Tag Archives: Buddhism

Remember Remember

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What’s a cultural tradition from your country that you love?

There are certain things from childhood that, for whatever reason, stay with you.

For me, one of those things has to be Bonfire Night.

The Fifth of November.

Cold November air.

The smell of woodsmoke.

Fireworks going off somewhere in the distance.

And, inevitably, some bloke standing far too close to the bonfire while somebody’s mum shouts:

“MOVE BACK!”

Of course, when you’re a kid, you don’t see a giant pile of burning wood as a potential health and safety incident waiting to happen.

You see an adventure.

You see something bloody enormous.

And probably wonder how close you can get before your eyebrows become an optional extra.

Then there was the Guy.

We’d make one from whatever old clothes we could find, stuffing them with newspaper, rags, or basically anything that was vaguely flammable and not currently being used.

It didn’t have to be particularly good.

Actually, thinking back, some of them were probably less “Guy Fawkes” and more “slightly suspicious bloke who’s been found in a hedge.”

But that didn’t matter.

We’d proudly put our creation on top of the bonfire and stand back, waiting for the flames to do their thing.

And then came the fireworks.

Now, modern fireworks are spectacular.

Absolutely bloody enormous.

But there was something magical about those childhood displays.

The first rocket disappearing into the darkness.

That moment of anticipation.

Then—

BOOM!

A shower of colour exploding across the sky.

Golden sparks.

Red.

Green.

Blue.

And for a few seconds, the whole night seemed to come alive.

Maybe they really were better back then.

Or maybe that’s just what childhood does.

It takes ordinary things and makes them enormous.

Then, of course, there was the food.

And I’m not talking about fancy street food, artisan burgers or anything else that somebody has decided needs to be served on a wooden board.

Give me a jacket potato cooked in the embers of a bonfire.

That was food.

You’d wait.

And wait.

And probably wait considerably longer than you had the patience for.

Eventually you’d pull it out, brush away the ash, unwrap the foil, split it open and add a ridiculous amount of butter.

Simple.

Cheap.

Perfect.

Funny how food seems to taste better when there’s a memory attached to it.

That potato wasn’t just a potato.

It was part of the evening.

Part of standing outside in the cold.

Part of waiting around with family and friends.

Part of being a kid.

And, if you were lucky, somebody had remembered the hot chocolate.

Happy days.

Now what’s my rambling got to do with cultural traditions..?

There’s actually a fascinating bit of history behind all of it

Bonfire Night commemorates 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes was discovered guarding barrels of gunpowder beneath the Houses of Parliament as part of what we now call, the Gunpowder Plot.

Although here’s something I didn’t know until relatively recently. The person being burned on the bonfire wasn’t always Guy Fawkes.

Apparently, in the seventeenth century, the Pope was often the unfortunate chap being thrown onto the flames.

Which seems a little harsh.

Eventually, Guy Fawkes became the familiar figure associated with Bonfire Night. Mainly because Parliament met in January 1606 and passed the Thanksgiving Act. This made services and sermons commemorating the plot a regular annual feature each 5 November.

Except at St Peter’s School in York, where they never have never burnt an effigy as Guy Fawkes was a student there.

And I suppose that’s one of the interesting things about traditions.

They change.

They evolve.

They get passed down from one generation to another, with each generation adding its own little bit to the story.

Stay safe

Bc

I Finally Realised I Know Nothing

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

That’s actually quite a difficult question.

You might expect the answer to be something obvious.

Getting your first proper job.

Paying your first bill.

Buying your first house.

Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.

For me, though, it was none of those things.

I think it was when I finally learned to let go.

And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.

Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.

Surely adulthood is about knowing things?

Having the answers.

Being responsible.

Knowing what you’re doing.

Apparently not.

Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.

I probably never did.

I just got better at pretending I did.

When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.

Then, one day, you become one of those adults.

And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.

Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.

For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.

Old arguments.

Old mistakes.

People who had hurt me.

Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.

The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.

And that’s exhausting.

Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.

You can’t change the past.

You can’t control other people.

You can’t make everyone understand you.

And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.

So you let go.

Not because it doesn’t matter.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.

That’s when I think I finally started growing up.

Not when I got older.

Not when I had responsibilities.

Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.

It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.

Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.

And being comfortable with that.

I’m still learning.

I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.

But that’s okay.

Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:

Congratulations. You are now officially an adult.

There isn’t one.

There are just experiences.

Mistakes.

Lessons.

People who come into your life.

People who leave it.

Things you hold on to.

And things you eventually learn to let go.

And perhaps that’s the real trick.

Not knowing everything.

Just knowing that you don’t.

