Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham

On Inner Peace

A scenic landscape featuring ruins and grassland under a bright sun, with a cloudy sky in the background.

What are we all looking for? If we start by being honest with ourselves—unless we’re completely consumed by our own ego—most everyone would accept the same definition. It would all come down to three words: unshakable inner peace.

That unshakable inner peace comes from God, of course. But how we get there, how we find it, varies considerably according to our beliefs, lifestyles, and attitudes.

So let me dial back just a little bit. What does it mean for us to be at peace? For the purposes of today, let’s say that being at peace means not being in turmoil. It’s being OK with things—not necessarily in a state of bliss, but managing well. You’re on the plus side of whatever heavy things you’re carrying. You’re not discontent with the world overall.

But are we all there? Not everyone is. Most of us aren’t. So where would you put yourself in this category? Where would you like to be?

Often, we look for downtime—prayer time, relaxation, meditation, all of the above—to try and dial down from whatever might be a heightened state. I’m not necessarily talking about being anxious, but you know that feeling when you’ve just had enough with something. Your day at work, whatever. And so we’re looking for lots of different ways to try and relax.

Relaxing is one way into this process. Relaxing with deliberation, using some of those tools I mentioned. A lot of what we end up doing, of course, is separating our normal, perhaps stressful life from our prayer life or our relaxed life. We are more aggravated under one set of circumstances than another.

In the ideal world, of course, whatever we’re doing during our normal life—whether we’re at school or working or retired—we don’t want to be in turmoil, annoyed, angry, or discontent. So how do we get some of this peace to spill over into those situations?

Perhaps some of those situations are unavoidable, but we can have better ways of dealing with them. When we’re faced with the things that aggravate us, we can engage—hopefully through dialogue—and resolve whatever it is. This usually involves more than one person, although sometimes that internal dialogue with ourselves can be just as challenging as when it involves someone else.

Once we have that resolution, we do get that very smooth “aha moment” of inner peace. Forgiveness has occurred. Reconciliation has happened. It’s palpable, and it isn’t just for our soul—physically, we can feel it as well.

There are literally thousands of books in the world, since the beginning of time, trying to give us ways to cope more with the everyday, with whatever lot in life we’ve been given and whatever we make of it. Leaning into the contemplative, into the place where peace can happen in our everyday lives—this is the goal.

As a retreat director, this is one of the main reasons that people come on retreat. They want to go quiet for a while. They want to renew and refresh, reconnect with their inner self and with the supreme being, God. And even those that don’t necessarily believe in a supreme being still want to meditate, quiet down, relax, and look for the same peace that all those following religious paths are seeking.

But what about the separation of our prayer life or our peace-seeking life from our regular life? This is one of the things that causes them to be separated—the fact that we think about them differently. “This is my prayer time. This is my break time. This is my weekend. This is my vacation.”

We want to have the pleasure of being OK with the world in our everyday life. Part of that is not trying to separate it. We can’t have one face to deal with the rest of the world and another face when we want to have conversations with God. It doesn’t make any sense, and it doesn’t work.

Brother Lawrence, an 17th-century French monk, wrote about “the practice of the presence of God”—where every moment of every day, even in the most mundane and boring of tasks, becomes a celebration of the presence of God.

I’m not suggesting that we’re going to be able to dial in the spiritual characteristics of Brother Lawrence as we’re driving down the freeway getting cut off. But we can do what he invited us to do: be aware of the presence of God all the time, not just when we have time to pray.

This was the revelation that the monks in his monastery had. When they were praying at set times, they realized Brother Lawrence was always praying—because he was always aware of the presence of God in all things. In the dirty dishes and laundry he was moving around the monastery. In the cleaning of pots and pans.

Perhaps this awareness would help us bring some of this peace into our own daily lives. What do you think?



