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Notebooks of life · Poems · 3 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

Excerpt from The Silence of the Hours, journal of a spiritual retreat, August 2021.

Today I knew jubilation, and I danced in the infinity of praise!
O You, the Eternal, spread out over the universe,
You who are Life and Love and Presence poured forth in abundance,
I who am but an infinitesimal speck of dust in Your world below,
once more I entered this vessel of stone, a beggar in Your house,
built in Your Name by those men of faith to seek You and sing You,

I the wandering Jew, brother to all men,
the hassid° inhabited by all memories, all tongues, all signs invented by those who seek You from generation to generation,
I inhabited by Your Fire, companion to all those who desire You here below, descended from Heaven, invited by us to inaugurate the great Feast of joy,
a little Franciscan, a little Sufi, a little Buddhist, a little anarchist — but anarchist of love and peace,

and I sang, I sang, I sang…

“Hoïdou l’Adoïnoï ki toïv, ki le’oïlom ‘hasdoï! ( Give thanks to the Eternal, for He is good, for His Love endures for ever! )
Give thanks to the G-d of the heavenly powers, for His Love endures for ever!
Give thanks to the Lord of lords, for His Love endures for ever!
He alone has wrought great wonders, for His Love endures for ever! ...”

I sang this psalm of praise of King David, drunk with that Hebrew which is the language of my soul,
the tongue that healed me like a purifying unguent, the one that alone can open me to the most intimate part of myself…

"Hoïdou l'Adoïnoï ki toïv", and my voice carries my body to one side, as though swept by the exhalation of the song…
"ki le'oïlom 'hasdoï", the voice answers me like an echo and there I am leaning the other way,
the frail skiff of my body ebbs and flows upon the wave,
and the movement amplifies little by little with the phrases
that turn without end and resound through the nave…

I am weightless, perhaps as angels are, all heaviness dissolved,
I am a pure smoke rising in praise,
a dust of infinity within His Infinite Love…

“Halleluya, halleluya, halleluya!”

° hassid: a pious Jew, in reference to Hasidic Judaism, a mystical movement founded in eighteenth-century Poland by the Baal Shem Tov. Centred on the direct and fervent relationship of the individual with the divine, it stood in opposition to the rigid tradition of rabbinic Judaism and constituted a spiritual response to the misery of the persecuted Jewish communities of Eastern Europe. The Hasidim express their communion with G-d above all through song and dance.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

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In echo

If this text brings forth in you an image, a memory, a silence, a piece of music, or a few lines, you may set them down in the comments so as to enrich our shared imagination or reflection.

And if you wish to go further, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

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Notebooks of life · Poems · 4 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

14 April 2026

Today is Yom HaShoah, the day on which the Jewish people remembers, once again, the annihilation of the Jewish communities of Europe between 1933 and 1945, and of the six million of their brothers and sisters who perished in the Nazi extermination camps. Without forgetting the millions more mown down by the Einsatzgruppen, as the historians revealed in the decades that followed, and, more than anyone, through the tireless, courageous, and meticulous work of Father Patrick Desbois — blessed be he.

As every year, my heart weeps first for the Jewish dead, then for the incalculable number of victims of the massacres and genocides perpetrated since the dawn of humanity. The bloods of Abel have not ceased to cry out from the earth, and humanity has still not learned: destruction and killing continue their cruel work a few hours by air from the desk at which I write these lines.

And so I remembered this poem, written during a silent retreat some years ago. It seemed to me that, alongside the more discursive text published today on this same subject, “The bloods of Abel cry out from the ground“, it might bear witness in another way — more intimate, more inward — to what passes through me on this day; and so I share it with you below.

May we each contribute, with our talents and our means, to the day when this seemingly endless chain of hatred is transformed into a thread of blazing light opening onto the Day — the Day of the Return to Eden.

Jérôme Nathanaël

Excerpt from The Silence of the Hours, a journal of a spiritual retreat, August 2021.

Kaddish

I heard rushing towards me,
like enormous tireless waves,
— how long still?
the rumour of battles in Africa or elsewhere,
for an acre of land and an illusory power,
so much blood spilt,
the weeping of the poor who have nowhere left to go
while others, poorer still,
pay dearly for their instant
of spinning through the sky.

I saw the vacant, stricken eyes of those
swollen with drugs,
with bad medicine or with alcohol,
who stagger like angry shadows,
somnambulists upon a land
they no longer recognise.

O my Father, make of me a consoler,
that I might take this world in my arms and cherish it,
as Your Second Son did in the land of Palestine!

Kaddish° for Your World in flames!
eviscerated by the voracity and madness of men!
Kaddish for the hungry children, kaddish for the beaten children,
kaddish for the enslaved children, violated, murdered!
Kaddish! kaddish!
Yéhé sheméh rabbo mevorakh! May Your Great Name be blessed!

Kaddish for the mothers who weep,
kaddish for the mothers who cry out, for the mothers in mourning!
Kaddish!
Yéhé sheméh rabbo mevorakh! May Your Great Name be blessed!

Kaddish for Your daughters and Your sons who have lost hope,
kaddish for those who no longer see Your path — may they return to You!
Kaddish! Yéhé sheméh rabbo mevorakh! May Your Great Name be blessed!

August 2021

° kaddish, in Hebrew קדיש qaddish, sanctification, is one of the central pieces of Jewish liturgy whose theme is the glorification and sanctification of the Divine Name, with reference to one of the eschatological visions of Ezekiel. Several versions exist, the best known being that of the mourners, though the kaddish contains no allusion to the dead or to their resurrection.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

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And if you wish to go further, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

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Notebooks of life · Abecedary · 6 min
To clarify the words that orient the inner life.

Discipline: the word discipline comes from the Latin disciplina, born of discipulus, the student — one who receives — itself derived from discere, to learn, and from an Indo-European root dek-, which carries the idea of grasping with consent, of welcoming what is offered. Before it was ever a constraint, discipline was a posture: that of one who accepts being taught — not by an external master, but by the very reality of what one is. In this original and often forgotten sense, to discipline oneself is to become one’s own disciple.

I. The confusion worth untangling

It is old and stubborn. For a long time, discipline was draped in the rags of mortification, punitive rigor, and aggressive self-control. Contemporary performance culture has only deepened this misunderstanding by converting discipline into an optimization tool: timed morning routines, productivity journals, thirty-day challenges posted on social media as so many proofs of a willpower worth displaying. What we call discipline in this sense is often nothing more than tyranny exercised upon oneself, whose only measure is efficiency and whose only horizon is the visible result.

II. Seeing oneself in order to change

Spiritual discipline rests on an entirely different inner economy. It does not arise from the desire to achieve a result aligned with external demands, but from a will to develop one’s essential nature. To do so, it first requires learning to see oneself as one truly is, without distorting that vision through positive or negative self-judgment. Just an honest and patient observation of one’s own inner movements and behaviors, like a researcher recording data before drawing conclusions. Only then can deliberate work begin — a purposeful transformation aimed at accessing the fullness of one’s spiritual dimension, made of adjustments and flexibility, slowly moving toward the goal.

We observe in order to change; and this path of change inevitably includes advances and setbacks, periods of clarity and others of opacity — all of which are integral to the process, and not signs of failure. Discipline asks not for heroism, but for faithfulness: returning, again and again, to that lucid gaze upon oneself and upon the course one has chosen, and resuming one’s walk with courage after having fallen. Thus the meditator ceaselessly brings his attention back to his breath after the mind has wandered.

III. What the traditions say

The great wisdom traditions have formalized this intuition in a remarkably convergent way. In the Hindu tradition, the term abhyāsa — regular practice, constancy in effort — is inseparable from vairāgya, detachment from the practical and social fruits of action. The Bhagavad Gītā offers one of the most luminous images imaginable on this subject: that of a chariot driven by a coachman, pulled by spirited horses, carrying an archer who knows where he is going. The body is the chariot, the senses and passions are the horses, the mind is the reins, the discriminating intellect is the coachman — and the conscious passenger, the archer, is the Self who observes and chooses.