Stay safe

Bc

Different Paths, Same Journey: Being a Buddhist Freemason

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People often look at me a bit sideways when they discover I’m both a (lay) Buddhist and a Freemason.

Usually there’s a pause.

You can almost hear the gears grinding.

“Aren’t those two things contradictory?”

Honestly?

No more contradictory than being a poet who also loves archery, or an autistic bloke who can lose himself for hours behind a camera, quietly watching the world through a lens.

Human beings are complicated creatures. We contain multitudes, contradictions, rough edges and unfinished thoughts. That’s part of the beauty of it all.

The truth is, Buddhism and Freemasonry actually complement one another in ways many people don’t realise.

Both are less about blind belief and more about self-improvement.

Both ask uncomfortable questions.

Both encourage reflection.

And neither hands you all the answers wrapped up neatly with a bow.

That part matters.

Because I’ve never trusted anyone claiming to possess absolute truth. History tends to show that certainty often causes more damage than doubt ever did.

Buddhism taught me stillness.

Or at least the attempt at it.

Anyone who knows me personally will probably laugh at the idea of my brain being still. My mind has always felt like several televisions all playing different channels at once. Thoughts colliding with memories, anxieties wrestling with imagination.

But Buddhism introduced me to the idea that I don’t have to fight every thought that enters my head.

Sometimes you just observe it.

Let it pass like weather.

Not every storm needs chasing.

That alone changed a great deal in my life.

Freemasonry, on the other hand, gave me structure.

Not control — structure.

There’s a difference.

It gave me symbolism, ritual, tradition and the reminder that becoming a better man is an ongoing process rather than a final destination. Contrary to all the strange conspiracy theories, most of Freemasonry is far less dramatic than people imagine. It’s ordinary people trying, imperfectly, to improve themselves and help others along the way.

There’s something deeply human about that.

Both paths also share another thing in common:

Humility.

A Buddhist understands suffering is universal.

A Freemason understands no stone is perfectly shaped.

Both acknowledge imperfection not as failure, but as part of the work itself.

And maybe that’s why the two fit together so naturally for me.

Neither demands I hate others for believing differently.

Neither tells me I alone possess divine truth.

Neither asks me to stop questioning.

If anything, both encourage it.

I’ve sat in forests listening to birdsong and felt something sacred.

I’ve stood in lodge during moments of quiet reflection and felt the same thing.

Different rooms.

Same silence.

Same sense of connection to something bigger than ego and noise.

That’s probably the part many people misunderstand about spirituality.

It isn’t always about certainty.

Sometimes it’s about awareness.

Compassion.

Patience.

Trying to leave the world slightly kinder than you found it.

Failing occasionally.

Trying again anyway.

I’m not interested in converting anyone.

Truthfully, I think people spend too much time arguing over whose path is “correct” and not enough time asking whether they’re actually walking theirs with honesty.

Because a belief system means very little if it doesn’t make you kinder.

Or calmer.

Or more understanding toward others.

If your spirituality only teaches you who to hate, you’ve probably missed the point entirely.

For me, being a Buddhist Freemason simply means I’m still learning.

Still building.

Still trying to smooth some of the rougher corners off myself while accepting a few will probably always remain.

And perhaps that’s enough.

Stay safe,

BC

Congratulations You Made it

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If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

If my future self could send me one sentence, I think I’d want it to say:

“Congratulations, you made it through everything you once thought would break you, and somehow you became the person you were always meant to be.”

Not you became rich.

Not you became famous.

Not even you got everything you wanted.

Just…

You made it.

Because I think we spend far too much of our lives measuring success by destinations.

The job.

The house.

The money.

The achievements.

The things we can put on a CV and point at proudly.

But perhaps the greatest achievement is simply reaching the other side of the storms that once convinced us we wouldn’t.

Looking back and realising that the mistakes weren’t the end.

The heartbreak wasn’t the end.

The failures weren’t the end.

The days when getting out of bed felt like an achievement weren’t the end.

They were chapters.

Some difficult.

Some ridiculous.

Some I’d happily rip out of the book altogether.

But they were still chapters.

And if future me is reading this, I hope he smiles.

Not because life turned out perfectly.

But because it turned out to be worth it.

So yes, future me…

Congratulations.

You made it.

Now go and enjoy the next chapter.

Stay safe

Bc

The Best Advice I Ever Received Was Hidden in a Book

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What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?

People occasionally ask me what the best piece of advice I’ve ever received is. They’re usually expecting a memorable quote from a famous person or perhaps something a mentor once said to me.

My answer is a little different.