Reflection and image Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

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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

Emergency Pause: Three Breaths Before Responding to Triggers

Emergency Pause: Three Breaths Before Responding to Triggers

There’s a moment—you know the one—when someone says, with precision, the thing that sets you off. Maybe it’s that specific tone your spouse uses, or the way a colleague dismisses your idea, or how your teenager rolls their eyes when you ask about homework. In that moment, something primal awakens within us, and we’re ready to react with the full force of our accumulated frustrations.

But what if, in that precise moment, we could find what the mystics have always known exists: a sacred space between stimulus and response?

John Cassian, that 3rd-century desert father, who I often refer, discovered something profound in his retreat from the distractions of city life. Even in the supposed peace of the desert, he found himself bombarded by what he called “a river full of thoughts”—not unlike the 60,000 thoughts modern psychology tells us we experience daily. His insight was revolutionary: thoughts become desires, desires become passions, and passions inevitably become actions.

The emergency pause is our invitation to interrupt this ancient pattern. And in particular, the one which happens at lightning speed.

The Sacred Space of Three Breaths

I learned this practice not from a book but from necessity. Years ago, during a particularly heated discussion at a planning meeting, I felt a familiar surge of defensiveness rising. Someone had criticized an approach I’d suggested, and my Irish heritage was preparing to respond with full on Celtic intensity. But something—call it grace, call it wisdom born of too many regrettable responses—made me pause—made me wait.

I took a breath. Then another. Then a third.

In those few seconds, something shifted. The heat didn’t disappear, but it transformed. Instead of reacting from that place of wounded ego, I found myself responding from what felt like a deeper well—one that held both my legitimate concerns and genuine care for the person who had challenged me. The conversation that followed changed everything. Not because I became passive, but because I became present.

Why Three Breaths?

There’s something almost sacramental about the number three in our tradition. Trinity. Three days in the tomb. Peter’s three denials and three affirmations of love. But practically speaking, three breaths give us just enough time for our nervous system to shift from fight-or-flight mode into what neuroscientists call the “rest and digest” state—the place where wisdom has room to breathe, and maybe emerge.

The first breath creates space. Like the moment of silence after the church bells stop ringing, it opens a gap in our reactivity.

The second breath invites presence. Here we remember that this moment, even this difficult moment, is where God meets us.

The third breath calls forth choice. We remember that we are not victims of our emotions but stewards of our responses.

The Art of Sacred Noticing in Conflict

This practice isn’t about becoming spiritually superior or emotionally detached. It’s about what I call “sacred noticing”—paying attention to what’s actually happening both within us and around us before we decide how to respond.

Notice the tension in your shoulders. Notice the story your mind is telling about the other person’s intentions. Notice the difference between the facts of what happened and the interpretation you’ve layered on top. Notice, too, that even in this moment of conflict, you are still held by a love larger than your immediate frustration.

As I wrote in my reflection on “The Mothering Instinct,” we all need someone to “mother” us—to hold us with unconditional love even when we’re at our worst. The emergency pause connects us to that divine mothering presence that never withdraws, even when we’re triggered.

Making Friends with Your Triggers

Here’s what I’ve learned after decades of trying to be less reactive: our triggers are often pointing toward something that needs our attention. They could even be our friends.  The colleague who dismisses our ideas might be reflecting our own fear of not being heard. The family member who always seems to push our buttons might be showing us where we haven’t yet made peace with parts of ourselves.

This doesn’t mean we become doormats or stop setting healthy boundaries. It means we respond from a place of centered strength rather than scattered reactivity. Like the trees in “Tall Stories About Trees,” we learn to bend without breaking, to stay rooted while moving with the wind.

A Practice for the Week

This week, I invite you to experiment with the emergency pause. When you feel that familiar surge of reactivity—whether it’s frustration, defensiveness, anger, or hurt—try this:

Breath One: Create space. Literally step back if possible, even just an inch. Let your shoulders drop.

Breath Two: Get present. Feel your feet on the ground. Remember you are held by grace in this moment.

Breath Three: Choose response over reaction. Ask yourself: “What would love do here? What would serve the highest good of all involved?”

