Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

 

Friday the 13th: A Day to Notice

 

It’s Friday the 13th today. I notice the date on my phone this morning in a way I didn’t notice yesterday’s. I notice the ladder on the sidewalk. I notice the black cat outside the house, who, for the record, doesn’t seem to know what day it is. He’s doing just fine.

I’m not a superstitious person. Not really. But if I’m honest, I’m a little more awake today than I was yesterday. There’s a hum to the day. I’m watching it more carefully, scanning for what might go wrong, half-seriously expecting something to jump out at me. As if the date itself has teeth.

And I think most of us are like this. We joke about it, sure. We knock on wood and throw salt over our shoulders and pretend we’re being ironic. But underneath the humor, something real is happening. We’re noticing. We’re paying attention to the day in a way we usually don’t bother with. The calendar has been highlighted as special, and so we show up differently. Maybe more alert. Perhaps, more present. More aware that the next moment may matters.

Which makes me wonder: when was the last time I paid this much attention on a Wednesday?

Because here’s what I find interesting. Some of our normal activities are done on autopilot. Driving to work, putting out the trash, even feeding the dog. Certain activities are moved between without really being terribly aware of what spiritual trace I might be leaving.

But give me a day with a reputation, and suddenly I’m wide awake. Suddenly the moments matter.

So superstition, for all its silliness, proves something rather important about us. We already have the capacity to notice. We just apparently need permission. And a number on a calendar is enough to grant it. But here’s where my thinking has taken a turn recently.

I’ve been spending the morning watching the day. Carefully. A little nervously. Waiting to see what it does.

But what if the day has been watching me?

What if every day is watching? Not just this one. What if every moment I walk through — the room I enter, distracted, a conversation half-listened to, the person I pass without seeing — what if all of it is already awake, already open, already receiving whatever I bring into it? Already noticing the trace I’m leaving behind, long before I think to notice it myself?

I think of my friend Tom in his New Hampshire woods. (The picture above). We were walking his property one afternoon when he stopped, breathed deeply, and said, “Mike, this is my sanctuary. This is my chapel.” Those woods didn’t become sacred because Tom finally noticed them. They were already there. Already holding something. He just stopped long enough to receive what was being offered.

I wonder if every day is like Tom’s woods.

Already present. Already watching. Already waiting to see what we’ll bring.

And if that’s true, then we’re not just in the audience of our own lives, watching the day unfold from a safe distance. We’re in the movie at the same time. Being watched and participating. Leaving traces in a story that is somehow both ours and not ours, one that’s already paying attention to us; whether we return the favor or not.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion for this one. I just have the question. And maybe the question is enough for today.

What would change if you walked into tomorrow knowing the day was already watching?

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham · 2 Comments

About Sacred Noticing

ABOUT SACRED NOTICING

A Contemplative Practice for Daily Life

By Michael Cunningham, OFS

 

YOUR SPIRITUAL FOOTPRINT

Every interaction leaves a trace. Think about the last difficult conversation you had—what did you leave behind after you walked away? Not the decisions or outcomes, but the quality of presence people experienced. The atmosphere that lingered. Whether others felt more settled or more anxious, more open or more defended.

This is your spiritual footprint—the accumulated presence you leave behind in every encounter. Some people leave peace and possibility in their wake. Others leave disturbance and tension. Most of us leave a mixed trail, largely unconscious of the impact our presence creates.

Neuroscience has a term for this: “social-emotional contagion”—the way our inner states spread to those around us through mirror neurons and emotional resonance. We affect each other simply by how we show up.

Your spiritual footprint is being created whether you’re aware of it or not. Sacred Noticing is a practice for making that footprint conscious and intentional.

WHAT IS SACRED NOTICING?

Between what happens to you and what you do about it lies a space. Sacred Noticing teaches you how to find it, expand it, and use it.

It’s a simple rhythm—Notice, Pause, Respond—that brings contemplative awareness into the ordinary moments as your spiritual footprint is formed. Not a technique for special occasions, but a way of being that meets you in the moments you’re already living: the tense meeting, the triggering email, the conversation with your teenager, the decision under pressure.

What makes Sacred Noticing distinct is its completeness. Many practices stop at awareness. You learn to notice what’s happening, to be present, to observe without judgment—valuable, but incomplete. Others focus on contemplation during set-aside time—also valuable, also incomplete. Sacred Noticing completes the cycle, moving from awareness through wisdom to action. It transforms not just how you see but how you respond, not just your interior life but your actual presence in the world.

The ancient Celtic Christians spoke of “thin places”—moments when the sacred breaks through the ordinary. Sacred Noticing helps you recognize that these thin places aren’t rare mystical experiences but are available in every pause, every breath, every moment you stop long enough to let wisdom catch up with your racing mind.

THE THREE MOVEMENTS

NOTICE: Bring contemplative awareness to what is actually present in this moment—not what you expected or hoped for, but what’s actually here. See beyond automatic assumptions. Approach familiar situations with fresh eyes. Notice both the outer situation and your inner responses without judgment.