As I’ve often mentioned before, many years ago a girlfriend gave me a copy of Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitionerby Scott Cunningham. At the time, i couldn’t have imagined how significant that simple gift would become. It wasn’t just another book to add to the shelf; it opened my eyes to a completely different way of looking at the world.

That journey eventually led me to explore both Wicca and Buddhism. While they are very different spiritual traditions, I discovered they shared a lesson that has stayed with me ever since.

The best advice I’ve ever received is this:

Realise that peace comes from within, not from trying to change the outside world.

It’s such a simple idea, yet it takes most of us years to truly understand.

We spend so much of our lives believing happiness will arrive when circumstances improve. We tell ourselves we’ll be content when we find the perfect relationship, earn a little more money, get the promotion, move house or finally tick off the next goal.

But life has a habit of reminding us that there is always another challenge waiting around the corner.

If our peace depends entirely on the world behaving as we’d like it to, we’ll spend much of our lives disappointed.

One of my favourite Wiccan sayings captures this beautifully:

“True peace is kindled within the sacred circle; tend your inner flame, and the world will mirror calm.”

Whether you interpret the sacred circle literally or simply as the space within your own mind, the message is still the same. Before we can bring peace into our lives, we have to nurture it within ourselves.

Years later I found exactly the same wisdom expressed through Buddhism.

The Buddha taught that much of our suffering comes not from what happens to us, but from our attachment to how we think life should be. We exhaust ourselves trying to control people, situations and outcomes that were never ours to control in the first place.

The more we resist reality, the more we suffer.

The more we accept the present moment, while still doing our best to respond wisely, the more peaceful life becomes.

That doesn’t mean giving up or becoming indifferent. It means understanding where our real power lies.

We can’t control every event.

We can’t control other people.

We can’t stop change.

But we can choose how we respond.

Looking back now, I realise that the greatest lesson wasn’t simply found in the pages of Scott Cunningham’s book. It emerged through years of reading, reflection and experience. Wicca pointed me towards the importance of living in harmony with myself and the natural world. Buddhism deepened that understanding by teaching me that lasting peace isn’t something we discover outside ourselves.

It’s something we cultivate within.

So if someone asked me today what the best advice I’ve ever received is, my answer would still be the same.

Don’t spend your life trying to create the perfect world.

Instead, create peace within yourself.

Everything else becomes much easier after that.

Stay safe

Bc

The Two Things I Stopped Worrying About

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What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

There are two answers to this.

The obvious one is death.

Most people worry about it, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. It’s the one certainty we all spend our lives trying not to think about.

The difference for me is that I’ve been clinically dead.

That experience didn’t make me fearless or convince me I’m invincible. I still value my life. I still wear a seatbelt. I still look both ways before crossing the road. But it did change my relationship with death.

(Read Hello old Friend)

I no longer see it as something lurking around every corner, waiting to steal today’s happiness.

It’ll come when it comes.

Until then, I’d rather spend my energy living than worrying about the inevitable.

The second answer took much longer to conquer.

Other people’s opinions.

Again, I think most of us care far more than we’re willing to admit. We worry about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish, being judged or misunderstood. We edit ourselves before we’ve even opened our mouths.

I certainly did.

Then, about ten years ago, I started writing honestly on this blog.

Not the polished version of life.

The real one.

The struggles with mental health. Autism. PTSD. Family life. The victories, the failures, and all the wonderfully messy bits in between.

When you spend a decade opening your heart to complete strangers on the internet, something unexpected happens.

You realise the world doesn’t end.

Some people won’t like you.

Some will misunderstand you.

A few will judge you without ever really knowing you.

And that’s perfectly alright.

Because just as you’re free to have an opinion about them, they’re free to have one about you.

Turning fifty probably helped as well.

There’s something wonderfully liberating about reaching an age where you finally understand that you were never going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and you don’t actually need to be.

The people who matter already know who you are.

The people who don’t… probably never will.

Life is far too short to spend it performing for an audience you’ll never satisfy.

So these days I worry less about death.

I worry less about what strangers think.

Instead, I try to focus on something far more worthwhile.

Living a life that feels honest.

If I manage that, the rest tends to take care of itself.

Stay safe,

Bc

A Fraction of a Second After Death

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There’s a thought that’s been rattling around my head lately.

Dangerous thing, really.

Because once certain thoughts get in there, they don’t politely sit in the corner and wait their turn. They pace. They whisper. They pull up a chair at three in the morning while you’re trying to sleep and say:

“Go on then… explain this.”

And this one goes something like:

What if, when you die, you simply move a fraction of a second forward in time?

Not heaven.
Not hell.
Not ghosts floating around old pubs knocking glasses over for dramatic effect.

Just…

A tiny shift.

