A Spiritual Break

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Michael J. Cunningham

The Barking Collar

My dog has a barking collar. Not the kind that shocks or hurts—just a collar that emits a gentle ringing sound when she barks too loud. It’s enough to let her know there’s cause and effect. She’s learned to use it. She’s actually happy when we put it on because it means she gets to go out in the yard, to roam and explore and be free.

I often think I need a Sacred Noticing collar.

When I Forgot to Listen

Several months ago, I had what I can only describe as a misfortune—talking to a lot of people who had already made up their minds on an issue and didn’t want to discuss it. They just wanted to walk by and be done with it. Political conversations, mostly. The kind where you can feel the door closing before you’ve even finished your sentence.

And I barked at them.

Not literally, of course. But I might as well have. I felt the tightness in my chest, the heat rising in my face, the defensive thoughts forming: Why won’t they listen? Why are they so closed-minded? Don’t they see how important this is?

I didn’t pause. I didn’t take three breaths. I didn’t ask myself what this moment needed from me.

Instead, I pushed. I made my points more forcefully. I tried to open their closed minds with the sheer force of my rightness. I quoted sources they wouldn’t trust. I used logic they weren’t interested in hearing. I barked louder, hoping volume would succeed where gentleness had failed.

And predictably, spectacularly, it accomplished nothing except creating more distance.

Later, sitting with my journal, I asked myself: Was it really their minds that were closed? Or was it their hearts? And if their hearts were closed, what made me think my barking would open them?

More uncomfortably: What about my own heart? Had I been truly open to them, or was I just frustrated that they weren’t open to me?

The collar had been ringing the whole time. My jaw was tight. My shoulders were hunched. My breath was shallow. All the physiological signs were there, the gentle warning that I was about to create damage I’d regret. But I’d ignored every signal, pushed through, responded quickly because quick responses feel decisive, productive, right.

Except they’re often just barking. And barking rarely opens hearts.

When I Remembered to Pause

Years earlier, my daughter came home from school upset about something. The kind of upset that announces itself with a slammed door and heavy footsteps up the stairs.

An earlier version of me would have launched into immediate parent mode. Either “Let me fix this” or “When I was your age…” or perhaps the always-ineffective “It’s not that bad.”

But this time—maybe because the weekend’s failures were still stinging, maybe because I’d been writing about Sacred Noticing that morning—I caught myself.

She came into the kitchen, grabbed a snack with more force than necessary, and said something about a teacher being unfair.

I felt my fixing instinct activate. The urge to advise, to solve, to make it better with my parental wisdom. The impulse was so strong, so automatic.

But I paused.

Three breaths. Feet on the ground. What does this moment need from me?

And in that gap—that brief, sacred gap between stimulus and response—I noticed something I would have missed entirely if I’d barked: her face. She wasn’t looking for solutions. Her body language wasn’t asking for advice. She was hurt, yes, but underneath that, she was scared. Something about this teacher situation had touched a deeper wound.

From that place of noticing, from three breaths of pause, what emerged was completely different than what my initial reactivity wanted to say.

I simply said: “That sounds really frustrating.”

Then I shut up.

She stood there, eating her snack, and I could see her deciding whether to say more. The silence felt long. Uncomfortable. Every parent-instinct in me wanted to fill it with wisdom, guidance, questions.

But I stayed in the pause. Stayed present to her, not to my need to fix her.

And then she started talking. Really talking. Not just about the teacher, but about feeling like she didn’t fit in, about a friendship that was hurting her, about fears she’d been carrying for weeks that I’d had no idea existed.

We stood in that kitchen for over an hour. I mostly just listened. Occasionally asked a gentle question. Mostly just created space for her to find her own way through what she was feeling.

When she finally went upstairs to do homework, she hugged me and said, “Thanks, Dad. You really helped.”

I hadn’t done anything except not fill the space with myself.