Discipline consists precisely in this: that the coachman holds the reins with quiet firmness, not to immobilize the horses, but so that they may move together toward a destination freely chosen by the archer. The Christian contemplative traditions, Sufi or Buddhist, speak of the same reality under different names — askesis, mujāhada, bhāvanā — but all insist on the same sequence: observe, assess honestly, correct without self-flagellation, and resume.

What distinguishes this discipline from mere performance discipline is also the celebration of small victories — a word to be understood in its sober, almost silent sense: acknowledging that an inner space has slightly expanded, that a reaction was delayed by a second, that an old fear was faced without fleeing. This recognition is not complacency; it is the fuel of constancy.

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IV. The paradoxical freedom

The sociologist Zygmunt Bauman named our era liquid modernity: a society in which forms dissolve before they can solidify, where commitments evaporate, where identity itself becomes a flux endlessly reconfigured under the pressure of algorithms and contradictory demands. In this context, spiritual discipline is not a reactionary resistance to change — it is precisely the opposite: it is the capacity to choose one’s change rather than be subject to it, to remain in contact with oneself through movement, to distinguish authentic evolution from mere adaptation to the ambient noise.

Paradoxically, it is within the society of immediacy and dispersion that discipline reveals its deepest nature: a form of freedom. The musician who runs their scales every morning is not a slave to his instrument: he is freeing himself from awkwardness so that something greater can speak through him. Discipline as a return to oneself is not a withdrawal; it is the founding act of all authentic presence in the world.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

And you?

I invite you to share in the comments your own experience of this notion — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality, at times luminous, at times difficult. A situation, an encounter, a stage of life, a nuance, a question: anything that may deepen our common conversation has its place here.
And if you wish to express yourself on a word that carries weight in your thinking, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

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Notebooks of life · Abecedary · 6 min
To clarify the words that orient the inner life.

Pride : Old English knew a word, prūd, to describe someone valiant, capable, excellent — someone who stood out. At its origin, there was something right about it: the desire to reach toward the best in oneself, to refuse complacency. But in forging the word pride from this root — through Old French prud and ultimately Late Latin prōde, meaning advantageous, beneficial — the language recorded a silent shift: from rightful self-regard to excessive self-estimation, from aspiration to enclosure. For it takes very little for the feeling of being excellent to turn into the certainty of being superior, and for what sought to be an elevation to become a citadel.

I. Untangling the confusion

Pride suffers from a singular paradox: it is one of the most universally recognized flaws, and yet one of those that each person most readily spots in others and most rarely in themselves. That is because it knows how to dress itself in the garments of dignity, competence, even vocation. One must therefore first distinguish what it is not: pride is neither the legitimate satisfaction of work accomplished, nor confidence in one’s own abilities, nor the healthy self-regard that refuses humiliation. These states can coexist with openness and self-questioning. Pride, by contrast, is distinguished by its fundamental impermeability — that conviction, rarely conscious, of having already reached a sufficient vantage point on oneself and on the world. The proud person has become so full of himself that no space remains to receive anything new: no lesson from experience, no sincere gaze from another, no surprise from reality. And we only learn where we do not yet know.

II. Immobility at the heart of the path

For those engaged in a process of inner transformation, pride is not an obstacle among others: it is the one that renders all the others invisible. The proud person who enters this path without having recognized or measured their pride risks building a particularly solid illusion of progress. Depending on their temperament, they will accumulate esoteric knowledge, metaphysical reflections, or mystical experiences, perfecting the surface of their practice while remaining immobile in depth — their pursuit will remain merely intellectual. For this path demands precisely what pride forbids: opening oneself to something greater than oneself, making room for what exceeds us, and beginning, concretely, by opening oneself to the other. Let us have compassion for the proud person: the citadel they inhabit was often built as an urgent response to a visceral fear — fear of not being enough, fear of powerlessness, fear of being ordinary. Their deeper self suffers from this immobility, which gradually deprives them of life and of the enrichment it offers — until the moment when a bereavement, a failure, a rupture, an accident comes to shake the entire construction, and offers them, in the very collapse, the rare opportunity to find themselves again.

III. What the traditions say

The great spiritual traditions of humanity agree on one point: pride is the primary obstacle — the one that precedes and engenders all the others. In the Christian tradition, it stands at the head of the seven deadly sins — superbia — not as a mere moral failing, but as a fundamental refusal to acknowledge one’s own condition and one’s dependence on what surpasses it. In the Islamic tradition, kibr — arrogance — is described as the veil that separates the heart from G-d and from other beings. In Greek philosophy, hubris designates that excess by which a person believes themselves the equal of the gods, inevitably calling forth nemesis, the return of reality. The Jewish tradition, for its part, has coined for the opposite movement a word of remarkable precision: bitul — literally the annulment of self, or more exactly the bracketing of one’s own sufficiency — designates that inner act by which one consents to empty oneself of certainties in order to become capable of receiving what exceeds our ordinary measure. Everywhere, the same deep intuition: pride does not merely hinder inner progress — it renders it structurally impossible, closing precisely the doors through which light enters. One begins to receive only after having first lightened oneself of one’s sufficiency, having practiced, however clumsily, something that resembles bitul — that consent to not already know everything.

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IV. A difficult lucidity in the age of the performing ego

Our era makes the recognition of one’s own pride particularly difficult. Digital platforms have transformed each individual into a personal brand to be permanently optimized, performance cultures reward displayed certainty over hesitant honesty, and the algorithm consecrates those who speak loudly rather than those who are still searching. In this context, pride no longer resembles an archaic flaw: it resembles a survival strategy, even a virtue. Self-questioning reads as weakness, the admission of ignorance as a confession of failure — and the inner citadel ends up being mistaken for solidity. This cultural inversion makes the recognition of one’s own pride both more difficult and more precious: for those who manage to observe it in themselves, without defending against it or being crushed by it, have already begun to loosen its grip — and that first movement, however discreet, may be the most courageous of all.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

And you?

I invite you to share in the comments your own experience of this notion — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality, at times luminous, at times difficult. A situation, an encounter, a stage of life, a nuance, a question: anything that may deepen our common conversation has its place here.
And if you wish to express yourself on a word that carries weight in your thinking, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

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Notebooks of life · Abecedary · 8 min
To clarify the words that orient the inner life.

Anger: unlike the French word colère — which arrived late in the French language, displacing the older ire and the Greek-derived cholè (kholê), bile, the humor the Ancients held responsible for fits of fury and irritability — the English word anger carries a strikingly different physical intuition. It descends from the Old Norse angr, meaning grief and affliction, and traces back through Proto-Germanic roots to the Latin angere: to choke, to strangle, to squeeze. To be angry, in this etymological lineage, is not to overflow and burn outward, but to be gripped from within — constricted, tightened, unable to breathe freely. The same root gives us anguish, anxiety, and angina, that strangling sensation in the chest. That is no coincidence: in every one of these words, the body remembers what the mind so easily forgets — that beneath the fire of anger, there is nearly always a form of suffocation.

I. Untangling the confusion

Anger occupies a peculiar place of ambivalence in our culture: we condemn it in intimate relationships and glorify it in the political arena. We treat it as a character flaw, then summon it as proof of commitment or strength. This confusion rests on a fundamental distinction that everyday language tends to flatten: the difference between anger as a signal — an immediate response to a real injustice, a call of conscience in the face of what should not be — and anger as a settled state, a permanent residence that colors every perception with suspicion and hostility. The first can be a life force, an energy that protects what is precious and mobilizes what is right. The second is a prison: it robs us of the ability to be present to ourselves, creates a chronic inner agitation that prevents any genuine reflection, and ultimately blocks access to the very solutions it claims to be calling for.

​There is also a more subtle form of anger, less dramatic but equally insidious: that simmering irritability born of slow accumulation — frustrations, silent disappointments, the persistent feeling of not being seen, recognized, or valued for what one truly is or gives. Often, this anger does not express itself — or expresses itself sideways, directed at substitute targets, with a disproportionality that baffles those around as much as the one experiencing it. It gnaws, it hardens, it gradually shuts the door on gratitude and wonder, turning reality into a permanent adversary rather than a territory to inhabit. Recognizing it for what it is — not a shameful character flaw, but an alarm signal that deserves to be heard — is already the beginning of liberation.

