Category: Behaviour

  • 🌿 The Mandorla: Meeting in the Space Between

    🌿 The Mandorla: Meeting in the Space Between

    A dear teacher of mine, Caroline Carey, shares a profound process called the Mandorla. At first glance it seems simple: two overlapping circles. Each circle represents a different truth, a polarity that exists in our lives. One may be light, the other dark. One may carry longing, the other resistance. One may be the self that feels safe in belonging, the other the self that stands apart.

    The place where the circles overlap is the Mandorla — the almond-shaped middle ground. It is not about choosing one side over the other, but about daring to stand in the space between. Here, we can get to know both sides with curiosity, without having to reject or identify with just one.

    Caroline teaches that through The Magic of Mandorla we gain profound clarity on our core wound. Rather than treating this wound as an enemy, we come to see it as an ally — a place of hidden power that, when embraced, reveals our unique gift and the contribution we are here to make.

    It is known as the most powerful of (spiritual) religious experiences we can have in life. Mandorla is the place of poetry “And the fire and the rose are one.”  T. S Eliot

    An Ancient Symbol

    The Mandorla (also known as the Vesica Piscis) is one of the most ancient sacred symbols known. Two circles overlap to form the almond-shaped space that represents divine union and the meeting of opposites: earth and sky, masculine and feminine, ego and soul, physical and spiritual. The two circles sit inside a larger one, representing total existence.

    As Caroline reminds us, this is not abstract mysticism. It is a picture of our human task: to bridge spirit and matter, to live fully grounded in our bodies while also honouring the presence of soul.

    Why the Middle Matters

    When we step consciously into each circle, we can listen: What lives here? What voice wants to be heard? Each side carries its own stories, images, and sensations. By allowing them to express themselves, we begin to see more of the truth that lives in us.

    But when we are not conscious of this movement, it is easy to get swept into extremes. We may cling to light while denying shadow, or become trapped in fear while forgetting possibility. The circles drift apart, and life feels polarised, split, or stuck.

    The Mandorla reminds us there is another way: to pause in the overlap, to hold both truths at once, and to let something larger reveal itself.

    ✍️ A Mandorla Journaling Practice

    Here’s a simple way to try the Mandorla as a creative exercise:

    1. Take a blank sheet of paper and draw two overlapping circles.
    2. Identify a polarity you feel in your life right now (e.g. freedom/security, belonging/exile, hope/fear).
    3. Step into the first circle. Write down words, images, or sensations that belong to this side. Let it speak freely.
    4. Step into the second circle and do the same — give voice to what lives there.
    5. Continue adding to each circle over days or even weeks, until both sides feel fully represented.
    6. Then move into the almond-shaped middle space — the Mandorla. Ask:
      • What is needed for balance?
      • What do these two sides want me to know?
    7. Capture what arises — whether in words, images, or symbols.

    This practice helps us hold the tension of opposites with compassion, and often reveals new possibilities that neither side could see alone.

    A Story: Thandi’s Mandorla

    Thandi is a 32-year-old woman who often finds herself caught between two powerful forces. On one side, she longs for closeness. She watches friends laughing together, feels the ache of wanting to belong, and journals often about her dream of a deep, loving partnership.

    On the other side, she fears connection. Whenever someone gets too close, she notices panic rising — a tightening in her chest, a voice whispering, “If they really knew me, they’d leave.” This fear leads her to pull away, even from people she cares about.

    Living at these extremes is exhausting. Some weeks she pushes herself into social spaces, only to feel overwhelmed and withdraw. Other times she isolates for days, missing the very connection she longs for. It feels like she’s trapped in a loop.

    When Thandi tries the Mandorla process, she draws two overlapping circles.

    • Left Circle (Longing for Connection): She writes: “Warmth, laughter, safety, being seen.” She pastes in a magazine picture of two friends embracing. She notices a soft feeling in her chest when she lets herself imagine being included.
    • Right Circle (Fearing Connection): She writes: “Danger, rejection, too much.” She sketches a shadowy figure and adds, “If they know me, I’ll lose them.” The sensation here is tightness in her stomach.

    By spending time in each circle, Thandi begins to see that both sides have something to say. The longing protects her from loneliness. The fear protects her from being hurt. Neither is “wrong.”