PAUSE: Create space between what happens and how you respond. You have two options here: Just pause and wait/relax, in whatever form that takes for you. Or be more structured and use the Three-Breath Method is your primary tool: Breath one interrupts reactive patterns. Breath two grounds you in this actual moment. Breath three opens you to wisdom about what’s truly needed here.

This isn’t just spiritual technique—it works with your neurobiology.[1] Ancient contemplatives knew this worked; modern neuroscience explains why.

RESPOND: Act from integrated awareness rather than unconscious reaction. Your response arises from the wisdom accessed in the pause, serving the whole situation rather than just immediate impulses. Sometimes the wisest response is words. Sometimes action. Sometimes continued presence without doing anything at all.

With practice, these three movements flow together into one continuous awareness. You don’t need years of meditation experience. You need to commit to learning a rhythm that, practiced consistently, may transform your way of being in the world

WHERE IT COMES FROM

Sacred Noticing carries DNA from the contemplative tradition that formed me: the Franciscan practice of seeing the sacred in all creation, the Centering Prayer discipline of creating interior space for presence, the Lectio Divina practice of contemplative reading applied beyond scripture, and the Celtic understanding that thin places are moments of true presence available anywhere.

But Sacred Noticing is not a blend of these practices. It’s something that grew from this soil into its own form—a complete contemplative method for transforming your spiritual footprint in daily life.

I didn’t set out to create a new contemplative practice. Sacred Noticing emerged from years of lived experience—retreat leadership, spiritual direction, and my own navigation of daily decisions within the Franciscan tradition.

Over time, I found myself working with a consistent rhythm: noticing what was emerging (often before it was obvious), pausing long enough for wisdom to surface, then offering the next best response. What began as spiritually led decision-making gradually became an everyday reflex. Eventually I realized this wasn’t just how I was approaching my own life—it was a learnable method that could serve others.

WHY IT’S ACCESSIBLE

You don’t need to be Christian to practice Sacred Noticing. You don’t need to believe in God or embrace theological frameworks. The practice works because it engages fundamental human capacities—the ability to notice, to pause, to respond wisely.

At the same time, I’m not hiding the Christian contemplative roots. Sacred Noticing emerges from Franciscan spirituality and centuries of contemplative wisdom. Understanding these roots enriches the practice, even if you don’t share the faith tradition.

For contemplative Christians, Sacred Noticing offers fresh language for ancient practice and helps carry prayer into every interaction. For secular seekers, it provides a structured contemplative method accessible without religious commitment. For those of other faith traditions, it can complement rather than conflict with your existing spiritual path.

The test isn’t whether you believe what I believe. The test is whether the practice changes your spiritual footprint—whether you leave behind more conscious presence and less unconscious reactivity.

WHAT TO EXPECT

Sacred Noticing is practice-based and alignment-backed, not a clinical protocol. It resonates with what we know about attention training and nervous system regulation, and, it has been refined through years of retreats, spiritual direction, and daily leadership.

The practice increases sensitivity to both beauty and pain. As awareness deepens, you notice more of what’s actually present—which includes suffering you might have missed before. This marks genuine spiritual development, not a problem to fix.

Sacred Noticing doesn’t make life easier. It makes you more present to life as it is—with all its beauty and pain, challenge and grace. It’s not another self-improvement technique to master but a relational disposition that may permeate how you inhabit your days.

Most people find that thirty days of gentle consistency provides enough experience to sense whether this practice serves them. The most faithful measure is lived fruit: a calmer presence, clearer speech, wiser timing—noticed first in small ways, then more often.

BEGIN WHERE YOU ARE

The invitation is simple: Notice. Pause. Respond. Repeat.

Choose one familiar situation—your morning coffee, your commute, a recurring interaction. Practice approaching it with Sacred Noticing. See what you’ve been missing because you thought you already knew what was there. Pause before responding to the next trigger. Ask yourself: what does this moment actually need from me?

The practice will feel mechanical at first. That’s normal. You’re building new neural pathways, developing what becomes spiritual muscle memory. With consistent practice—thirty days minimum, often longer—the three movements begin to flow together.

You don’t need to master contemplative theory before you start. You begin with what you have, where you are. Trust the practice to work in you as you work with the practice.

Remember: thin places are everywhere, waiting for your awakened presence to reveal them

 

 

Sacred Noticing is fully detailed in “The Practice of Sacred Noticing: Transforming Your Spiritual Footprint” (2026), which includes structured practices, weekly exercises, contemplative poetry and photography, and guidance for specific situations. The book is due to be published mid April 2026.

 

The practice is offered as a gift to the contemplative community. Share it freely. When teaching or writing about Sacred Noticing, attribution is appreciated: “Sacred Noticing by Michael Cunningham, OFS”

 

http://www.spiritualbreak.com

 

© 2026 Michael J. Cunningham, OFS

This document may be reproduced for non-commercial educational and spiritual formation purposes with attribution.

[1] The first breath interrupts the amygdala’s reactive response. The second activates your parasympathetic nervous system. The third accesses prefrontal cortex wisdom.

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

The Barking Collar

 

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 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 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