​II. A signal worth decoding

For anyone sincerely engaged in a path of inner transformation, anger deserves to be looked at squarely rather than denied, suppressed, or simply discharged onto others. It functions, in reality, as an inner compass of remarkable precision: it points exactly to where an unspoken expectation has run up against the world’s resistance, where a personal boundary has been crossed without being named, where something we hold deeply dear feels threatened or violated. It reveals what has not yet found its way to peace, what still awaits acknowledgment, compassionate reception, patient accompaniment toward a renewed relationship with reality.

​Those who agree to observe anger with clear-sightedness — without rushing to judgment, without shame — often discover something unexpected. At the heart of this anger: an inner child, one who still demands that the world, other people, and circumstances respond to his desires, and who has not yet fully crossed the threshold of acceptance and limitation. This encounter is not a humiliation — it is, on the contrary, an opening. The decisive question is therefore not “How do I kill this anger?” but “What kind of fire is this, and where can I channel it?” Anger can thus become one of the most valuable tools of self-knowledge — provided one consents to moving through it from the inside rather than projecting it outward, or burying it in a silence that festers. Learning to distinguish between anger that protects something genuinely worth protecting and anger that defends an illusion we have grown attached to is one of the most delicate and most fruitful labors of the inner life.

​III. What the traditions tell us

The great spiritual traditions agree on one fundamental point: anger is one of the forces most capable of pulling human beings away from themselves — while also recognizing, in certain of its forms, a dignity of its own that would be reductive to ignore.

​In the Hebrew tradition, uncontrolled anger is associated with the momentary eclipse of tselem Elohim — the divine image nestled at the heart of the human being. The Talmud draws a radical conclusion from this: “In the eyes of one who loses his temper, even the Divine Presence loses its importance” (Nedarim 22b). Elsewhere, it states that one who is completely governed by rage should be regarded “as an idolater” (Shabbat 105b), for he has substituted the fire of his ego for the light of that which transcends him.

​In Christianity, the tradition distinguished early on between ira ordinata — righteous anger, which rises in the face of injustice and whose evangelical icon is Christ driving the merchants from the Temple — and ira inordinata, which corrodes the soul and poisons relationships. Thomas Aquinas himself, however, did not condemn all anger: that which responds to a real injustice and seeks a just remedy can be the expression of an authentic love of the good — it is its excess and its duration that corrupt it, until it crystallizes into resentment and becomes, in the moral tradition, “hatred of one’s neighbor.”

​In Sufism, mastery of anger (ghadab) is one of the central disciplines of the purification of the heart (tazkiyat al-nafs). Sufi masters distinguish between the impulsive ego (nafs ammâra, the soul that commands toward evil) and the progressively pacified soul (nafs mutma’inna, the soul at rest): working through anger is precisely one of the necessary passages in this inner ascension — not to smother the fire, for the fire of spiritual ardor is precious, but to transmute it into an impulse toward God, a force of transformation rather than destruction.

​In Vedantic thought and yoga, anger (krodha) is counted among the forces that agitate the mind and obscure deep consciousness. The Bhagavad Gītā devotes to it one of its most penetrating analyses: “From desire springs anger; from anger arises delusion; from delusion, the loss of memory; from the loss of memory, the ruin of intelligence — and from the ruin of intelligence, the loss of self” (II.62–63). This chain that Krishna describes to Arjuna on the battlefield is not a martial metaphor: it is a precise map of what happens internally, within seconds, in any human being swept away by anger.

​Finally, in Buddhism, anger (dosa in Pali, dvesha in Sanskrit) is counted among the three primary poisons of the mind, alongside greed and delusion, because it veils the deep nature of reality and breaks the continuity of mindful presence. It does not only wound those at whom it is directed — it burns first the one who carries it. The Buddhist path does not advocate brutal suppression — which would only drive anger deeper underground — but its gradual transformation through mindfulness, compassion (karuṇā), and the contemplation of the interdependence of all beings: understanding that the other I am blaming is, like me, caught in the same current of suffering and ignorance, gradually disarms the mechanism of anger at its very root.

​Everywhere, the same deep intuition: the fire of anger can illuminate or consume — and that is the only real choice we are given when facing it.

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​IV. Anger in an age of noise

Our era maintains a deeply complex relationship with anger. It is saturated with it: social media amplifies it, monetizes it, makes it the primary fuel of political engagement and public discourse. Anger circulates there at the speed of light, aggregates, coalesces, and takes on proportions that those who sparked it can no longer control. It ends up forming a permanent background noise — the soundtrack of an era that confuses outrage with depth of thought. Yet this collective anger can carry genuine dignity when it is born of a sharp awareness of injustice and directed with clarity toward right action. But the moment it is no longer tempered by patience, self-examination, and discernment, it almost invariably degenerates into pure reactivity — and becomes, to borrow the Buddhist metaphor, one of the poisons that burns those who ingest it as surely as those it is aimed at.

​Recovering a just relationship with anger — neither repression nor explosion, neither glorification nor shame — is one of the most demanding and most necessary spiritual practices of our time. It requires developing the capacity to pause within the space of a single heartbeat, before the automatic reaction sweeps everything away: that space which the traditions call, each in its own vocabulary, discernment, presence, mindfulness, hishtavvut (equanimity) or sabr (active patience). Within that space, there is only one question truly worth asking: what is this anger telling me about what I care about — and what is the most honest response I can bring to it?

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

And you?

I invite you to share in the comments your own experience of this notion — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality, at times luminous, at times difficult. A situation, an encounter, a stage of life, a nuance, a question: anything that may deepen our common conversation has its place here.
And if you wish to express yourself on a word that carries weight in your thinking, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

Article disponible en français
Notebooks of life · Abecedary · 8 min
To clarify the words that orient the inner life.

The word “gratitude” comes from the Latin “gratus,” meaning “pleasant,” “precious,” or “worthy of being welcomed with joy.” The same root gave us grace and gratuity. At its core, to feel gratitude is to recognize that what is given to us has value — and that this value comes from somewhere beyond ourselves.

I. Untangling the confusion

Gratitude suffers from a persistent misunderstanding. It is too often reduced to a social nicety—a well-mannered thank you or a social obligation toward someone who has done us a favor. The word “thanks” comes from a different root. The French word “merci” derives from the Latin “merces,” meaning “wages” or “reward.” This etymology reveals our ordinary relationship with gratitude. We instinctively experience gratitude as a debt to be honored, a gesture of reciprocity within the great commerce of human relations. Yet, authentic gratitude is of an entirely different nature. It is not necessarily directed toward an identifiable person, nor does it settle any account. It is an inner state, a way of inhabiting the world by recognizing that life gives us infinitely more than we could ever demand from it. As Montaigne, one of the first to introduce the word into French in the 16th century, observed, it requires a lucidity of the heart: seeing what is without taking it for granted.

II. A quality that must be cultivated

Although gratitude may arise spontaneously within us, it does not take root without effort, especially in our societies saturated with stimulation where attention is constantly captured, dispersed, and exhausted. Like any worthy inner quality, gratitude is acquired through patiently reorienting one’s gaze. This effort begins with a simple decision: to observe the world differently and rediscover what we once knew naturally as children—to marvel at what seems insignificant, to hear the song of a bird, to sense the quality of light at a particular hour, and to receive an unexpected smile as a token of love from life itself. This retraining of attention is not an escape from the difficult reality of the world. On the contrary, it is a way to avoid being overwhelmed by it while keeping an awareness of the gifts bestowed upon us alive, especially in times of hardship. Indeed, for those who sincerely work on themselves, even difficult situations can become an occasion for gratitude. They confront us with our limits, reveal our hidden resources, and help us grow in ways that ease alone would keep us asleep.

