when you can see, feel, taste, touch. Take time during the day to stop rushing. Move through the day with respect and openness.

» Take an honest inventory of your life. Look at the things you have that take up time and psychic space. Look at your activities and commitments. What of these things do you actually need? Which are habits and entanglements that take up space and weigh you down? Which reflect your real values, feed your soul, touch you with love? Do you need or just want that new thing, that new activity, that has caught your eye? For a short time, try going without some of the things of your life. Maybe you don’t need them after all.

» Let nature teach you. In nature, we are students of simplicity. The way a tree grows toward the sun, the way a cat stretches beside the fire, the way the seasons come round again and again without fail, can teach the simplicity of what is. The essential nature of our own lives—the cycle of birth, death, suffering and joy, and even liberation—also reflects this simplicity. We might make our lives complicated by how we relate to these—fighting death, avoiding suffering, searching for freedom and happiness—but that is our superimposed experience, not what is. Look for ways to attune to the natural simplicity of life that underlies the complications of our human experience.

» Bring yourself back again and again to what is simple, to what does not change over time, to what shines steady through the fog. Ask yourself, do we need more than these things? Do we need more than the beauty of a crabapple tree in spring, a warm house in the winter, the way water sounds flowing through a stream, a cup of tea with friends? Do we need more in our lives than love?

» Practicing simplicity doesn’t mean giving away all our things, quitting our demanding jobs, and moving to a mountain hut or living off the grid. It simply means being very honest about what we value within our lives, what sustains us, brings us joy and meaning, and devoting ourselves to those activities, people, or things. While we might end up having fewer possessions or changing some of our habits, simplicity compels a return, not rejection—a seeing through and within, rather than looking somewhere else. When we live from a place of simplicity, we naturally find we need less and instead are more open to life.

Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, PhD, is a Sufi teacher and author of several books, including For Love of the Real: A Story of Life’s Mystical Secret. GoldenSufi.org • WorkingWithOneness.org

BY LLEWELLYN VAUGHAN-LEE

All of us want, or need, to be loved. The need for love is one of the most basic human impulses. We may cover this need with patterns of self-protection or images of self-reliance. Or we may openly acknowledge this need to ourself or to others. But it is always present, whether hidden or visible. Usually, we seek for love in human relationships, project our need onto parents, partners, friends, lovers. Our lack or denial of love often causes wounds that we carry with us. This unmet need haunts us, sometimes driving us into addictions or other self-destructive patterns. Conversely, if our need for love is met, we feel nourished in the depths of our being.

Love calls to us in many different ways. Yet while most people seek for love in the tangle of human relationships, the mystic is drawn deeper under the surface—in Rumi’s words, “return to the root of the root of your own being.” And here we begin to discover one of life’s greatest secrets: how love is at the source of all that exists, is the source of all that exists. Love is not just a feeling between people, but a substance, an energy, a divine spark that is present within everything. And it is this deepest essence—this substance of love—that we need to nourish us.

Love speaks to our soul and to our body. Love includes all the senses—taste and touch, smell, sight and sound. Love by its very nature includes everything. It does not just belong to a human relationship. It can be found anywhere, because it is everywhere. The mystic uncovers the simple secret that in truth love flows through all that exists—sweet, tender, aching, knowing, as well as dark and passionate. And as this primal energy, this greatest power, awakens within us, within our heart, our soul, and even within the cells of our body, it draws us deeper into its own mystery. Love draws us back to love.

And here we discover the oneness of love—that the source and answer to our primal need is not separate from us, but part of our own essential nature, our own true being. Again, to quote Rumi:

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.

The mystical truth of the oneness of love is something both simple and essential: the real nature of the love that we all seek is not other than us. I remember my first direct experience of this love. I was in my late 20s when one afternoon while I was in meditation, I felt what I can only describe as butterfly wings touching the edge of my heart. And in that instant my whole being and body were filled with a love I had hardly known existed. Every cell of my body was loved, tenderly, gently, and completely. Love was present in all of me. And this love came from within me, from my own heart. There was no other.

Love is life’s greatest gift. We seek for love, and yet it is all around and within us. It belongs to the oneness of life, to every dewdrop on every leaf, to the spider spinning its web, the child looking at the stars. If we open our senses and open our hearts, we can feel its presence. Love is life speaking to us of its real mystery. And in that conversation so many things can happen, so many miracles can be born, the small unsuspecting miracles that we often do not notice—like momentary sunlight from behind a cloud, a flower where a seed unexpectedly sprouted, a smile from a stranger. Despite all of its distortions, pain, and suffering, this world belongs to love, just as each of us belongs to love. And just to know that we are part of this love is enough.

Learning to love is learning to live, to become part of the great love affair that is life. And just as love is life’s gift, so is love the one true gift we each have to give. I was brought up in a family where love was unknown, where nothing real was given. And so I have come to appreciate this simple gift and how precious it is. Love is all we really have to give, and love is free, even if it costs blood and a broken heart.

