My recollection begins at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California—the cradle of the human potential movement and the place where the spiritual energy of the Sixties first took hold along the California coast.

Esalen is more than a retreat center; it’s founded on the idea that human consciousness and potential constantly evolve.

The spirituality of the Sixties resembled a journey through comparative religion—a quest to find the mystical core shared by the world’s great faiths.

At Esalen, and within the broader Sixties spiritual movement, the focus wasn’t on believing in God.

It was about experiencing the divine firsthand.

I first visited Esalen in 1980, at the age of 27.

There, I encountered fellow baby boomers — Baptists, Catholics, Episcopalians, Jews, and Protestants — who, like me, had stepped away from organized religion during the Sixties in search of something more profound.

The term “baby boomer” gained prominence in the early 1960s, with the first recorded use appearing in a January 1963 article describing the surge in college enrollments as the oldest boomers were coming of age.

The era had opened the floodgates to gurus, self-help movements, and fresh revelations. At Esalen, the central pursuit was simple yet profound: to ‘know thyself.’

And so, become yourself because the past is just a “good-bye.”
Don’t you ever ask them why.
If they told you, you would die.
So just look at them and sigh and know they love you.

Teach Your Children
Cosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
1970

Every story has its origin, just as every faith holds its own Garden of Eden. My first day at Esalen felt like stepping into such a place.

WildflowersBlue and orange wildflowers lit up under the noonday sun while hot springs rose from the earth — their sharp scent giving way to a silky, almost sacred touch.

Far below, the wild and cold Pacific roared against the cliffs. Monarch butterflies paused here on their long migration. When I lived in Pacific Grove, I’d watch them on foggy mornings, their black and orange wings spread across the landscape like living tapestries.

Big Sur is untamed and awe-inspiring — a place of peril and beauty.

Here, the seasons aren’t subtle; they make themselves known.

Winter rains and fierce winds batter the coastline, loosening earth and stone from the cliffs.

Yet from that chaos comes renewal: spring awakens with fresh green grasses and bursts of California poppies.

Summer arrives wrapped in cold fog, while early autumn brings warmer, salt-laced air that dries the hills. This sets the stage for wildfires that char the land and leave behind a stark, haunting rebirth.

Big Sur can break you open — stirring something profound, even hollowing you out sometimes.

I returned there often, most recently in 2023.

In earlier years, it was my refuge, a place I fled to — escaping the past and chasing an uncertain future.

There’s no easy path there, only the cliff’s edge or the plunge inward. Big Sur became a crucible for truth. I left with a clearer sense of self, having shed old layers. I found pieces of myself, glimpses of the divine, and others walking a path not unlike mine.

Ah, yes — consequences.

The real world. At Esalen, it’s easy to let all that fade, at least for a few days. The outside world feels distant there. Something about the place invites you to step outside ordinary time.

People still come seeking peak experiences — and more often than not, they find them.

On my first morning at Esalen in 1980, the world felt wide open — as if anything could happen.

From my deck at sunrise, I watched a lone woman move through yoga poses beside the pool, poised at the cliff’s very edge. The ocean below shifted from a murky green to a calm, luminous blue as the light changed.

It felt like a modern-day Eden.

In the dining room, a handful of early risers gathered quietly, drawn by the promise of caffeine.

There’s a subtle hum of self-improvement — that familiar Esalen energy.

Outside, a string of Tibetan prayer flags — blue, green, white, and yellow — danced gently in the morning breeze.

Esalen draws people in transition — seekers, wanderers, and those between chapters.

You hear it in the way they speak, especially in the soft glow of the baths, where vulnerability flows as freely as the hot mineral water. Two men soaked quietly that afternoon, discussing a workshop on sustaining intimacy in long-term relationships. One admitted he’d come alone by choice.

‘It didn’t feel right bringing her here,’ he said. ‘I came to reinvent myself.’

His friend let out a long sigh and slid deeper into the water.

‘I didn’t have a real relationship in my twenties,’ he said. ‘Now I’m in my thirties, and I still wonder if I ever truly have. It’s wild to think about the kind of women I used to date. I wouldn’t cross a room for most of them now.’

In another large tub, three older women spoke quietly about death — about the path to hospice care.

‘It’s often the children who struggle the most to let go,’ one of them reflected.

Moments like this are not uncommon in the Esalen baths. Extraordinary conversations rise with the steam.

People don’t come here to overthink — they come to feel.

If Esalen is anything, it’s eclectic — alive with possibility, boldly experimental, and profoundly freeing.

I believe Esalen still holds meaning for a new generation of seekers — those longing for wholeness, for connection to something greater than themselves.

I hear their questions echoing through the same spaces:

How do we evolve?
What do we stand for?
Why are we here?

In a world of uncertainty, I do my best to stay grounded in spirit and guided by hope. Each day is a practice, a process.

Ultimately, it’s up to us to shape our lives, the culture we inhabit, and the selves we’re becoming.

These days, I’m less focused on changing the world and more devoted to transforming myself.

I allow room for pain and joy — I follow my bliss, even when the path is unclear.

And just as I’ve said for over four decades, I still say it now: ‘I’m into spirituality, not organized religion.’