III. What the traditions tell us

The great spiritual traditions agree on this point: gratitude is not just another pleasant feeling — it is an essential attitude toward existence, inseparable from spiritual life itself. In Judaism, gratitude lies at the heart of daily prayer. The blessings, or berakhot, that believers are invited to recite a hundred times a day are moments of conscious gratitude for the gifts of creation, from the greatest to the most infinitesimal. In Christianity, the Eucharist—whose name derives from the Greek eucharistia, meaning “beautiful grace” or “beautiful thanks”—places gratitude at the center of the act of faith. Giving thanks is not a secondary gesture; it is the primary spiritual act. In Islam, the concept of shukr, thankfulness toward God, is one of the cardinal virtues. The Quran promises, “If you are grateful, I will surely increase My favors upon you” (14:7), recalling an essential aspect of gratitude: gratitude does not deplete what it receives; it amplifies it. In Buddhism, gratitude naturally flows from mindfulness. Perceiving the interdependence of all beings means recognizing that nothing we are was built alone and that this debt to life can only be repaid through loving attention to our surroundings. In Hinduism, the Bhagavad Gita teaches that those who receive the gifts of creation without offering anything in return live like thieves. Thus, gratitude is a sacred duty, not a sentimental option. The same profound intuition is found everywhere: gratitude is the gesture by which human beings step out of the illusion of self-sufficiency.

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IV. A countercultural virtue in an age of lack

Our era has a paradoxical relationship with gratitude. It is spoken of at length—the word has colonized social media, personal development journals, and wellness applications—yet its genuine practice is becoming more difficult. Authentic gratitude requires satisfaction with what one has, if only momentarily. However, the entire architecture of our economy rests upon permanent dissatisfaction: wanting more, possessing more, and being more visible. In this context, to reclaim gratitude is a countercultural choice, almost radical. It means measuring the richness of one’s life not by what it lacks but by what it already contains that is precious. Lao Tzu sensed this in the Tao Te Ching: “There is no greater misfortune than never knowing contentment” (Ch. 46). When authentic gratitude truly takes hold, it does not close in on itself; it compels in the strongest sense of the word. It urges us to share this state of awakening and help those around us open to the beauty of life in turn. After all, one cannot remain grateful long without wishing to contribute to the circulation of what has been given.

In this sense, gratitude naturally extends humility, the first entry in this Abécédaire. Humility clears the inner space of self-sufficiency, and gratitude fills it with a gentle, steady light. Together, they form the foundation of any authentic spiritual life: open hands and a heart that knows how to say thank you.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

And you?

I invite you to share in the comments your own experience of this notion — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality, at times luminous, at times difficult. A situation, an encounter, a stage of life, a nuance, a question: anything that may deepen our common conversation has its place here.
And if you wish to express yourself on a word that carries weight in your thinking, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

To Patrick T.

Sometimes, a simple word left in a comment can shift things. Recently, a reader suggested that I write shorter, more accessible texts to clarify the concepts I use in my articles without defining them every time. I am sincerely grateful, and I dedicate this new section—the Abecedary —which inaugurates its first entry today.

On a regular basis, you will find a notion, an etymology, a journey through traditions, and a question to prompt your response — because your voice, as much as mine, gives life to these Dialogues.

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Notebooks of life · Abecedary · 6 min
To clarify the words that orient the inner life.

The word “humility” comes from the Latin “humus,” meaning “earth.” The same root gave us “humanity.” At heart, to be humble is to accept being of the earth. It is not to flatten oneself upon it and remain a prisoner of one’s own heaviness. Rather, it is to sink living roots into it—roots capable of bearing what does not entirely belong to us: the magnificence of the Living.

I. Untangling the confusion

Humility has an undeserved reputation, forged over centuries of confusion between two radically different realities: humility, which is chosen freely from within, and humiliation, which is imposed from without and aims to diminish and deny the dignity of others. This confusion breeds mistrust, particularly in our performance-driven societies, where self-assertion is obligatory for any form of success. In truth, humility is neither self-deprecation nor resignation. It does not diminish those who cultivate it; rather, it frees them from illusions about themselves and liberates them from the paralyzing demands of excessive self-regard. We encounter false modesty far more often than authentic humility. False modesty takes secret pride in its supposed restraint and compares itself endlessly to others to confirm that it has “more.” Authentic humility is a quality of being rather than having. It escapes the vicious cycle of comparison that takes hold of us from childhood.

II. A prerequisite for all progress

For those sincerely engaged in inner transformation, humility is not just another virtue; it is the foundation for all the others. It is the fertile ground — humus — in which the finest qualities can take root and grow. Humble people are ready to learn. They acknowledge their shortcomings without shame, examine their inner workings with clarity, and create a space within themselves that is free of pretensions and artifice. This space is open to receiving the lessons that life offers. Humility makes us aware of our limits and how slowly we progress. It naturally makes us more attentive to others, less quick to judge them for their weaknesses, and more devoted to finding common ground. However, humility is a fragile quality. At the first victory over ourselves, pride lurks at our threshold, ready to lead us back to old certainties or new pretensions. This is why humility requires gentle, constant vigilance—less a frontal struggle than a patient return to our rightful place.

III. What the traditions tell us

The great spiritual traditions of humanity agree on this fundamental point: humility is not a weakness disguised as a virtue; rather, it is the condition of all authentic inner growth. In Christianity, humility is the “soil in which the other virtues flourish.” In Buddhism, humility protects against vanity, which hardens the mind and closes the path to awakening. In Sufism, humility is one of the stations (maqâmât) on the journey toward God. In the Hebrew tradition, humility is inseparable from returning to our true essence (teshuvah). It is not shame for what one has done wrong, but rather, it is reconciliation with who one truly is—a return to oneself in one’s spiritual dimension. This virtue carries the same deep intuition everywhere: one can only truly begin to receive after having first cleared some space within oneself, after having opened and emptied one’s hands.

IV. A subversive virtue in an age of noise

In our time, humility is particularly difficult to practice. Social media rewards egos that put themselves on display, and algorithms amplify certainties rather than encourage questioning. Public debate increasingly resembles an arena where protagonists clash to dominate rather than understand. Yet it is precisely in this noise and competition that humility reveals its full subversive value. Rediscovering humility means refusing to be reduced to this spectacle and choosing to measure one’s worth by one’s capacity to be enriched by every encounter and to freely contribute to the circulation of Life’s riches, not by prestige or visibility. By lightening ourselves of ourselves a little, our capacity to receive extends far beyond our illusory limits, and the gift of self enlarges us.

This is what makes humility the first condition of all authentic dialogue. One can only truly dialogue by accepting to be traversed by another’s words—sometimes unsettling, sometimes displacing, but never unchanged. Those who arrive with their hands full of certainties cannot receive anything, but those who arrive with open hands can hear everything and transform the exchange into a genuine encounter. This is the premise of these Dialogues, which is why humility is not just another subject here; it is also the secret method.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

And you?

I invite you to share in the comments your own experience of this notion — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality, at times luminous, at times difficult. A situation, an encounter, a stage of life, a nuance, a question: anything that may deepen our common conversation has its place here.
And if you wish to express yourself on a word that carries weight in your thinking, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

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Notebooks of life · Texts · 15 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

One of my correspondents recently suggested that I clarify my identity and state where I am writing from, so as not to risk being suspected of insincerity and to remove any ambiguity regarding my commitments as an author.

His remark surprised me at first: I thought that all my writings, here, in these Dialogues of the New World or on my artist website jeronath.net (french only) were sufficient to paint a clear picture of my motivations, my loyalties, and my heritage.

However, upon reflection, I understand the reader’s need to quickly situate the writer, especially in an era when what has become commonly referred to as “conflicts of interest” are multiplying, and when everyone, often despite themselves, is looking for simple reference points: a box, a label, a shelf in the mental library. I therefore thank my interlocutor for inviting me to clarify my “position”—if that word still has any meaning when one refuses to reduce one’s inner life to partisan alignment.

Preliminary remarks: no conflicts of interest

I will begin with some preliminary remarks and aim to be as clear as possible. Overall, I have no doctrinal, institutional, or commercial conflicts of interest. As a therapist, I do not represent any brand, certified method, or official school. As a spiritual seeker, I am not an ambassador for any movement, authorized line, or established religion. I am not affiliated with any political party or ideological structure. As an artist, I do not belong to any school, nor do I claim to belong to any defined aesthetic movement.

What characterizes me is a real freedom from the things that usually classify individuals. This does not mean an absence of heritage or a fantasy of self-creation: I know what I owe to encounters, texts, traditions, and influences—and I do not intend to hide these debts. I simply refuse to confuse gratitude with alignment, and filiation with obedience.

