Practice Begins at Home: On Spiritual Practice and Loved Ones by Cheeseburger Buddha

 When the Fire Comes Home: On Spiritual Practice and Loved Ones

by Cheeseburger Buddha

“If you think you’re enlightened, go spend a week with your family.”
— Ram Dass

There’s a certain stillness that comes with solitude—a sense of spaciousness that welcomes presence. In those moments—early morning silence, meditation, even the soft rhythm of sketching—I often feel a closeness to what is eternal, untouched. A deep yes to the now.

                                                Neem Karoli Baba was Ram Dass's Guru.

But then, the world walks in.

And by the world, I mean those closest to me—family, loved ones, the people with whom I share meals, history, and blood. That’s where it gets interesting. That’s where the furnace of practice is truly tested.

Despite years of self-inquiry, meditation, even the hard-earned awareness that I am not these thoughts, these waves of emotion, there are still moments when anger boils up, when greed whispers, when illusion clouds the view. And more often than not, it’s not abstract triggers that stir these energies—it’s relationships. The temperament of a loved one. A sharp word. A recurring tension. Their silence. Their pain.

You think you’ve let go of ego until someone you love doesn’t appreciate what you’ve done—or worse, misunderstands your intentions. Suddenly, the mind springs up with a vengeance:

• “They should know better.”

• “After everything I’ve sacrificed…”

• “Why can’t they change?”

And just like that, the ego puts on a saint’s robe and claims the throne.

What I’ve begun to realize is this: these people I call loved ones are not obstacles to my practice. They are extensions of it. They are the mirrors that show me where the work still lies. My reaction is not caused by them—it is revealed through them.

It’s humbling, often painful, sometimes maddening—but always sacred.

So lately, I’ve been trying something new. When a trigger arises, I whisper silently:

“Thank you for showing me what still clings inside.”

Not as a clever mantra, but as an honest bow to the teaching of the moment. Anger is a teacher. So is disappointment. So is the heartbreak of unmet expectations. None of these are failures. They are reminders that the path doesn't lead away from the world, but deeper into it—into the messy, fiery, beautiful entanglement of human connection.

This doesn’t mean abandoning boundaries or silencing your truth. It means responding, not reacting. It means seeing the child in your loved one—their wounds, their hopes—and meeting them with clarity instead of judgment.

There’s a freedom in not needing to win the argument, to prove you’re right, to be the most spiritual person in the room. Sometimes, walking away in silence can say more than a thousand words.

And sometimes, just one deep breath between stimulus and response can shift everything.

No, I’m not always able to hold that breath. But I’m trying. And when I fail, I try again—not out of guilt, but out of love.

This is the fire of real practice. Not on the cushion. Not in the temple. But at the dinner table, in the argument, in the unexpected silence between words.

That’s where I’m learning to bow.

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