The recent snow storm covering a large majority of the United States reminded me of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s work on weather. The way in which condensing water into snow could hamper so much of modern life is a testament to the power nature holds within it. As a practicing physician, it reminded me how much my own practice and experiences with patients comes to confront both what can and cannot be controlled in the face of the minuscule forces within all of us. The enormity of such forces makes our existence as fragile as a blade of grass in the wind. Yet, as human beings, we continue to try understanding such forces despite the growing mystery our knowledge unfolds. It is this pursuit of understanding nature, including the weather, that made me reflect on Freemasonry and our individual pursuits to understand the greatest mystery of all — our own being. At the center of lies an even deeper question: Who do I want to be?

This question becomes central to my interactions. Each patient encounter is a dance and a small microcosm of process. Each act of healing feeds back into my own becoming. It is a terrifying and exhilarating process. The energy of transformation through the abyss and storms of sickness demands vulnerability. Each person, including myself, must travel their own checkered pavement. Only by understanding and experiencing it themselves can one find their way to the other side — the East.

However, I feel this question is like reading the weather of my own soul. It demands introspection, asking me to look inward and face the direction my thoughts and intentions are pointing. It calls me to attune to the divine center and recognize my place in a larger unfolding. Sometimes, admitting the limitations of my knowledge is the first step towards grasping the enormity of the situation to which I am now a part of with another human being. It entangles the outward movement of life with the inward journey, pulling me into the turbulence and stillness that shape growth through the shared journey with another patient and their illness.

For myself, this question declares itself through the healing process. Each patient travels on their own path to healing through which I can often only guide and assist. The process reminds me so much of the dynamic and unpredictable nature of the weather. Storms rise and fall, winds shift, clouds gather and dissipate. I’ve noticed healing for one patient never fully matches another. Each has its own tempo, rhythm, and forecast. Like the weather, each patient faces moments of calmness that tumbles into turbulent waters and downright hazardous conditions. Despite my best efforts with other medical staff, the patient dies. 

“Above all we must remember that nothing that exists or comes into being, lasts or passes, can be thought of as entirely isolated, entirely unadulterated. One thing is always permeated, accompanied, covered, or enveloped by another; it produces effects and endures them. And when so many things work through one another, where are we to find the insight to discover what governs and what serve”

As I continue practice as both a physician and Mason, I recognize that the Great Architect cares less about absolute answers and more about our willingness to engage the process. To stand in the storm and be present with our imperfections. Life is a journey to the edge. A place where our current framework stretches and dies to allow transformation to what lies beyond in this world and in the next. In my journey, I am realizing that being a Mason and being a good doctor are inseparable. Both demand trust in process, courage in the storm, and patience for the unfolding. The Craft has taught me that transformation often comes when I surrender to the turbulence, when I allow myself to be pulled into the energy of change. Like weather shaping the land, the process shapes my soul.

It is perhaps the great irony that the deepest questions of life are often found not through philosophical debate or discussion, but through weathering the storms of life in community and near death. To face the abyss and darkness that life holds through the powerful forces of nature defines the shared experience of all human beings. The answer is found in the mere act of choosing to live and hold tightly through life’s storms as one shared substance and brotherhood.

“May wisdom shine through me. May love glow in me. May strength penetrate me. That in me may arise a helper for humanity. A servant of sacred things. Selfless and true.”

Across neuroscience, psychology, art, and initiatory traditions, a common insight emerges: human healing and self-discovery do not occur through explanation alone, but through symbolic experience.

The aesthetic triad—sensorimotor engagement, reward, and meaning-making—describes how an “aesthetic moment” arises when the body, emotions, and intellect are aligned. This moment creates space to be, to feel alive, and to encounter reality not as abstraction but as lived resonance. Art, ritual, and symbol work precisely because they operate in this integrated register, communicating complexity without prematurely reducing it to language.

Emotion itself is not the problem; emotions are ancient biological communicators. Suffering arises when one becomes stuck—caught between urgency and immobility, a dynamic familiar to trauma survivors who describe their inner world as chaos. Art offers a way through this impasse.

Visual language, movement, and making allow trauma to be approached indirectly, safely, and honestly. By externalizing experience through symbol, individuals regain voice, coherence, and a sense of self without being overwhelmed. This is why art has proven effective in trauma recovery, especially where words fail.

Symbols such as the mandala illustrate this process with particular clarity. Across cultures, the mandala represents wholeness and containment, mirroring Jung’s insight that such images arise from the unconscious as organizing principles of the psyche.

Creating one’s own mandala becomes an act of self-initiation: a way to uncover hidden layers, restore equilibrium, and integrate chaos into order. This movement—from fragmentation toward centeredness—echoes both therapeutic healing and initiatory paths.

As shown in Your Brain on Art, creative engagement is not decorative—it is foundational to human flourishing, restoring agency, dignity, and belonging through embodied participation.