Nomadic Jewish heritage: the Name and ethics

Regarding the spiritual aspect—which is the living heart of this publication—I often summarize my heritage in this paragraph, already present on the “Opening” page:

“A nomadic Jew, brother to all men, a Hasid imbued with all memories, all languages, all signs invented by those who seek the Truth from generation to generation, companion to all those who want to establish the reign of Love, Justice, and Peace here on earth, whether they are believers or not, and who want to end the time of domination and lies, a little Franciscan, a little Sufi, a little Buddhist, a little anarchist, but an anarchist of Love.”

This statement presents me as a “nomadic Jew,” and I indeed claim this formative heritage of the Jewish tradition and its unique spiritual and symbolic significance.

The biblical G-d has a name, the Tetragrammaton, which, according to tradition, is not pronounced. In reading and prayer, it is replaced by another designation. This substitution is not merely a ritual detail; it signals something essential: a pronounceable name is merely a human construct, a linguistic crutch, and a mental category that cannot fully capture what it designates. It reminds us that the divine cannot be confined to our concepts and that any theology, when it claims to conclude, risks betraying what it believes it serves.

In the Jewish tradition, the primary concern is not to impose a doctrine, but rather to embody an ethical imperative. A famous passage from Deuteronomy expresses this idea with radical sobriety: “This commandment that I prescribe to you today is not extraordinary; it is not far away. It is very near you; the Word is in your mouth and in your heart to fulfill it. See, I have set before you today Life and Good, death and evil.” Further on, it says: “I call heaven and earth to witness against you today: I have set before you Life and death, blessing and curse. Choose Life, so that you and your descendants may live.”

These words are addressed to a people in transition: the Hebrews in the desert, who had left Egypt—that matrix of social and spiritual strangulation—and were walking toward the Promised Land, whose image concentrates a symbolism of remarkable density. We see humanity in the process of transformation: slow, contested, vulnerable, but called to become capable of a more just society. The emphasis is not on the obligation to “believe rightly,” but on the freedom to choose—and on the responsibility to answer for the consequences, including the collective consequences, of that choice.

I fully identify with this dynamic of constantly questioning sacred writings — not to dissolve their power, but to preserve their purpose. I view them as inquiries about our freedom and our ability to take on human responsibility rather than as definitive answers. All too often, humans have tried to reduce the Words of Life to fixed dogmas—metaphysical slogans that one must adhere to in order to guarantee hypothetical salvation after death.

However, at its core, Jewish tradition speaks first and foremost of a life to be lived here and now—on a land of which we are the prudent and grateful beneficiaries, in a society to which we are accountable, and in a freedom that honors the creature called to participate in a creation whose mysteries are beyond its comprehension.

Brotherhood: openness, protection, hope

The above statement goes on to specify that I consider myself the “brother of all human beings.” This disposition does not require any common affiliation—be it religion, “race,” nation, political party, opinion, or social class—nor any other determining factor that would obligate me to exclude part of humanity from my circle of consideration. This attitude is unconditional and a primary choice that translates into complete openness to encounter, sharing, and discussion.

However, this openness is not naivety. It presupposes, at the very least, that the other person will behave respectfully, — that they will not seek to eliminate me, intimidate me, deny my right to exist, or eradicate part of humanity. When I encounter such a desire for domination or destruction, the other person remains my brother in principle, but I must protect myself and distance myself from them: my brotherhood can no longer be actively exercised in close proximity, even if it remains internally as a fundamental orientation.

For me, this is where a fine line is drawn: maintaining brotherhood without sacrificing integrity and rejecting hatred without consenting to domination. If I withdraw, it is not a definitive condemnation. Rather, it is accompanied by a willingness to forgive and a hopeful expectation of change—not as an excuse granted in advance, but as fidelity to the idea that no one is reduced to their worst actions and that humans are capable of turning back to life.

Being a Hasid: attachment, joy, sanctification

As I wrote in the above passage, I am a “Hasid imbued with all the memories, all the languages, and all the signs invented by those who seek the Truth from generation to generation.” In the Hasidism that emerged in the 18th century around the Baal Shem Tov, a Hasid is, in the deepest sense, a man of attachment. He seeks to remain connected to G-d (devekut) at the heart of ordinary life. He makes prayer, joy, and trust a way of inhabiting every moment.

For a Hasid, his entire existence becomes glorification, from the simplest material acts—eating, working, and sleeping—to loving one’s neighbor, studying, and spiritual inquiry. The orientation of the heart is as important as scholarship. Everything can become sanctification, gratitude, and remembrance. This is not an escape from the world but a way of passing through it without losing sight of what is essential.

I humbly strive to be that Hasid, seeking to improve every day, to reach my best, and to become as worthy as possible of having been created “in the image and likeness” of G-d, as Genesis says. Not out of perfectionism, but out of response—responding to the call of Life, the responsibility of conscience, and the possibility of loving more, lying less, and serving better.

Everything that touches the long chain of humans—men and women—who have sought to return to Truth and Goodness since the dawn of time touches and concerns me. Their memories and legacies; the words with which they expressed their hopes and quests; and the symbols that structured their inner lives—every fragment of these riches is a treasure. I receive them as nourishment, as seeds, and sometimes as luminous wounds. When I discover them, they resonate within me as if an ancient part of my being recognizes a word already sensed.

I have always had long, silent conversations with some of them. They are among my greatest debts and most moving expressions of gratitude. This is why I am the “companion to all those who want to establish the reign of Love, Justice, and Peace here on earth, whether they are believers or not.”

Towards a society free from domination

Finally, I am deeply convinced that it is possible to put an end to “the time of domination and lies” and to transform our societies profoundly so that everyone can live in true freedom and fulfill their innermost essence.

It seems to me that each person is the repository of spiritual gifts, unique abilities and riches, as well as a unique life mission; and it is their responsibility to develop and fulfill them, for their own joy, balance, and happiness—but also as a contribution to humanity as a whole, as a gift to the common good.

However, I believe that this metamorphosis can only happen on one condition: that a growing number of human beings agree to actively engage in such a process, remaining open-minded, without clinging to doctrine, and without trying to impose their path on others. It is at this price—and perhaps only at this price—that a new society will become viable: a society of sharing, cooperation, co-responsibility, and co-decision, where we will learn to make room for plurality without renouncing high standards, and for freedom without sinking into indifference.

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Influences: Francis of Assisi, Sufism, anarchism of Love

Now, I would like to say a few words about the last part of the above quote: “A little Franciscan, a little Sufi, a little Buddhist, a little anarchist—but an anarchist of Love.” These words sum up many of the encounters, texts, traditions, and influences that have enriched—and sometimes saved—my journey, even if certain experiences are not included.

When I was seventeen, the Poor Clare sisters of a small monastery rescued me from a period of extreme poverty and loneliness. They introduced me to Francis of Assisi and housed and fed me in their guesthouse for several weeks. Even today, I vividly remember their psalms, their songs, and the gentleness of Sister Monique, who welcomed me. I sometimes think back on it with emotion that moves me to tears.

Francis of Assisi’s figure, his love for all beings, his Canticle of the Creatures, and his oft-repeated prayer—”Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love”—accompany and uplift me when the darkness of the world seems too heavy to bear. However, let me be clear: I have not adopted the idea of redemption from sin through Jesus Christ incarnate. I believe, perhaps more radically, that it is not up to G-d to “make me” an instrument of peace but rather up to me to become one through conscious improvement, patience, and inner rectification.

Later, I recognized in Sufism—both in reading Rumi and in my familiarity with some of his teachings—a particularly accurate, lively, and internal expression of the spiritual momentum carried by Muslim revelation, far removed from the strict caricatures and murderous excesses of radical Islamism. I am not unaware, however, of the difficulties posed by the founding text itself: like many ancient writings, it contains layers, tensions, and passages that are difficult, sometimes contradictory, requiring demanding hermeneutics, careful contextualization, and ethical maturity; without this, certain fragments can be exploited by minds in search of aggressive identity, revenge, or domination. But this is a whole subject in itself, which would require specific and more extensive treatment.

As for the anarchist movement, if I call myself an “anarchist,” it is in the sense of an anarchism of Love. I believe that the time of leaders—in the sense of vertical, sacralized, and irresponsible domination—should be considered over. Human history too often bears witness to immense massacres driven by systems of power in which a few exploit fear, fragility, and the need for consolation, and in exchange obtain the renunciation of freedom by others—that is, ultimately, the possibility of deploying their own human riches.

