Practical Wisdom: The Holy Work of Being Alive Right Now

There are days when the air hums with tension, and the constant stream of headlines, opinions, and arguments buzzes in my nervous system like a swarm that never sleeps. We are living in an age of noise and knowing, an age where information travels faster than understanding, and truth feels slippery as a banana peel.

I sometimes feel lost here…like no one is telling the whole story…like everything is breaking, everywhere, all at once.

How about you?

And yet here we are. Alive. Right now.

That’s a miracle… and it feels like more of a miracle when I think about being present for the birth of my granddaughter last week and then hearing less than 48 hours later that a dear friend passed away unexpectedly.

We are here. Alive. Right now.

Still breathing, still choosing, still daring to care in a world that tempts us to numb out. There’s something sacred in that. Something quietly rebellious about refusing to give up our sense of wonder.

The Weariness Beneath the Surface

If you look closely, you’ll see exhaustion on the faces around you – and on the face in the mirror. The cashier with the tired eyes. The friend who’s smile fades too quickly. The driver in the next lane gripping the wheel like it’s the last thread holding them together. The truth is, we’re all carrying a lot. Our bodies, minds, and spirits are over-stimulated and starved for stillness.

When we’re overwhelmed, we fold inward. We forget to look up, to look out, to see each other.
Self-centeredness isn’t always selfishness. Sometimes it’s just a symptom of survival. When our nervous systems are flooded, we can only think about the next breath, the next deadline, the next thing that might hurt less.

This is where compassion has to slip in through the cracks, because when we notice that everyone else is as weary as we are, something softens. The edges of fear blur into tenderness. We remember that beneath the noise, we all long for the same thing: a little peace, a little love, a little meaning.

The Art of Staying Awake

Being alive right now requires a kind of spiritual stamina. Not the kind of stamina we need to keep producing, but the spiritual stamina that allows us to keep perceiving what is ours to do, to keep feeling into the moments, to choose presence instead of isolation.

There’s energy hidden in the smallest of things:

• The sunlight that sneaks through the blinds and paints your coffee cup gold.
• The sound of rain tapping its rhythm against your window.
• The way your chest lifts and falls, even when you’re too tired to pray.

Joy is not naïve.
Hope is not denial.
They are both courageous acts of quiet defiance. The soul says, Even now, I will love this world.

When you begin to pay attention to life’s subtle shimmer, the pulse beneath the chaos, energy begins to return. Hope begins to rise again. You start to remember what you came here to do, which is to live and love and serve in your own particular way.

A Gentle Practice for the Days Ahead

When the world feels too loud and too fast, try this:

• Step outside.
• Place your hand on your heart and feel its rhythm.
• Look around and find something beautiful. A leaf trembling in the wind, a child’s laughter, your own reflection in a puddle.

That simple recognition of life is holy work.

Being alive right now isn’t easy -- but it’s sacred, and every small act of noticing, every soft exhale of gratitude, every moment you choose connection over collapse adds light to a world hungry for it.

This Week’s Sacred Action

Each morning, before touching your phone or the news, go to your window or step outside.
Let the daylight touch your face. Speak or think, “I choose to be awake to life today.” Then take one slow breath for yourself, one for someone you love, and one for the world.

It’s a simple prayer. And sometimes simple prayers are the strongest medicine we have. 🙏