The Practice of Kavanah

My understanding of meditation has therefore become remarkably simple.

I sit quietly and allow the body to relax.

I remain attentive without becoming tense.

My consciousness is directed toward God the Father, not as an image, a word, a sensation, or a concept.

I do not try to create an experience.

I do not attempt to produce an altered state of consciousness.

I do not measure my progress by the intensity of what I feel.

Thoughts arise.

Emotions appear.

The mind wanders.

And whenever I recognize that my attention has become absorbed in something else, I gently allow that experience to remain while my intention rests again in its Godward direction.

Nothing needs to be forced.

The direction is deliberate, but the attention is relaxed.

I do not have to imagine a destination or mentally construct a divine presence.

I am simply turning toward the Father I believe exists beyond my representations of Him.

This is an act of faith, not a demonstration of metaphysical certainty.

And I no longer need to make every meditation session a search for confirmation.

Some days may feel peaceful.

Other days may be restless.

Sometimes I may experience extraordinary love.

Sometimes I may experience nothing but ordinary thoughts.

The practice remains the same.

Over time, I hope this orientation will become less confined to formal meditation.

Perhaps it can accompany ordinary life.

Working, walking, speaking, suffering, celebrating.

Not by constantly thinking about God.

Not by repeating a phrase or maintaining a particular emotion.

But by allowing consciousness to remain oriented toward its source while life continues to unfold.

A continuous state of intention.

A quiet direction of the will.

A life lived Godward.