A cosmic blink.

A quantum sidestep.

And somehow—you’re still here.

Now before the scientists start throwing textbooks at me and the spiritualists start sharpening crystals into weapons, I’m not saying this is true.

I’m saying it’s interesting.

And sometimes interesting is enough.

Because the more you read about quantum physics, the stranger reality starts to feel anyway. Particles existing in multiple states. Matter behaving differently when observed. Entire theories suggesting reality itself is far less solid than we like pretending it is.

Which raises an uncomfortable possibility:

What if death isn’t the full stop we think it is?

What if consciousness—whatever that truly is—isn’t as fixed to this version of reality as we assume?

There’s a theory called quantum immortality. The basic idea being that from your own perspective, you never actually experience death. Reality simply continues along whatever thread allows consciousness to persist.

Mad idea, isn’t it?

But then again, so is the fact we’re tiny self-aware monkeys standing on a spinning rock, hurtling through infinite darkness while arguing online about pineapple on pizza.

Reality lost the right to demand seriousness a long time ago.

Still…

The idea lingers.

Because haven’t we all had moments that felt strange?

Those near misses.

That split second where things should have gone differently.

The car that almost hit you.
The illness you somehow survived.
The accident that by all logic should’ve ended badly.

And afterward there’s that odd feeling.

Not gratitude exactly.

More like disorientation.

As if some hidden part of you quietly whispers:

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Maybe that’s just psychology.

Maybe the brain struggles to process proximity to death.

Or maybe—and here’s where it gets wonderfully weird—some version of you did die.

Just not this one.

Perhaps consciousness simply slid sideways into the nearest available moment where the story continued.

Not because you’re special.
Not because the universe has a grand plan.

But because existence itself might be stranger than language can hold.

And honestly?

I find that oddly comforting.

Not immortality itself.
That sounds exhausting.

Can you imagine eternity?

Eventually even your favourite songs would start feeling like hold music.

No, what comforts me is the possibility that reality isn’t as cold and mechanical as we sometimes fear. That there may still be mysteries beyond our measuring tools. That science, for all its brilliance, may only be scratching at the wallpaper of something far larger.

Because for all our cleverness, we still don’t truly understand consciousness.

We can describe neurons firing.
Chemical reactions.
Electrical impulses.

But the actual experience of being you?

That inner world?

That strange flicker behind the eyes?

We’re still fumbling around in the dark there.

And perhaps that’s where philosophy and physics awkwardly shake hands.

Both standing at the edge of existence saying:

“Well… this is getting a bit bloody strange.”

The older I get, the less certain I become about anything.

Ironically, that feels healthier than certainty ever did.

Maybe death is the end.

Maybe it’s a doorway.

Maybe it’s just silence.

Or maybe, just maybe…

You move a fraction of a second forward in time.

Enough to keep existing.

Enough to keep wondering.

Enough to still be here reading ridiculous blog posts like this one while the kettle boils in the background.

And if that’s true—

if consciousness does somehow continue—

I hope future-me eventually figures out where I left my glasses.

Stay safe,

Bc

The Best Advice I Can Ever Give You

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If you had to give one life-changing tip, what would it be?

If I had to give just one life-changing tip, it would be this:

Look after your mental health just as much as your physical health.

We spend hours thinking about our bodies. We count our steps, join gyms, watch what we eat, and book check-ups when something doesn’t feel right. Yet when it comes to our minds, many of us simply hope we’ll be okay.

Hope isn’t a strategy.

The truth is, your mind is involved in every decision you make, every relationship you build, every challenge you face, and every dream you pursue. If your mental wellbeing is neglected, everything else eventually feels harder. Stress becomes overwhelming. Small problems become mountains. Joy becomes difficult to recognise.

For far too long, we’ve been taught to “keep going,” “man up,” or “just get on with it.” Those phrases have probably caused more harm than they’ll ever receive credit for. Strength isn’t found in suffering silently. Real strength is recognising when you’re struggling and having the courage to speak up.

Looking after your mental health doesn’t always mean counselling or medication, although both can be life-changing for many people. Sometimes it means getting enough sleep. Sometimes it means putting your phone down and taking a walk. Sometimes it’s saying “no” without feeling guilty. Sometimes it’s talking honestly with a friend over a cup of tea.

And sometimes it’s simply admitting, “I’m not okay today.”

There’s no shame in that.

We service our cars before they break down. We charge our phones before the battery reaches zero. Yet so many of us wait until we’re completely exhausted before giving ourselves permission to rest.

Imagine if we treated our minds with the same care we treat our bodies.

The world would be a kinder place.

