A Quiet Practice of the Heart

At some point along the way, I came across a phrase that quietly altered how I meet the difficulties of being human: the spiritual heart.

I cannot recall whether I first heard it during an online course or in one of the captivating talks by Adyashanti, but the phrase stayed with me. It settled deep inside the marrow of my bones and began to change the way I relate to suffering.

The heart that beats within the body and the spiritual heart are not separate, but part of the same living mystery.
The physical heart feels more like an extension, an undivided awareness of the spiritual heart.

Sometimes I find myself reflecting on something simple in nature. At the center of every flower lives a quiet heart, and from that center the petals unfold.

Of course a flower can be viewed simply as a flower. Yet when we pause long enough to really look, a quiet question sometimes arises. What holds the life within it? What sustains it day after day?

I offer the flower as a gentle invitation to notice that life itself seems to be held within something vast and mysterious. In a similar way, our human heart sometimes seems to unfold within a deeper heart-centered awareness that quietly holds it. And within this sacred heart, our physical heart is invited to rest and quietly remember.

Griefs.
Disappointments.
The light and heavy moments that feel too much to carry.

For many years I tried to carry these things alone. I suspect most of us do. We carry them in our thoughts, in our bodies, and in the quiet narratives we replay inside the mind. Over time, even the smaller sorrows can become exhausting companions.

Something softens when we remember that perhaps we are not meant to hold everything by ourselves.

When life begins to feel overwhelming, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine offering what I am carrying to this gracious heart space.

There have been moments in my own life when grief or uncertainty felt heavier than my human heart could comfortably contain. In those moments I would sit quietly, close my eyes, and imagine placing what I was carrying into the presence of a greater heart. Nothing in my outer life changes right away, yet something inside softens enough for me to breathe a little easier again.

Yet this does not mean I am bypassing what I experience as difficulties of being human. Before anything is offered or surrendered, I believe it can be wise, even noble, to sit quietly with what is present. To hold grief, confusion, or longings with our own tenderness and compassion. Sometimes this simply means holding space the way I would hold a most beloved friend. Quietly. Gently. Without rushing the moment away.

I sometimes silently say to myself,

“I see what is here for me.”

And from that place of kindness toward myself, it feels more aligned to offer what I’m carrying into the greater heart.

It is a quiet and personal gesture.

Sometimes I picture gathering pains, woes, and longings and placing them into a small basket, the way I gather herbs or flowers from my backyard garden. Then, very simply, I imagine offering it over.
The world does not suddenly rearrange itself. Yet something inside seems to relax.

Perhaps it is because this simple act is a form of surrender. Not surrender as defeat, but surrender as offering. A quiet willingness to acknowledge that something deeper within life itself may be quietly holding it all.

Of course, the mind may question what it cannot see. That is natural.

But if we keep circling inside the same loop without exploring ways to lessen our own suffering, then we may want to pause and to take a little closer look.

Sometimes I ask myself a very honest question.

In what ways might my suffering be serving me?

It can be a tender question to explore. Sometimes we discover that we hold onto suffering because it feels familiar. Sometimes it protects us. Sometimes it has quietly become part of our identity.

But when we become willing to look gently into the roots of our resistance, it begins to loosen— it’s paradoxical.

Life will continue to evolve and unfold. There will always be moments that challenge us. Yet if we live long enough, many of us come to sense that life itself is animated by something deeper than the mind can comprehend.

Some may call it God.
Some may call it grace.
Some may call it the great mystery.

The spiritual heart is not something outside of us. It is a part of our deeper essence. The primordial, timeless aspect of being. The part that cannot be diminished, exhausted, or extinguished.

Perhaps the spiritual journey is not about becoming spiritual at all, but about remembering what we already are. We are spirit before we ever become spiritual. — Adyashanti

The part that was here before our stories and will remain long after them.

So the next time life feels heavy, or even in quiet moments during an ordinary day, you might try a small experiment.

Close your eyes.

Notice whatever you are carrying, that perhaps you do not need or wish to carry.

And imagine offering it to that boundless heart space.

Before opening your eyes, you might quietly offer a simple gesture of gratitude.

This practice can slowly become a kind of ritual. You might imagine offering what you are carrying to something else as well: the vast blue sky, a quiet flame, or anything that resonates with your heart.

The hope is simply to lighten whatever it is you are carrying.

As a sensitive being, I feel things deeply, and practices like this help ensure that I do not lose myself in the weight of it all.

May you remember the eternal heart within us all that can contain all of life with grace.