By Gary King
In a world overwhelmed by unrest—from the noise of executive orders to wars across continents—speaking about heaven on earth might sound like an esoteric detour. Yet perhaps it’s precisely in the chaos of modern life that this ancient question becomes most urgent. Where is God’s home? Where does the infinite meet the finite? And what does any of that have to do with our daily lives, with the grind, the newsfeed, the fractured world we’re trying to make sense of?
At its core, this question is about integration. The mystics, the philosophers, even the physicists have all wrestled with this puzzle. Einstein gave us the elegant formula E = mc², collapsing the boundary between matter and energy. What once seemed separate—solid and invisible, mass and motion—was revealed as one and the same. Matter is energy condensed. The mystics nodded in quiet agreement. They’d been saying something similar all along: what appears separate is ultimately united at a deeper level.
This is not merely scientific theory. It is a profound metaphor for life. Are we bodies or souls? Are we creatures of appetite or beings of light? These dualities define our experience—waking up to the clamor of obligations, rushing through the day, while some quiet part of us still yearns for stillness, for meaning, for transcendence. The challenge, then, is not to choose one over the other, but to bring them into harmony. To square the circle.
In ancient symbolism, the square represents the earth—measurable, grounded, fixed in four directions. The circle is heaven—limitless, eternal, encompassing. “Squaring the circle” was once a geometric impossibility, a paradox. Yet as a metaphor, it is the essence of spiritual practice. It asks us to do what seems impossible: to bring the infinite into form, to root the heavens into our daily steps.
In the martial arts, this metaphor becomes physical. Each movement contains both stillness and motion, force and flow. A master martial artist doesn’t just strike—they align. The body is grounded, the spirit focused. They root to rise. Their stance squares the body to the earth, while their intent arcs toward the sky. It is not just combat—it is communion.
This is what it means to spiritualise the material. Not to escape the world, but to transform it. Not to deny the body, but to recognise it as a vessel. As Rabbi Simon Jacobson notes, we often compartmentalise—work all week, seek solace on weekends, fragment our lives into manageable boxes. But real peace comes not from partition, but from integration. From realizing that every act, every detail, can be part of a greater whole.
Mystics speak of Tikkun Olam—repairing the world. They say that existence is like a sacred book torn to pieces and scattered. Our task is to gather the fragments and restore the narrative. In martial terms, this is kata—the repetition of form until it becomes formless. The practitioner pieces together the scattered notes of movement until the melody returns.
But this isn’t just about practice mats and prayer beads. It’s about living differently. It’s about waking up not to the demands of the inbox, but to the mission of the soul. As the mystics teach, God’s home is not in some lofty heaven, but in the physical world—right here, amidst the noise, the chaos, the mundane. The divine seeks a dwelling in the dust, because the highest spirituality is not escape, but elevation. Taking the raw material of life—money, power, ambition—and turning it into light.
Even money, perhaps the most potent symbol of materialism, can become a vessel. When used for service, for kindness, it becomes energy in motion, spiritual currency. When hoarded or idolized, it becomes a chain. The same substance—different direction. Like martial force—it can destroy or protect, depending on intention.
The true path is neither ascetic rejection nor blind indulgence. It’s the middle way. The integrated path. Feet planted firmly on earth, head lifted toward the sky. The body alive, the soul awake. In martial arts, as in mysticism, we’re taught that the most powerful stance is not one of aggression, but of alignment.
William Blake once wrote, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is—infinite.” Jim Morrison, who named his band The Doors after that line, sought that infinity—but like so many, couldn’t ground it. The fire of spirit, without form to hold it, becomes chaos. Others settle for form alone, losing the fire altogether. But the challenge, the art, the mastery—is to hold the flame and the form. To let the candle burn, not explode.
This is what it means to build a sanctuary in the material world. Not to wait for the perfect conditions. Not to outsource our meaning to a higher place. But to see that the ground beneath our feet can be sacred. That the work of the hands, the thoughts of the mind, the movements of the body, all carry the potential for transcendence.
We are not passive recipients of this world—we are co-creators. The circle of heaven, the square of earth—they meet in us. The mystics teach that the highest level is not spirit alone, and not matter alone, but something beyond both. A third space, a fusion, a clarity that transcends the illusion of opposition.
And so the invitation is this: live from the inside out. Let your spirit lead, and let your actions follow. Let your narrative unfold not from reaction, but from purpose. Don’t let your soul be dictated to by algorithms or headlines. Find your story. Walk it with awareness. Let your material life become the canvas upon which your spirit paints.
In martial arts, the goal is not domination—it is mastery of self. In life, the same principle holds. Mastery is not about controlling the world, but harmonizing with it. It’s about squaring the circle every day—choosing balance, awareness, and integration over chaos and fragmentation.
Heaven is not far off. It’s right here, waiting to be embodied.
And earth? Earth is not exile. It is the altar.
So stand with your feet on the ground, lift your heart to the sky, and begin the sacred art of living.
—Gary King