So, if there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do today, it’s this: check in with yourself. Not the automatic “I’m fine” we all give, but a genuine moment of honesty. Ask yourself how you’re really doing.

Because your mental health isn’t a luxury.

It’s the foundation everything else is built upon.

Stay safe.

BC

Ten Years of Words, Thoughts and a Journey I Never Expected

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Well, it turns out it’s my website’s birthday.

Ten years ago, I sat down and started building something from scratch. At the time, it was simply a place to put my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words — a way of making sense of the world around me after being diagnosed as Autistic. (Looking back it makes sense)

I don’t think, even in my wildest dreams, I could have imagined where that small beginning would lead me.

Ten years later, this little corner of the internet has become so much more than a website. It has become a place for connection, understanding and shared experiences. It has allowed me to tell my story, to open conversations, and to hopefully help others feel a little less alone on their own journeys.

When I first started writing, I had no idea who would read my words or where they would take me. I certainly never imagined that so many people would come along for the ride, follow my journey and offer their support along the way.

For that, I am truly grateful.

To everyone who has read a blog post, shared a story, sent a message, offered encouragement or simply taken the time to understand — thank you. Your support has meant more than you probably realise. Every interaction has been a reminder that sharing our experiences can create connections that we never expected.

Of course, there is one person who deserves a very special thank you: Mrs Bob.

Behind the scenes, she has been my constant support throughout this entire journey. She has written, proofread, made phone calls, helped shape my thoughts and, most importantly, been my neurotypical whisperer when I’ve needed someone to help translate my way of seeing the world.

She has worked tirelessly alongside me, often without recognition, and I honestly couldn’t have reached this point without her.

Looking back over these ten years, I realise this website has been a record of growth, discovery and acceptance. It has captured moments of frustration, joy, learning and everything in between.

The journey hasn’t always been straightforward, but it has always been mine.

So, on this tenth birthday, I’m not just celebrating a website. I’m celebrating the conversations started, the friendships made, the lessons learned and the incredible community that has grown around it.

Thank you for being part of my journey.

Here’s to the next chapter.

Bob

Stay safe

Bc

Ps here’s that first post I put out…

https://bob-christian.com/2016/07/31/hello/

Everything Happens… But Not Always for a Reason

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Do you think everything happens for a reason?

“Everything happens for a reason.”

It’s one of those phrases that usually arrives just after something awful has happened.

Someone loses a loved one.

A relationship ends.

A diagnosis turns life upside down.

And almost without thinking, someone says it.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

I know it’s usually meant kindly.

It’s an attempt to comfort.

To make sense of chaos.

To reassure us that the universe hasn’t completely lost the plot.

But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it.

Not because I think life is meaningless.

Far from it.

I think the problem lies in what we mean by reason.

If by “reason” we mean that every tragedy was deliberately planned by some higher power—that every child who becomes ill, every war, every act of cruelty was intentionally designed as part of some grand blueprint—then I struggle with that idea.

Not because I lack faith in mystery.

But because it asks us to believe that unimaginable suffering was somehow necessary.

I’m not convinced.

There’s another way of looking at it, though.

Perhaps “reason” doesn’t mean purpose.

Perhaps it simply means cause.

Everything that happens has causes and conditions.

A tree doesn’t fall because the universe chose that exact tree.

It falls because roots weaken, soil shifts, fungi grow unseen beneath the surface, and eventually gravity finishes the conversation.

Human lives are much the same.

Who we become isn’t usually shaped by one dramatic moment.

It’s thousands of tiny moments.

The family we’re born into.

The kindnesses we receive.

The wounds we carry.

The books we read.

The strangers we meet.

The mistakes we survive.

Each one nudges us ever so slightly until, years later, we look in the mirror and wonder how on earth we became this particular version of ourselves.

That’s not destiny.

That’s cause and effect.

In many ways it’s far more fascinating.

It also reminds us that our own actions become part of someone else’s chain of causes.

A smile offered to a stranger.

A harsh word spoken in anger, to the driver that cut you up.

A poem that reaches someone on exactly the day they needed it.

None of these things happen in isolation.

They ripple.

Sometimes far further than we’ll ever know.

Perhaps that’s why I try to choose kindness whenever I can.

Not because I think it’ll magically make the universe reward me.

But because every action adds another thread to the web we’re all helping to weave.

Life isn’t always fair.

Bad things happen to good people.

Good things happen to difficult people.

And sometimes there isn’t an answer that satisfies us.

But there are always causes.

Always choices.

Always consequences.

Maybe that’s enough.

So no…

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason.

But I do believe everything happens because of reasons.

And understanding the difference might just change the way we understand ourselves.

Stay safe,

Bc