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There are experiences in life that some refer to as ‘Godwinks:’ coincidental occurrences, unexpected gifts, or realizations that we deem orchestrated by Providence.

In my own life, these Godwinks have been numerous— perhaps even countless. And during my own spiritual journey, from a cradle Episcopalian to a student of non-dualism and contemplative prayer, lucky am I to have stumbled upon Jim Finley.

Finley is a clinical psychologist and former monk, having entered The Trappist Monastery of the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani directly upon leaving high school— seeking to deepen his relationship with God following a horrifically traumatic childhood of abuse.

He is exquisitely eloquent, and even watching him on video, the mellifluous quality of his voice creates a reassuring intimacy. His words quietly dazzle, and I find myself having to pause and rewind multiple times to try to grasp the subtlety of meaning as one tries—and fails—to grasp jewel-toned autumn leaves fluttering through the air.

In short, the contemplative practice is all about ‘Be STILL and know that I am God.’ 

As Finley explains, ‘Contemplation is a state of realized oneness with God. When engaged in contemplation, we rest in God resting in us. We are at home in God at home in us.’

Mentored by Thomas Merton, and from his book on the aforementioned, ‘Merton’s Palace of Nowhere,’ he explains further:

“We give God a name. We then equate God with the name we have given him, and in doing so, we make ourselves, in effect, God’s God. Instead of acknowledging God as the source of our identity and existence, we make ourselves the self-proclaimed source of God’s identity. God then becomes the one made in our image and likeness.”

If that strikes you the way it struck me, you might find yourself inclined to investigate a spiritual journey that promises to strip bare long-held preconceived notions as you are driven further inward as opposed to outward.

So, that Godwink…There was a mystical experience Finley had at the monastery that has always stuck with me:

“…I sat in the snow at the base of a tree. I sat very, very still. When I put my head back against the tree and I looked up to the bare branches, I could see the snow falling down to the bare branches. And it was so silent I could hear the snow hitting the leaves. And while I was sitting there, a full-grown deer came by with a head full of antlers. It turned and looked right at me, but I was sitting so still that he didn’t see me. And my heart was pounding because I knew if I scared it, it could hurt me. I was sitting there on the ground, and it walked right past me on through the woods. And I looked up to the bare branches of the trees, and silently within myself I said to God, is this the way it is with us? And looking up through the bare branches and the snow coming down from unseen places in this gray sky, I’m looking right at you, but I don’t see you.’

And on this particularly enticing April morning, cool and clear, the air saturated with the scent of Paul’s roses blossoming prolifically throughout the farm, I walked light-hearted towards the tractor shed, my mind dwelling upon Finley’s epiphany. Visualizing him beneath the tree, the buck staring—and not seeing—Finley, my own gaze swept over the woodpile I was obliged to pass and directly into the mild, liquid eyes of a doe, fawn at her side, staring intently back at me. I stopped. My heart stood still. And for that moment, I got it. 

I really got it.