Perhaps you have wondered this yourself: how do I live this understanding in a world that seems increasingly mired in conflict and division? Often, there is a request for practical guidance – a ‘how to’ manual of some kind. And yet, as our understanding deepens, we recognise that the lasting peace and joy we seek cannot reside at the end of some practice, procedure or technique.
With that in mind, I would like to share over the next few weeks some ideas that may serve to resolve this search for practical solutions – not by offering a method, but by pointing to something that is always already present within you.
Our global culture is founded upon a single, largely unquestioned assumption: the assumption of separation. The despair that people feel and the conflict we witness in the world today are a direct and inevitable consequence of this belief.
We all know from our own experience that conflicts and hostility may arise even with people we deeply love – conflicts that sometimes cause rifts in relationships and families that last for years or decades. How much deeper, more entrenched and more destructive are the conflicts that arise between those who regard each other as enemies, where grievance, resentment and fear have sometimes been carried across generations, shaping identities, communities and histories.
There has never been a time when the recognition of what lies beneath this assumption of separation has mattered more, nor a moment when its absence has carried greater consequences for humanity.
Let us begin, then, with a simple distinction.
There are two kinds of peace.
The first is the peace that depends on circumstances – the peace we feel when things go well, when our needs are met, when the world cooperates with our preferences. This peace starts and stops. It comes and goes. It is, by nature, fragile.
The second is the peace that is our nature. It has nothing to do with what is or is not taking place in experience. It is always present under all circumstances, although it may be overlooked.
Most of us spend our lives pursuing the first kind of peace. We arrange our circumstances, manage our relationships, seek out experiences that we hope will bring us the peace we long for. And sometimes this works – temporarily. But sooner or later, circumstances change. The peace slips away. And we begin again.
There is nothing wrong with this. It is innocent and entirely understandable. These desires – for comfort, for connection, for a life that feels settled and good – are not mistakes to be corrected or weaknesses to be overcome. They are the natural expression of a person who senses, however dimly, that peace is their birthright. The longing for a loving relationship, for meaningful work, for a home that feels safe – each of these is, at its heart, a longing for the very peace we are exploring here. The direction may sometimes be mistaken; the desire beneath it never is.
But at some point, we may wonder: is there a peace that does not depend on circumstances?
Let us look more closely at the nature of experience itself.
Notice that there are thoughts moving through your mind – and notice also that sometimes those thoughts quieten and, for a moment, there is a kind of stillness. No mental chatter, no inner commentary. Just silence. This is the first silence: the absence of thought.
But now notice something more subtle. Both the thought and its absence appear within something. The thought arises in it; the silence arises in it. Neither disturbs it. This is the awareness that lies behind both the thought and its absence – and this is the true silence.
Unlike the first silence, this one does not depend on whether thoughts are present or not. It is not created by the quietening of the mind, and it is not broken by the mind’s activity. It was there before the thought arose, it remains while the thought is present, and it is there when the thought dissolves. It is the unchanging background in which the whole movement of the mind – its noise and its quiet alike – takes place.
This is the silence behind the silence. Not the absence of thought, but the awareness in which thought and its absence both appear. It is not a state that comes and goes. It is your nature.
This peace is never disturbed by anything that takes place in experience. Consider the space in which everything arises – in which clouds form and scatter, in which light changes, in which the whole of life moves and shifts. However turbulent the weather, space itself remains utterly still. It is never damaged, never threatened, never diminished by what passes through it. So it is with you. Your mind may be agitated, your body may be restless, but you – awareness – are like that space. Always open. Always still. Always at peace.
If you ask your mind how it feels, it may say, ‘I am bored’ or ‘I am restless’. If you ask your being how it feels, it would only ever say, ‘I am at peace’.
The peace of your true nature is not something you need to create or acquire. It is here now, ever-present, simply overlooked in favour of the more colourful, demanding content of your experience.
Why postpone peace? It is here, now, waiting only to be noticed.
Next week, we will explore what lies behind our universal search for this peace – and why that search, though innocent, may overlook the very thing it seeks.
