The phoenix of Greek and Roman mythology is a long-living bird that is born from the remains of its predecessor. Accounts of how long it lived, what size it was, its coloration, and the like, are all varied. That variation includes the way in which the phoenix was reborn. According to some accounts the phoenix decomposed before being born again. In other accounts, the phoenix dies amid combustion and flames and rises from the ashes. Regardless of which account we are to give greatest credence to, the phoenix remains an enduring symbol of renewal and emergence in Western culture. The phoenix appears widely in literature, art, music, film, and television. While a mythical creature, the life of the phoenix can serve as a useful metaphor for us. Its emergence, or re-emergence, into the world comes as a result of the death of its predecessor. New life emerges from the passing of the old, and the new cannot arrive until the death of the old. There is surely nothing wrong with us pursuing growth and emergence from nothing. Trying something new, bringing out a new behavior, or creating a new way of thinking about something are often great moments of transformation for our lives and something we should often strive for. But what if there are times when something new is unable to emerge? What if something old is holding up the arrival of something new? For example, if we’re holding onto an old pain, perhaps playing memories over and over again, it

The March 19^th, 1945 edition of Life magazine contains an article written by Annalee Jacoby titled “Eggs stand on end in Chungking: The mystery of the upright eggs dissolves war tension in China.” In the article, Jacoby tells the story of several Chinese individuals competitively balancing eggs on the spring equinox. According to Chinese legends, for an hour before and after the seasons change on Li Chun (Spring Begins), it becomes possible to balance things that would otherwise not be possible. In the city of Chungking (now rendered into English as Chongqing) inhabitants balanced eggs on Li Chun. The celebration of Li Chun in 1945 happened to draw the attention of a journalist with the United Press. His story was published in many English-language newspapers. Apparently, Albert Einstein read the story and doubted its truthfulness. A series of egg-standings with witnesses followed in Chongqing to prove it was done without trickery. And there was no trickery. With the right egg and surface, you can stand an egg any day of the year. While the spring equinox does not bring about a perfect balance in gravity, it does bring other kinds of balance. Daytime and nighttime are balanced. The time of each is roughly equal, and this is true no matter where you are on the planet. The path of the sun is also in balance. The sun rises exactly due east and sets exactly due west; the two equinoxes are the only days this happens. The seasons are also balanced. At

In my Unigram article last month, I wrote about the application of intention to everyday tasks to transform them to spiritual practices. In that piece I noted how through intention I could transform some walks in Nature into spiritual experiences, raising them above the everyday and ordinary. Yet applying intention to everyday things to gain a spiritual practice is not a strategy that will be equally rewarding to everyone. It may also work better with some tasks than others. As a result, you may wish to seek out a spiritual practice that requires the application of perseverance. Some authorities on spiritual practices maintain that the most transformational potentials come from those spiritual practices that are nothing other than a spiritual practice for us. Take meditation, for instance. Meditation is something we purposefully do as a spiritual practice that we generally do not otherwise do in the course of our everyday lives. By being inherently spiritual, it becomes easier to distinguish it from everyday activities and emphasize its spiritual value. For example, taking a walk in Nature can have more than one meaning for me. As a result, it may be more difficult to stay focused on the spiritual. I could potentially, then, complete it sometimes with a sense of spiritual pride, but really have been focused on exercise or covering a lot of ground. Something like meditation, on the other hand, cannot be completed in any way other than spiritually. When we use everyday things as a spiritual practice, there can

For years I felt that my desire and intention for spiritual practices was greater that my familiarity with them. By this I mean that my interest was high, but my knowledge was low and limited to a handful of practices common to our culture, such as prayer, reading scripture, and meditation. Perhaps you too have felt similarly, now or in the past, and craved spiritual exercises, but could not find ones that suited you. Because Unitarian Universalism embraces religious freedom of the individual, we do not possess an obvious and widespread set of spiritual practices outside of collective worship, in the way some other religions do. What is likely the easiest path to a spiritual practice is by adding intentional mindfulness to the passions you already hold. Mindfulness is fully bringing our attention to the experience of the present moment. The opposite of mindfulness would be to engage in tasks on auto-pilot, without thought or awareness. In what has became a famous example of mindfulness and intentionality, Zen Buddhist monk and author Thich Nhat Hanh wrote in Creating True Peace (pgs. 143-44 ) about eating an orange as a spiritual exercise of mindfulness. We could simply eat an orange as a piece of food. Or, says Hanh, we could eat the orange meditatively, appreciating it as a miracle of nature that nourishes us. Peel it and focus on how it feels. Smell it. Savor it as you eat it. Imagine the sun and rain it took to nourish the fruit. Imagine