    Finally, she turns to the Mandorla — the almond-shaped space in the middle. She asks each side: “What is needed for balance?”

    A new voice emerges: “I want to risk small steps. I don’t need to rush. I can let people in slowly, in ways that feel safe.”

    This insight doesn’t erase the polarity — but it shows her a way forward that honours both truths. She can listen to her longing and respect her fear. She can experiment with small, safe connections, practising trust one step at a time.

    In Caroline’s words, Thandi has begun to transform her core wound — the ache of disconnection — into the gift of compassionate presence with herself and others.

    Closing Thought

    At a time when our differences — of culture, politics, faith, or identity — threaten to divide us, the Mandorla offers a different possibility. It becomes not only a personal practice, but also a collective medicine: a way of building bridges where polarity seems insurmountable.

    The polarity between opposites can be destructive, but it can also be powerfully generative. By stepping into the space between, we learn empathy, humility, and courage — qualities that ripple out into our relationships, communities, and the wider world.

    The Mandorla is not about erasing differences or forcing harmony. It is about holding tension with compassion, listening to both sides of our inner life, and allowing something new to emerge. When we meet ourselves in the space between, we may find that what once felt like conflict becomes a doorway to transformation.

  • Waste Your Time with Music

    Waste Your Time with Music

    my post today feels like what i need to tell myself most: it’s ok not to do. you don’t have to have it all worked out. it’s ok not to have a plan. to sit there bored and restless for a moment. for most of human history, it must have been like that. we didn’t have access to everything, all the time, like we do now. these moments of non-doing are a luxury, even when they feel like their own kind of turmoil.

    the discomfort of stillness

    stillness can feel uncomfortable because, when we stop, the things we’ve been running from have a chance to catch up to us. maybe that’s why so many of us keep searching for the thing that will finally make us face ourselves — the perfect retreat, the right medicine, the breakthrough moment. but what i’ve learned is that shortcuts don’t work.

    what actually works then?

    that’s the question i get asked — and ask — most. recently, a client told me her GP had suggested 5 grams of mushrooms might help her. he didn’t consider her fragile state, and i doubt it would have helped. i know people who’ve taken plant medicines for decades — and if anything, some are worse off. not because there is anything wrong with psychedelics, but because they weren’t willing to do what even a big dose of mushrooms can’t do for you: look at yourself honestly.

    meet yourself as you are. not even the strongest ayahuasca or a month-long silent retreat can make you do that. our defences are sophisticated. when we don’t want to look, we won’t. we need to work with our defensive system creatively, so that staying present with ourselves becomes more like an art form than a chore.

    a simple practice

    so in that light, here’s a small practice: waste some time with music. i love to meditate. i’m pretty sure now that if i don’t do it, something feels off in my day. but some days, i forget there are many ways to meditate. i forget that i can make meditation out of other things. take music, for example. i finish my day and ask myself, what now? what should i do with this “off” moment? sometimes i even put pressure on myself to spend it well. i imagine yoga or tai chi—something noble. but let’s be honest: that’s not what i’m doing. and probably not what i’ll be doing tomorrow either. so maybe i can just take it easy. what would that even look like?

    firstly: not doing. always my starting point. just stop. stop the thought about what you ought to be doing. then it occurs to me: put some music on. and do nothing else but listen to one track. when did you last do that? for me, it feels like ages since i’ve done nothing but listen to one piece of music. that’s why i think it’s a meditation. and actually, a very good use of time. number one—it’s hard to do. ask around. how many people can actually sit and do this? we’re all addicted to being distracted. it’s the state of the world. everybody act busy!

    so here’s my suggestion: waste your time with music. here’s a piece i enjoy so much: Hania Rani – On Giacometti (Official Album Video)

    the meditation is simple: stay with the music, and notice your body. and feel the last note fade into the quiet, leaving you with nothing to do but breathe.

  • What I Learned from 21 Days of Morning Pages on Belonging

    What I Learned from 21 Days of Morning Pages on Belonging

    “The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” — Montaigne

    Belonging is not just a nice-to-have. It’s a fundamental human need. Without it, we wither. At times, it can feel easier to starve than to live without a place where we are truly received.

