This brief article explores some of the hidden aspects the life of famed renaissance artist Michaelangelo, weaving in philosophy, spirituality, psychology, and what art really is. Because we promote the vital role of art with spirituality this article offers fresh insights into this relationship from o­ne of the most recognized artistic geniuses in history.

This article was originally published on Integral Spirituality on July 1, 2005

Sankara Saranam's book is about establishing a personal relationship with God, unhindered by dogma, creed, or ritual. The ultimate goal is to spread peace and understanding. Is religion gaining ground in America, or are people simply looking harder for answers? Religion and spirituality books are selling strongly, while the number of Americans not identified with a religion is rising. It appears that more and more people are seeking God on their own rather than through established belief systems. The groundbreaking book "God Without Religion: Questioning Centuries of Accepted Truths" by Sankara Saranam shows seekers how to develop a direct understanding of God, unhindered by dogma, creed or ritual.

by Mariana Caplan Excerpted from the forthcoming Adventures of a New Age Traveler (Hohm Press, 2002). There were no welcome banners at the entrance to California as I had imagined from the way Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Kate Wolf sing of it. The Rainbow Family didn’t throw a welcome party just because I had arrived. Instead, I spent my first weeks in Oakland, looking out between the steel bars of a dusty attic-bedroom window, wondering what the hell to do with my life. Occasionally I would dare the walk between myself and the Underground, where I would pass the afternoon getting on and off at random stops, trying to figure out where I was and waiting for something significant to happen.

By Vipassana Esbjörn When Life Stopped Being A Problem Moss-and-ruby hummingbirds flutter outside my window on a passing breeze. The pungent scent of blooming roses drifts through the house as afternoon flies get stuck between the screen and the window, buzzing for their lives. Shriveled giant cacti ferment on the porch, flooded by El Niño rains, while fluorescent magenta petals poke through the nearby soil. This collage of birth and death, growth and rot is a reminder of my own fragile, temporal existence in this flesh. Here is a story about that collage, a story about a young girl growing up; it is my story. It is also a tale about seemingly opposing forces—life and death, East and West, the relative and absolute—and the transformational possibilities of two worlds in collision.

by Michael Dinan

My name is Michael and I am an addict. When I first made that statement over nine years ago, it felt like a shameful straightjacket. It choked in my throat as I coughed it up in a cloud of noxious cigarette smoke at my first Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Over the course of my recovery, the edge of judgment in the word “addict” mellowed. It slowly changed tone and became instead a soulful liberation. I scrutinized the rest of humanity through this lens of addiction and found them all qualifying in some respect. Now the phrase sounds to me more like a gentle observation of a universal truth on a par with the noble truths of Buddhism. Simply substitute attachment for addiction and it translates: Anyone still manifesting in a clunky 3-D body should be under suspicion of suffering from some degree of addiction and could certainly benefit from the 12-step yoga of letting go and yoking their ego to its soul source. How many king and queen babies today have been weaned at the military-industrial teat and can't be pacified by anything short of total remote control from a cushy sofa?
 

by Phoebe Garfield "Graaandmaaa, buy me a pair of Jordache jeans," my voice would sing out in a whine as we stepped through the wide glass doors of the department store. My dad used to joke that I was the only person he knew who called her jeans by name: "my Guess jeans, my Jordache, my Calvin Kleins." I knew when Esprit was in and I wore Esprit matching outfits — starched cotton shirts with pleated shorts, joined at the center by the essential thin leather belt. It was, in fact, too time consuming to figure out what to wear each morning; thus, I would scour my closet the evening before, picking out just the perfect clothes for school the next day. Back then, every season demanded new clothes: back to school clothes, summer clothes, spring clothes, birthday clothes…

by Rachel Medlock I am driving north on I-85 towards Washington, DC, to see a Van Gogh exhibit with Kristin, who is sleeping in the passenger's seat beside me. It is already December 20, but the sun shining through the car windows is so warm that I've turned on the fan. We've just crossed the state line into Virginia, and it's about time to fill the tank. I wait for an exit with a cheap gas station and turn off. The slowing momentum of the car wakes Kristin, who sits up and blinks in the bright sun. She tells me she's getting hungry, so we look around the main strip to find a suitable place to eat. Nothing but fast food. We resolve to wait for a better place, but as I'm leaving the gas station, Kristin spots a small sign for "Bagels, Inc." peeking out from behind a much larger Wal-Mart sign. I pull into the lot, and we head inside.

by Elizabeth Shaver

Some say the soul transcends this mundane body, but I say the body is the transmutation of soul into dense fleshy form. Rather than profane, the body, the soma, is literally a medium of sacred transmission, the organic venue for the soul's voice. In our reaching, our holding, in our opening and closing, in each expansion and contraction within the pulse of a heartbeat or the rhythm of a breath, is the physiological signature of the soul.