Later, I heard her tell her brother on the phone: “Dad’s gotten really good at listening lately.”

The gift had been shared. Neither of us had noticed it happening in the moment.

The Collar I Actually Need

Here’s what I’m learning: The difference between the political conversations and the kitchen conversation wasn’t that I cared less about politics than I care about my daughter. If anything, the issues we were discussing felt enormously important—life-and-death important.

The difference was that with my daughter, I heard the collar ringing. I felt it activating—the tightness, the urge to jump in, the parental rescue instinct—and instead of ignoring it, I let it interrupt me.

With the political conversations, the collar was ringing just as loudly. But I was so convinced of the importance of being heard, of opening their closed minds, of winning the argument, that I ignored every signal my body was giving me.

Tight jaw. Shallow breath. Defensive thoughts forming. Rush of heat in my chest. These weren’t problems to push through—they were my body’s way of saying: You’re about to bark. This is your chance. You can choose differently.

What the Collar Teaches

My dog’s collar doesn’t punish her for barking. It just gives her information: This is cause and effect. Your barking creates consequences. You have another option.

My internal collar—when I’m paying attention to it—works the same way. It’s not about shame or failure or being a bad person. It’s information. It’s feedback. It’s the universe, or my body, or the Spirit, gently saying: You have another option here. You can pause. You can notice what’s actually happening instead of what you think should be happening. You can respond from wisdom instead of react from wound.

The practice of Sacred Noticing is learning to hear that gentle ringing and trust it. To let it interrupt me before I create damage I’ll regret. To believe that those three breaths will give me access to wisdom I can’t find when I’m in full bark mode.

The Medicine Within

Here’s what the political conversations and the kitchen conversation taught me: I don’t need an external collar. I already have one. My body is constantly giving me feedback, constantly offering me the chance to pause.

The tightness, the heat, the shallow breathing, the thoughts that come too fast and too sharp—these aren’t enemies. They’re not problems I should be strong enough to overcome. They’re the ringing. They’re the signal that says: This is your moment. Right here. You can bark, or you can notice, pause, and respond from somewhere deeper.

With my daughter, I heard it and chose the pause. Three breaths. That’s all it took. Three breaths to let my nervous system recalibrate, to let my amygdala calm down enough for my prefrontal cortex to come back online, to create enough space for wisdom to catch up with my racing reactivity.

With the political conversations, I heard it and ignored it. Pushed through. Barked louder. And created exactly the kind of closed-heartedness I was complaining about in others.

The Freedom of the Collar

My dog loves her collar because it gives her freedom. With it on, she can roam the whole yard, explore, play, be fully herself. Without it, we have to keep her on a short leash.

The collar doesn’t restrict her freedom. It makes freedom possible.

Sacred Noticing works the same way. Those three simple movements—Notice, Pause, Respond—they’re not restrictions on my authenticity or my passion about things that matter. They’re what make real freedom possible.

The freedom to respond from my best self instead of my most reactive self. The freedom to build relationships instead of constantly defending positions. The freedom to leave traces I’m proud of instead of traces I apologize for later.

The freedom to have the political conversations differently next time. Not abandoning what I believe, not pretending the issues don’t matter, but coming to them with an open heart instead of closed fists. Asking what their fear is instead of why they won’t see reason. Creating space for actual dialogue instead of just waiting for my turn to talk.

I don’t know if that will work. I don’t know if open hearts can penetrate closed minds. But I do know that barking doesn’t work. I tried that. Multiple times. This weekend proved it—again.

What I’m Still Learning

I’m getting better at hearing the collar with my daughter. With my family. In quieter moments when the stakes feel lower.

But in the moments when I’m most triggered—when the issues feel most urgent, when I’m most convinced of my rightness, when someone’s closed-mindedness feels most dangerous—that’s when I most need the pause, and that’s when I’m least likely to take it.