But I believe just as strongly that a free society will never arise from violence, civil war, or chaos. It can only arise from patience and perseverance: from human groups of a manageable size, brought together in communities where dialogue becomes possible, where co-decision-making is truly feasible, and where brotherly love is not a vague sentiment but a force for social cohesion, an art of relationship, a discipline of listening, and a fidelity to the dignity of each individual.

My “Words of Life”: foundational readings

Finally, I would like to say a few words about my foundational readings, which I call my “Words of Life.” As you may have gathered, my study of the Torah remains central to my approach. I am fortunate to read it in Hebrew, which allows me to perceive its richness and layers of meaning that translations cannot convey.

However, it is not the only one. I also read the Quran, unfortunately through translations. I own several translations and use websites, lexicons, and books to shed light on passages that intrigue me. I also draw on the work of Muslim thinkers whose contextualization and interpretation of the text allows for a more accurate understanding.

The Gospels—both canonical and certain apocryphal ones, such as the Gospel of Thomas—are also among my sources of reflection. Depending on the period, I also read translations of the Peshitta and the Hebrew version of the Gospel of Matthew. This version was preserved in certain Jewish circles that had to defend themselves against Christian accusations in theological discussions over the centuries. This climate is attested to by the Barcelona Disputation, as reported by Nahmanides.

In the East, I began studying Sanskrit in my early years under the formative influence of René Daumal, an author enamored with the absolute who, at the end of his short life, was a student of Gurdjieff. Life’s twists and turns forced me to abandon this study, but I never stopped reading and working on the great texts of Hinduism—the Vedas, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Upanishads—nor did I lose interest in the tradition as a whole, including its musical culture, which has fascinated me for a long time.

I also discovered Zen Buddhism and Theravāda Buddhism at a very young age—often presented as one of the closest, in terms of its sources, to the ancient teachings of Buddha. I was introduced to their meditative practices, and over the years, other forms of meditation naturally became part of this foundation. I regularly read the Pāli canon, as well as works from these two traditions.

Similarly, part of my life has been devoted to the study of Taoism. I have immersed myself in the Tao Te Ching as well as the texts of Lie Tzu and Chuang Tzu—to name but two pillars—whose paradoxical sobriety and sharp insight still offer a valuable counterbalance to our mental rigidity.

Regarding more recent spiritual influences, I consider two works to be of great importance: Dialogues with the Angel, transmitted by Gitta Mallasz, and Revelation of Arès, sometimes called “The Sign,” transmitted by Michel Potay. The first invites us to deeply reconsider our relationships with ourselves, the invisible, and how we act and conduct ourselves in human affairs. The second, while continuing in the Abrahamic tradition, seems to me to offer a powerful lever to free us from certain superstitions—both religious and political—and place us in a dynamic of personal transformation, inseparable from an active effort to re-spiritualize our era.

I realize how bold such a statement may be, but I make it with conviction: If humanity does not close itself off, if it does not betray the spirit in favor of labels, then this text, the Revelation of Arès, could be recognized in a few decades or centuries as one of those books that permanently shift consciousness and ethics. It would be on par with the great Scriptures that have structured our history. I sincerely hope it will not lead to a retreat into identity politics or close-mindedness, which would negate precisely what is rebellious and innovative about it.

Closing remarks: invitation to dialogue

There you have it: I believe I have responded faithfully and honestly—as much as is possible in a text that was not intended to be lengthy or autobiographical—to my correspondent’s invitation. I hope that these few clarifications will enable each of my readers to better understand the author who expresses himself here, in these Dialogues, and who invites them to exchange with him on human destinies, spiritual life, and what we do, together, with our share of responsibility for the future.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

If this text brings forth in you an image, a memory, a silence, a piece of music, or a few lines, you may set them down in the comments so as to enrich our shared imagination or reflection.

And if you wish to go further, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

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Notebooks of life · Current glances · 5 min
To read current events as a mirror of our spiritual and collective states.

This morning, while doing some background research, I came across a study released in July 2025 by INSEE, France’s national statistics agency, based on 2023 tax data. It shows that 9.8 million people in France — about 15.4% of the population — now live below the poverty line, set at €1,288 ($1,390) per month for a single adult. That’s the highest rate since the data series began in 1996. In just one year, another 650,000 people have fallen into poverty.

The study paints a stark picture: the bottom 20% of French households share just 8.5% of the national income, while the top 20% control 40% — 4.5 times more. This gap has been widening steadily since 2017, and only the wealthy have seen their incomes continue to rise. France, the world’s seventh-largest economy, is quietly slipping into a level of hardship that can no longer be dismissed as marginal: one in six people can no longer meet basic needs. The growing crowds in discount grocery chains tell the story more vividly than statistics ever could.

A global system running out of steam

While France’s decline has accelerated recently, it’s part of a much broader and longer trend. Across many nations, the poor are getting poorer and the gap between rich and poor keeps widening. The reality is that our global economic model no longer meets people’s fundamental needs. Western societies, long convinced of their progress, are generating deeper and deeper injustices. These divides push entire segments of the population into identity withdrawal — a reflex of self-protection in the face of abandonment — or into simmering anger looking for an outlet.

This growing fragmentation is already fueling multiple forms of violence. Confronted with it, institutions tend to oscillate between denial and increasing control and surveillance. But these strategies won’t hold forever. The explosion of discontent can’t be suppressed indefinitely, even by force. The crisis we face is no longer only social or political — it’s spiritual.

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The spiritual call we can’t ignore

Faced with the limits of both political and religious institutions, a genuine spiritual awakening has become essential. We need to restore meaning to our shared existence and reawaken hope for a more humane world. This isn’t about escaping inward or seeking a comforting spirituality. It’s about something more radical: realizing that we are one humanity. Real social peace requires broad participation in collective life — and fairer distribution of wealth can only happen if we recognize love not as a vague sentiment, but as a living force for rebuilding our relationships and shared decisions.

That kind of love isn’t abstract. It’s revealed in the simple ability to see others not as rivals or threats, but as fellow travelers in the same mystery of life. It demands that we move beyond the consumer-driven, materialistic mindset shaping our imagination — to rediscover generosity, chosen simplicity, and mutual dependence. The great spiritual traditions of the world — Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Jewish, and others — all teach the same truth in their own way: personal fulfillment cannot come at the expense of the common good.

Choosing daily engagement, rebuilding dialogue

If humanity hopes to preserve a livable future, we have to understand this: a self-centered pursuit of happiness, restricted to oneself and one’s family, is no longer sustainable. True fulfillment — even at a spiritual level — can’t come from apathy or indifference to our shared fate. Outrage alone won’t help. What’s needed now is a daily commitment to being, in every situation, a force for constructive dialogue — a bearer of peace and compassion.

That means cultivating the ability to listen without judging, to seek understanding, and to act on what unites us rather than what divides. It also means breaking free from self-centered reflexes to open ourselves to the unknown — without prejudice, without expectation — willing to question our assumptions. In practice, it can start small: reaching out to a lonely neighbor, rejecting nonstop competition at work, creating spaces for connection where isolation reigns, supporting local grassroot initiatives.

Above all, we must urgently reopen dialogue — with ourselves, to face our personal responsibility; with others, to rediscover what’s possible; and with humanity’s timeless texts, to restore a sense of meaning. That threefold dialogue may be a narrow path — but it’s a bright one. It could still save us from the worst and lead us toward a more livable, more joyful future.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

What recent event seems to you to reveal, beyond itself, a human or spiritual question worthy of deeper examination? Share your reading in the comments so as to invite us all into reflection.

And if you wish to express yourself on a current event, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

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Notebooks of life · Texts · 6 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

Our Christian friends, both Catholic and Orthodox, are currently living through the season of Lent, which extends over forty days before the feast of Easter and is marked by dietary restrictions of varying strictness depending on the tradition. This gives us occasion to reflect on the relationship between fasting, renunciation and the spiritual life. Must one truly suppress the body’s needs in order to gain access to the spiritual dimension? Is spiritual development not, first and foremost, an opening of our limited being towards a larger dimension, and a transformation of the self?

