WHEN THE CLIFF DISSOLVES

A reflection on the quiet unraveling of self

I don’t usually talk about my journey as an “awakening.” The word feels too sharp, too final. What actually happened was quieter than that. Slower. Less dramatic. More like a soft falling away than a blinding flash. But over time, the self I thought I was simply dissolved.

If I look back, I can trace a path—crooked and painful, beautiful and fierce—that led to something I never expected: a peace that doesn’t come and go.

It began, as it does for many, in pain.
My parents’ divorce left a wound I didn’t know how to feel, let alone heal.

So I turned away. For more than twenty years, I sought escape in hedonism—drinking, drugs, the nightlife, the temporary highs of altered states. I wanted transcendence but didn’t know that’s what I was seeking. I thought I was chasing freedom, but really, I was just running.

Creativity was there, flickering underneath. I loved the beat poets, psychedelic music, outsider culture. I longed to be a musician, to make something true—but even that pursuit became part of the performance, part of the dream of becoming someone.

Eventually, I crashed. Sick, angry, burned out. And then life, in its strange intelligence, offered me something unexpected.

In 1995, I was invited to an event in the hills of Wales. I went. That one small "yes" changed everything.

For two years, I was immersed in the wild, untamed world of a Celtic shaman—part mystic, part storyteller. His roots were deep in the Indian tradition of Advaita, in sacred ceremony, in the fierce love of truth. We lived in a sacred valley. The teachings were direct, unflinching, and full of mystery.

That time cracked something open in me. The inner fire stirred.
But when I left, I was still carrying so much.

Then, the deeper work began.

I met Amoda Maa through her transformational workshops—meditation, cathartic movement, deep energetic clearing. I became the musician for her ecstatic dance sessions. We fell—no, rose—into love.

She had gone through a profound awakening in 2002, and that awakening was alive in her presence. Being with her was like standing in front of a mirror that showed me every shadow, every wound, every part of myself I was still unwilling to meet.

Our relationship has been the greatest teacher of my life. The fire of love burned through the illusions I clung to. Over the last two decades, there has been nowhere to hide. And no need to.

Even when we moved to the U.S. in 2016, I still carried threads of resistance—old arguments with life, subtle refusals to let go. But around 2020, something shifted.

I stopped striving.
I stopped imagining a future where I’d become someone more interesting or successful.
I stopped chasing the dream of being a musician.

I started serving. Quietly. Fully.

I gave myself to the work we do through the nonprofit we founded. I began hosting Amoda’s online meetings. I let presence become my path—not as a technique, but as a way of being.

And that’s when something arrived: silence.

A deep, abiding stillness that has never left.

The best way I can describe it is this:
It has felt like the slow erosion of a cliff—my sense of “me”—by the ocean of being. The waves of life kept coming, not to punish or drown me, but to wear away the hardened edges of identity. And at some point, quietly, the cliff dissolved.

What remained was peace.

There was no lightning bolt. No announcement. Just the absence of struggle.
And from that absence, a new kind of freedom emerged—not flashy, not perfect, but quietly whole.

Of course, the journey continues. The deepening goes on.
Truth keeps revealing itself, softer and subtler.
And love keeps calling me deeper.

If something in this touched you, feel free to share or respond. This space is here for honest reflection, and for the truth that arises when we stop trying to become someone, and instead, begin to be.

And as always, thanks for reading.