Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

The Open Eyes of the Heart of a Child

Part 2: The Path Back to Wonder

In my own spiritual journey, I have discovered that the moments of deepest connection with God often come not when I am trying to figure something out but when I allow myself to not know, to rest in mystery, to trust that there are forms of communication happening beneath the level of my conscious understanding. Prayer, at its most profound, becomes less like problem-solving and more like the way a child might approach a beloved grandparent—with complete trust, open affection, and no agenda other than to be present.

This is where the practice of Sacred Noticing becomes essential. When we begin to pay attention to the spiritual dimension of our everyday experiences—when we notice the way morning light transforms an ordinary room into something luminous, when we feel the mysterious peace that sometimes emerges from silence, when we recognize the sacred in a stranger’s smile; we are recovering our childlike capacity to see with the eyes of the heart.

Sacred Noticing is not about forcing spiritual meaning onto ordinary events but about recovering our natural ability to recognize the spiritual that is already present in all that surrounds us. Children do this instinctively. They see faces in clouds, personalities in stuffed animals, magic in puddles after rain. They have not yet learned to dismiss these perceptions as “just imagination.”

But what if imagination is a form of spiritual perception? What if the ability to see meaning, beauty, and connection where others see only material reality is not childish but deeply wise? What if we have educated ourselves out of precisely the kind of awareness that our souls most need?

The path back to the open eyes of the heart does not require abandoning intellectual rigor or scientific thinking. Rather, it asks us to expand our definition of knowledge to include other forms of truth. We can appreciate both the biochemistry of love and its mystery, both the neuroscience of consciousness and the reality of the soul, both the physics of light and its capacity to serve as a metaphor for divine illumination.

This integration requires what I think of as “both/and” thinking rather than “either/or” thinking. We can be both intellectually sophisticated and spiritually receptive, both scientifically literate and mystically aware, both educated and wonder-filled. The child within us is not the part that needs to be outgrown but the part that needs to be reclaimed and integrated with our adult wisdom.

The practice begins simply: looking at the world around us with fresh eyes, allowing ourselves to be moved by beauty without needing to analyze it, trusting our interior responses to people and situations even when we cannot explain them logically. It means permitting ourselves to be amazed by ordinary miracles—the fact that we can love and be loved, that consciousness exists at all, that meaning emerges from mystery.

When we recover this childlike capacity for wonder, we do not become less intelligent; we become more fully human. We reconnect with the part of ourselves that can receive love without earning it, that can rest in mystery without solving it, that can trust the goodness of existence even when we cannot prove it scientifically.

The divine resides deeply within us all, but it often communicates through channels that our overly educated minds have learned to dismiss. The child within us knows this intuitively. That child is still there, waiting patiently for us to remember how to see with eyes of wonder, how to trust what cannot be proven, how to remain open to the mysteries that our hearts recognize even when our minds cannot comprehend them.

Perhaps today we might risk looking at our world through the open eyes of the heart of a child. We might notice the way light falls across our kitchen table and allow ourselves to see it as a gift rather than merely photons behaving according to physical laws. We might feel the love of someone close to us and trust that this love is as real as anything that can be measured, as true as any scientific fact.

In recovering our childlike capacity for wonder, we do not become naive; we become wise in a different way. We learn to live in both worlds—the world of measurement and the world of mystery, the realm of proof and the realm of trust. And in that integration, we find ourselves home again in the place we never really left but had simply forgotten how to see: the kingdom of heaven that exists wherever hearts remain open to the divine that dances through all things, waiting patiently for eyes willing to see and souls ready to receive.

A person sitting on a colorful bench playing a painted piano outside a toy and bookshop, with a brick wall in the background.




Image and Reflection Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham · 5 Comments

The Watershed Moment or the Case of the Missing Dialog

Two people standing on a beach at sunset, reflecting on the wet sand, with palm trees and beachside buildings in the background.

A reflection on awakening to the spiritual path through crisis

During a briefing this morning, on the latest of tragically many political assassinations and assassination attempts, the governor of Utah asked the open question: “Are we at a watershed moment?”

The governor responded to himself, saying it could be “the start of improvement and leaving darker times, or it could be the beginning of going into even darker times.”

You could taste the empathy, the sadness, and the distress in his voice, and, to a certain extent, the leadership in his voice. He was clearly implying the need for civil discourse.