    And yet, so many of us carry the wound of not belonging. There is hardly anyone on this planet who hasn’t, at some point, felt the sting of exclusion—being pushed out, turned away, or conditionally welcomed. You can stay, but it’s going to cost you, goes the unspoken contract.

    Witnessing the Wound

    I once participated in a training where we each took turns standing outside a circle while the rest of the group turned inward. It was only an exercise, but the feelings were achingly real. On the outside, pacing, the body remembers: I’ll do anything to be part of this. And beneath that, the grief of all the times the circle never opened—no matter what we tried.

    This is an experience so deeply human that we will do almost anything to avoid it. Sometimes we give up our principles just to stay in the circle. Perhaps this explains some of what we see in the world today.

    These experiences don’t vanish with time. They shape how we show up, what we allow ourselves to do—or not do. And because they cut so deep, the wounds of belonging are heavily protected.

    A Dream of Belonging

    On the very first night of my 21-day writing journey, I had a dream. In it, all the wounds I carried around belonging were suddenly gone.

    I knew, without question, that I belonged. That belonging could never be taken away. Wherever I went, this knowing accompanied me. It was like the innocence of a child who has never been excluded—now present in the adult who has lived and seen the world.

    The change was remarkable. Without fear, I could bring myself to anything. Life became more like a dance—fluid, responsive, impossible to be apart from. There was no loss to fear, because the movement never stops.

    What Participants Discovered

    I wasn’t alone in these discoveries. Others in the Parts on Paper: Belonging & Roots group shared profound insights:

    “I’ve been searching for belonging most of my life and realized I was unconsciously resisting it. When I discovered why, it felt like the floodgates opened. This has been a small but deeply significant pause on my journey.”

    “I realized that more often than not, people accept me. There are many places I belong. The rejection I felt was rooted in my own shame, not reality. People accept and love me just as I am.”

    “The group was transformational. Ryan’s guidance, the group insights, and daily writing allowed rigid parts of me to shift. This led directly to improved relationships and a deeper sense of acceptance.”

    An Invitation

    Belonging begins with ourselves, but it flourishes in community. Writing together opens doors that are difficult to find alone.

    The next Parts on Paper group begins in September. If this resonates with you, you’re warmly invited to join us.

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  • The Trap You Don’t Have to Escape From

    The Trap You Don’t Have to Escape From

    I felt that same old familiar feeling — rock and a hard place, as the saying goes. I’ve been there many, many times before. That place where there really doesn’t seem to be any movement either way. You’re damned.

    If you’re quiet enough, the answer will come. The movement will come.
    And it’s not a movement that comes from your mind.
    Hell, you can’t even take credit for it — because there’s nothing you did for it, except one big thing:

    Give up the struggle.

    Instead of trying to find your way out of the hard place, forcing solutions, trying to figure it all out, or arguing with life about why you’re in there in the first place, you do something so counterintuitive, so revolutionary, that your mind nearly jumps out of its own head.

    You simply stop the struggle.

    Imagine being tied up in one of those knots that only tightens the more you pull. That’s not far from the truth of the hard place. It’s as if the more we try to wrestle our way out, the deeper we dig the hole.

    But still — no one likes being stuck. And rightly so.

    Maybe I shouldn’t speak for everyone. I’ve met a few who seem to prefer stuckness because the idea of freedom is just too overwhelming.
    But most of us, I imagine, would much rather be free.
    And there’s nothing worse than the feeling of no movement.

    What I’m getting at is this: stuckness — the not-knowing, the confusion, the fog, the feeling lost — these are all forms of the hard place.
    And I don’t think any of that is actually the problem.

    In fact, I think we’d be wise to expect them.
    Being lost and confused is just part of being human.

    I watched this series recently — Somebody Somewhere — and I highly recommend it for the realness of its characters and the vulnerability of its story. There’s a line that changes the course of the main character Sam’s life. Her friend says to her:

    “No one knows what they’re doing.”

    Never has a truer word been spoken.
    None of us really know.
    We’re just making it up as we go, and stumbling as we go.

    But somehow, we’ve picked up this bad habit of expecting more from ourselves, like we ought to know better.
    Well, how on earth ought we to know more than we do?