The practice isn’t about achieving perfect presence. It’s about the practiced return. Notice when you’ve lost yourself. Feel the collar ringing. Choose to pause, even mid-bark. Even after you’ve been barking for ten minutes. It’s never too late to stop, take three breaths, and say: “Wait. Let me try that again from a different place.”

Sometimes that looks like going back to those political conversations and saying: “I was pretty forceful the other day. I don’t think I was really listening to what matters to you. Can we talk about this differently?”

Sometimes it just looks like noticing faster next time. Barking for thirty seconds instead of ten minutes. Creating five seconds of pause instead of zero.

The collar is always there. The body is always giving feedback. The question is whether I’m willing to hear it, trust it, and let it interrupt me before the barking does its damage.

That’s the practice. That’s the collar I need. That’s the gift I’m still learning to receive.

Lord, help me hear the gentle ringing—in my body, in my breath, in the moment before I bark. Give me the wisdom to pause even when I’m convinced I’m right, especially when I’m convinced I’m right. Help me remember that opening hearts matters more than winning arguments, that creating space for others matters more than filling it with myself. Let me wear this practice like my dog wears her collar: not as restriction but as freedom, not as burden but as gift. Amen.

Posted on January 26, 2026 by Michael J. Cunningham · 1 Comment

Noticing

Noticing

Today I am going to notice

What’s going on

Just for an untimed moment,

To linger,

dangle in the present,

Not reflecting, just considering,

Savoring the existing,

Not moving on,

Judging,

Or reacting,

But rather

Letting it dissolve

In my mouth,

Without expectations of reward,

Attribution,

Praise,

Worthiness.

Just leaving it alone with me;

In a timeless exercise.

I will not wonder whether others are watching,

Fill my mind with expectations of how I look, or feel to others,

But purely be present,

As a human who observes,

Their surroundings,

In this Garden of Eden,

And suffering,

And most of all … love.

Today I will be Atticus Finch,

Perhaps not “climbing into their skin”

But at least noticing.

What makes someone cry,

Or smile.

Why a leaf droops in the evening shade,

And strains upwards in the mid-day sun.

Taking as many moments as it takes to notice,

And then capturing it, carefully,

Like the smell of a home-cooked meal,

Where words won’t describe,

The inner warmth

Felt by just a pure, heartfelt,

Connection.

A connection without words,

the presence of God.

Posted on January 19, 2026 by Michael J. Cunningham

Being and Doing: What Centering Prayer Teaches

Being and Doing: What Centering Prayer Teaches

If you practice centering prayer, you already know the dance between being and doing. You sit in silence, consenting to God’s presence. That’s being. But when thoughts arise—and they always do—you gently return to your sacred word. That’s doing. Not much doing, just a whisper of intention, a soft returning. But it’s doing nonetheless.

The practice works because being and doing aren’t opposites. They’re partners.

What Happens in the Prayer

In centering prayer, you’re not trying to empty your mind or stop your thoughts. You’re learning a different way of relating to them. A thought arises—your to-do list, a worry, a memory—and you don’t fight it. You simply notice it’s there, and gently return to your sacred word.

Notice. Return. Notice. Return.

That gentle returning is doing. But it emerges from being—from your fundamental openness to God’s presence within you.

This is what Thomas Keating meant when he said centering prayer isn’t about getting rid of thoughts but about changing our relationship to them. You’re learning that you don’t have to chase every thought, engage every worry, or solve every problem that floats through your awareness.

You can simply let them pass, like boats on a river, while you remain present to Something deeper.

What This Teaches About Life

Here’s what surprised me after years of centering prayer: the practice wasn’t just teaching me how to pray. It was teaching me how to live. That same quality of gentle noticing and returning? It works in daily life too.

You’re in a meeting and your mind starts racing toward the next task. Notice. Gently return to presence, to this meeting, to these people.

You’re washing dishes and treating it like just another chore to get through. Notice. Gently return to the experience—the warm water, the simple service, this moment.