This need has never been greater, and it reminded me of when we were young parents—we had two kindergarteners/first graders. Our first and second children are only 11 months apart, so this puts them in the category of Irish twins. On the rare occasion that they caused trouble (humor intended), they would immediately blame the other for whatever had occurred, whether this was an argument about who started it or perhaps something that was broken that they “didn’t do.”

My wife and I had an interesting strategy. We would say, “OK, well, we can’t find out the truth here, so let’s have you find it out.” These issues often occurred before supper for some reason.

So we sent them both into the smallest bathroom in the house with instructions: “You guys go stay in the bathroom until you figure out what is really the truth and who’s to blame and try and reconcile with each other.” Of course, they didn’t know what “reconcile with each other” meant. “Work it out” or “be nice to each other”—I guess those were the words that we used.

So then they went to the bathroom, and we proceeded to listen to what probably would be a good skit in any television sitcom. It usually started with the arm-folding exercise of deadly silence, followed by the “It’s your fault!” “No, it’s your fault!” exchange, which got louder and louder. That also usually ended up with some silence, and then they would start to pick apart the facts of the matter—whatever they were, where someone was, why “I couldn’t have done it,” why “you did it”—sort of like an investigation with the prosecution and defense alternating roles. Some of the funniest conversations would occur here.

Eventually, they would come to the conclusion that “Well, it could have been one of the others—it could have been their younger brother that did it—but now they were going to get the blame for it, and we’re never going to get out of the bathroom.”

After a while we would stop listening outside the bathroom. The sessions didn’t really last that long, but they probably seemed like an eternity to the children—perhaps 10 minutes, perhaps 15; long enough to be able to calm down, realize that they’re in this together (even if it’s just being in the dock together), and figure out what they needed to do to get out.

Now, we’ll never know as parents how many of the stories that emerged out of those results were the truth, the admission of guilt, or whatever. But what it did was help them to reconcile with each other, and it also helped us avoid issuing immediate punishment, at least, not complete injustice, when you’re at the end of your rope as a parent.

I tell this story not because it’s a model for anything in particular as far as parenting goes. Modern psychologists would probably analyze this and explain why this is bad on so many different levels. But I don’t think the kids actually took it that seriously in the end, and some of them even use it with their children now, which they feel bad about. It might be one of those unfortunate hand-me-downs that sometimes happen in families.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but think about this situation that we are in right now in our country, where we have sort of got the opposite of all of this. What we’ve created are separate virtual and physical gymnasiums—giant ones—depending on which side of the argument you’re on, instead of having one assembly hall or gymnasium or gathering space at a high school where people can interact, discuss, and share what’s going on.

One group goes in there, and then they can shout without repercussions, without any pushback, to a global audience or a small audience—whatever they want to say about someone on the other side. And for the most part, the people in these two gymnasiums are not listening to each other. They’re just shouting at each other, but the ones that are doing the shouting are reinforcing the next person shouting. And guess what? Every time someone shouts, the louder you shout, the meaner you shout, the more someone else gets paid for it—maybe even yourself.

This is what has happened: we have lost the ability to dialogue. And I’m not sure that what happened in the bathroom all those years ago in our children’s childhood was what would be considered dialogue, but they were talking to each other. They were discussing something that was contentious to them, at least in their little worlds at that time. And it had a repercussion; a repercussion on how they turned out, how they learned to debate, how they learned to reconcile, how they learned to listen to others.

I’m on the brink of publishing a new book. It’s called Practice of Sacred Noticing, and sacred noticing is a simple mechanism for some of the things that we do when we really want to interact with other humans well. We notice them. We listen to what they’re saying. We absorb what they’re saying. We then wait to let that settles; like ripples in the pond. What does that mean? What should I do? How should I respond? All before we respond. And then the third step is just responding: So we Notice, pause, respond.

This is not rocket science, but it’s something that we need right now.

We also need a break. People are building their own lifeboats. They’re trying to find a way to insulate the ones they love from all that’s going on in the world. They don’t want to engage in a shouting match or, worse still, a shooting match, as it appears to be turning into.

We have to decide what the environment is that we want in our own homes, just as we do in our towns, just as we do in our states, just as we do in our country.

One option is to shut down the gymnasiums. The people collecting the money in the gymnasiums can only do so if we keep shouting. Not that everything that goes on in these two particular gymnasiums is shouting, but taking a break will help us—and it won’t help those who are trying to get rich from all the shouting.