    It’s a total delusion. We can only know what we know.
    And we’re going to get it wrong — again and again — and that does not need to be a problem.

    In fact, in my experience, the less I make it a problem, the more I learn.

    So back to that damned ditch I was in — that old familiar feeling. Can’t say yes, can’t say no. No obvious way to go.

    But something strange happened.

    I noticed I wasn’t so afraid of the feeling anymore.
    And a little voice inside reminded me:
    I am completely free to make my best move.

    I think of a tennis court — the best rallies, the impossible shots that come out of impossible angles.
    Even if the player loses the point, we love watching that kind of play — the creativity, the comeback, the refusal to give in.

    Something in us lights up when we see someone come back from a hard place.
    People rising out of difficulty, big or small — it’s an endless fascination.

    So maybe the point isn’t to wish for the rock and the hard place.

    But what if we could be just a little more grateful for those moments?
    Because they’re asking something of us — something more than we think we have.

    And the only way out… is in.
    To trust that it’s in you, in me, in everyone — and to learn to follow it.

  • Choosing the Hard Thing

    Choosing the Hard Thing

    If you are not prepared for the hard thing, given the opportunity, you’ll go for the easy option. Case in point: me.

    I intend to do this writing—the hard thing—and then I click on my browser and YouTube wants to tell me about F1, the easy thing. No disrespect towards the easy action. For some reason, I love to watch cars speed around a race track at ridiculous speeds. But it’s a very easy action to take. It takes much more to stay with the hard thing.

    Here are some thoughts about why that is so, and what we can do to make the harder thing easier. Which sounds like a kind of oxymoron, but what if the hard thing is what you really want? The choice that’s most likely to fill you up.

    Life is full of these hard actions we avoid doing. Once I’ve set my mind on something, guaranteed something else will come and pull me in a different direction. And let’s say I click on that seductive video, what’s the true cost, aside from the time lost? I’d argue it’s usually more than we think.

    What I forget is that it’s my life I’m giving—these small moments that make up the bigger arcs of time. That become the patterns that shape my future self.

    These small choices matter. At the same time, I can also err in the other direction, putting pressure on every moment to make it count. That’s its own form of insanity. So what does the middle ground look like? How do I do more of the hard things, without making life impossibly hard overall?

    One way is to give yourself permission to do nothing at all which, it turns out, is a lot harder than it seems. And possibly a step up from the F1 video that calls to the distractor parts of me. These moments of pause and non-doing are sometimes themselves expressions of the hard thing. Especially in modern society, where we have to contend with all the voices calling us lazy or unproductive. But what if the pause gives you the space to find the right action?

    Epictetus, in his way, warned against wishing life away. Even the waiting is part of it. You remember wanting to get there, on the way to the beach. But you wouldn’t actually want to fast-track it so that you didn’t have the experience of not being there yet. That part is just as valid as arriving—an expression of life.

    There are all kinds of moments, and we can’t hope to be doing the most productive thing in every one. But we can aim for the hard part: to stay with experience, especially when it isn’t the way we want it to be.

    “Don’t demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go on well.” —Epictetus

    Back to my F1 example: does doing the hard thing mean I should never exchange ten minutes of my life for the experience of seeing cars go fast around a track? To my mind, not at all. We have a very real need for non-directional time, especially in a modern context. If it’s always about doing and achieving, we’re sure to run into crisis at some point.

    Time that’s playful in nature, or relaxing, or that disconnects us from the directional drive of our lives—that time is essential.

    There’s also no way to avoid getting distracted. I don’t imagine there’s anyone on this planet who’s 100% focused all the time. It’s more realistic to see distraction as a normal, even useful part of the day. You can wake up inside the distraction, and see what it’s trying to do for you.

    Most of the time, it’s just trying to take us away from discomfort or pain. But what if we stayed with the uncomfortable experience, even if that’s just our old friend boredom? It could be anything. What happens when you don’t resist it, but let it in for a moment—get to know it, even if just for 30 seconds? Doing nothing more than not trying to change your experience.

    As Gary Keller likes to say:
    “What’s the ONE Thing I can do such that by doing it, everything else will be easier or unnecessary?”