I remember the first time I truly felt the friction of my own ego meeting a spiritual guide back in '73. It wasn't a sudden flash of a Zen Kensho; rather, it was a quiet, stubborn resistance bubbling up from somewhere deep inside - a familiar defensive armour I had worn for decades. Looking back, I realize how desperately my mind sought to control the unfolding process, clinging to the illusion of a separate self even as I sought to transcend it.

I can still recall projecting old, unresolved dynamics onto the teacher, looking for validation and fearing rejection in equal measure. Every time a teaching challenged my deeply held beliefs, the ego flared up, oscillating wildly between idealizing the guide as an infallible saviour and condemning them the moment my unrealistic expectations weren't met. It was an exhausting cycle born of ancient fears and early developmental wounds, neatly laid bare by the mirror of the spiritual relationship.

Yet, sitting quietly with those discomforts - refusing to run from the disappointment or the sudden urge to rebel - something subtle shifted within my awareness. The relentless voice of the ego began to lose its grip. What remained was not a void, but a vast, silent witness. I could suddenly observe my own mind and body moving through the world, yet I no longer felt entirely bound to them. That realization remains the most profound homecoming I have ever known, a quiet resting place where no explanations are needed at all.

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