Enough

​ I quietly stepped away from religion years ago. It’s not something I say with anger or bitterness — it simply stopped answering the questions I was carrying.

There’s a line from the movie No Country for Old Men that has always stayed with me. Anton Chigurh asks, “If the rules you followed brought you to this, of what use are the rules?” That question cuts deep, especially when I’ve sat with people who held their faith tightly, only to become afraid when death drew near.

I no longer believe in gods or an afterlife in the traditional sense. Yet I still have feelings I can’t fully explain. I’ve had strong moments where I feel the love of my life and I have known each other before. Our connection is so effortless and natural that I honestly believe we shared a previous life together. I don’t claim to understand how any of this works. It’s just a feeling.

There’s also a story about Kahlil Gibran that has always moved me. A young boy once saw an old man sitting alone, staring at the sunrise. When the boy asked what he was doing, the old man replied, “I am looking at life.” The boy asked, “Is that all?” The old man simply answered, “Isn’t that enough?”

That question lands differently the older I get.

The Tao Te Ching speaks to this same spirit:

“Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

I know I don’t see the world the same way most people around me do. I’ve learned to live with that quiet loneliness. Even so, I remain deeply thankful to be here, even if only for this brief time.

For me… that is enough.

Mercy

​Over the years I have sat with many kinds of death — grandparents, friends, and animals I cared for deeply.

The contrast between the two has stayed with me. Every living thing, whether animal or human, seems to want to see the sun rise one more time. That desire feels universal. And yet, when an animal is suffering, we consider it compassionate to help it pass peacefully. We often deny that same mercy to humans, even when they are in great pain.

There does have to be an end for all of us. This realization eventually led me to step away from the faith I was raised in.

The Grandfathers

​Some of the strongest feelings come to me when I am alone in the woods.

In those quiet places, I sometimes feel the presence of the grandfathers — the ancestors. Not as beings who can help me or speak to me, but simply as a quiet presence. I know this feeling rises from within my own mind, yet it feels important to acknowledge them.

When I feel this way, I’m often reminded of Tom Brown Jr. and his teacher, Grandfather, who would simply say “feed the birds” when he wanted him to be still and aware.

I burn sage and speak to them, not because I believe they can hear me, but because it feels right to show respect for those who walked here long before me. I don’t care for labels like “pagan.” What I feel doesn’t need a name. It simply is.

The Edge

​ere are certain moments when something inside me shifts.

I cannot force these moments. They come quietly — in certain places or with certain thoughts — and suddenly I find myself at the very edge of what my mind can hold. It feels like standing just on the fringe of seeing something much larger, something just beyond my reach.

This feeling reminds me of Michael Harner’s experience in his book The Way of the Shaman. During an ayahuasca ceremony, he was shown visions that he was told were reserved for the dead and the dying. My own experiences are much gentler and sober, but I understand the feeling of touching a boundary most people never approach.

These experiences eventually brought me to one of the most consistent feelings I have — a quiet presence in the woods.

Among the Stones

Some of my clearest moments have come while walking through old cemeteries.

Standing among the weathered stones, I often think about how every person buried there once lived fully inside their own moment, just as I am living in mine right now. They had ordinary days, small worries, and quiet joys. Most of them had no idea they were becoming history.

That thought stayed with me for a long time. It eventually led me to moments when my own thinking would push even further.

The Constructed World

Over time, I began to see that what we call reality is largely constructed by the mind.

Our senses take in information, and the brain builds a version of the world we can live in. Some even describe this as a “controlled hallucination.” Understanding this didn’t disturb me. If anything, it brought a kind of quiet clarity.

Once I accepted that we’re all living inside our own version of reality, I started seeing the world around me differently — especially the places that hold our history.

A Simple Life and an Unquiet Mind

I grew up on working on a farm in a Christian household. Life was straightforward — you worked, fixed what was broken, and learned to rely on yourself. It was a quiet, practical way to live.

Even so, my mind often wandered into places most people around me never seemed to go. The first real shift happened when I found an old book on Taoism in my grandparents’ house. One simple idea in that book stayed with me: when you miss your mark, first look at yourself.

Years later, while sitting on a tractor, a deeper realization came to me. We come into this world alone, and we leave it the same way. Strangely, that truth didn’t bring fear. It brought me a quiet kind of peace.

That solitude eventually led me to question something even more basic: what is reality itself?

Walking the Boundary

I’ve spent most of my life thinking about things that didn’t fit the world I grew up in. I’ve always loved history, and one thing in particular has always struck me: the people who lived through it never knew they were living in history. They were simply living their lives, just as we are now.

Raised on a farm in a Christian home, I never expected my mind to travel as far as it has. These articles are simply my honest reflections after many years of quiet thought — about life, death, reality, and what it means to be here.