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.

Nathan the Wise (Nathan der Weise) is a dramatic play written by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–1781), one of the most influential figures of the German Enlightenment. Lessing was a philosopher, playwright, critic, and theologian who championed reason, religious tolerance, and moral development over dogma and inherited authority.

Writing during a time of intense religious conflict and censorship, Lessing believed that no single religious tradition could claim exclusive possession of divine truth. Instead, he argued that faith should be judged by ethical action, compassion, and humanity rather than doctrinal correctness. Published in 1779, the play represents the culmination of Lessing’s philosophical thought.

The parable asserts that the truth of a religion is demonstrated not by origin or doctrine, but by ethical living. As the story unfolds, it is revealed that the characters are part of the same extended family, symbolizing our shared human origin beneath religious divisions.

“The true ring cannot be identified by claim alone. Instead, each son must prove the ring’s power through a life of love, kindness, and moral action.”

I have come to understand that Christianity was God’s first embrace of me, a necessary beginning. Yet love, by its very nature, expands. To see God reflected in other traditions is not betrayal, but delight. God rejoices in expansion because God is expansion.

In this way, the play offers a deeply Masonic lesson: faith is a living process, proven through gentleness, tolerance, humility, and charity. This is perfectly embodied in a conversation between Saladin and the Templar:

Saladin: My young friend, when God chooses to do good through us, we should not appear indifferent to it, even out of modesty.

Templar: But everything has so many different faces, and sometimes I don’t understand how they can all belong together.

Saladin: Then you should seek the best in everything, and trust God who knows all things are connected.

The question of truth—whether it is found within or received from without—has been one of my deepest struggles. Masonry teaches that truth cannot be imposed. Through experience, I learned how to hear that “still, small voice” within my heart. We do not awaken alone; we awaken with one another.

The judge’s charge in the play—to prove the power of one’s ring through love—captures the heart of the Craft. Faith is not about being right, but about being real. As a Freemason, every member of the human family that I meet is an opportunity to leave behind a fragment of that love.

Nathan the Wise arrived in my life by grace. It affirmed that Freemasonry is the lifelong practice of discovering unity in diversity. As Nathan says:

“Vie with each other to prove the power of your ring, through gentleness, tolerance, charity, and deep humility before the love of God. And if after a thousand thousand years the power of the ring still shines amongst your children’s children’s children, then I’ll summon you again before this judgement seat.”

The secret is simple, though never easy: love deeply, walk humbly, and trust the process.