Then respond—not from your first impulse, but from the deeper wisdom that emerges when we stop moving so fast through our days.

The Ripple Effect of Pause

The beautiful thing about this practice is how it spreads. When we respond rather than react, we invite others into that same spacious place. We become what the mystics called “instruments of peace”—not by avoiding conflict, but by meeting it with presence.

Your teenager might still roll their eyes, but they’ll also sense something different in your response. Your colleague might still disagree, but they’ll feel heard rather than attacked. Your spouse might still use that tone, but they’ll encounter your grounded strength rather than your triggered defensiveness.

As I often remind retreatants, we cannot control what happens to us, but we can choose what happens through us. The emergency pause is our doorway to that freedom—the space between what life hands us and how we choose to receive it.

In that space, we discover we are more than our reactions. We remember we are beloved souls learning to love in a world that doesn’t always make it easy. And in that remembering, both we and those around us find a little more room to breathe.

The way opens as you walk it—one breath at a time.

Reflection and image copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham

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I Am the Instrument

I Am the Instrument: A Reflection on Sacred Transparency

You know that moment when you pick up your camera and suddenly… click. You’ve taken a picture. But you can’t even remember deciding to do it.

This happened to me a while ago. Walking on the beach, some young children scare off the birds scurrying on the seashore. My footing faltered, yet somehow my phone was in my hand. The photo: the birds flying off, leaving the food buried in the sand below, in a flurry all around me. The Southern Californian sun was mixed with the sea spray.  I stared at the image later, wondering. When did I take this? Why?

I am a camera, who cannot see, or even know why I took the picture.

We spend so much time trying to be good at things. Good photographers. Good musicians. Good writers. Good prayers, even. But what if… what if the trying is getting in the way?

Meister Eckhart knew something about this. He talked about the Grund—this deep place inside us where God lives. Not God as separate from us, but God as the very ground of who we are—the place we touch when we stop trying so hard.

My friend plays the flute. She used to practice for hours every day, frustrated that her music never quite captured what she heard in her heart. Then something shifted. She stopped practicing to get better and started just breathing into the instrument, letting whatever wanted to come, come.

I am a flute, who has the breadth, but not the sound, or from where it comes.

The music that flows through her now… it’s not hers, exactly. She has the breath. She learned the fingerings. But the melody? That comes from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper. And people stop on the street when they hear it. Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s true.

This is what Eckhart meant about detachment. Not coldness. Not not caring. But this letting go of our need to be the source of things. To be in control. To understand.

I write these morning reflections, and half the time I don’t know where the words come from. My fingers move across the keyboard and thoughts appear that I wasn’t thinking a moment before.

I write these words, as the ink bleeds from me, not knowing their form or meaning.

It’s unsettling at first. This not knowing. We want to be the author of our lives, our art, our prayers. But what if we’re meant to be something else? Something simpler and more mysterious?

What if we’re meant to be instruments?

Not tools that get used up. But… channels. Pipes with no blockages. Wires with no resistance. Waterfalls of God’s love, flowing through us into a world that’s thirsty for exactly what wants to come through.

The birds in my photo probably don’t know they were being photographed. The birds don’t know they’re beautiful. The light doesn’t know it’s falling perfectly. And yet… something is being revealed. Something is being shared.

I am a prayer, or sayer of thoughts, not of my making.

We can practice this. This not knowing. This letting go. We can learn to stop interrupting the flow with our need to understand it, to direct it, to take credit for it.

When you pick up your camera today, or your pen, or your instrument… try asking: What wants to be seen? What wants to be heard? What wants to be said?

Then step back. Breathe. Let your hands do what they know how to do. Let the light fall where it wants to fall. Let the words come from that deep place Eckhart called the ground of being.

You might be surprised by what flows through you when you stop trying to be the source.

You might discover you’ve always been the instrument you were meant to be.

Image, poem and Reflection Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham

I Am the Instrument

I am an instrument.