Someone says something that triggers defensiveness and you feel the familiar reaction rising. Notice. Pause. Return to your deeper intention—to listen, to understand, to respond from love rather than react from fear. Sacred Noticing is centering prayer extended into the rest of your day.

The Same Gentle Movement

In centering prayer: Thought arises → Notice → Gently return to sacred word
In Sacred Noticing: Stimulus arises → Notice → Pause → Respond from presence

See the similarity? Both practices involve the same fundamental movement—a gentle returning to presence when you’ve drifted into autopilot. A soft choosing of being even in the midst of doing.

The miracle of centering prayer isn’t that thoughts stop coming. They don’t. The miracle is that you learn you don’t have to be controlled by them. You can notice them and choose something deeper—presence, openness, consent to God’s action within you.

The miracle of Sacred Noticing is the same. The tasks don’t stop coming. The to-do list doesn’t disappear. But you learn you don’t have to be controlled by the tyranny of productivity. You can notice what’s present and choose to engage your life from being, not just doing.

Both Require Doing

Here’s what people sometimes miss: even centering prayer involves doing.

You choose to sit. You choose your sacred word. You choose to return to it, again and again, with the gentlest intention. It’s minimal doing—a whisper, not a shout—but it’s doing nonetheless.

This is the integration: Being doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means doing from a different place—from presence, from openness, from consent rather than control. In prayer, you consent to God’s presence and action within. That consent is both being (receptive openness) and doing (active choice to return when thoughts pull you away).

In daily life, you consent to each moment as it is, bringing that same quality of receptive presence to whatever needs doing. The dishes still need washing. The email still needs sending. The difficult conversation still needs to happen. But you’re there; actually there, while it’s happening.

The Practice Extends Itself

Centering prayer taught me I could sit for twenty minutes in receptive silence, gently returning to presence whenever I drifted. That was revolutionary. Sacred Noticing taught me I could bring that same quality of gentle returning into the rest of my day. That was life-changing.

You’re making coffee—notice you’re lost in planning, gently return to the experience of making coffee.
You’re talking to your spouse—notice you’re formulating your response instead of listening, gently return to presence with them.
You’re walking to your car—notice you’re already three tasks ahead, gently return to the walk itself, the air, the light, your body moving.

Same gentle movement. Same patient returning. Same integration of being and doing.

The Gift of Both

What centering prayer gives you in the silence, Sacred Noticing gives you in the noise.

Both teach you that being isn’t separate from doing. Being is what makes your doing human, conscious, alive.
Both teach you that you don’t have to control everything. You can trust the gentle returning, the patient practice, the accumulated moments of choosing presence.
Both teach you that the spiritual life isn’t somewhere else, in some other moment when things are quieter or holier or more perfect. It’s here, in this moment, with these tasks, in this ordinary life.

The sacred word in centering prayer isn’t magic. It’s just a way back to presence when you’ve drifted. Sacred Noticing isn’t magic either. It’s just the same way back, extended into the rest of your day.

Notice. Return. Notice. Return.

In prayer and in life, being and doing dance together. And both are sacred.

Pause for Thought:
The gentle returning you practice in centering prayer—what if that same movement could inform every moment of your day?

Michael Cunningham, OFS
spiritualbreak.com

Posted on January 9, 2026 by Michael J. Cunningham

New Year, New Energy

New Year, New Energy

Well, here we are again. We are at the threshold again. The calendar has turned, the confetti has been swept away, and here you are—perhaps carrying more of last year than you’d like. The resolutions are there, waiting like unopened packages. But something feels heavy, doesn’t it? The list of changes you want to make feels less like possibility and more like one more thing you don’t have the energy for.

We get tired in place. That’s a phrase that keeps returning to me, one I hear frequently. Not just physically exhausted, though that’s real enough. But spiritually tired—when the very thought of moving forward feels like too much. When the familiar groove, even if it’s wearing you down, feels safer than the risk of stepping out.