Fasting and health

Today, fasting in its many varied forms has become fashionable among those those seeking to regain a healthier way of life, practised as a means of eliminating toxins accumulated in the body and thereby renewing one’s vitality. Some favour periods of complete fasting — a week, for instance — and attend retreats or specialist establishments for this purpose, in order to benefit from appropriate supervision. Others prefer intermittent fasting every other day, or a more moderate form such as skipping one meal a day to give the digestive system sixteen hours of rest. Finally, veganism, the complete abstention from animal-derived products, may also be understood within this same concern.

Yet if fasting and its variants are genuine tools for improving our health when practised with intelligence and moderation, they are also age-old practices found in every religion in the world, regarded as means of loosening the excessive grip of material life and fostering spiritual elevation.

Fasting in the religions

In Catholicism, the rigours of Lenten fasting, observed in memory of the forty days Jesus spent in the desert between his baptism and his public ministry, have gradually given way to simple counsel of frugality and a recommendation to fast only on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday. Yet the season remains marked by a concern for self-improvement and spiritual progress, expressed through recollection and prayer, introspection and self-examination, and a deepening of care for others.

In the Orthodox Church there are four fasts, lasting from fifteen days to more than a month: the Nativity Fast, the Great Lent preceding Pascha, the Apostles’ Fast following Pentecost, and the Dormition Fast in August. These are characterised by dietary restrictions close to veganism and serve as times of preparation and deepening of faith in relation to the corresponding feasts.

In the Muslim Ramadan, forty days during which a dry fast is observed from sunrise to sunset, one finds the same notion of detachment from bodily appetites in order to concentrate on deepening one’s faith, the betterment of oneself, and the strengthening of bonds with others. The various days of dry fasting observed in Judaism, the most celebrated of which is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, likewise place emphasis on these same dimensions.

In Hinduism, the practice of fasting is deeply present and can range from mild privation to the most extreme renunciation. The choice of days and manner of fasting depends upon community, family or individual. It is a moral and spiritual act whose purpose is to purify body and mind and to attract the benevolent grace of the divinities. Two fasts are more generally observed: Ekadashi, occurring roughly twice a month on the eleventh day of each waxing and waning moon, and the fast associated with the celebrations in honour of Shiva at the beginning of the year.

According to tradition, the Buddha long practised the regime of strict austerity and fasting prevalent in his time without attaining enlightenment. Having abandoned this practice and turned his full attention to meditation, he reached liberation from suffering and nirvana. Complete fasting is therefore not a widespread practice within Buddhism. Yet one finds intermittent fasting in the tradition, notably the suppression of the evening meal in Theravada Buddhism, reputed to be close to the original teaching. This restriction, here too, serves to reduce the hold of physical appetites by fostering detachment and concentration on meditative practice.

Renunciation as extreme form

All traditions thus recommend dietary restrictions of greater or lesser severity, intended to foster spiritual progress by moderating the appetites of the body. These take the form either of periodic restrictions to reinforce introspection and practice when linked to feast days, as in the monotheistic traditions and Hinduism, or of a dietary regime bound up with a spiritual discipline, as in Buddhism.

Yet in every religion one also encounters the more extreme figure of the ascetic, who renounces entirely the goods and pleasures of the world. Well known is the eremitic tradition of early Christianity, in which Anthony, Hilarion and many others withdrew into the desert to live in solitude, practising poverty, fasting and prayer.

India holds a long tradition of sādhus, in Sanskrit “good men”, who likewise renounce society and travel the roads, sustained by the offerings of the faithful, in order to devote themselves to the attainment of moksha: liberation from illusion (māyā), the cessation of the cycle of rebirths, and union with cosmic consciousness.

A means among others for spiritual development

From the moderation of bodily appetites to a complete renunciation of material life, human beings seem always to have perceived our bodily incarnation as an obstacle to spiritual development.

This has at times given rise to excessive practices that resemble more an anticipation of death than a path favouring the life of the integral human being, realising his spiritual potentials within his earthly reality. But in its most reasonable forms, practising periodic dietary restrictions, in one form or another, has the advantage of loosening our identification with our bodily and material needs and allowing us to learn to meet them with measure and without excess.

When we examine the traditions, we find the same will to master the other dimensions of the human being, perceived here and there as a pitfall in the quest for truth and ultimate spiritual realisation, on account of their disordered functioning.

Thus, through the use of prayer, contemplation or orison, the emotional dimension of the human being, capable of negative emotions such as jealousy or hatred, sorrow or fear, is reoriented towards nobler emotions such as devotion and love of one’s neighbour. The practice of meditation, or the development of metaphysical reflection, makes it possible to attune the human mind to fields of consciousness that are broader and less bound to matter.

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Attaining the integral life

In reality, the human being has no need to exchange his material life and renounce its various dimensions in exchange for a hypothetical discovery of truth or access to higher levels of consciousness.

The task is, on the contrary, to succeed in being more fully present here and now, to ourselves and to the world, so as to become aware of the dysfunctions within our various dimensions or centres and to work at reorienting their capacities towards the positive uses for which they are adapted, in order to harmonise their functioning.

By thus liberating his potentials in their most sublime aspects, the human being becomes capable, on this very basis, of accessing, within this life, the integral life and the awakening of his spiritual dimensions: unconditional love and universal intelligence.

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

If this text brings forth in you an image, a memory, a silence, a piece of music, or a few lines, you may set them down in the comments so as to enrich our shared imagination or reflection.

And if you wish to go further, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.

Article disponible en français
Notebooks of live · Current glances · 7 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

One recent evening, a friend sent me this message: “I’m watching Arte Thema, a really interesting french program about the Warsaw ghetto and those in Poland between 1939 and 1945. It’s terrifying. Yet it doesn’t take long to think of another ghetto, about 2,500 miles from Paris. History repeats itself and humans have short memories.”

While the war between Israel and Hamas has dominated the headlines for many days now, he was obviously referring to the Gaza Strip as a new Warsaw ghetto where history would repeat itself. A few years ago, during an Israeli military operation in that territory, another person had used this same comparison in our conversation. The “Gaza equals new Warsaw” shortcut is actually common in certain far-left circles.

So here I am, through this brief message from my friend, thrown into the heart of this Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I’ve been deeply concerned about it for many years and have explored its root causes. I’ve studied its timeline and know the region well, having had contacts on both sides. And I’ve seen that there are people who desperately want peace, but others—whom I believe are growing in number—who will do everything to make it impossible.

In a future article, I’ll offer some perspective to shed light on this century-long tragedy and my thoughts on its latest heartbreaking developments. Here I’ll only note that the current war was triggered by the October 7 massacre, carried out by Hamas armed militias—1,400 Israeli civilians murdered in particularly brutal ways according to international observers. Hamas, which is a military wing of the Muslim Brotherhood, seized power in Gaza during the 2006 legislative elections. It first waged a civil war against Mahmoud Abbas’s Fatah, then caused the deaths of thousands more Israelis by carrying out suicide bombings over the past 20 years.

I don’t believe that the disproportionate retaliation ordered by the Netanyahu government will succeed in eliminating Hamas or enabling the emergence of partners capable of lasting peace negotiations. But I’m convinced that the trauma and grief experienced on both sides could have long been avoided if this conflict weren’t being exploited for political purposes by powerful people who benefit from it and indoctrinate their peoples.

As Paul Valéry said, “War is the massacre of people who don’t know each other, for the benefit of people who know each other and don’t massacre each other.” This latest explosion of violence will only push peace prospects even further away and will only bring a temporary ceasefire—after how many deaths, injuries, and shattered families?

But today, I want only to highlight the moral inversion that this equivalence between the Warsaw ghetto and Gaza creates, in my view. It deeply shocked and troubled me coming from a close friend whom I can’t imagine carelessly sorting humanity into good guys and bad guys. On the contrary, I know him to be thoughtful and open to the complexity of historical situations and human motivations, more interested in understanding than judging. So I’m troubled by the disturbing ease with which the word ghetto gets used to describe a certainly tragic situation but bears absolutely no resemblance to the profound weight of meaning and history it carries.