I am a camera, who cannot see,

Or even know why I took the picture.

I am an instrument.

I am a flute, who has the breadth,

But not the sound, or from where it comes.

I am an instrument.

I write these words, as the ink bleeds from me,

Not knowing their form or meaning.

I am an instrument.

I am a prayer, or sayer of thoughts,

Not of my making.

Posted on by Michael J. Cunningham · 4 Comments

The Sanctuary

The Sanctuary

We all have somewhere special that we like to hang out. It might be a coffee bar, a local pub, a place in the woods, or the beach. You get the picture. Recently, I was visiting a good friend in New Hampshire on a visit back east for the weekend. We had not seen each other for many years, and yet we picked up the conversation just like it was yesterday. Good friends are like that, they don’t seem to mind how long it takes to touch base again; but rather like the prodigal son, I end up being welcomed like no other person. We had a great visit.

The day was a perfect one in the mountains, just as spring was getting ready to pass the baton to summer, unlike the image above, which is the White Mountains in winter. The woods there don’t seem to mind what clothes they are wearing, or what time of the year it is, they always look interesting and inviting. Just like the friends I was visiting.

The property that my friend lives on is 62 acres on a mountainside in the White Mountains. To say this is beautiful would be an understatement, and after having a lovely lunch prepared by his good wife, we walked the property. My friend, Tom, was keen to show me the entirety of the property, which I had previously only visited during winter. We walked down the hillside and from a clearing with a large pond into the woods.

As we entered the woods, he stopped me and, breathing deeply, waited for a few moments. I knew he was going to say something important.

Even though we had spent hours and days together over the years, we never really discussed our spiritual disposition. He knew that I was doing “stuff” with the church, but that was about it. And yet, we always felt we were on a similar wavelength. Compassion, love, and care for others were always on Tom’s list, which showed in all he did. There was no forcing of faith paths.

After this short pause, Tom declared with the precision of a poet. “Mike, this is my sanctuary … This is my chapel”.

The woods and the brook below were singing the song he wanted to hear, and they were his place of refuge. A place that touched his interior from the outside. A place where he was really “one” with nature and could contemplate safely surrounded by Mother Earth. It was a very powerful sharing moment. One that I am so happy he shared with me. I also felt the power of nature and creation enveloping me with some coolness from the slight breeze arising from the stream below.

We all have these places in our lives. Somewhere where the encounter with the marvel of God’s creation snuggles us tightly. Where we are, once again, in the womb that gave us life.  

I wrote this reflection to describe that afternoon in Tom’s sanctuary. I was glad to be able to visit and see what moved his spirit. Of course, we all have our own sanctuaries, sometimes many of them.

Perhaps you can visit yours again soon.

The Sanctuary

Downhill, once more for the trip towards the stream

Who chuckles to herself, at speed now,

As the winter thaw begins;

In these sacred mountains

My feet begin to gain a spring today,

Despite their well-worn history,

As they gather me towards the longing,

The one within that drives me on.

The ground below is soft and tactile …

The result of years of nature’s carpeting

Never needing fitting or cleaning,

Just perfected by the seasons and her admirers.

I see it now, as the opening in the woods appears,

Nature’s chapel, my chapel, without disguise … she beckons

A heart always longing for her.

Final steps bring me to her center.

The path speaking directions,

The stream singing below,

The scene revealing my place in her heart.

Now I sit in the lean-to to which is my prayer mat,

A place of contemplation where hours turn to minutes,

And nights to seasons,

Her work within begins.

Here is where healing thrives,

As she, Mother Earth pours herself into me,

Like a lover without shame or guilt,

Where all that was seen can be consumed by her forces.

Leaving me rebirthed to face more days.

Days where the sights of pain and violence are replaced

By calls of love and goodness,

As she replenishes me.

For goodness and peace will remain.

As she remains in me.

This Mother Earth.

This book of creation.

Where I am but a sentence;  

Encouraged now, by the writer.



Image, poem and reflection Copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham OFS