Last week I talked about the carousels we ride—those repeating patterns that define us, the comfortable orbits we trace again and again. Family roles we’ve inhabited for decades. Professional identities we’ve polished until they shine. Spiritual practices we can perform without really showing up. Round and round, the music playing, the world whirring past.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the carousel doesn’t lock you in. You can step off. But another question arises, do you believe you have the energy to do it.

The Lie of the Empty Well

At time, we tell ourselves we’re running on fumes. That whatever reservoir of grace or vitality or spiritual fuel we once had has gone dry. And so, we stay put, conserving what little we think we have left, afraid that any significant movement will empty us completely.

But what if that’s backwards? What if the very act of staying “tired in place” is what’s draining us? What if the energy we need doesn’t come from hoarding what we have, but from opening ourselves to what’s already being offered?

Noticing—and I mean really notice—how your body feels when you think about making a genuine change. Not a surface resolution to exercise more or read more books. But a real shift in how you show up in your life. There’s probably resistance there. Fear, maybe. Exhaustion, certainly. The truth of leaving or staying will fulfil itself.

Instead … pause. Don’t rush past that feeling or argue with it. Just let it be there. This is important information about where you are, not where you think you should be.

Grace Isn’t Waiting for You to Be Ready

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: if we wait until we feel energized before we begin, we may never begin. The gift of new energy doesn’t usually arrive before we need it. It shows up when we take the first step without it.

This is what true faith looks like—not certainty, not feeling spiritually charged and ready, but willingness. Just willingness. Diving right into the smallest crack in your resistance.

St. Francis understood this. He didn’t rebuild San Damiano because he felt full of energy and vision. He was most likely suffering from PTSD. He started picking up stones while still confused, still broken, still unsure of what he was doing. The clarity came later. The energy came from the doing.

What spiritual gifts position us for this kind of movement? I keep returning to three:

Poverty of spirit—admitting we don’t have this figured out, that we’re not in control, that we genuinely need help. This isn’t resignation. It’s the opposite. It’s saying: I can’t do this alone, and I’m willing to receive what I need. Be ready.

Present-moment awareness—not getting lost in the weight of all the changes we think we need to make, but showing up fully for this single breath, this one choice, this particular moment. Sacred Noticing isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about being awake to what’s happening now.

Trust in abundance—believing, against all evidence of our tiredness, that we are not operating from scarcity. That grace is not something we have to earn or manufacture, but something we’re swimming in, whether we notice it or not. It is there, waiting inside to be released.

The Disposition of Beginning

You don’t need to change your whole life today. You don’t need to feel ready. You don’t need to have energy you don’t feel.

You just need to be willing to notice differently. To pause before automatically saying yes to the familiar pattern. To respond from intention rather than from habit, even once.

The carousel is still there. Its music is still playing. But you’re standing still for a moment, aware that you have a choice. That awareness itself is grace. That pause itself is energy you didn’t manufacture.

What if the “new you” isn’t about becoming someone different, but about allowing yourself to show up as who you already are beneath all the tired patterns? What if the energy source you need isn’t something you have to generate, but something you have to stop blocking?

The New Year doesn’t care about your resolutions. But it does offer something more valuable: this present moment, empty of expectations, full of possibility. The question isn’t whether you have energy for the year ahead. The question is whether you’re willing to receive what’s already being given.

Right now. In this breath. On this ordinary day. Today.

New energy doesn’t announce itself with trumpets. It whispers: take one step. That’s all. Just one.

And then, unexpectedly, you find you can take another.

What carousel are you ready to step off of? What would it mean to stop being tired in place?