The lifeboat

There she sits …


And what a beauty

Designed to survive any gale

Weather and stormy sea sealed

As if I were a whale

Taking care of all my Jonahs



Someone asked me today

“What’s it for?”

“In case of storms”

And they asked “are you going out to sea?”

And I could not answer

It’s ready, though

My lifeboat

Big enough to hold family

And no others

Because love one’s count


And if it comes …

The big storm that is

I am ready

And have done my duty

To protect myself and a few loved ones

And forget about the others

Who are near or far

Because a lifeboat is for me to live

And survive

For a little while




Reflection, poem and image Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

The Open Eyes of the Heart of a Child

A softly blurred image of a wooden bench in a serene, sun-dappled forest setting with trees in the background.

Part 1: What We’ve Forgotten How to See

Have you ever been with a child and they stop and notice the same scene you are looking at, but they see something completely different? A friend is walking through the museum with his six-year-old niece when she stops suddenly in front of a painting—not one of the famous masterpieces that adults typically notice, but a small landscape tucked away in a corner. “Uncle,” she whispered, tugging on his sleeve, “look how the trees are dancing with the clouds.” When the uncle followed her gaze and saw what he had missed entirely: the way the brushstrokes created movement, the way the artist had captured something alive and joyful that his educated eye had categorized simply as “nineteenth-century landscape, probably minor artist.” The curator in the museum had told him what to “see”, his niece less so.

In that moment, she was seeing something he had been trained not to see. Or perhaps more accurately, had been educated out of seeing it.

We live in a world that prizes what can be measured, proven, and replicated. This is not inherently problematic—scientific thinking has given us tremendous gifts, solved countless problems, and expanded our understanding of the physical universe in remarkable ways. But somewhere in our journey toward intellectual sophistication, many of us have inadvertently closed the doors to other ways of knowing, other forms of truth that cannot be captured in laboratories or proven through logical arguments.

Children, before they learn to be embarrassed by wonder, well before they discover that adults often dismiss what cannot be explained, possess what I call “the open eyes of the heart.” They approach the world with a willingness to believe that trees might indeed dance with clouds, that love is a real force that can be felt even when it cannot be weighed, that mystery is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be entered. And many times, they enter it willingly. How many of us had an imaginary playmate? I know I did, at least before my siblings arrived on the scene.  

This capacity for wonder is not naivety—it is a form of spiritual intelligence that recognizes a dimension of reality our rational minds often overlook. When a child trusts that someone loves them, they are not being unscientific; they are responding to evidence that exists in the realm of relationship, gesture, presence, and care. These are real data, even if they cannot be quantified. (A frequent response in our family to “love you” is “love you more”, from the child.)

Yet as we mature intellectually, we often develop what might be called “educated skepticism”—a protective mechanism that guards us from being fooled or appearing foolish. We learn to question everything, to demand proof for every claim, to be suspicious of experiences that cannot be replicated in controlled conditions. While this serves us well in many contexts, it can also close us off from the very experiences our souls most need.

The matters of the soul—love, meaning, purpose, connection with the divine—exist largely in the realm of feeling, faith, emotion, and trust. These are not lesser forms of knowledge; they are different forms of knowledge. A mother’s love for her child is no less real because it cannot be measured with instruments. The peace that comes from prayer is not imaginary because it cannot be reproduced on demand. The sense of meaning that emerges from serving others is not delusional because it cannot be proven through double-blind studies.

When we insist that only what can be scientifically verified is real, we cut ourselves off from precisely those experiences that make life worth living. We may gain intellectual sophistication, but we risk losing the connection with our soul; where the divinity resident in our soul gives us the ability to recognize and receive the gifts that exist beyond the reach of our analytical minds.

Young children have not yet learned to be ashamed of mystery. They can hold two contradictory ideas without anxiety, accept that some things cannot be explained, and trust their interior responses to people and situations. They live naturally in what the contemplative tradition calls “unknowing”—not ignorance, but a willingness to remain open to realities that exceed their understanding.

This is why Jesus told his followers that they needed to become like children to enter the kingdom of heaven. He was not advocating for intellectual regression but for spiritual receptivity—the recovery of that childlike capacity to trust, to wonder, to remain open to mysteries that cannot be controlled or fully comprehended.

