When Tina told me her cousin Steve and his daughter Sara were coming to visit, I was excited to finally meet him. I’d heard so much about Steve over the years, though we’d never crossed paths. Tina described him as a spiritual seeker who’d spent years traveling to sacred sites, immersing himself in Eastern practices. His journey resonated with the oneness spirituality Tina and I had embraced, a belief in the universal interconnectedness of all things, rooted in teachings from India.
Tina hadn’t seen Steve in years, though we’d nearly met three summers ago while visiting my daughter in Maine. He lives in New Hampshire with his family, close enough to Campton where we were staying, but the lingering uncertainty around COVID-19, along with some logistical transportation difficulties, kept that meeting from happening. Now, at last, we’d have a chance to connect face-to-face.
Steve and Sara were visiting the Grand Canyon and decided to make the two-hour drive to Sedona to meet up with Tina and me. Steve was also curious about revisiting the place where he had gotten married and lived over fifty years ago. He suggested getting together on one of his favorite trails, one he used to hike back in the 1970s.
The trail was easy to find, though Tina and I had never been there before. As we parked, a small rental car pulled up beside us, and Steve and Sara stepped out. Steve looked older than Tina remembered, his hair and beard streaked with gray, but his face radiated warmth and openness that drew me in right away. We exchanged handshakes and smiles, and as we chatted, Sara mentioned that we had actually met once before in Las Vegas. I didn’t remember at first, but something in her voice, the way she talked, jogged my memory about a brief visit she’d made to my in-laws' house two years ago. The encounter had been so quick it had almost slipped my mind.
We set off along the red rock trail together but soon split into pairs, with Tina walking ahead with Steve and me following with Sara. Our conversation flowed easily. She asked a lot of questions about my life, my writing, and my retirement plans. She listened with gentleness and curiosity, which invited me to open up more than usual. It felt like a real exchange, the kind of unhurried dialogue I value most.
After almost two hours on the trail, we decided to rest and visit the Chai Spot in Tlaquepaque Village. The place was cozy, with low tables and bright cushions, and the rich scent of chai filled the air. Tina and Sara decided on a whim, to get henna tattoos. I was amazed at how the henna artist transformed their hands with swirling, delicate designs. I felt at ease, fully present, with people I’d only just met.
Later, we visited the Amitabha Stupa and Peace Park, one of our favorite spots in West Sedona. The stupa stood tall against the red rocks, calm and steady, radiating a sense of peace that seemed to reach each of us. Steve was gazing over the landscape, his thoughtful expression softened by the desert sunlight. I wondered if he felt the spiritual power of this place. It was secluded from the rest of the world, inviting contemplation and peaceful coexistence.
That evening, at one of our favorite restaurants, Picazzos, we sat down to enjoy a well-deserved, healthy meal after a long day of walking. During dinner, Steve shared stories from his travels in India, including days spent at an ashram with his guru, where he immersed himself in learning, meditation, and connection with people from all over the world. They had all come with the same purpose: to connect with their souls that strive toward oneness and become aware of the mind’s tendency toward separateness. The energy from the day seemed to carry into the evening, filling our conversation with affection and a sense of shared understanding.
But later, as Tina and I drove home in the dark, she turned on the NPR station to catch the latest election news. The warmth from the chai, the connection at dinner, the peace at the Amitabha Stupa and Peace Park, all of it suddenly felt fragile, like something slipping away. The news invoked a sense of division and uncertainty, an abrupt reminder of the world outside the small bubble of kinship we’d experienced.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Restless, I slipped out of bed and went to the guest room, hoping the change of scenery would help. Waking up early, I made myself a cup of black tea and sat at the computer, where I found an email from my brother-in-law, Kevin. He had sent me something from a magazine I was not familiar with, The Marginalian, about E.M. Forster, the English novelist, and his reflections on creative people and their role in society.
Forster had written about sensitive individuals, people who serve as a kind of moral compass for society. Forster didn’t use the modern term “empath,” but he described people with deep perceptiveness and compassion, qualities we now associate with that label. He argued that democracy relies not only on laws and institutions but also on valuing each person’s unique perspective, embracing a diversity of voices. Without these “sensitives,” he warned, democracy risks becoming cold and impersonal, sliding into authoritarianism as it loses its human touch.
After reading Forster’s words, I started thinking back to the hike with Steve and Sara, to those moments that had felt genuine and valuable. Forster’s ideas reminded me that moments of connection lead to trust which is the essential quality in human relationships. They offer stability and meaning in a world where we often feel disconnected.
As I continued reading, I came across a reference to Donald Winnicott, a psychoanalyst who explored how emotionally stable, reliable relationships form the bedrock of trust, particularly for those who have experienced inconsistency or betrayal. He introduced the concept of the “care-cure” relationship, a bond characterized by non-judgmental support, truthfulness, and steadfastness. In Winnicott’s view, reliability in relationships acts as a psychological anchor, offering an emotional “holding environment” that fosters healing and growth. Without this stability, individuals often experience confusion and distrust, struggling to find security in an unpredictable world.
In our daily practice of Wisdom Healing Qigong, Tina and I learned from Master Mingtong that true connection begins with openness to all experiences, embracing the flow of chi around us. He teaches that trauma creates contraction and separation, both within ourselves and between us and others. Healing, he says, starts with the body, with accepting all feelings and sensations as they arise. It’s a path of reconnection, allowing us to expand again, to live with awareness and gentleness, shifting from doing to simply being in the present moment.
As I sat there in the early morning light, I thought about how these simple moments of loving-kindness are as essential to life as breathing. They resonate with the energy of the heart chakra, a center of love and compassion, which serves as a bridge between our physical reality and our higher aspirations. When we live from the heart, we experience peace, calm, and joy in the present moment, feeling connected to others and free from the divisions of judgment or fear. Each small connection becomes a step along a path we can walk, grounded in compassion and open to the world with trust. Maybe oneness isn’t some grand, abstract idea of unity. Maybe it’s something simple: to live from the heart, to let each experience of causeless love guide us, to build a trail of moments we can follow, step by step.
In the end, it’s these bonds, these small pieces of trust, that offer us a way to be fully present with each other, even when the world outside feels fractured. As I finished my tea, I felt grateful for yesterday’s hike, a reminder that even in a divided world, we can find a connection, one shared moment at a time.
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