Posted on January 3, 2026 by Michael J. Cunningham · 1 Comment

The Carousel of Our Own Making

A Reflection on Freedom and the Sacred Noticing of Our Patterns

Notice

We ride the carousel of our own lives—round and round, the painted horses rising and falling in their predetermined arc. The music plays, familiar and comforting. We know every note, every rhythm, every moment when the brass ring appears. For a time, it’s delightful. The lights flash, the world blurs into pleasant motion, and we feel the rush of movement without the risk of actually going anywhere.

But sit with this long enough, really notice it, and something shifts. The delight becomes duty. The music, once charming, becomes the soundtrack of our confinement. We realize that we’ve ridden this same circuit a thousand times—the same conflicts, the same compromises, the same carefully constructed identity spinning in its grooved track.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth that Sacred Noticing reveals: we are both the rider and the operator. We bought the ticket. We climb aboard each morning. We hold ourselves to the painted horse even when our legs ache and our spirit longs for solid ground.

Pause

St. Francis of Assisi knew something about carousels. The whole courtly world of Assisi was one—the merchants spinning in their pursuit of wealth, the nobles in their pursuit of honor, the church in its pursuit of power. Round and round, each carousel maintaining its own illusion of progress while going nowhere at all.

His genius was the pause. That moment in the cave. That kiss of the leper. That stripping away of his father’s clothes in the public square. Not a rejection of the world, but a rejection of the wheel.

In that pause, in that stepping off, he discovered something radical: we have freedom of movement. We always have. The carousel continues spinning, but we need not remain on it. We are the only ones who lock ourselves into the patterns of our lives—into jobs that drain us, relationships that diminish us, identities that no longer fit the people we’re becoming.

But here’s the deeper truth that Francis embodied: the only thing truly spinning is the world itself. We’ve mistaken the world’s motion for our own. The earth turns on its axis, seasons cycle, circumstances rise and fall—but we, at our center, can be still. We can be home.

And home, Francis teaches us, isn’t a place we’re spinning toward or away from. Home is the ground of our being, the presence of God that travels with us. He made home in a cave, in a leper colony, on a mountain, beneath the stars. Home was wherever he stood in awareness of the Divine presence.

The Franciscan insight is that this freedom isn’t found in acquiring something new. It’s found in the poverty that lets go. It’s in the simplicity that walks away from the most recent, irrelevant call. It’s in the humility that admits: this ride isn’t serving me anymore. It’s in the recognition that I can plant my feet anywhere and call it holy ground.

Respond

So what does Sacred Noticing call us to do?

First, notice without judgment where you’re spinning. What patterns have become prisons? What familiar circuits have you mistaken for the journey itself? Be gentle here—we don’t climb onto carousels because we’re foolish, but because they once brought us joy, or safety, or belonging.

Then pause. Really pause. Step off the platform even if just for a breath. Feel what solid ground is like beneath your feet. This is the contemplative moment—not thinking about freedom, but experiencing it. Recognize that while the world spins in its endless revolution, you don’t have to spin with it. You can be still. You can be centered. You can be home right here, right now.

Finally, respond. Not with drama or self-recrimination, but with the simple wisdom of someone who recognizes they’re free to move. Maybe you walk away from the carousel entirely. Maybe you return for one more ride, but now as a choice rather than a compulsion. Maybe you invite others to step off with you. Maybe you simply stand still and let the world do its spinning while you rest in the unchanging love that holds you.

Francis would remind us: the creation is vast. God’s playground extends far beyond our small mechanical circles. There are fields to walk through, lepers to embrace, birds to preach to, a sun to call brother, a moon to call sister. And wherever we stand in that vastness, we are home. Because home isn’t a destination. Home is the awareness that we are held, we are loved, we are free—no matter what spins around us.

The carousel will keep spinning. The world will keep turning. They always do. But you—blessed, beloved, free—you can notice where you are, pause in the awareness of your own stillness at the center, and respond with the wisdom of one who knows: I can make home wherever I am.

The question isn’t whether you can step off.

It’s whether you’ll notice that you’ve been standing on holy ground all along.