The divine prefers to work in the realm of mystery. God speaks through burning bushes and still small voices, through dreams and synchronicities, through the love we feel for others and the peace that passes understanding. These are not primitive superstitions but sophisticated forms of communication that require different kinds of literacy to receive.

Perhaps this is why so many spiritual traditions emphasize the need for “beginner’s mind”—the willingness to approach the sacred with the fresh eyes of someone who does not already know everything, (or think they do) who remains curious rather than certain, who can be surprised by grace.

But here’s what I discovered in my own journey back to childlike wonder: the child within us never really disappears. That capacity for awe, for trust, for seeing dancing trees and feeling the reality of love—it remains, buried beneath layers of intellectual sophistication and protective skepticism, waiting patiently for us to remember what we once knew instinctively.

The question becomes: how do we find our way back? How do we recover those open eyes of the heart without abandoning the wisdom we’ve gained through experience? And perhaps most importantly, what happens when we do?


Reflection and Image Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham · 3 Comments

The Yellow Light

This morning, washing hands at the sink, soap bubbles catch the light and turn into tiny rainbows. For just a moment, my hands slowed in the warm water. Not because I needed to stop and have a “home-made” spiritual experience, but because something lovely was happening right there in my kitchen sink.

It reminded me of traffic lights—specifically that yellow light that begs us from motion into stillness. Not the jarring red that demands we stop, but that gentle amber invitation: something’s shifting here.

I’ve sometimes notice these yellow light moments scattered throughout my days like breadcrumbs. They’re not asking for dramatic responses or profound revelations. They’re simply there, quiet invitations to notice what’s already present.

Sometimes it’s the particular way morning light falls across the lobby at the retreat house, turning ordinary wood golden. My mind pauses mid-sentence, not because I must stop and appreciate beauty, but because beauty has already stopped me. The moment passes, I return to whatever I was supposed to be doing, but something has shifted—a small opening where grace slipped in.

Or it’s the sound of rain beginning while writing an email. That first gentle pattering doesn’t demand I abandon my work for contemplation. It simply offers itself, and if I happen to notice, the soundtrack of an afternoon changes from mental chatter to nature’s rhythm.

These moments seem to arrive most naturally at transitions. Walking from the house to the car, I may notice how the air feels different today. Shifting from one task to another, there’s often a brief pause where I remember I’m not just a person checking boxes but someone alive in this moment. Even breathing has these built-in yellow lights—that slight pause between inhale and exhale, where everything briefly suspends.

Last week, talking with my daughter, she said something that made her voice catch slightly. Such a small thing—anyone might miss it. But there it was, a yellow light moment. I found myself listening differently, not interrogating or fixing, just receiving what she was really saying beneath the words. The conversation meandered into places it wouldn’t have gone if I’d stayed in my usual efficient parent mode. She was happy to be talking with me, the words might be somewhat irrelevant.

I don’t think life is constantly signaling us to pay attention—that would be exhausting. But there do seem to be these natural pause points woven through our days, gentle as that amber light that says transition is happening, no rush.

The poet Rumi wrote about selling cleverness and buying bewilderment. Maybe these yellow lights are life’s way of offering that trade. For just a moment, we can let go of knowing exactly where we’re going and simply be present to where we are.

This isn’t about trying to notice everything or turn daily life into a spiritual practice. It’s more like discovering that ordinary moments have their own quiet wisdom if we happen to be available when they offer it. The way tea changes color as it steeps. How shadows move across the wall as the afternoon progresses. The peculiar and beautiful silence that overcomes when snowfall begins.

Some days, I’m moving too fast to notice any yellow lights at all. Other days, one small moment of recognition—a dog stretching in a patch of sun, the smell of coffee brewing, the feeling of soft socks on tired feet—creates a tiny opening. Not a door demanding I walk through, just a window showing me what’s here.

Awakening isn’t something we achieve through effort. It could be more like slowly recognizing what’s been glowing softly all along. The sacred is scattered throughout our hours, not as a test or a challenge, but as a quiet gift for anyone who happens to be looking when life gently signals: here’s something worth noticing, if you’d like.

Tomorrow morning, you might catch one of these moments. Or you might not. Either way, they’ll keep coming, gentle as light itself, marking the transitions between rushing and resting, doing and being, sleeping and waking up to what’s been here all along.

The yellow lights aren’t trying to stop us or make us more spiritual. They’re simply part of the landscape, faithful as breathing, available as morning. And sometimes, when we’re moving at just the right speed, we notice them. And something in us says oh, yes and slows down just enough to receive what’s being offered.