Sadly, we live in a culture where so much is distorted, caught in the shadowlands of ego and greed. We are fed endless desires, manipulated by advertising and the media, no longer knowing what to trust. We have almost forgotten that life is sacred. At such a time it is especially important to return to what is essential and true, what cannot be bought or sold. Simple acts of loving kindness, an open heart that listens, hands that care—with a friend, a stranger, with someone in need. These are the true currencies of our shared humanity, which easily break through barriers and remind us of a unity deeper than our surface divisions. In our true nature we are not consumers but lovers, and life is not about economic prosperity or getting more stuff, but is a love affair waiting to be lived.

And at this time it is especially important to give the gift of love back to the Earth, the same Earth that we are poisoning and polluting. Return love with simple acts: planting some herbs with care and attention; walking, our feet touching the ground with love every step; seeing spring blossoms, aware of her beauty. The Earth is so generous, she has given us life and yet we desecrate her, attack her fragile web. It is time to fall in love again with the Earth, to remember that she is sacred and help in her healing, to listen to her and love her.

And what is revealed within the heart of the lover, of the one who has given himself or herself to love, is the great secret of creation: that love is always present. Love is present within our own heart, within every breath, within every cell of our body and the whole of creation. The whole of creation is a continual outpouring of love, of lover and beloved needing each other, meeting each other, merging with each other. The great mystery is then not that this love is always present, but that it appears hidden from us, that we have forgotten how we are made of love. That we are love seeking love. And life’s greatest gift is love waiting to be lived.

Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, PhD, is a Sufi teacher and author of several books, including For Love of the Real: A Story of Life’s Mystical Secret. GoldenSufi.org • WorkingWithOneness.org

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
—Gerard Manley Hopkins

Every morning I wake early and walk in the first light beside the bay here in Northern California. It is an ever-changing time of solitude and communion, with the sun breaking over the hills, the fog making everything still, or the winter frost creating a silver landscape. Looking out over the wetland, I always search for the shape of the egret, sometimes still in the dawn, or this morning its wings brilliant white rising from the water. As it flies and settles further off in the gray early light, I am awakened to a world that is all around me, if sadly not always noticed. After its white, white wings, I see the world more distinct—the wild roses more brilliant and pink as they spill over a fence. I sense, smell, hear, and see in a different way: I am more present.

I have always loved and needed to walk in the early morning. After waking up, first meditation and hot tea, then going outside, feeling and sensing the world before the day’s demands begin. Even when I lived in the city, I would run or cycle in the early morning, needing this connection, this seeing the world around before life’s business too often drowned out any quiet. For the last 20 years I have lived here in Inverness amid nature—an unexpected blessing—and taking the same walk every morning, each day is different: the light, the call of the birds, the way a leaf moves in the wind. Recently, my early walk changed and is now beside the wetland rather than amid the trees, and so the landscape of this morning meeting is very different. And yet the essence of this early prayer is the same, this meeting with the sacred around me.

While meditation takes me inward into an essential inner silence and emptiness, this early morning walking is a prayer. In prayer there is a meeting: I meet and bow before the One in Its many colors, sounds, and smells. Of course, many mornings I forget, and take my own thoughts with me on my walk. But then I am reminded, like today when the egret’s wings flashed white, and I awake from myself and see more clearly—the colors, the sounds, the beauty, the Divine. Once more I am attuned to how “the world is charged with the grandeur of God.”

Any prayer in which there is a real meeting, a real relationship with the Divine, is always changing. Just as each day is different—sometimes fog (we live beside the ocean), sometimes the sun breaking through, sometimes bright light—so the states of prayer change. Sometimes this meeting in the morning is more intimate, my heart sings, I feel a deep oneness with what is around me. More recently, I have felt a calling, as if the earth needs me, needs my attention. It wants to draw me into deeper awareness: to meet it not just on the surface, amid the brilliance of its colors and sounds, but in its interior soul, in the depths of its sacred self.

In these moments there is a sense that my morning walking prayer is not just for me but also mysteriously for something within nature: that this meeting in prayer is needed by the earth. These early mornings are for me a deep remembrance of the sacred in creation, in the world around. It is a very private time—no one else is around. I try not to allow the thought-forms or demands of the day in. But there has come a deepening sense that this remembrance is also needed by the earth, that it is calling for my awareness of its divine nature—that it needs my prayer.

We always think that our prayer is about us, our need for the Divine. And of course, this is true: prayer is borne from need. Each morning, under the need to remember, to reconnect with a wonder that is around me, there is also a deeper truth: that the Divine needs our remembrance. In so many ways the Divine calls out to us—throughout our day, throughout our life. And our prayer is a response to Its call. As Rumi says, “I never knew that God too desires us.”

And now the earth is calling. I can sense it in the early morning, in the white flashing of the egret’s wings, in the fragrance of the wild roses. The earth needs us to remember its divine nature: it needs our prayers. Something sacred in the world is dying and needs our attention. How long can it survive our culture’s desecration, our pillage and pollution, our deep neglect of its divine nature? Just as the world helps me to awaken every morning, we are needed to help the world awaken from this nightmare we call materialism. The soul of the world is calling to us. Our prayers for the earth are needed.

Reprinted from the Inverness Almanac.

Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, PhD, is a Sufi teacher and author of a number of books, including The Return of the Feminine and World Soul. In recent years the focus of his writing and teaching has been on spiritual responsibility in our present time of transition, spiritual ecology, and the emerging global consciousness of oneness. GoldenSufi.org • SpiritualEcology.org