Intermission (hopefully)

Let me begin by apologizing for the lack of new content. I’ve spent most of the past two weeks in the hospital, on a ventilator, wearing a mask that made it impossible to wear my glasses—understandably slowing my writing pace. Now that the ventilator has been changed and I can wear my glasses again, I can continue writing.

From the beginning, this project has been a race against time, so it was unsettling to think I might not have the chance to finish it—especially now, when it is so near completion. I’m relieved by this improvement, even if it grants me the time to write only this one last post.

The recent ordeal began with what seemed to be a minor cold. It triggered a bronchial spasm my weakened respiratory muscles couldn’t overcome, quickly escalating into a dangerous crisis. Paramedics were called, and I was rushed to the hospital, where I spent four days in intensive care—mostly on a respirator, unable to eat or drink to avoid complications.

After a few days at home to celebrate Father’s Day and my son’s 14th birthday, I started feeling worse. What looked like another cold turned into pneumonia in both lungs. I’m still in the hospital as I write these words.

The outpouring of love and support during this time has overwhelmed me. Upon hearing the news, my business partner and dear friend traveled immediately from Manhattan to Doylestown, PA. My family—my daughter Abby and her wonderful husband Marcus, my devoted son Luke, my tireless caretaker Dan, and even my long-divorced first wife, Amy—never left my side. Their care often moved me to tears.

At the start of my hospital stay, I was immobilized, unable to speak, and couldn’t see clearly due to the mask and missing glasses. A course of steroids improved my condition but left me with severe insomnia. I spent long, still hours staring at the ceiling, focused entirely on not choking. It was far from pleasant.

Initially, the experience was panic-inducing and claustrophobic—until I had a realization: people travel across the world and pay handsomely for silent meditation retreats. And here I was, already immersed in one. Rather than resisting the discomfort, I began to treat it as an intensive spiritual practice. An opportunity.

If you don’t yet have a contemplative discipline—be it meditation, prayer, or something else that connects you to a larger reality—I strongly encourage you to establish one. Few things are more valuable in difficult times.

So, like it or not, I began a practice of advanced meditation: two-hour sessions while on the respirator, six times a day, followed by long, sleepless nights of silent reflection.

As I lay there, I revisited the ideas of thinkers like David Bohm, Rupert Sheldrake, Karl Jaspers, Aldous Huxley, the Zen tradition, and my own namesake, William James. Many of them proposed that consciousness doesn’t originate in the brain, but that the brain acts more like a receiver, transmitter, or filter—much like how eyes detect light or ears detect sound.

This idea resonates deeply with me. Our brains seem to “change channels” constantly. A parent tunes into the mind of family. At work, we engage with the collective mind of the organization. In sports, we synchronize with the mind of the game. When reading, we enter the mind of the author. We adapt to the logic and rhythm of different minds, harmonizing with them as needed.

But as Douglas Hofstadter and others have suggested, the brain can also turn inward, creating a recursive loop that gives rise to the illusion of a separate self. This self-referential loop is isolating—a mirror consuming the entire field of vision, or a nose smelling only itself. In this loop, the logic of the self becomes unstable, tossed by moods, perceptions, and circumstance. The noise of the self drowns out everything else. Our awareness of other minds—including the universal mind—becomes clouded.

And so, suffering begins.

To escape, we turn to romance, music, literature, wealth, sports, vanity, even drugs—anything strong enough to let us “lose ourselves.” But there’s another way: we can simply change the channel.

During those long, silent hours, I saw my mind had become fixated on pain and fear—anchored to my immobilized body and suffering self. My first step was to tune into the compassionate presence of those around me: doctors, nurses, family, friends.

Then, I reconnected with the luminous awareness I often write about from my forest home. In that space, the suffering self became small. Clarity returned. I remembered: my body is just one among 8.1 billion. Meanwhile, stars explode in distant galaxies, planets orbit in ancient rhythms, water flows, flowers bloom, and life, in infinite forms, continues. Leaves fall. All is transient, yet eternal—interconnected, unified, still, and always flowing.

Wondrous.

This is the foundational mind—luminous and eternal, present in all things. It defies description, yet includes everything. Nothing can be added or subtracted. It transcends birth and death. There is only transformation, like waves rising and falling on a sunlit sea.

This is the unified mind from which all things arise and to which all return. This is our true self—not the frightened, isolated one.

Confined and silent in my hospital bed, I found that when I tuned into this greater mind—not the fearful, pain-filled self—fear dissolved. In its place arose wonder, compassion, and deep gratitude. My heart rate slowed. My blood pressure dropped. My oxygen levels rose.

Why wouldn’t they?

I was no longer operating from the limited mind of one man, but from the boundless mind of the infinite.

And even when this body inevitably fails, that true self remains—radiant, vast, encompassing. Still. Unchanging amid change. Ancient, yet fresh as a morning flower.

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UPDATE:

After a difficult few weeks in the hospital with a double pneumonia in already weakened lungs, I am grateful to be back in my cottage in the vibrant green of the forest valley.

Recovery will be slow, and, for now, I am tethered to an oxygen tank–but I’m still here and regaining ground every day.

Please look for new content soon, as I drive to complete this project.

Thank you all for your outpouring of concern and care during the last few weeks.

Best,

Bill