That’s all. That’s enough. That’s everything.

Image and Reflection Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham · 3 Comments

The Power of Second Chances: Transforming Lives Unconditionally

A narrow alleyway lined with brick walls, featuring a metal fence, trash bins, and overgrown foliage, in black and white.

The Experiment That Changed Everything
I was recently watching a British television program that stopped me in my tracks. Instead of the usual finger-pointing at families living on welfare—calling them “scroungers” or dismissing them as society’s failures—something revolutionary happened. Experts in psychology and social welfare teamed up with producers to conduct an experiment that would challenge everything we think we know about second chances.

They selected three families from many applicants and gave each one £26,000 (about $34,000) in cash with no strings attached. (The maximum annual benefit.) No conditions. No oversight. No judgment about how they would use it. Just pure, unconditional trust.
The results were remarkable.
While it was painful to watch the difficult circumstances these families were navigating at the beginning—circumstances that would challenge most of us beyond our limits—what emerged was something beautiful. The resolve and capacity of the human spirit was plain to see. Particularly moving was witnessing the loving relationships they maintained with each other under conditions that would break many families apart.
Like unconditional love itself, the money came without conditions. And all three families transformed their lives as a result.

The Parable Living Before Our Eyes
Watching this unfold, I couldn’t help but think of the parable of the talents. You know the one—where the master gives his servants different amounts of money before leaving on a journey, trusting them to use these gifts wisely. When he returns, he finds that those who received the gifts didn’t bury them in fear or waste them in foolishness but multiplied them through faithful stewardship.
These three families did exactly that. Without spoiling the programs for those who might watch them, I can say that all the family members remain off the welfare rolls, and two of the families started their own businesses. They took the gifts and used them wisely.
But here’s what struck me most deeply: it wasn’t really about the money at all. It was about someone believing in them when they had stopped believing in themselves. It was about being seen as deserving of investment rather than judgment. It was about receiving a second chance when the world had written them off.

The Sacred Worth of Every Soul
This experiment reminded me of something I’ve learned over years of spiritual seeking: everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone. Not because they’ve earned it, but because they carry within them the same divine spark that we all do. Because they are beloved children of God, created in His image, worthy of respect and care.
We live in a world that’s quick to write people off. Quick to judge. Quick to decide who’s worth investing in and who isn’t. But God doesn’t work that way. His love comes without conditions, His grace without prerequisites. He sees potential where we see problems, hope where we see only despair.
Many give up on others in life, and many give up on themselves when they find themselves feeling undeserving. But the beautiful truth is this: none of us is truly deserving of the love we receive. It’s all grace. It’s all gift. And if we’ve received such unmerited love, how can we withhold it from others?

Noticing the Second Chances Around Us
Perhaps you can’t give someone £26,000, but you can give something equally valuable: your belief in their capacity to change, to grow, to become who they’re meant to be. A second chance might look like:

• Forgiving a friend who disappointed you
• Believing in your own capacity for transformation
• Offering encouragement instead of criticism
• Choosing to see potential rather than problems
• Giving someone the benefit of the doubt

The families in that program needed more than money—they needed someone to see their worth, to invest in their potential, to believe they were capable of more than their current circumstances suggested. And aren’t we all waiting for that kind of recognition? Aren’t we all hoping someone will see past our failures to our possibilities?

The Call to Action
So here’s my invitation to you: Who in your life needs a second chance? Maybe it’s someone who’s disappointed you, someone who’s struggling, someone who’s been written off by others. Maybe it’s yourself.
What if you became the person who believes in second chances? What if you chose to see the divine spark in someone others have dismissed? What if you offered the kind of unconditional investment that transforms lives?
It doesn’t require a television program or thousands of dollars. It requires only what you already have: the capacity to love, to hope, to believe in the potential that God has placed within every human heart.
Everyone needs a second chance. Everyone deserves to be seen as worth the investment. The question is: will you be the one to offer it?
Because somewhere, someone is waiting for you to believe in them. And somewhere, someone is waiting for you to believe in yourself.
The transformation begins with that belief. The rest, as those three families proved, often takes care of itself.
Share this reflection with someone who needs to hear it. Consider who in your life might benefit from a second chance—and what small step you could take today to offer it.

Image and Reflection Copyright Michael J. Cunningham 2025