And I think it’s important to remember that a factual and accurate reading of current events, knowledge of the past, and respect for the memory of a people—6 million of whom were gassed in camps and 2.2 million shot during the Holocaust—should be enough to have the intellectual honesty to reject this comparison. Because it implies a particularly vile suggestion, and this is where this guilty inversion lies: if Gaza is a new Warsaw ghetto, then who are the new Nazis? Who are the new Jews?

Can we equate the thousands of Jews locked in the Warsaw ghetto with Gazans who could, until recently, after sometimes lengthy security checks designed to identify potential terrorists, go work in Israel? On one side, people were being starved and marked for death, according to the extermination plan decided by the Nazis at the Wannsee Conference. On the other are Palestinians whose annihilation the Israelis have never planned.

Can we dare compare a territory that has received billions from the European Union and the United States since 2007 with a ghetto where Jews were completely abandoned by everyone? On one side, vast sums were largely used to ensure the lavish lifestyle of Hamas leaders, purchase weapons for October 7, and buy all the rockets and bombs fired at Israel for over 15 years. Yet Gazans were kept in poverty, and their children were educated to hate. On the other side, human beings were condemned to epidemics, starvation and despair, and their children risked death trying to escape and bring back whatever meager food they could find.

How can anyone honestly find a similarity between a society whose residents mostly support Hamas—which declares in its charter its refusal to accept Israel’s existence, which will therefore never accept peace and will continue attacks and assaults—and this Jewish people who went up in smoke, even though they had no hostile intentions toward the Germans?

I deeply respect the intellectual rigor and profound humanity of Albert Camus, the resistance fighter and activist who always showed moderation and judgment during World War II and the Algerian war. In early 1944, in issue 17 of Poésie 44, Pierre Seghers’ magazine, he emphasized the importance of carefully weighing and choosing the words we use.

In an article titled “On a Philosophy of Expression,” reviewing a book by philosopher Brice Parain, he writes: “Parain’s central idea is one of honesty: the critique of language cannot ignore the fact that our words commit us and that we must be faithful to them. To misname an object is to add to the world’s misfortune. And precisely the great human misery that long haunted Parain and inspired such moving passages in his work is the lie.”

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Yes, words commit us, words carry weight, and choosing them poorly means risking dishonesty and making the world even harder to understand and live in. It means introducing toxins into our shared narrative that will sooner or later add to our collective suffering and keep pushing back the prospect of a better and more just society.

Misnaming the elements of the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians of Gaza means adding even more hatred and revenge to this terrible tragedy, means dishonoring some today and others tomorrow. Instead, we urgently need to try patiently untangling the many knots of this century-old history and hearing the stories of both sides, to honor them and try to bridge the gap between them.

And especially here in France, allowing this lie to seep into people’s minds means fueling division within an increasingly fractured population on countless issues, means adding chaos to the progressive breakdown of the social fabric, by further encouraging blind anti-Semitism that no longer even tries to hide.

So let’s be vigilant about our use of language and careful to favor what encourages dialogue and mutual understanding rather than division and conflict !

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

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Notebooks of life · Texts · 6 min
To write as close as possible to what is surfacing, without always seeking to conclude.

Today I'd like to share with you an experience I had a few days ago. I can still feel the traces of what went through me then, the precious memories of intense, inspiring moments, carried by a fuller, lighter breath. Kenneth White, the great Scottish poet who died in August 2023, would no doubt have spoken of a breach in "the world of the open", a brief and sudden passage into a more vivid consciousness.

One morning, I open my shutters to discover that it had snowed overnight. The sidewalks are covered with a white carpet hardened by the cold, the passers-by are bundled up and walking slowly, and the sky is clear and cloudless. Without hesitation, I decide to change my program and visit the nearby park to take advantage of this unexpected event, so rare in the Paris region!

Outside, vehicles are moving slowly, few and far between, their tires screeching on the black ice. A few kids are throwing snowballs at each other, laughing, oblivious to the icy breeze that has fallen over the city. After a few cautious steps, I reach the park entrance. The gate is closed! Perhaps some elected official didn't want the students from the neighboring high school to risk slipping and falling? Fortunately, there's another park a few blocks away that's almost never closed!

I lengthen my stride a bit, anxious to find out if the snow there is not too heavily trampled! A few hundred meters further and my wait is rewarded as I enter a less maintained and wilder area that seems to have been visited by very few people. Over large areas, the snow is indeed pristine white, as if in a place removed from the world.

I make my way to the top of the park, the quietest part, where the incessant noise from the busy street below is somewhat muted. A little further on, where the path becomes flatter, I suddenly enter another world, as if projected into another dimension.

The path in front of me leads into a Jura° wood that has been taken over by whiteness. The snow has followed the contours of every branch, covering even the smallest twig in the dense network of copses. Is it a light wind that moves it? Everything seems to swing with a delicate vibration, like a diffuse, living energy. And yet everything is still, and suddenly almost silent, yet there, with a density that doesn't weigh me down, but resonates within me. A tiny crack in me has given way, allowing a breath of eternity to slip through. I'm in the middle of a solitude full of presence, free from all the worries of the world.

...

I can't estimate how long this state of bliss lasts, a few moments at most, before the usual parade of thoughts resumes on the mental screen, which for a few seconds still seem foreign to me. But soon I'm caught up in this uninterrupted flow, the experience gradually diluted by the sequence of words it inspires.

Is it my contemplative attitude that has half-opened the narrow cell of the ego, allowing my being to expand into the vastness and perceive the undivided life that inhabits the universe, felt here in this moment out of time ?

Words, which are the tools of our reflection, struggle to describe what goes beyond our usual points of reference, the first of which is the representation we have of our identity, which is primarily identified with our bodily vehicle and its limits. So it's very difficult to express, in a language based on the separation of discourse instances, perceptions that escape, even briefly, from our ordinary state of consciousness.

However, human history bears witness to the plasticity of consciousness and the possibility of its expansion, whether in spiritual traditions or in the writings of mystics or poets. We need only mention the names of Adi Shankara in Hinduism, Rabbi Akiva in Judaism, Master Eckhart in Christianity, and Mansur al-Hallaj in Islam to recall stories of powerful spiritual experiences that transcend ordinary consciousness and rise to states of immersion in the Oneness of Life.

These states of non-separation from the infinity of the living are rare, and those who have experienced them describe them in different ways, according to the concepts and words of their spiritual tradition. But they are always accompanied by great inner peace and hyper acuity of consciousness.

° Jura : the Jura Mountains are a sub-alpine mountian range, a short distance north of the Western Alps and mainly demarcate a long part of the French–Swiss border.

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We can't pretend to have voluntary, rapid access to these exceptional states that free us from daily constraints and automatic functioning. They are either involuntary and occasional, or the result of a long process of self-improvement, and are therefore of greater duration and intensity.

But if we multiply the moments of self-remembrance by frequently turning our attention to the observation of our body, our emotions and our thoughts, the result will be to strengthen our presence to ourselves. We can help ourselves by programming them into our smartphone, for example.

As we continue this practice, we'll gradually find it easier to resist external stimuli that pull us out of ourselves and trigger our automatic reactions of stress, tension, or worry.

With discipline and patience, we'll learn to maintain a calm, serene space within ourselves to which we can easily return to recharge our batteries and compensate for the difficulties we encounter in our lives.

It's this intimate space, more awake and more sensitive, that is available to receive in full all the small, simple marvels that everyday life can offer us and that we often don't pay attention to.

Carried away by the attraction of the outside world, because of the fragility of our self-presence, it's the negative and painful aspects that take over and fill our field of consciousness.

By turning our attention inward, we can redevelop our capacity for wonder and gratitude, which we were naturally capable of as young children!

And rediscover the sources of joy !

© 2026 - Dialogues of the New World — Jérôme Nathanaël

In echo

If this text brings forth in you an image, a memory, a silence, a piece of music, or a few lines, you may set them down in the comments so as to enrich our shared imagination or reflection.

And if you wish to go further, send me a contribution of roughly one page for the Waymakers section. It will be published under your initials, a pseudonym, or anonymously, as you prefer. Other readers will be able to respond and dialogue with you.

New here? The Opening page introduces the author, the project, how to take part, contact details, and the agenda.